July 13 – early morning
The first thing Beverly was aware of was Jean-Luc's body pressed against hers.
In the five months since they had become lovers, she had grown used to waking to his familiar presence, his body curving to embrace hers, his arm wrapped over her waist in familiar possessiveness, his breath, soft and warm, brushing against the back of her neck; she had grown used to it – but still savored the novelty of it, the sheer amazement that they were, indeed, after all these years as just friends, lovers.
She loved this, the early hours of the morning, when she had just wakened, when he was still asleep, when his guards against the world outside were gone – when it was just the two of them. In his slumber, his feelings were unfettered by his concerns about the outside world – or even his concerns about her.
In his sleep, he simply held her, his naked body pressed to hers, held her as though she was the only thing that mattered to him, held her in his undisguised passion.
A passion that was the second thing of which she was becoming increasingly aware.
She savored this as well, the physical evidence of his feelings for her – and of his undeniable masculinity.
For a moment she hesitated though; on any other day, she would have simply snuggled back against him, enjoying the sensation of his growing erection as it pressed against her- but this was not any day.
With a pang of regret, she pulled back the sheet that covered them – all they needed in the heat of the summer nights – and began to ease her way off the bed, hoping not to rouse him from his sleep.
Before she could move however, she felt his arm tighten around her, pulling her close to him.
"It's only four," he murmured. "You don't have to go yet."
"I should," she answered him. "I thought I'd go in a little early. After all, you're not supposed to see the bride before the wedding."
He gave a throaty chuckle. "An old tradition, from a time long gone by. If I hadn't seen you – and done far more than just that – we wouldn't need to get married," he pointed out, his hand reaching to caress the faint swell of her belly.
Beverly rolled over to face him, though in the dark of the room, she could only make out the faint outline of his body in the bed beside her.
"You don't need to marry me at all, Jean-Luc," she reminded softly.
He caressed her face, then kissed her softly. "I know. But… I want to marry you, Beverly. I have for so long. You were, are, always will be, the only woman with whom I've wanted to spend my life."
He looked at her face in the darkness – and saw there all that he loved. "I love you, Beverly. Marry me."
The tenderness in his words struck at her, catching her breath in her throat; tears welling in her eyes, she whispered, "Yes."
His embrace tightened, pulling her to him closely, and the darkness of their bedroom, made love with her.
Tradition now thoroughly disregarded, Beverly and Jean-Luc stood together in the shower, each maneuvering past the other in the cramped confines of the narrow space to stand beneath the downfall of warm water.
It was not, as Jean-Luc had once proclaimed, a more efficient or practical way for them to bathe – but it was, Beverly decided, far more pleasurable. There was something more intimate in sharing this tiny space than even their shared bed could provide: here, in the cold glare of the bathroom lights and without the cover of their emotions and physical passions, they could hide nothing from one another.
That, she thought, and the fact that she enjoyed looking at his naked body.
As he, she hoped, enjoyed looking at hers.
And on that topic…
"So how was the bachelor party?" she asked as she poured some shampoo into her hand.
Picard watched as she raised her hands to her head, beginning to lather her hair, then pursed his lips. "You're doing that on purpose," he murmured, watching as her upraised arms brought her breasts forward, the bubbles running down their curves in languid rivulets.
"Of course," she replied. "You always seem to enjoy it."
He smiled, realizing how well she knew him – and knowing that that was one of the reasons he loved her.
"I do. From you," he added.
"Meaning…?"
"I know Gy meant well – but his idea of going to a…" He hesitated at the phrase, "…strip club was not something I wanted to do. Not that I don't appreciate – or enjoy – the sight of a naked woman – but given the mores of this time – and the economic conditions - I doubt that the majority of the women who display themselves do so out of the need to fulfill their own desires, but more out of the need for income. Watching someone disrobe for that reason is hardly a joyous experience. And…"
His voice trailed off.
"And…?" Beverly prompted.
He smiled, not lecherously, but lovingly. "No matter how beautiful any of them could be, they will never be able to compare to you, Beverly."
He kissed her softly, then let his hand move to her shoulder, her arm, her hip, her…
"I have to go to work, Jean-Luc," she reminded him, gently pushing his hand away. "Teague is coming in at ten so I'll have time to get ready for the wedding – but I still have to open the shop."
"You can be five minutes late," he countered.
"Five minutes?" she chortled. "You have never taken only five minutes," she pointed out. "You never take less than a half hour when it's the second time."
He smiled. "So you've been timing how long we make love?" he teased.
She gave a soft laugh. "Why do you think I keep a clock by the bed?" she teased back.
Chuckling, he kissed her again – but pulled back, allowing her to tilt her head under the water and rinse the shampoo away.
As the last trace of soap ran down her back, Picard reached behind her, turned off the water, then pushed open the shower curtain. Carefully stepping from the tub, he took one of the towels, handed it to Beverly, then took the second and wrapped it around his waist.
Turning to the mirror, he appraised his image, checking one side of his face, then the other – then ran a hand over it, confirming that the face he saw was one worthy of the woman he was about to marry.
Beverly, he smiled – then glanced at her, watching as she toweled herself off.
A quick pass of the towel over her hair, then she pulled the towel off, drying her right hand, the her right arm, then repeating the same on her left arm and hand; a second pass through her hair, then grabbing the two sides of the towel, ran it back and forth over her back before patting her belly and breasts; dropping the towel lower, she patted her buttocks, then carefully dried her legs and feet before stepping from the tub, and wrapping the towel around her hair once again.
