Birthright (46 page)

She'd looked worse, she decided. But she'd sure as hell looked better.

She'd go down, forage some food from the kitchen, then see what Rosie recommended she slap on her face. She could handle leaving her skin smothered in gunk while she worked on the dailies.

Considering it an intelligent compromise, she started down. Then stopped halfway down the stairs when she saw Jake at the door, and her parents on the other side.

They made an awkward tableau, she thought. How many times had they actually met, face-to-face? Twice? No, three times, she corrected.

Another mistake, she supposed. She'd considered Jacob Graystone so alien to her parents' lifestyle that she'd made no real effort to blend him into her family circle. And there was no doubt in her mind now that he'd had exactly the same reservation with her and his own family.

It was hardly any wonder they were so awkward with each other. Even without everything that had happened since July.

She skimmed her fingers through her hair and hurried the rest of the way down.

“Well, this is a surprise.” She tried to keep her voice easy and bright, but the tension inside her, around her, was thick enough to drink. “You should've told me you were coming down, I'd have guided you in. It couldn't've been easy to find us.”

“We only got lost twice.” Vivian stepped in, locked her arms around Callie.

“Once,” Elliot corrected. “The second time was just a reconnoiter. And we'd've been here an hour ago if your mother hadn't insisted we stop for this.”

“A birthday cake.” Vivian loosened her hold on Callie as Elliot held up the bakery box. “We could hardly come all this way to wish you a happy birthday and not bring a cake. I know it's not till tomorrow, but I couldn't resist.”

Callie's smile felt frozen, but she reached out for the box. “It's never the wrong time for sugar.”

She could feel the curiosity and speculation pumping in from the living room where some of the team were sprawled. “Ah, this is Dory, Matt, Bob. And you remember Rosie.”

“Of course. Nice to meet you.” Vivian ran a hand up and down Callie's arm as she spoke. “Wonderful to see you again, Rosie.”

“Why don't we take this back to the kitchen? It's the only place we have enough chairs anyway.” She turned, shoving the cake box at Jake before he could escape. “I'll make some coffee.”

“We don't want you to go to any trouble.” Though Elliot followed along. “We thought you might like to go out to dinner. We've got a room in a hotel just over the river. We're told the restaurant's very good.”

“Well, I . . .”

“I can lock the cake up somewhere,” Jake offered. “Otherwise, it'll be a memory when you get back.”

“Like I'd trust you around baked goods.” Callie took the cake back and made the decision on impulse. “I'll hide it. And you'll have to come with us.”

“I've got work,” he began.

“Me too. But I'm not turning down a free meal away from the horde, and I'm not leaving you with this cake. I'll be down in ten,” she told her surprised parents, then hurried out with the cake.

Jake drummed his fingers on his thigh, thought of half a dozen ways he could make Callie pay for putting him on the spot. “Listen, I'm going to cut out. I know you want some time alone with Callie.”

“She wants you to come.” There was such simple bafflement in Vivian's voice, Jake nearly laughed.

“Just tell her I headed back to the site.”

“She wants you to come,” Vivian repeated. “So you'll come.”

“Mrs. Dunbrook—”

“You'll need to change your shirt. And wear a jacket. A tie would be nice,” she added, “but they aren't required.”

“I don't have one. With me, I mean. I own a tie, it's just that I don't . . . have one with me,” he finished, feeling like an idiot.

“The shirt and jacket will be fine. Go on and change. We'll wait.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Elliot waited until they were alone to lean down and kiss his wife. “That was very sweet of you.”

“I don't know how I feel about it, or him, but if she wants him, she gets him. That's all there is to it. He was so flustered about the tie. I might just forgive him for making her unhappy.”

H
e wasn't just flustered. He was totally out of his depth. He didn't know what to say to these people under the best of circumstances. And these were far from the best.

The shirt needed to be ironed, he discovered. He didn't have a goddamn iron handy. The only reason he had the dress shirt and jacket was for the occasional television interview or university visit.

