Birthright by Nora Roberts
herself into the perfect doctor’s wife because she needed my father’s approval. It was her choice, I know that. And she’s happy. But I always looked at her as a little less. I always promised myself I’d never put myself second for anyone. I’d never need someone so much that I couldn’t be a whole person without him. Then you exploded into my life, and I had to rush around and pick up the pieces just so I didn’t forget who I was supposed to be.”
“I never wanted you to give anything up.”
“No. But I was terrified I would anyway. That I wouldn’t be able to think without asking myself what you’d think first. My mother used to do that. ‘We’ll ask your father.’ ‘Let’s see what your father says.’ Drove me crazy.”
She laughed a little, shook her head. “Stupid, really, when you think of it. Taking that small part of their marital dynamic and making it personal. I didn’t want to need you, because if I did, that made me weak and you strong. And I was already crazy because I loved you more than you loved me, and that gave you the edge.”
“So it was a contest?”
“Partially. The more I felt at a disadvantage, emotionally, the more I pushed you. The more I pushed, the more you closed up on me, which made me push harder. I wanted you to prove you loved me.”
“And I never did.”
“No, you never did. And I wasn’t going to tolerate somebody who couldn’t cooperate enough to love me more than I loved him so I’d have the controls. I wanted to hurt you. I wanted to cut you deep. I wanted that because I didn’t think I could.”
“It must make you feel better to know you broke me into small, bloody pieces.”
“It does. I’m a failure as a human being because it makes me feel so much better to know that.”
“Glad I could help.” He pulled her arm around him, then carried her hand to his lips.
“You can barely choke out that you love me. I’m afraid to love you. What the hell are we supposed to do?”
“Sounds like a match made in heaven to me.”
She pressed her face to his back and laughed. “God, you’re probably right.”
Let the dead stay dead, Callie thought as she gently brushed soil from the finger bones of a woman who’d stayed dead for thousands of years. Would this woman, one Callie judged to have been at least sixty when she died, agree? Would she be angry, horrified, baffled at having her bones disturbed by a stranger who lived in another time, in another world?
Or would she understand, be pleased that these strangers cared enough to want to learn from her? Learn about her.
Would she be willing, Callie wondered as she paused to write another quick series of notes, to allow herself to be unearthed, removed, studied, tested, recorded, so that knowledge about who she was, why she was, could be expanded?
And still, so many questions could never be answered. They could speculate how long she’d lived, what had caused her death, her diet, her habits, her health.
But they would never know who her parents had been, her lovers and friends. Her children. They would never know what made her laugh or cry, what frightened her or angered her. They would never know, truly, what it was that made her a person.
Wasn’t that what she was trying to find out about herself, somehow? What made Callie Dunbrook who she was beyond the facts she had at her disposal. Beyond what she knew.
What was she made of? Was it strong enough, tough enough, to pursue answers for the sake of knowledge? Because if she wasn’t, her entire life had been misdirected. She had no business being here, uncovering the bones of this long-dead woman if she backed away from uncovering the bones of her own past.
“You and I are in the same boat.” She sighed as she set her clipboard aside. “And the trouble is, I’m the one at the oars. My head’s in it. Too much training for it not to be. But I don’t know if my heart’s in it anymore. I just don’t know if my heart’s in any of it.”
She wanted to walk away. Wanted to pack up her loose and walk away from the digs, from the deaths, from the Cullens, from the layers of questions. She wanted to forget she’d ever heard the names Marcus Carlyle or Henry and Barbara Simpson.
She even thought she could live with it. Wouldn’t her parents be less traumatized if she just stopped? Put this all aside. Buried it, forgot it.
And there were other archaeologists who could competently head the Antietam Project. Others who hadn’t known Dolan or Bill and wouldn’t be reminded of them every time they looked at the sun-spangled water of the pond.
If she walked away, she could start to pick up her life again—the part of it that had been on hold for a year. There was no point in denying that now, at least to herself. Part of her had just stopped when Jake had walked away.
If they had a second chance, shouldn’t they take it? Away from here. Away where they could finally start learning each other—those layers again. Layers they’d simply bored through the first time around without taking the time to study or analyze in their rush to simply have each other.
What the hell was her responsibility anyway—here, or to somewhere she’d been for barely two months of her life? Why should she risk herself, her happiness, maybe even the lives of others just to know all the facts about something that could never be changed?
Deliberately, she turned away from the remains she’d so carefully excavated. She boosted herself out of her section, wiped at the soil that clung to her pants.
“Take five.” Jake put a hand on her arm, tugged her away from the boundary of her section. He’d been watching her for several minutes, measuring the weariness and the despair that had played over her face.
“I’m done. I’m just done.”
