Birthright (47 page)

“I'll get around to it.” He pulled in the lane, bumped up the narrow gravel road. “You've got a situation, babe. Small town, smaller dig. Your parents are bound to run into the Cullens if they stay more than a night in the area.”

“I know. I'll deal with it when I have to.”

She got out of the car, stood for a moment in the cooling night air. “Love's a lot of work, so I'm told. So we'll work.”

He took her hand, lifted it to his lips.

“You never used to do that,” she told him. “You do it a lot now.”

“A lot of things I didn't used to do. Wait a minute.” His fingers dipped into her cleavage.

She gave a low chuckle. “Now
that
, you used to do.”

He slid it out of her bodice, held it in front of her face.
Dangling from his thumb and index finger was a bracelet, glittering gold, sparkling from the etchings cut in a complex Byzantine design. “Now how'd that get in there?”

All she could manage was, “Oh, wow.”

“Happy birthday.”

“It's . . . it's jewelry. You never . . . you never gave me jewelry.”

“That's a rotten lie. I gave you a gold band, didn't I?”

“Wedding rings don't count.” She snatched the bracelet out of his hand, then examined it. The gold was so fluid, she almost expected it to drip out of her fingers. “It's beautiful. Seriously. Jeez, Jacob.”

Delighted with her reaction, he took it, hooked it around her wrist. “I heard a rumor that the contemporary female enjoys body adornments. Looks good on you, Cal.”

She traced her finger over the gold. “It's . . . Wow.”

“If I'd known a bauble would shut you up, I'd've buried you in them a long time ago.”

“You can't spoil it with insults. I love it.” She caught his face in her hands, kissed him. She drew back, just enough so that she could meet his eyes, look into them and see herself.

And kissed him again, sliding into him as her hands slipped back into his hair.

Then with a quiet purr, the kiss deepened. And the pleasure. Soft and slow and sweet, while his arms came around her. They stood, swaying in the night, melting into each other.

On a sigh, she turned her cheek to his and watched the dance of fireflies around them. “I really love it.”

“I got that impression.”

He took her hand again, walked her to the house. He could hear the sounds of the television as he eased the front door open. “Crowded in there. Let's go straight up.”

“Your room's down here.”

“I behaved,” he reminded her, and tugged her quickly upstairs. “Now I want to know what's under the dress.”

“Well, a promise is a promise.” She stepped into her room, then stared. “Where the hell did that come from?”

The bed was in the center of the room. It was old, the iron headboard painted silver. There were new sheets on the mattress, and a hand-lettered sign propped on the pillow.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, CALLIE

“Mattress came from the discount place by the mall. The headboard and frame from a yard sale. The team chipped in.”

“Wow.” Delighted, she hurried over to sit on the side of the bed and bounce. “This is great. Really great. I should go down and thank everyone.”

Grinning, Jake closed the door at his back, flipped the lock. “Thank me first.”

M
aybe it was the new bed, or the sex. Maybe it was the fact that she felt she'd passed through this birthday in two stages, but Callie's mood was strong and bright.

She felt so in tune with her team—and so guilty at the memory of searching backpacks—that she gave everyone birthday cake for breakfast.

She brewed iced tea for her cold jug, licked icing off her fingers and was delighted to see Leo wander into the kitchen.

“Happy birthday.” He set a package down on the counter. “And I want to make it clear that I had nothing to do with it.”

Callie poked the box with her index finger. “It isn't alive, is it?”

“I can't be held responsible.”

She poured the tea into her jug, then carried the box to the table to open. The wrapping was covered with balloons and the bow was enormous and pink. Once it was open, she dug through Styrofoam peanuts, then pulled out a shallow, somewhat square-shaped dish glazed in streaks of blue, green and yellow.

“Wow. It's a . . . what?”

“I said I had nothing to do with it,” Leo reminded her.

“Ashtray?” Rosie ventured.

“Too big.” Bob looked over her shoulder to study it. “Soup bowl?”

“Not deep enough.” Dory pursed her lips. “Serving bowl, maybe.”

“You could put, like, potpourri in it. Or something.” Fran picked up her own jug as everyone crowded around the table to see.

“Dust catcher,” was Matt's verdict.

“Art,” Jake corrected. “Which needs no other purpose.”

“There you go.” Callie turned it over to show the base. “Look, she signed it. I have an original Clara Greenbaum. Man, it's got some weight to it. Plus, it's a very . . . interesting shape and pattern. Thanks, Leo.”

“I am not responsible.”

“I'll call the artist and thank her.” Callie set it in the middle of the table, stepped back. It was, very possibly, the ugliest thing she'd ever seen. “See, it looks . . . artistic.”

