Cause For Alarm. Erica Spindler

you down,” he said quietly.

      “No, Richard…that’s not what I meant.”

      “I know. But that’s the way I feel.”

      She turned fully to him, clasping his hands in hers. “Who’s to say we’re entitled to everything, anyway? Who’s to say we’re supposed to have all that our hearts desire? Look at us, at all we have. A beautiful home. Successful careers that we enjoy. Each other, Richard. Our love. An embarrassment of riches. Sometimes I have to pinch myself. I can’t believe it’s Kate McDowell who’s living this life. Sometimes I’m afraid I’m having a really good dream and that any minute it’s going to turn into a terrifying nightmare.”

      “I won’t let it, sweetheart. I promise.”

      She brought his hands to her mouth, a sense of urgency tugging at her. “People have lied, cheated and killed to get what we take for granted, we have to guard what we have by appreciating it. We can’t ever forget how lucky we are. The minute we do, the minute we get greedy, we could lose it all. We can’t forget that, Richard. We can’t. It’s important.”

      He laughed. “And you still believe in leprechauns and fairies and the power of a four-leaf clover, don’t you?”

      “It could all be gone tomorrow.” She tightened her fingers on his. “I’m serious, Richard.”

      “So am I. We can have it all, Kate. I want that for you.” When she opened her mouth to protest, he shushed her with a finger to her lips. “I have something for you. A late Christmas present.” He slipped a business-size envelope from its hiding place under one of the pillows and handed it to her. “Happy New Year, Kate.”

      “What is it?”

      “Open it and find out.”

      She did. It was a letter from Citywide Charities, informing them that they had been accepted into the Agency’s Gifts of Love adoption program.

      Kate’s heart began to hammer, her hands to shake. Citywide’s program was the best in the area. They accepted only a handful of couples every year; at the end of that year, or shortly thereafter, those couples would have a baby.

      She had studied up on adoption and on the programs and options available in the area. She had looked wistfully at Citywide. But every time she had mentioned adoption to Richard, he had flatly refused to even discuss it.

      She lifted her gaze to her husband’s, overcome with emotion, eyes swimming with tears. “What happened? You didn’t think adoption—”

      “But you did.”

      Tears choked her, and she cleared her throat. “But we…if you don’t really want to adopt, we can’t. It wouldn’t be right.”

      “I want to make you happy, Kate. This will be a good thing for us, I know it will. And it’s the right time for us to start a family.”

      She couldn’t find her voice, but even if she had she wouldn’t have been able to find the words to express her joy. So she kissed him instead. Deeply and with the love and gratitude that filled her to near bursting.

      They had kissed this way many times before, but this time was different, special. This time her heart felt fuller than it ever had before.

      By this time next year they would have a child. They would be parents. A real family.

      “Thank you,” she whispered again and again as she kissed him. She removed his clothes, he hers. The remnants of the fire warmed them, as did their exploring hands, their exploding passion.

      “This is going to be our most perfect year ever,” Richard whispered as he positioned himself above her. “Nothing will ever come between us, Kate. Nothing or no one.”

      Part II

Julianna

      2

       New Orleans, Louisiana, January 1999

      The corner sandwich shop was located on one of the central business district’s busiest corners. The shop, Buster’s Big Po’boys, specialized in shrimp-and-oyster po’boys—huge sandwiches made on slabs of French bread and stuffed with fried shrimp, oysters or both. Most New Orleanians ordered them dressed—with lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise, the latter slathered on, good and thick. Of course, if fried seafood didn’t appeal, Buster’s offered all manner of other fillings and even a few nonsandwich specials, like traditional New Orleans red beans and rice on Mondays.

      As corner sandwich shops went, Buster’s was pretty run-of-the-mill for the Crescent City—housed in a century-old building, its plaster walls were cracked and peeling, the high ceilings dingy with God only knew how many years of God only knew what; and from June to September, the air conditioner ran full tilt and still couldn’t keep up.

      Anywhere else in the country, Buster’s would have been closed down by the health department; New Orleanians considered Buster’s a perfectly acceptable place to grab lunch while downtown.

      Julianna Starr pushed open Buster’s glass front door and stepped inside, leaving the cold January day behind. The smell of frying seafood hit her in a nauseating wave, turning her stomach. The smell, she had learned over the past few weeks working as a waitress at Buster’s, permeated everything—her hair and clothes, even her skin. The minute she got home from work, she ripped off her uniform and jumped into the shower to scrub the odor away, no matter how tired or hungry she was.

      The only thing worse than the smell of the place, Julianna had decided, was its customers. New Orleanians were so…excessive. They laughed too loudly, ate and drank too much. And they did both with a kind of frenetic abandon. Several times, just watching someone tear into and consume one of the huge, sloppy po’boys had sent her scurrying for the john to throw up. But then, she was one of the lucky ones to whom morning sickness was confined to neither mornings nor the first three months of pregnancy.

      Julianna quickly scanned the restaurant, heart sinking. Choosing today to oversleep had been a mistake; the lunch rush appeared to have started early. Only minutes after eleven and every table was filled; the take-out counter already stacked two deep. As Julianna made her way to the back of the restaurant, one of the other waitresses shot her a dirty look.

      “You’re late, princess,” her boss called from behind the counter. “Grab an apron and get your tail in gear, you hear?”

      Julianna glared at the man. As far as she was concerned, Buster Boudreaux was a grease-sucking pig with an IQ about the size of one of his stupid sandwiches. But he was her boss, and she needed this job, low as it was.

      Without a word of explanation, she stalked past him and snatched an apron from the tree just inside the kitchen and slipped it on. The pink-ruffled atrocity rode up over her burgeoning belly, making her look like a pink whale. She muttered her displeasure under her breath, turned to the time clock and punched in.

      Buster came up behind her, his expression thunderous. “If you’ve got a problem, why don’t you say it to my face instead of under your breath.”

      “I don’t have a problem.” She stuffed her employee card back into its slot. “Where’s my station?”

      “Section one. Start servicing the tables as they open back up. In the meantime, give Jane a hand at the take-out counter.”

      Julianna didn’t acknowledge him with so much as a nod, and he grabbed her elbow. “I’ve about had it with your attitude, you know that, princess? If I didn’t need the help so bad, I’d kick your uppity butt out of here right now.”

      He wanted her to beg for her job, she knew. To plead, grovel before him like some sort of peasant. She would rather starve.

      She looked pointedly at his hand on her arm, then met his gaze. “Is there anything else?”

      “Yeah,” he said, flushing and dropping his hand. “You’re late like this one more time, and you’re out. I’ll get my grandmother to take your place,