“You need to take a minute. Get out of the sun. Better yet, take an hour in the trailer and get some sleep.”
“Don’t tell me what I need. I don’t care about her.” She gestured toward the remains behind her. “If I don’t care, I don’t belong here.”
“Callie, you’re tired. Physically, emotionally. You’re pissed off, and now you’re beating yourself up because there’s nobody else to kick.”
“I’m resigning from the project. I’m going back to Philadelphia. There’s nothing here for me, and I’ve got nothing to give anyone here.”
“I’m here.”
“Don’t put that on the line again.” She hated hearing her own voice shake. “I’m not up to it.”
“I’m asking you to take a couple days. Take a break. Do paperwork, head to the lab, whatever works best for you. Then, after you’ve cleared your head a little, if you want off, we’ll talk to Leo, help him find replacements for us.”
“Us?”
“You go, I go.”
“Jesus, Jake. I don’t know if I’m up to that either.”
“I’m up to it. This time you’re going to lean on me if I have to kick your feet out from under you.”
“I want to go back home.” There were tears in her throat, tears behind her eyes. She had a moment’s panic she wouldn’t be able to stop them. “I want to feel normal.”
“Okay.” He drew her against him, then shook his head quickly as Rosie started toward them. “We’ll take a few days. Let me get in touch with Leo.”
“Tell him . . . Christ, I don’t know what to tell him.” She drew back, tried to steady herself. And saw Suzanne pull to the side of the road. “Oh God. That’s perfect. That’s just perfect.”
“Go on to the trailer. I’ll get rid of her.”
“No.” She swiped a hand over her cheeks to make sure they were dry. “If I’m taking off, the least I can do is tell her myself. But it wouldn’t hurt my feelings if you stuck around.”
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve been stuck for some time.”
“Callie.” Suzanne actually seemed happy as she came through the gate. “Jake. I was just thinking how much fun all of this looks. That never occurred to me before, but it must be fun.”
Callie rubbed her grubby hands on her work pants. “It can be.”
“I’m sorry. We were supposed to meet for something today?”
“No. We just wanted to . . . Well, I won’t wait for him. Happy birthday.” She held out a gift bag.
“Thanks, but it’s not my birthday until . . .” Realization came with a quick jolt that had her staring at the pretty little bag with its shiny blue stars. Jessica’s birthday.
“I realized you might not think of it.” Suzanne took Callie’s hand, slid the strap of the bag over her fingers. “But I’ve waited a long time to wish you happy birthday in person.”
She saw no sorrow or regret on Suzanne’s face. Only a joy that left her unable to turn away. “Well.” She stared down at the bag again. “I don’t know how to feel about this. It’s a little annoying to be another year older to begin with, the last one I’ve got before the big three-oh. And now I have to do it earlier than I expected.”
“Wait until you hit fifty. It’s a killer. I made you a cake.” She waved a hand back toward her car. “It might help it go down easier.”
“You made me a cake,” Callie murmured.
“I did. And I don’t mind telling you that not everyone gets a cake baked in Suzanne’s actual kitchen by Suzanne’s actual hands these days. There’s Jay now. Do you have a few minutes?”
“Sure.”
“I’ll have him get the cake out of the car for me. Be right back.”
Callie stood, the shiny bag dangling from her fingers. “How is she doing this? Jesus, Jake, she was bubbling. How is she making it a celebration?”
“You know why, Callie.”
“Because my life matters to her. It never stopped mattering.” She looked down at the gift bag, then back toward the bones of a long-dead woman. “She’s not going to let me walk away.”
“Babe.” He leaned down to kiss her. “You were never going to let yourself walk away. Let’s go have some cake.”
The team descended on the cake like locusts on wheat. Maybe, Callie thought as she heard the laughter, it was just what they’d all needed to push away the guilt and depression over Bill’s death. Some careless greed, a half hour of simple human pleasure.
She sat in the shade at the edge of the woods and took the wrapped package Jay offered her. “Suzanne will tell you picking out gifts isn’t my strong point.”
“Car mats. For our fourth anniversary.”
He winced. “And I’ve never lived it down.”
Amused, Callie finished ripping off the wrapping. They seemed so easy together, like different people than they’d been the day she’d seen them in Lana’s office.
“Well, this beats car mats.” She ran her hand over the cover of a coffee-table book on Pompeii. “It’s great. Thanks.”
“If you don’t like it, you can—”
“I do like it.” It wasn’t so hard to lean over, touch her lips to his cheek. Harder, much harder, was to watch him struggle to control his stunned gratitude for one small gesture.
“Good.” He reached out, a little blindly, and closed his hand over Suzanne’s. “Um. That’s good, but I’m used to having my gifts returned.”
