Sighing, she put the picture aside and turned the box upside down, shaking the photos out so she could see all of them at once.
A very old photo caught her attention. Her parents held a baby in a white baptismal gown. But the baby didn't look like her. In fact, she didn't remember seeing this photo before, and when she was a kid, she'd helped her mother compile many a family photo album.
Very weird. An uneasy feeling tightened her muscles. She picked up another photograph. This one was more shocking than the last. Her father was at the park. He was pushing a toddler in a swing, and he was smiling at the camera. It was the biggest grin she'd ever seen on his face. It almost didn't even look like him.
Maybe he had loved her when she was a baby.
But as her gaze settled on the child, she didn't feel any sense of recognition. The toddler had on blue shorts and a t-shirt with a big dinosaur on it. She'd never worn those clothes. That kid wasn't her. In fact, she was pretty sure it was a boy.
Her uneasiness deepened. Who was the child? Why was her father with some strange kid at a park? He'd never taken her to the park, pushed her on a swing, or helped her down a slide. She didn't have any cousins. The little boy had to belong to one of her dad's friends.
She shuffled through more photographs, more pictures of her mom and dad and a baby, then a toddler, that she didn't recognize. But the three of them were always together. They looked like a family—a happy family.
Where the hell was she
?
Her stomach turned over. She wanted to take the photos, shove them back into the box, and put it back where she'd found it – in the basement.
Had her father risked his life to get these pictures?
With trembling fingers, she rearranged a series of photos, trying to put together a timeline. There was a house she didn't remember, a car that she hadn't seen before. Her parents seemed really young and very happy. These were not the people she'd grown up with. It was as if she had entered an alternate world, one where they existed, and she didn't.
She turned one of the pictures over. There was a date. The shot had been taken four years before she was born. No wonder she didn't recognize any of the details.
But who was the child? Her parents had never talked about watching anyone else's son.
She rifled through more of the pictures, looking for clues. Finally, another date, and this time a name—
Stephen, Jr
.
Her heart pounded against her chest.
Stephen, Jr
.?
A child named after her father?
It didn't make sense. She was the first born, the only child. No one had ever told her about another baby – not her father or her mother or her grandparents. Had they all conspired to keep a secret? Why?
Something bad must have happened.
She flew through the rest of the photographs. There were no pictures of the child past the age of three or four, no school pictures, no family shots.
A million questions raced through her head.
The analytical part of her brain screamed at her to pay attention to what was right in front of her, to stop trying to pretend that this was some crazy daydream. Her parents had had another child. Maybe it wasn't their birth child. Maybe it was a kid they adopted or cared for while the parent or parents were gone. That thought made her feel marginally better.
But then she remembered the name,
Stephen, Jr
.
Getting up from the bed, she moved over to the desk and opened her computer. She typed in Stephen Davidson, Jr., and ran through the results. Both first and last name were very common, so there were literally hundreds of names. She entered more data, San Francisco, the date on the photograph. Nothing definitive.
She tried a new search for birth records in San Francisco over a couple years.
And there it was.
Stephen Davidson, Jr., father Stephen Davidson, mother Valerie Laura Davidson.
Sara sat back in her chair, stunned beyond belief. The date was six years before she was born. She'd once asked her mother why they'd waited eight years to have a baby. Her mom had mumbled something about not being ready. But they'd been ready. They'd had a kid together, a child they hadn't told her about.
Anger and pain ripped through her along with a terrible sense of betrayal. The rush of emotions made her head spin.
What had happened to the baby? To her
brother?
Nausea swept through her. She ran to the bathroom and threw up. When she finally rose, she was shaking. She ran cold water over her face and then pressed a dry towel against her forehead and over her eyes. With her eyes closed, she could almost pretend that nothing had changed, but that wasn't true. Everything had changed.
She had an older brother. Where was he?
Setting down the towel, she returned to the bedroom, knowing that there was only one explanation. It wasn't the answer she wanted to find, but there seemed to be no alternative.
She checked death records, obituaries, and there it was.
Stephen Davidson, Jr., age 4, survived by his loving parents, Stephen and Valerie Davidson.
There was no mention of how he'd died, and the date was two years before she was born. She walked back to the bed and stared at the photos, especially the ones of her dad smiling. He'd been a happy father then. He'd obviously loved his son. And she'd just figured out why her father had risked his life to rescue a box of photos, why he hadn't wanted her to go through his things, why he'd been almost desperate in his desire to get her out of his house. He hadn't wanted her to find out about her brother.
She flopped on her back and stared at the ceiling. She didn't want to cry, but she suddenly felt very emotional. Tears began to stream down her face, and she wasn't even sure exactly what she was sad about. She'd never met her brother, so how could she grieve for him. She was angry with her mother for never telling her about her brother. But her mother was gone. There would be no confessions, no truth between them now.
And then there was her father …
He'd loved that child. He'd been able to be a dad to his son, but not to his daughter.
He hadn't loved her. He hadn't wanted her.
She'd known it all along, but now she had proof, hard evidence.
And the tears kept coming…
Chapter Fourteen
"We need to have a talk, son," Jack Callaway told Aiden as he joined him at the buffet table.
The Callaway lunch was in full swing. Dozens of relatives were gathered in the house. Aiden had hoped the crowd of extended family and friends would have prevented a conversation with his father, but apparently not.
"Now is not a good time," he said.
"Tonight, after everyone goes home," Jack said, meeting his gaze. "We need to discuss your future."
"My future is my business."
"You've made it everyone's business," Jack retorted. "You're not just dragging yourself down in the mud, you're taking the family name with you. Now Burke tells me you don't remember what happened. That's some information that needs to be shared with other people." He paused as Lynda interrupted them.