Always the same, he thought – and always as beautiful to watch.
I do not deserve this, he thought; I do not deserve this woman.
But she has agreed to marry me – and I will spend the rest of our lives trying to make myself worthy of her.
Unaware of his silent promise, Beverly continued. "So what did you do last night?"
"I was… surprised," Picard admitted.
"By…?"
"Ralph," he explained. "Apparently he persuaded Gy that a trip to the strip club was probably not to my taste…"
"I can imagine Gy's reaction to that," Beverly offered.
"He was," Picard agreed, "somewhat disappointed – but he conceded the point."
"Why was that surprising?" she pressed.
"Oh, not that Gy would suggest that a 'lap dance'…"
"Lap dance?" Beverly interrupted.
Picard shrugged. "I'm not sure what it is – but I think one can make an educated guess," he said.
She looked at him – then smiled. "You're blushing, Jean-Luc," she said.
"Then you can imagine what my reaction would have been had we actually gone through with Gy's plan," he replied. "But as I said, Ralph overrode that decision; instead, the four of us went into Chicago for dinner – and Ralph's choice in food and wines was impressive. You know, Beverly, too often I think of these people as being rather… primitive. They aren't; in their way they are as sophisticated and well-educated as we are; we simply have access to more information than they do.
"Ralph is quite the connoisseur when it comes to these vintages; the wine he chose for our dinner surpassed many of the ones from our family vineyards – including some of Father's finest. The dinner was equally impressive," he continued. "I fear Fred was a little out of his depth in both matters; I think fine wines and fine foods aren't something with which he has had much experience."
"At his age, neither was I," Beverly reminded him.
"At his age, I knew the family vintages – but, like you, I was unfamiliar with much beyond the cooking my mother did – fine food that it was," he quickly demurred – then looked at Beverly, a tender smile coming to his face.
"Jean-Luc?"
"I was just thinking that twenty years from now, he..." He stepped forward and gently placed a hand on her belly, "will be thinking the same thing: that his parents fed him well – but didn't think to teach him about the wines of the world or about haute cuisine."
"Maybe we will," she said.
"And maybe we won't. There are some things – whether it is wine, food, art – that he will learn on his own, and whatever we can teach him, there will be so much more that he will learn on his own," he said. "And I'll be proud to see him do so," he added.
He pulled her into his arms, tenderly holding her, smiling at the future before them – then felt Beverly pull back.
Looking at her, though, he was startled to see a tear forming in the corner of her eye.
"What is it, Beverly?"
"We can teach him, Jean-Luc – but there are so many things that he will never know – like who his parents really are," she answered.
He pulled her to him once again, his arms around her, understanding her concerns all too well. "No. There are things he will never know – that he can never know, Beverly – but we will provide him with everything we can – whether it is in this time, or our own. Then – as now – it is all any parent can do for their child."
After a moment, he separated from her. "But one thing we can do is let him know that his parents were married. Gy is picking me up here at twelve," he said.
"Twelve?" she said, surprised.
"We have a few errands to run," he said mischievously.
"I'm getting dressed at Pat's – so I guess we'll meet you there at one. Providing my dress still fits," she added with a sigh, then patted her belly. "Junior here is beginning to make his presence known," she confessed. "He doesn't show when I'm wearing my apron – but in a dress, it's becoming a little more evident. Not that I mind everyone knowing – but…"
"But you don't want them thinking it's the reason we're getting married. The impetus for it, yes – but not the reason," he said.
"It's going to be awkward enough in the months to come," Beverly answered. "In this world, women my age don't generally conceive – and men your age are very rarely fathers. There are going to be comments made, Jean-Luc," she warned him.
He nodded, seemingly unconcerned, but Beverly knew how deeply those comments would affect Jean-Luc, a man whose personal life was always that: something that was not to be bandied about in public.
But that was Jean-Luc Picard, captain of the Enterprise, flagship of the Federation's fleet, she reminded herself – not John Picard, martial arts instructor at a one room do-jahng on the outskirts of Chicago.
Here, there would be a few comments from a few of the parents – but for the most part, they simply were no longer important enough for anyone to really care.
Or rather, there were plenty of people who did care – but who wanted only the best for their new friends.
People, she added, who were not about to tolerate any remarks from outsiders.
She grinned, curious about how Pat would react the first time she heard any comments about her age, or Jean-Luc's, or their fitness for being parents. It would, Beverly decided, rival the fireworks they had viewed from Pat's rooftop a week ago.
A week, she sighed as left the bathroom, searching out her work clothes. Only a week.
In one week, Pat had thrown together a wedding, found a dress, talked a local seamstress into altering it to fit Beverly's changing figure, managed to arrange a small reception at a local restaurant, covered Beverly's hours at the shop while she and Jean-Luc got the marriage license… In one week, she had done what it had taken Beverly months to arrange when she was getting married to Jack.
Of course that wedding had been somewhat more elaborate – and she had done it while attending medical school – but even so, Pat was nothing less than remarkable, Beverly thought.
Glancing at the clock, she hastily dressed, then grabbed her apron before poking her head around the bathroom door.
"I have to leave. One o'clock?"
"One o'clock… Mrs. Picard," he added with a smile.
Startled, Beverly stopped.
Mrs. Picard?
Mrs. Picard.
She let the name run over her tongue for a moment – then smiled.
Mrs. Picard.