Trying to remember if the shirt had been laundered after the last wearing, he sniffed at it. Okay, points for him. It didn't smell. Yet.

He'd probably sweat through it before they got to the entrée.

If Callie had pushed him into this to punish him, she'd hit a bull's-eye.

He dragged on the shirt and had to hope the jacket would hide most of the wrinkles.

He dawdled now, refusing to go back out there until the last possible minute. He changed his work boots for a pair of slightly more presentable Rockports. Then he ran a hand over his face and remembered he hadn't shaved in days.

He snagged his kit and stomped off to the bathroom to take care of it.

A guy shouldn't have to put on a damn jacket and shave to have dinner with people who were going to look at him like the suspicious ex-husband. He shouldn't have to try to weather what was bound to be an emotional evening.

He had work to do and thoughts to think. And he just didn't need the aggravation.

He was scraping the razor through lather when the knock sounded. “What?”

“It's Callie.”

He shoved the door open, one-handed, then grabbed her and yanked her in. “Why are you doing this to me? What have I done to you lately?”

“It's dinner.” She arched her head back to avoid getting smeared with shaving cream. “You like to eat.”

“Get me out of this.”

Her brows winged up. “Get yourself out of it.”

“Your mother won't let me.”

Her heart warmed. “Really?”

“She made me change my shirt.”

“It's a nice shirt.”

He hissed out a breath. “It's wrinkled. And I don't have a tie.”

“It's not that wrinkled, and you don't need a tie.”

“You put on a dress.” He batted it out, a vicious accusation. He turned back to the mirror and, scowling, continued to shave.

“You're nervous about having dinner with my parents.”

“I'm not nervous.” He cursed when he nicked his chin. “I don't see why I'm having dinner with them. They don't want me horning in.”

“Didn't you just say my mother wouldn't let you get out of it?”

He sucked in a breath and scalded her with a look. “Don't confuse the issue.”

Look how sweet he was, she thought. Just look at the sweetness she'd ignored. “Are we trying to get somewhere together, Graystone?”

“I thought we were somewhere.” Then he paused, rinsed off the blade. “Yeah, we're trying to get somewhere.”

“Then this is part of it. It's a part I can't skip over again.”

“Yeah, yeah, I'm going, aren't I?” But he shifted his gaze, ran it down her. “Why'd you have to go put on a dress?”

She lifted her hands, managed to turn a little circle to show off the way the short, snug black material clung. “You don't like it?”

“Maybe I do. What's under it?”

“If you're a good boy and behave, you may just find out for yourself later.”

H
e tried not to think about that. It seemed rude to think about getting Callie out of the little black dress when he was sitting at a table for four with her parents.

And the conversation was so pointedly about anything but her parentage, the facts of it rang like bells.

They talked about the dig. A topic that seemed safest all around. Though no one mentioned the deaths, the fires.

“I don't think Callie's ever mentioned what got you into this kind of work.” Elliot approved the wine, and glasses were poured all around.

“Ah . . . I was interested in the evolutions and formations of cultures.” Jake ordered himself not to grab for his glass and glug wine like medicine. “What causes people to form their traditions, build their societies in the way . . .”

And the man wasn't asking for a damn lecture. “Actually, it started when I was a kid. My father's part Apache, part English, part French Canadian. My mother's part Irish, Italian and German and French. That's a lot mixed into one. So how do you get there? All those pieces have a trail back. I like following trails.”

“And you're helping Callie follow hers now.”

Everything stilled for a moment. He could feel Vivian stiffen beside him even as he saw Callie lift a hand, lay it on her father's in a gesture of gratitude.

“Yeah. She doesn't like help, so you have to badger her.”

“We raised her to be independent, and she took it very much to heart.”

“Then you didn't intend to raise her to be stubborn, hardheaded and obstinate?”

