Birthright (12 page)

“I'm offering to be your friend, you blockhead. I want to help you find out what happened.”

“Calling me a blockhead isn't very friendly.”

“It's friendlier than the alternate word that came to mind.”

“Okay, points for you. There's a lot of garbage between us, Jake.”

“Maybe we'll sift through it one of these days. But for now we've got two priorities.” He rubbed his thumb over her knuckles. He couldn't help himself. “The dig, and your puzzle. We've got no choice but to work with each other on the first. Why not do the same on the second?”

“We'll fight.”

“We'll fight anyway.”

“True, very true.” That didn't bother her nearly as much as the urge she was resisting to curl her fingers into his. “I appreciate it, Jake. I really do. Now let go of my hand. I'm starting to feel goofy.”

He released her, dug out his wallet. “We can go back to your room. I'll give you a foot rub.”

“Those days are over, Jake.”

“Too bad. I always liked your feet.”

He paid the check, and kept his hands in his pockets as they walked outside.

She blinked, in some surprise, against the strength of the sun. It seemed they'd been inside that bar for hours.
But there was plenty of daylight left, she calculated. Enough to drive to the site and take a look, if she could drum up the energy.

She pulled out her sunglasses, then pursed her lips when Jake yanked a sheet of paper from under his windshield.

“ ‘Go back to Baltimore or you'll pay,' ” Jake read. He balled up the note, tossed it into the car. “I think I'll run out and check on Digger.”

“We'll go out and check on Digger.”

“Fine.” He climbed in, waited for her to slide into the seat beside him. “Heard you playing for a while last night,” he commented. “I'm right next door. Walls are thin.”

“Then I'll try to keep it down when I have Austin and Jimmy over for a party.”

“See how considerate you are now that we're friends?”

Even as she laughed, he leaned over, pressed his lips to hers.

She had an instant of pure shock. How could all that heat still be there? How
could
it? And cutting through the shock was a quick primal urge to move in, wrap around him and burn alive.

Before she could, he was easing back, turning the key in the ignition. “Seat belt,” he said casually.

She set her teeth, more furious with herself than with him. She yanked the seat belt in place as he backed up. “Keep your hands and your mouth to yourself, Graystone, or this friendship isn't going to last very long.”

“I still like the taste of you.” He made the turn out of the lot. “Hard to figure why after . . . Wait, wait, wait.” He tapped a hand on the wheel. “Speaking of taste. Suzanne Cullen. Suzanne's Kitchen?”

“Huh?”

“I knew it was familiar. Christ, Cal. Suzanne's Kitchen.”

“Cookies? Those amazing chocolate chip cookies?”

“Macadamia nut brownies.” He made a low sound of pleasure. “Quiet—I'm having a moment.”

“Suzanne Cullen is Suzanne's Kitchen.”

“Great story. You know, baking in her little house in the
country. Entering her pies and cakes in county fairs. Starting a little business, then boom, a national treasure.”

“Suzanne's Kitchen,” Callie repeated. “Son of a bitch.”

“Could explain your genetic obsession with sugar.”

“Very funny.” But the tickle at the back of her throat wasn't humor. “I have to go see her, Jake. I have to go tell her we have to take tests. I don't know how to handle her.”

He touched a hand to hers, but kept the contact brief. “You'll figure it out.”

“She has a son. I guess I have to figure out how to handle him, too.”

D
oug was trying to figure out how to handle himself where Lana Campbell was concerned.

She was already at the table when he got to the restaurant, and was sipping a glass of white wine. She was in a summer dress—soft, sheer, simple—instead of the slick business suits he'd seen so far.

She smiled when he sat across from her, then angled her head the way he'd seen her do when she was considering something. Or someone.

“I wasn't sure you'd show up.”

“If I hadn't, my grandfather would have disowned me.”

“We're so mean, ganging up on you this way. Would you like a drink?”

“What have you got there?”

“This?” She lifted it to the light of the candle between them. “A very palatable California chardonnay, buttery, but not overbearing, with a delicate bouquet matched with a good backbone.”

Her eyes laughed as she sipped. “Pompous enough for you?”

“Just about. I'll try it.” He let her order it, along with a bottle of sparkling water. “Okay, why are you ganging up on me?”