“Potpourri.” Rosie gave her a bolstering pat on the shoulder. “Lots and lots of potpourri.”

“Right. Well, enough of this festive frivolity.” She moved over to dump ice in her jug and close it. “Let's get to work.”

“What are you going to call it when you thank her?” Jake wondered as they started out to the car.

“A present.”

“Good thinking.”

S
uzanne wiped her nervous hands on the hips of her slacks as she walked to the door. There was a flutter just under her heart, another in the pit of her stomach.

And there was a part of her that wanted to keep that door firmly shut. This was
her
home. And the woman outside was partially responsible for damaging it.

But she steeled herself, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and opened the door to Vivian Dunbrook.

Her first thought was the woman was so lovely—so perfectly dressed in a tailored gray suit accented with good, understated jewelry and wonderful classic pumps.

It was a knee-jerk female reaction, but it didn't stop Suzanne from remembering she'd changed her outfit twice after Vivian had phoned. Now she wished she'd worn her navy suit instead of the more casual black slacks and white blouse.

Fashion as the equalizer.

“Mrs. Cullen.” Vivian's fingers gripped tighter on the handle of the bag she carried. “Thank you so much for seeing me.”

“Please come in.”

“Such a beautiful spot.” Vivian stepped inside. If there were nerves, they didn't show in her voice. “Your gardens are wonderful.”

“A hobby of mine.” Back straight, face composed, Suzanne led the way into the living room. “Please, sit down. Can I get you anything?”

“No, please, don't trouble.” Vivian chose a chair, ordered herself to sit slowly and not just collapse off her trembling legs. “I know you must be very busy. A woman in your position.”

“My position?”

“Your business. So successful. We've enjoyed your products very much. My husband particularly. Elliot has a weakness for sweets. He'd like to meet you and your husband, of course. But I wanted, first . . .I hoped we could talk. Just you and I.”

She could be just as cool, Suzanne told herself. Just as classy and polite. She sat, crossed her legs, smiled. “Are you in the area long?”

“Just a day or two. We wanted to see the project. It isn't often Callie has a dig close enough for us to . . . Oh, this is awkward.”

“Awkward?” Suzanne repeated.

“I thought I knew what to say, how to say it. I practiced what I would say to you. I locked myself in the bathroom
for an hour this morning and practiced in front of the mirror. Like you might for a play. But . . .”

Emotion clogged Vivian's voice. “But now, I don't know what to say to you, or how to say it. I'm sorry? What good is it for me to tell you I'm sorry? It won't change anything, it won't give back what was taken from you. And how can I be sorry, all the way sorry? How can I regret having Callie? It's not possible to regret that, to be sorry for that. I can't even imagine what you've been through.”

“No, you can't. Every time you held her, it should've been me holding her. When you took her to school the first day and watched her walk away from you, it should've been me who felt so sad and so proud. I should've told her bedtime stories and worried late at night when she was sick. I should've punished her when she disobeyed and helped her with her homework. I should've cried a little when she went on her first real date. And I should've been allowed to feel that sense of loss when she went off to college. That little empty space inside.”

Suzanne fisted a hand over her heart. “The one that has pride at the edges of it, but feels so small and lonely inside. But all I had was that empty space. That's all I've ever had.”

They sat, stiffly, in the lovely room, with the hot river of their bitterness churning between them.

“I can't give those things back to you.” Vivian kept her head up, her shoulders stiff and straight. “And I know, in my heart, that if we'd learned this ten years ago, twenty, I would've fought to keep them from you. To keep her, whatever the cost. I can't even wish it could be different. I don't know how.”

“I carried her inside me for nine months. I held her in my arms moments after her first breath.” Suzanne leaned forward as if poised to leap. “I gave her life.”

“Yes. And that I'll never have. I'll never have that bond with her, and I'll always know you do. So will she, and it will always matter to her. You will always matter to her.
Part of the child who was mine all of her life is yours, now. She'll never be completely mine again.”

She paused, fighting for composure. “I can't possibly understand how you feel, Mrs. Cullen. You can't possibly understand how I feel. And maybe in some selfish part of ourselves we don't want to understand. But I ache because neither of us can know what Callie's feeling.”

“No.” Her heart quivered in her breast. “We can't. All we can do is try to make it less difficult.”

There had to be more than anger here, Suzanne reminded herself. There had to be more, for the child who stood between them. “I don't want her hurt. Not by me or you, not by whoever's responsible for this. And I'm afraid for her, afraid of how far someone will go to prevent her from finding what she's looking for.”