Elliot pursed his lips, then sipped his wine with a gleam of humor in his eyes. “No, but she had her own ideas about that.”

“I call it being self-sufficient, confident and goal-oriented.” Callie broke off a piece of bread, nibbled. “A real man wouldn't have a problem with it.”

He passed her the butter. “Still here, aren't I?”

She buttered a piece of bread, handed it to him. “Got rid of you once.”

“That's what you think.” He shifted back to Elliot. “Are you planning to come by the dig while you're here?”

“Yes indeed. Tomorrow, if that's convenient for both of you.”

“If you'll excuse me a minute.” Vivian pushed back from the table. As she rose, she laid a hand on Callie's shoulder, squeezed.

“Ah . . .I'll go with you. What?” she hissed as they walked away from the table. “I've never understood this girl thing about going to the john in groups.”

“There's probably some anthropological basis for it. Ask Jacob.” Inside the rest room, Vivian did indeed take out her compact. “You're twenty-nine years old. You're in charge of your own life. But despite everything, I'm still your mother.”

“Of course you are.” Worried, Callie stepped in, pressed her cheek to Vivian's. “Nothing changes that.”

“And as your mother, I exercise the right to stick my nose into your business. Are you and Jacob reconciled?”

“Oh. Well. Hmmm. I don't know if that's a word that will ever apply to me and Jake. But we're sort of together again. In a way.”

“Are you sure this is what you want, and not because your emotions are in turmoil?”

“He's always been what I wanted,” Callie said simply.
“I can't explain why. We messed it up so bad the first time.”

“You're still in love with him?”

“I'm still in love with him. He makes me mad, and he makes me happy. He challenges me, and this time, either because he's trying harder or because I'm letting him, he comforts me. I know we're divorced, and I hadn't seen him in almost a year. I know the things I said when we broke up, and I meant them. Or I wanted to mean them. But I love him. Does that make me crazy?”

Vivian brushed a hand over Callie's hair. “Whoever said love is supposed to be sane?”

Callie let out a half laugh. “I don't know.”

“It isn't always, and it isn't always comfortable. But it is, almost always, a hell of a lot of work.”

“We didn't put much work into the first time. Neither one of us really suited up for it.”

“You had good sex. Please.” Vivian leaned back against the sink when Callie registered surprise. “I've had plenty of good sex myself. You and Jacob have a strong physical attraction to each other. He's good in bed?”

“He's . . . he's excellent.”

“That's important.” Vivian turned to the mirror, dusted powder on her nose. “Passion matters and sex is a vital form of communication in a marriage, as well as a pleasure. But equally important, from my point of view, is that he's sitting out there with your father. He came here with us tonight, and he didn't want to. That tells me he's willing to work. You make sure you shovel your own load, and the two of you may just have something.”

“I wish . . . I wish I'd talked to you about him before. About us before.”

“So do I, baby.”

“I wanted to do it myself. To make it work, to handle it all. I messed up.”

“I'm sure you did.” She laid her hands on Callie's cheeks. “But I'm also absolutely certain he messed up more.”

Callie grinned. “I love you, Mom.”

C
allie waited for his comments on the drive home, then finally asked, “So? What did you think?”

“About what?”

“About dinner.”

“Good. I haven't had prime rib in months.”

“Not the food, you moron. Them. My parents. Dr. and Mrs. Dunbrook.”

“They're good, too. They're holding up their end. It takes a lot of spine to do that.”

“They liked you.”

“They didn't hate me.” He rolled his shoulders. “I figured they would. And that we'd get through the meal being chilly and correct and polite. Or they'd slip poison in my food when I wasn't looking.”

“They liked you,” she repeated. “And you held up your end, too. So thanks.”

“I did wonder about this one thing.”

“Which is?”

“Are you going to get two birthdays every year? I don't like shopping in the first place, and if I'm supposed to come up with two presents, it's really going to tick me off.”

“I haven't seen one yet.”