“Roger because he loves you, he's proud of you and he worries about you. He had such a good life with your
grandmother, and he can't see how you can have a good life unless you find the woman you're meant to share that life with.”

“Which would be you.”

“Which would be me, at the moment,” she agreed. “Because he loves me, too. And he worries about me being alone, raising a child without a father. He's an old-fashioned man, in the best possible definition of the term.”

“That explains him. What about you?”

She took her time. She'd always enjoyed the art of flirtation and let her gaze skim over his face. “I thought I'd enjoy having dinner out, with an attractive man. You were elected.”

“When did I get on the ballot?” he asked, and made her laugh.

“I'll be frank with you, Doug. I haven't dated very much since my husband died. But I enjoy people, company, conversation. I seriously doubt Roger needs to worry about either of us, but that doesn't mean we can't make him happy by having a meal together and enjoying the company and conversation.”

She opened her menu. “And the food here is wonderful.”

The waiter brought his drink and performed a spirited monologue of the evening's specials before sliding away to give them time to decide.

“How did he die?”

She paused only a moment, but it was just long enough for Doug to see the grief come and go.

“He was killed. Shot in a convenience-store robbery. He'd gone out late because Ty was fussy, and nobody was getting any sleep.”

It still hurt; she knew it always would. But she no longer feared remembering would break her. “I wanted some ice cream. Steve ran down to the 7-Eleven to buy some for me. They came in just as he was walking to the counter to pay.”

“I'm sorry.”

“So am I. It was senseless. There was no money to speak of, and neither Steve nor the clerk did anything to resist or incite. And it was very horrible. One moment my life was one thing, and in the next instant it was another.”

“Yeah, I know how that goes.”

“Do you?” Before he could respond, she reached across the table, touched his hand. “I'm sorry. I forgot. Your sister. I suppose that gives us something traumatic in common. Let's hope we have some other, more cheerful mutual connections. I like books. I'm afraid I treat them carelessly, in a way that would make bibliophiles like you and Roger weep.”

Tougher than she looked, he realized. Tough enough to put the pieces back together after being shattered. Respecting that, he put a little more effort into holding up his end of the evening.

“You dog-ear pages?”

“Please, even I wouldn't go that far. But I break spines. I spill coffee on pages. And once I dropped an Elizabeth Berg novel in the bathtub. I think it was a first edition.”

“Obviously, this relationship is doomed. So why don't we order?”

“So,” she began after they had, “do you actually read, or do you just buy and sell?”

“They're not stocks, they're books. It'd be pointless to be in the business of books if I didn't value them for what they are.”

“I imagine there are a number of dealers who don't. I know Roger loves to read. But I happened to be in the shop when he opened a shipment from you and found the first-edition copy of
Moby-Dick.
He tenderly stroked that book like it was a lover. He wouldn't have curled up in his easy chair to read it if you'd held a gun to his head.”

“That's what a nice paperback reprint is for.”

She cocked her head, and he caught the wink of small, colored stones at her ears. “Is it the discovery? The treasure hunt?”

“Partly.”

She waited a beat. “Well, you certainly are a blabbermouth. That's enough about you. Aren't you going to ask me why I became a lawyer?”

“You know what the problem is when you ask most people a question?”

She smiled over the rim of her wineglass. “They answer it.”

“There you go. But since we're here, I'll ask. Why'd you become a lawyer?”

“I like to argue.” She picked up her fork as their first course was served.

“That's it? You like to argue. You're not going to expand on that?”

“Mmm. Not at the moment. And the next time you ask me a question, I'll figure it's because you really want to know. What do you like to do, besides read and hunt books?”

“That takes up most of my time.”

If talking with him was going to be like pulling teeth, she thought, she'd just get out the pliers. “You must enjoy the travel.”

“It has its moments.”

“Such as?”

He looked over at her, his face mirroring such obvious frustration, she laughed. “I'm relentless. You might as well give up and tell me about yourself. Let's see . . . Do you play a musical instrument? Are you interested in sports? Do you believe Lee Harvey Oswald was a lone gunman?”

“No. Yes. I have no definitive opinion.”

“Caught you.” She gestured with her fork. “You smiled.”

“I did not.”

“Oh, yes you did. And there, you're doing it again. A very nice smile, too. Does it hurt?”