“She won't stop. I considered asking you to go with me. If both of us asked her to let it be . . . I even talked to Elliot about it. But she won't stop, and it would only upset her if we asked something she can't give.”

“My son's in Boston now. Trying to help.”

“We've asked questions in the medical community. I can't believe Henry . . . my own doctor.” Her hand lifted to her throat, twisted the simple gold necklace she wore. “When she finds the answers, and she will, there'll be hell to pay. Meanwhile, she's not alone. She has her family, her friends. Jacob.”

“It's hard to tell which group he fits into.”

For the first time since she'd come into the house, Vivian smiled and meant it. “I hope the two of them figure it out this time. And get it right. I . . . I should go, but I wanted to give you these.”

She touched the bag she'd set down beside the chair. “I went through the photographs and snapshots in our albums. I made copies of what I thought you'd . . . what I thought you'd like to have. I, ah, wrote the dates and occasions on the back when I remembered.”

She rose, picked up the bag and held it out. Staring at it, Suzanne got slowly to her feet. There was a fist around her
heart, squeezing so tight she wondered she could breathe at all.

“I wanted to hate you,” she declared. “I wanted to hate you and I wanted you to be a horrible woman. I'd tell myself that was wrong. How could I want my daughter raised by a horrible, hateful woman? But I wanted it anyway.”

“I know. I wanted to hate you. I didn't want you to have this lovely home, or to hear you speak of her with so much love. I wanted you to be angry and cold. And fat.”

Suzanne let out a watery laugh. “God. I can't believe how much better that makes me feel.” She let herself look into Vivian's eyes. She let herself see. “I don't know what we're going to do.”

“No, neither do I.”

“But right now, I'd really like to look at the pictures. Why don't we take them back to the kitchen? I'll make coffee.”

“That would be absolutely great.”

W
hile Suzanne and Vivian spent two emotional hours going through Callie's pictorial history over coffee and crumb cake, Doug once again sat in Roseanne Yardley's office.

“You didn't mention you were Suzanne Cullen's son.”

“Does it make a difference?”

“I admire a woman who achieves success on her own terms. And I attended a conference some years ago on children's health and safety. She was a speaker. A powerful one, who spoke eloquently of her own experience. I thought then she was a very brave woman.”

“I've begun to see that for myself.”

“I've spent most of my life concerned with the health and well-being of children. And I've always considered myself astute. It's difficult to accept I might have been in any way involved with a man who exploited them, for profit.”

“Marcus Carlyle arranged to have my sister taken and sold. He undoubtedly did the same with a number of others. And he very likely used you. A casual mention of a
patient. Parents who may have lost a child and were unable to conceive another. Relatives of parents who were childless. One or more of your patients might very well have been a baby stolen from another part of the country.”

“I spent some difficult hours thinking of those things. You won't get to Lorraine,” she said after a moment. “Richard will block you there. And to be frank, she's not particularly strong. She never was. Nor did she ever exhibit any interest in Marcus's work. But . . .” She slid a piece of paper across the desk toward him. “This might be a better, more useful contact. To the best of my information that's Marcus's secretary's location. I know people who know people who knew people,” she said with a sour smile. “I made some calls. I can't promise that's accurate or up-to-date.”

He glanced down, noted Dorothy McLain Spencer was reputed to live in Charlotte. “Thank you.”

“If you find her, and the answers you're looking for, I'd like to know.” She rose. “I remember something Marcus said to me one evening when we were discussing our work and what it meant to us. He said helping to place a child in a stable and loving home was the most rewarding part of his job. I believed him. And I would swear he believed it, too.”

L
ana found herself smiling the minute she heard Doug's voice over the phone. Deliberately, she made her voice breathless and distracted. “Oh . . . it's you. Digger,” she said in a stage whisper, “not now.”

“Hey.”

“I'm sorry to tell you this way, but Digger and I are madly in love and running off to Bora Bora. Unless you've got a better offer.”

“I could probably swing a weekend at the Holiday Inn.”

“Sold. Where are you?”

“On my way to the airport. I've got a line on Carlyle's secretary, so I'm heading to Charlotte to check it out. With the connections, it's going to take me all damn day
to get there. I wanted to let you know where I'd be. Got a pad and pencil?”

“I'm a lawyer.”

“Right.” He gave her the hotel he'd booked. “Pass that on to my family, will you?”

“ASAP.”

“Anything going on I should know about?”

“I'm going to be able to move back into my office in a week. Two at the most. I'm pretty excited.”

“No more leads on the arson?”

“They know how, but not who. Same goes, to date, for the trailer. We miss you around here.”