"Whatever you two are talking about can wait," she said firmly. "We've got a house full of people, and I need your help in the kitchen, Jack."
"Tonight, Aiden," his father said. "Don't make me come looking for you."
He didn't bother to reply. He'd get some lunch and then decide whether or not he wanted to have that conversation with his father. Except for possibly Burke, Jack didn’t seem able to accept that his children were adults and could live their own lives. Not that he'd been doing a great job with his life lately, but that was still his business.
He picked up a plate, grabbed two sandwiches, and a generous helping of potato salad and moved into the living room. Two of his aunts were on the sofa, his grandmother sat across from them in an armchair. She didn't seem to be all that interested in their conversation, nor did she pay him any attention either. Her somewhat vacant smile reminded him a little of Brandon. He wondered what was going on with her. He was going to sit down next to her, but his cousin, Anne, nabbed the seat before him, so he headed across the room and sat down on the bench in front of the piano.
A few moments later, Emma joined him. "What are you doing all by yourself?" she asked.
"Hardly by myself," he said dryly. "Half the neighborhood is in this house."
"It is a big turnout today. Tons of great food, too."
He nodded, his gaze catching on a group of people walking up to the front door. For a moment he thought he saw Sara, but it wasn't her. He wondered where she was. He'd thought she'd come by for lunch, if not to see him, then to see Emma. Or she could be avoiding him. Once again, he'd let himself get carried away with her. Only this time, he hadn't had any intention of calling a halt. If they hadn't been interrupted, who knows how far they would have gone.
"Earth to Aiden," Emma said dryly.
"What?"
"You're somewhere else today. Are you looking for Sara?"
"Is she coming?"
"I invited her earlier. She was noncommittal. She told me nothing happened last night, that you just gave her a ride home. Care to confirm that story?"
"You should mind your own business."
"Sara
is
my business. She's my friend."
"And a grown woman," he pointed out.
"I just don't want either one of you to get hurt."
"We can take care of ourselves. If you want to worry about someone, maybe you should worry about Grandma. She's been staring into space for five minutes. And now she appears to be talking to herself.
"I am worried about Grandma. Mom said that Grandpa is taking her in for some tests this week. She's been confused and forgetful. It's kind of scary, Aiden."
He nodded, worried even more now that his suspicions had been confirmed. His father's mother, Eleanor, had always been a sweet and loving grandmother to all of them, and he couldn't imagine his grandfather without her. The two of them had been married for almost sixty years.
"I'm going to talk to her." He set down his plate on the bench and then crossed the room, pausing by her chair. "Grandma, can I get you anything?"
She looked at him in confusion. "Drew?" she said.
"I'm Aiden," he reminded her. "Drew isn't here today."
"Aiden doesn’t live here anymore," she said.
"I'm visiting," he told her. "I got home a couple of days ago."
Her gaze met his, and the clouds lifted just slightly. Her smile seemed almost dreamy. "You look just like your grandfather. Like Patrick."
"You do look like Grandpa," Emma agreed, joining them. "Same blue eyes."
His grandmother suddenly grabbed his arm. "We can't keep it a secret anymore, Patrick. It's going to come out. I'm so worried."
He stared at her in confusion. "Grandma, what are you talking about?" he asked.
"I know I promised, but it's so hard."
An uneasy feeling settled in his stomach. He glanced over at Emma. Her sharp gaze had narrowed. She answered his unspoken question with a shrug.
"Grandma," he started, then was interrupted by his grandfather.
"Ellie, there you are," his grandfather said. "Let's get you some food."
"Patrick?" she asked, as she held out his hand.
"Yes, sweetheart, it's me," he said.
She smiled. "I thought so."
His grandfather helped his grandmother to her feet, then gave Aiden a quick look. "We're going to talk later, Aiden. You, me and your father."
"Great," he muttered.
"Looks like you're going to be on the hot seat," Emma said, as their grandparents left.
"What was Grandma talking about?"
"I have no idea. She thought you were Grandpa."
"And they seem to have a secret," he said.
"Well, who knows what she was saying? She could have been referring to her secret spaghetti sauce recipe that she won't share with anyone in the family."
"I suppose," he said, not at all convinced. There had been an urgency in his grandmother's eyes. But then again, she'd thought he was her husband, so how could he take anything she said seriously?
"So, Aiden, what are you going to do now? Are you going back to smokejumping? Have you considered applying for a job here in the city?"
"I don't know yet, and I wish everyone would give me a chance to figure things out. I'm more than capable of making decisions about my life."
"Jeez, relax, I was just asking," she said.
"You and everyone else in the family. Coming home was a big mistake."
"We just care about you, Aiden."
He knew that was true, but the weight of their love felt more oppressive than supportive. "I've got to get out of here," he said.
"Aiden, I'm sorry. You don't have to leave."
"It's fine. I need some air."
"Tell Sara to come by and eat. And make sure she doesn't go back to New York without saying good-bye."
"I'm just going outside."
She gave him a disbelieving look. "Sure you are."
* * *
Aiden walked around the block, then added another and another, finally ending up back in his driveway, torn between going to his room and going next door. Emma's comment about Sara going back to New York had stuck with him. He didn't want her to leave without saying goodbye, either. Actually, he didn't want her to leave at all, but her home was on the other side of the country. Their lives were in different states. He should leave her alone.
Five minutes later he rang her doorbell. Her rental car was out front, but she didn't answer. He rang the bell again. Maybe he'd missed her, and she'd gone next door while he was walking off his frustration. He was about to leave when the door opened.
He stared at her in shock. Her brown hair was tangled and messy, her eyes and nose were red and swollen. She looked devastated.
"What the hell happened?" he asked.
She stared back at him, her lips trembling.
"Sara, talk to me." He grabbed hold of her hands. They were ice cold.