“Only a little. I'm out of practice.”

She picked up her wine and chuckled. “I bet we can fix that.”

H
e enjoyed himself more than he'd expected. Of course, since he'd expected to get through the meal in order to shake his grandfather off his back, that wasn't saying much.

But if he was honest, he'd enjoyed her company. She was . . . intriguing, he supposed, as they walked out of the
restaurant. She was a bright, interesting woman who'd been strong enough to face up to a terrible personal blow and carve out a fulfilling life.

He had to admire that, as he hadn't done nearly so well in that area himself.

Added to that, it was certainly no hardship to look at her. God knew looking at her, listening to her, being drawn out by her had taken his mind off his family situation for a few hours.

“I had a good time.” When they reached her car, she dug her keys out of a purse the size of a postage stamp. “I'd like to do it again.” She tossed her hair back, aimed those blue eyes at him. “Next time, you ask,” she said, then rose on her toes and kissed him.

He hadn't been expecting that, either. A peck on the cheek wouldn't have surprised him. Even a quick brush of lips would have seemed in keeping with her personality.

But this was a warm, wet invitation. A seductive intimacy that could have a man sliding off an edge he'd had no idea he'd been poised on.

Her fingers skimmed into his hair, her tongue danced lightly over his, and her body fit—curve to angle.

He tasted the wine they'd shared, and the chocolate she'd sampled for dessert. The light tones of the scent she wore hazed over his mind. He heard the crunch of wheels on gravel as someone drove in or out of the lot. And her soft, soft sigh.

Then she eased back, and left his head spinning.

“Good night, Doug.”

She slid into the car and sent him one long, sexy look through the closed window before she backed out and drove away.

It took him nearly a full minute to pull two coherent thoughts together. “Jesus,” he muttered and stalked to his car. “Jesus, Grandpa, what have you got me into?”

C
allie elected to work the site both horizontally and vertically. This would give the team the ability to discover and study the periods of inhabitation, and the connections between whatever artifacts and ecofacts they uncovered, while simultaneously slicing through time to note the changes from one period to another in a different segment of the dig.

She needed the horizontal method if she was going to verify and prove that the site had once been a Neolithic village.

She could admit, to herself, that she needed Jake for that, too. An anthropologist of his knowledge and skill could identify and analyze those artifacts and ecofacts from the cultural viewpoint. Best of all, he could and would build theories and expand the box with those finds, and leave her more time with the bones.

Digger was already working at his square, his hands as delicate as a surgeon's as they finessed the soil with dental probes and fine brushes. He wore headphones over his signature bandanna, and Callie knew the music would be blasting through them. Despite it, his concentration on the work would be absolute.

Rosie was one square over, her pretty toffee-colored skin sheened with sweat. Her hair was a tight black buzz over her skull.

The two college students carted buckets of spoil over to the sieving area. Leo and Jake manned the cameras for the moment. Callie chose the far end of the first grid, nearest the pond.

They were going to need a project photographer, she thought. A finds assistant. More diggers. More specialists.

It was early days yet, but in her mind it was never too early to forge a strong team.

There was too much going on in her mind. She needed to concentrate, and the best way she knew how was to separate herself as much as possible from the group. To think only about the work, one specific square.

As she worked she moved the dirt from her square into a pan for sieving. Now and again she stopped to document a new layer by camera and on her record sheet.

As mosquitoes whined and gnats swarmed she focused on what she could do, inch by methodical inch.

When she uncovered bone, she continued to record, to brush the dirt away, to pour it into the pail. Sweat dripped down her face, down her back. At one point she paused only to strip off her camp shirt and continue working in the damp tank beneath it.

Then she sat back on her heels, lifted her head and looked over the site.

As if she'd spoken, Jake stopped his own work and turned toward her. Though neither spoke, he began to cross the field. Then he stopped, looked down, squatted beside her.

Deep in the boggy soil the bones lay, almost perfectly articulated from sternum to skull. She would continue to excavate the rest.

The remains told a story without words. The larger skeleton with the smaller turned close to its side, tucked there in the crook of the elbow.

“They buried them together,” Callie said at length. “From the size of the remains, the infant died in childbirth
or shortly after. The mother, most likely the same. The lab should be able to confirm that. They buried them together,” she said again. “That's more intimate than tribal. That's family.”