Suzanne let out an exaggerated huff. “Didn’t I keep that ugly music box with the ceramic cardinal you gave me for Valentine’s Day? It plays ‘Feelings,’ ” she told Callie.
“Wow, you really do suck at this. I lucked out.” She picked up the gift bag, riffled through the matching tissue paper for the jewelry box.
“They were my grandmother’s.” Suzanne kept her fingers twined with Jay’s as Callie drew out the single strand of pearls. “She gave them to my mother on her wedding day, and my mother gave them to me on mine. I hope you don’t mind, but I wanted you to have them. Even though you never knew them, I thought it was a link you might appreciate.”
“They’re beautiful. I do appreciate it.” Callie looked back toward the square in the ground where ancient bones lay waiting. Jake was right, she thought. She’d never be able to walk away.
She put the pearls gently back in the box. “One day you’ll tell me about them. And that’s how I’ll know them.”
Twenty-three
Sane and enjoyable outdoor activities, as far as Lana was concerned, included shady summer picnics, sipping margaritas at the beach, a nice morning of gardening and perhaps a weekend of skiing—with the emphasis on the après.
She’d never envisioned herself camped out in a field, eating a charred hot dog as she updated a client. But nothing about her attorney-client relationship with Callie had been usual.
“Want a beer to go with that?” Comfortable, Callie flipped the lid on a cooler.
“She doesn’t drink beer.” Doug crooked a finger at the cooler. “But I do.”
“Well, we’re all out of pinot noir at the moment.” Callie tossed Doug a can of Coors. “This is getting to be real cozy. Like we’re double-dating.”
“When we all go to the car to fool around, I call the backseat.” Jake dipped a hand into an open bag of chips.
“I’ll make sure to note the time when that activity begins.” Shifting to try to find a soft spot on the ground, Lana swatted at a mosquito. “It wouldn’t be ethical to bill you for it. Meanwhile . . .”
She scooped her hair out of the way, then pulled a file out of her bag. “I’ve verified the death certificate, and spoke personally with Carlyle’s physician. As he received permission from next of kin, he was willing to give me some of the details of Carlyle’s medical condition. His cancer was diagnosed eight years ago, and treated. Recently, it recurred. The chemo cycle began last April, and in July Carlyle was hospitalized as his condition worsened. He was terminal, and was released to hospice care in early August.”
She set the file down, looked at Callie. “I can extrapolate from this that Carlyle was in no shape to travel, and there’s no evidence he left his home on Grand Cayman. He may have been able to communicate to some extent by phone, but even that would’ve been limited. He was a very sick man.”
“And now he’s a very dead one,” Callie stated.
“It’s possible we can put together enough evidence to take to court and persuade a judge to subpoena his records. There are probably records, Callie, and it may help you to see them. But it would take time, and I can’t guarantee I can make it happen with what we have so far.”
“Then we’ll have to get more. We found the connection between Barbara Halloway and Suzanne, to Simpson, to my parents. And those connect to Carlyle. There’ll be others.”
“How important is it to you?” Doug lifted a hand, let it fall. “You know what happened. You may not be able to prove it, but you know. Carlyle’s dead, so how important is it?”
Callie reached in the cooler again and took out a small package wrapped in aluminum foil. She opened it, offered it. “She baked me a birthday cake.”
Doug stared at the pink rosebud on white frosting, then made himself reach out and break off a corner. “Okay.”
“I can’t love her the way you do. Or him,” she said, thinking of Jay. “But they matter to me.”
“People worked for Carlyle,” Jake put in. “In his offices, in his network. He had a wife during the time Callie was taken. Two wives since. And he very likely had other intimate relationships. No matter how careful a man is, he talks to someone. To find out who, and what, you need to get a clear picture of the man. Who was Marcus Carlyle? What drove him?”
“We have some of that from the investigator’s report.” Lana flipped through the file. “The name of his secretary in his Boston and Seattle offices. She’s no longer in that area. We believe she remarried and moved to North Carolina, but he hasn’t been able to locate her as yet. There was a law clerk, whom he has spoken with. There’s no indication he was involved. I have reports on a few other employees, and again, there’s no indication that any of them continued contact with him after he closed down in Boston.”
“What about ass
“He’s had interviews and conversations with some.” Lana lifted her hands. “But we’re talking about over a twenty-year gap. Some of these people are dead, or have moved, or simply haven’t been located yet. Realistically, if you want to spread out this way, it’s going to take a team of investigators, and a great deal of time and money.”
“I can go to Boston.” Doug broke off another corner of the cake. “And wherever.” He shrugged when Callie just looked at him. “Traveling’s what I do. And when you’re hunting up books, determining whether they are what they’re advertised to be, you talk to a lot of people, do a lot of research. So I’ll take a trip, ask some questions. Do me a favor?” he said to Jake.