Birthright

by Nora Roberts

  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.”

  He 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.”

  Callie 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 w
ould. 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.”

  “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.”

  Twenty-six

  Maybe 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.”

  Suzanne 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.