“Leo needs to see this. We'll need to excavate the rest of these remains. And the rest of this segment. If they had the culture to inter this intimately, these two aren't alone here.”

“No.” It's what she'd felt all along. “They're not alone here. This is a cemetery.”

Had they loved each other? she wondered. Did the bond forge that quickly—mother to child, child to mother? Had Suzanne held her like this, moments after she'd taken her first breath? Close, safe, even as the birth pangs faded?

What became imprinted in the womb, and in those first moments of life? Were they forever etched?

And yet wasn't it the same, still the same for her own mother? The same bonding when Vivian Dunbrook had reached out to take, to hold close and safe, the infant daughter she'd longed for?

What made a daughter if it wasn't love? And here was proof that the love could last thousands of years.

Why should it make her so horribly sad?

“We'll need a Native American consult before we disinter.” Out of habit, Jake laid a hand on her shoulder as they knelt over the grave together. “I'll make the calls.”

She shook herself back. “Take care of it. But these need to come up. Don't start,” she said before he could speak. “Ritual and sensibilities aside, I've exposed these to the air. They need to be treated and preserved or they'll dry out and fall apart.”

Jake glanced toward the sky as thunder rumbled. “Nothing's going to dry out today. That storm's going to hit.” Ignoring her resistance, he pulled her to her feet. “Let's get this documented before it does.”

He rubbed a thumb over the fresh nick on the back of her hand. “Don't be sad.”

Deliberately she turned away from him. “It's a key find.”

“And hits a little close to home right now.”

“That's not the issue.” She couldn't let it be. Reaching down, she picked up her camera, began to document.

She'd already stepped away from him, and there was no sound but the click of the shutter. He ordered himself to be patient. “I'll make the calls.”

“I'm not going to have her and her child crumble while you powwow. Make it fast, Graystone,” she ordered, and went to get Leo.

D
igger's find of an antler horn and a hollowed bone that might have been used as a kind of whistle were overshadowed by the skeletons. But with them, and the flakes, the broken spear points Rosie unearthed, Callie began to put together a picture of the settlement in her mind.

The storm broke, as Jake had predicted. It gave her the chance to hole up in her motel room and sketch her vision of the settlement. The knapping area, the huts, the graveyard. If she was right, she expected they'd find the kitchen midden somewhere between areas D-25 and E-12.

She needed more hands, and could only hope today's find would shake some loose.

When the phone rang, she answered it absently. The minute she heard her father's voice her focus shattered.

“I wasn't sure I'd catch you this time of day, but I thought I'd try there before I tried your cell phone.”

“We got hit by a storm,” she told him. “I'm doing paperwork.”

“I wanted you to know I tracked down Henry Simpson. He's retired now, relocated in Virginia. I . . . I spoke with him briefly. Honey, I didn't know how much you wanted me to tell him. I said you were interested in finding out a bit more about your birth parents. I hope that was all right.”

“It seems the simplest way.”

“He couldn't tell me much. He thought Marcus Carlyle had relocated. He didn't seem to know where or when, but he, ah, told me he'd see if he could find out.”

“I appreciate it. I know this isn't easy for you, or Mom. Ah, if I decide to talk to Dr. Simpson myself, I'll probably ask you to talk to him again, fill him in more specifically.”

“Whatever you want. Callie, this woman, Suzanne Cullen . . . what do you plan to tell her?”

“I don't know. I can't leave things the way they are, Dad.” She thought of the bones again. Mother and child. “I'd never be able to live with it.”

There was a long pause, a short sigh. “No, I don't suppose you could. We'll be here if you need . . . anything.”

“You've always been there.”

She couldn't go back to work now, she thought after she hung up. Nor could she stand pacing the box of a room. She looked at her cello. But there were times, she thought, when music didn't soothe the savage beast.

The only way to move forward was to do what came next.

She called Suzanne.

T
he directions were detailed and exact. That told Callie that Suzanne could be, when necessary, controlled and organized. Figured, she thought as she drove up the long sweep of gravel that cut through the trees. You couldn't start your own national business from scratch if you were hyper and scattered as she'd seemed on her visit to Callie's motel room.

