Cause For Alarm. Erica Spindler
his palms and gazed into her eyes. “I mean it. You have magic, Katherine Mary McDowell Ryan. You always have. Thank you for sharing it with me.”
Tears stung her eyes. She chided herself for her earlier melancholy and silently counted her blessings. The girl who’d worn shoes with holes in the soles and hand-me-down school uniforms to St. Catherine’s, the girl who had never known the security of a comfortable home, the one who had attended Tulane University on a scholarship, squeaking by borrowing books and waiting tables at night, had come a long way. In no small part because Richard Ryan, favorite son of one of New Orleans’ first families had unbelievably, miraculously, fallen in love with her.
“I love you, Richard.”
“Thank God.” He leaned his forehead against hers. “Now, can we please go inside?”
She agreed and within minutes they were swept back into the party, surrounded, then separated by their jubilant guests. Richard made his announcement and, as expected, his news was greeted by those not already in the know with cheers of approval.
From that moment on, the party became almost manic. As if all in attendance had been struck by a strange sort of energy, a sense that life as it had been was about to change. The year 1999. The fin de siècle. The stuff of the future, of science fiction, of uncertainty and the unknown—not of the now. Not of everyday lives.
Midnight came. Confetti and streamers flew and horns sounded. Hugs and kisses were exchanged, more champagne drunk. The caterer served a buffet brunch. It was eaten and enjoyed then finally, one by one, Kate and Richard’s guests began to leave.
As Richard walked the last out, Kate began picking up even though they’d contracted a cleaning service to take care of the mess first thing in the morning.
“God, you’re beautiful.”
She looked up. Richard stood in the doorway between the dining room and front parlor, watching her. She smiled. “And you’re flushed with success. Or alcohol.”
“Both. But it’s still true. You’re gorgeous.”
She wasn’t, she knew. She was attractive, with an ageless, angular kind of face. Not gorgeous or sexy. Not a knockout. Classy, maybe. Solid, definitely. “I’m glad you think so.”
“You never could take a compliment. Because of your old man.”
“You have good bones, Katherine Mary McDowell,” she said, imitating her father’s slight brogue. “Never underestimate the importance of good bones and teeth.” She laughed. “Like a work horse, for heaven’s sake.”
Richard grinned and as Kate had been earlier that evening, she was reminded of the fraternity boy who had swept her—and every other coed on the Tulane campus—off her feet. “Your father did have a way with words.”
“That he did.” She shook her head. “Come give me a hand.”
Instead, he cocked his head studying her, a boyish, pleased expression on his face. “Kate McDowell,” he said softly, “the one many wanted, including my good buddy Luke. But who I won.”
As always happened at the mention of their mutual friend, Luke Dallas, the twin emotions of guilt and longing assailed her. Once upon a time, the three of them had been inseparable. They had been best friends at Tulane; Luke had been her confidant, the person she had turned to for comfort, advice, support. In many ways, she had been closer to him during those years than to Richard.
Then she’d destroyed their friendship with one thoughtless, reckless act of passion and grief.
Uncomfortable with the memory, she shifted her attention to collecting the soiled cups and plates. “You’re drunk,” she said lightly.
“So what? I’m not driving.” He folded his arms across his chest. “Do you deny that Luke was in love with you?”
“We were friends, Richard.”
“And nothing else, right?”
She met his gaze. “We were all friends. I wish that hadn’t changed.”
For a moment, her husband said nothing, just watched her. When he spoke, his mood had mellowed once more. “You’re going to make the perfect politician’s wife.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Are you so sure of that, District Attorney Ryan? I don’t have a pedigree, you know.”
“Classy, beautiful, smart Kate. You don’t need one, you’re married to me.”
She set the empties on a tray and began collecting more. He was right, she supposed. Marrying him had validated her in New Orleans society. She didn’t need a good family, or to have come from money, she had been given his.
For the second time that evening, she thought of her blessings. She had many things to be grateful for, she knew. For her loving husband, their beautiful home. Her own business, a coffeehouse called The Uncommon Bean, which she loved; her stained glass work, plenty of money. All the things she had always told herself that she wanted. That she needed to be completely happy.
“I’m sorry if I upset you with that comment about Luke. I don’t know what gets into me sometimes.”
“It’s been a long night, that’s all.”
Richard crossed to her and took the empty cups from her hands and set them back on the end table. “Leave the mess. That’s what we’re paying the service for.”
“I know, but—”
“No.” He took her hands. “Come with me. I have something for you.”
She laughed. “I’m sure you do.”
“That, too.” He led her to the living room. There, before the still glowing fire, he’d placed two floor pillows. Beside them waited a chilling bottle of champagne and two crystal wine flutes.
They made themselves comfortable. Richard popped the cork on the champagne and poured. He handed her a glass, then held his out. “I thought we should celebrate privately.”
She pinged her glass against his. “To your campaign.”
“No,” he corrected, “to us.”
“I like that. To us.” She smiled, then sipped.
For several minutes, they chatted about the events of the evening, sharing tidbits from conversations they’d had and chuckling over the antics of a couple of their less inhibited guests.
“You make me better than I am, Kate,” Richard murmured, serious suddenly. “You always have.”
“And you’re drunker than I first thought.”
“I’m not.” He took the glass from her hand and set it aside. He laced their fingers. “I know how hard this last year was for you. Because of the…the infertility.”
Her eyes flooded with tears. “It’s okay, Richard. I have so much. It’s wrong for me to want—”
“No, it’s not. And if not for me, you could have it. You could have a baby.”
“That’s not true, Richard. I’m infertile, too, I have—”
“You have fertility problems, Kate. Hormones can be adjusted, endometriosis treated, ovulation stimulated. I’m sterile. Shooting blanks, as they say down at the firm.” Bitterness crept into his tone. “How do you think that makes me feel? To not be able to give you what you want more than anything? To be less than a man.”
It hurt to hear him express his true feelings, ones he hadn’t before. She tightened her fingers on his. “That’s bullshit, Richard,” she said softly, fiercely. “The ability to sire children is not what makes a man. It’s not what makes you a man.”
“No? That’s the way it feels.”
“I know how it feels, because this is my problem,