She also, obviously, liked her privacy, Callie decided. Kept her roots here in the area, but dug them into secluded ground.

The house itself showed her good taste, financial security and an appreciation for space. It was honey wood, contemporary lines, with two long decks and plenty of glass. Plenty of flora, too, Callie noted, and all of it lush and tended, with what looked to be stepping-stones or stone paths winding around through pristine oak chips or plots of tidy grass.

It was, to Callie's mind, a fair way to analyze a person—this study of their choice of habitat. She imagined
Jake would agree. How and where an individual elected to live spoke to that individual's personality, background and inner culture.

As she pulled up behind a late-model SUV, Callie tried to remember what Suzanne had been wearing when she'd come to the motel. Choices of apparel, body ornamentation, style were other signals of type and category.

But the visit was blurred in her mind.

Though the lightning had passed on, the rain was still beating the ground. Callie slid out of the car and arrived on the front porch, dripping.

The door opened immediately.

She was wearing very slim black pants with a tailored blouse in aqua. Her makeup looked fresh, and her hair carefully styled. Her feet were bare.

At her side was a big black Lab, and its tail was beating the wall like a joyful metronome.

“Please . . . come in out of the rain. Sadie's harmless, but I can put her away if you want.”

“No. She's okay.” Callie held out the back of her hand, let the dog sniff, then lick before she ruffled the fur between Sadie's ears. “Great dog.”

“She's three, and a bit rambunctious. Terrific company, though. I like living out here, but I feel more secure having Sadie in the house or around the property. Of course, she's so friendly, she'd just lick a burglar to death if . . . I'm sorry. I'm babbling.”

“It's okay.” Callie stood awkwardly, one hand still stroking the dog's head while Suzanne stared at her. “We need to talk.”

“Yes. Of course. I made coffee.” Suzanne gestured toward the living room. “I'm so glad you called. I didn't know, exactly, what to do next.” She stopped by the sofa, turned. “I still don't.”

“My parents.” Callie needed to get that out first, to establish the pattern, and her allegiance. And still she felt miserably disloyal as she sat down in Suzanne's attractive living room with the big, friendly dog flopping adoringly at her feet.

“You spoke with them.”

“Yes, I did. I was adopted in December of 1974. It was a private adoption. My parents are very decent, law-abiding, loving people, Mrs. Cullen—”

“Please.” She wouldn't let her hands shake. Determined, she picked up the coffeepot, poured without spilling a drop. “Don't call me that. Could you, would you call me Suzanne at least?”

For now, she thought. Just for now.

“It was a private adoption,” Callie continued. “They hired a lawyer on the advice of my mother's obstetrician. He placed a baby girl with them very quickly and for a very substantial fee. He gave them some basic information about the birth mother.”

“You told me you weren't adopted,” Suzanne interrupted. “You didn't know you were.”

“They had reasons for not telling me. Reasons that have nothing to do with anyone but themselves. Whatever situation we're in, you have to understand, up front, that they did nothing wrong.”

But her hands did shake, a little. “You love them very much.”

“I do. You have to understand that, too. If I was the child stolen from you—”

“You know you are.”
Jessica. My Jessie.
Everything inside her wept.

“I can theorize, but I can't know. There are tests we can take to determine the biology.”

Suzanne breathed in deep. Her skin felt so hot, as if it might melt off her bones. “You're willing to take them?”

“We need to know. You deserve to know. I'll do what I can to find the answers. I don't know if I can give you more than that. I'm sorry.” Callie's heart began to trip as tears swam into Suzanne's eyes. “This is difficult for everyone. But even if I was that child, that's not who I am now.”

“I'll take the tests.” Tears were in her voice, too, thickening it. Slurring the words. “And Jay, your . . .my ex-husband. I'll contact him. He'll take them. How long before we'll know? Conclusively.”

“My father's a doctor. He'll expedite the tests.”

“How can I know he won't skew the results?”

The first flicker of temper crossed Callie's face. “Because he is who he is. You'll have to trust me on this or there's no point in going any further. I have the information here.” She took a piece of paper out of her bag, set it on the table beside the tray of coffee and cookies. “This explains what you need to do, where to send the blood samples. If you have any questions on the procedure, your own doctor should be able to give you some answers.”