by Nora Roberts
walked through the days in a fog, went through the nights like a corpse. I was working up the courage to take all of them at once and just go away.”
“Mom.”
“She was in a deep state of depression. The stillbirth, the hysterectomy. The loss, not only of another child but any hope of conceiving again.”
How old had she been? Callie thought. Twenty-six? So young to face the loss. “I’m so sorry, Mom.”
“People sent flowers,” Vivian continued. “I hated that. I’d close myself in the nursery, fold and refold the blankets, the little clothes I’d bought. We named her Alice. I wouldn’t go to the cemetery. I wouldn’t let Elliot take the crib away. As long as I didn’t go to her grave, as long as I could still fold the blankets and her little clothes, she wasn’t gone.”
“I was afraid. This time I was really afraid,” Elliot admitted. “When I realized she was taking drugs in addition to what had been prescribed, I was terrified. I felt helpless, unable to reach her. Taking the meds away wasn’t going to reach the root of the problem. I talked with her OB. He brought up the possibility of adoption.”
“I still didn’t want to listen,” Vivian put in. “But Elliot made me sit down, and he laid it out in stark medical terms. Shock treatment, you could say. There would not be another pregnancy. That was no longer an option. We could make a life, just the two of us. He loved me, and we could make a good life. If we wanted a child, it was time to explore other ways of having one. We were young, he reminded me. Financially solvent. Intelligent, caring people who could and would provide a loving and secure home. Did I want a child, or did I just want to be pregnant? If I wanted a child, we could have a child. I wanted a child.”
“We went to an agency—several,” Elliot added. “There were waiting lists. The longer the list, the more difficult it was for Vivian.”
“My new obsession.” She sighed. “I repainted the nursery. Gave the crib away and bought a new one. Gave away everything we’d bought for Alice so that this new child, when it came, would have its own. I thought of myself as expecting. Somewhere there was a child that was mine. We were only waiting to find each other. And every delay was like another loss.”
“She was blooming again, with hope. I couldn’t stand the thought of that bloom fading, of watching that sadness come into her again. I spoke of it to Simpson, her OB. Told him how frustrating and how painful it was for both of us to be told it could be years. He gave me the name of a lawyer who did private adoptions. Direct with the birth mother.”
“Marcus Carlyle,” Callie said, remembering the name from the files.
“Yes.” Steadier now, Vivian sipped at her coffee. “He was wonderful. So supportive, so sympathetic. And best of all so much more hopeful than the agencies. The fee was very high, but that was a small price to pay. He said he had a client who was unable to keep her infant daughter. A young girl who’d had a baby and realized that she couldn’t care for her properly as a single mother. He would tell her about us, give her all the information about what kind of people we were—even our heritage. If she approved, he could place the child with us.”
“Why you?” Callie demanded.
“He said we were the kind of people she was looking for. Stable, financially secure, well educated, childless. He said she wanted to finish school, go to college, start a new life. She had run up debts trying to support the baby on her own. She needed to pay them off, and needed to know her little girl was going to have the best possible life with parents who would love her.” Vivian lifted her shoulders. “He said he would let us know within weeks.”
“We tried not to get too enthusiastic, too hopeful,” Elliot explained. “But it seemed like fate.”
“He called eight days later at four-thirty in the afternoon.” Vivian set down the coffee she’d barely touched. “I remember exactly. I was playing Vivaldi on the violin, trying to lose myself in the music, and the phone rang. I knew. I know that sounds ridiculous. But I knew. And when I answered the phone, he said, ‘Congratulations, Mrs. Dunbrook. It’s a girl.’ I broke down and sobbed over the phone. He was so patient with me, so genuinely happy for me. He said it was moments like this that made his job worthwhile.”
“You never met the birth mother.”
“No.” Elliot shook his head. “That sort of thing wasn’t done then. There were no names exchanged. The only information given was medical and hereditary history, and a basic profile. We went to his office the following day. There was a nurse, holding you. You were sleeping. The procedure was we didn’t sign the papers or pay the remainder of the fee until we’d seen you, accepted you.”
“You were mine as soon as I saw you, Callie,” Vivian said. “The instant. She put you in my arms, and you were my baby. Not a substitute, not a replacement. Mine. I made Elliot promise that we’d never refer to the adoption again, never speak of it, never tell you or discuss it with anyone. Because you were our baby.”
“It just didn’t seem important,” Elliot said. “You were just three months old. You wouldn’t have understood. And it was so vital to Vivian’s state of mind. She needed to close away all the pain and disappointment. We were bringing our baby home. That’s all that mattered.”
“But the family,” Callie began.
“Were just as concerned about her as I was,” Elliot answered. “And just as dazzled by you, as completely in love. We just set that one thing aside. Then, we moved here; it was easier yet to forget it. New place, new people. No one knew, so why bring it up? Still, I kept the documentation, the papers, though Vivian asked me to get rid of them. It didn’t seem right to do that. I locked them away, just as we’d locked away everything that happened before we brought you home.”
“Callie.” Composed again, Vivian reached out. “This woman, the one who . . . You can’t know she’s involved. It’s crazy. Mr. Carlyle was a reputable lawyer. We wouldn’t have gone through anyone we didn’t absolutely trust. My own obstetrician recommended him. These men were—are—compassionate, ethical men. Hardly involved in some sort of black-market baby ring.”
“Do you know what coincidence is, Mom? It’s fate breaking a lock so you can open a door. This woman’s baby was stolen on December twelfth. Three days after that, your lawyer calls and says he has a baby girl for you. The next day, you sign papers, write checks and bring me home.”
“You don’t know her baby was stolen,” Vivian insisted.
“No, but that’s easy enough to verify. I have to do this. The way my parents raised me makes it impossible for me to do otherwise.”
“If you confirm the kidnapping”—Elliot’s heart shuddered as he spoke—“there are tests that can be run to determine if . . . if there’s a biological connection.”
“I know. I’ll take that step if it’s necessary.”
“I can expedite that, cut through the red tape so you’ll have the results quickly.”
“Thanks.”
“What will you do if . . .” Vivian couldn’t finish the sentence.
“I don’t know.” Callie blew out a breath. “I don’t know. I’ll do what comes next. You’re my mother. Nothing changes that. Dad, I need to take the paperwork. I need to start checking out everyone who was involved. Dr. Simpson, Carlyle. Did you get the name of the nurse who brought me to his office?”
“No.” He shook his head. “Not that I remember. I can track down Simpson for you. It would be easier for me. I’ll make some calls.”
“Let me know as soon as you find out. You’ve got my cell phone number, and I’ll leave you the number at my motel in Maryland.”
“You’re going back?” Vivian demanded. “Oh, Callie, can’t you stay?”
“I can’t. I’m sorry. I love you. Whatever we find out, I’m still going to love you. But there’s a woman who’s in considerable pain over the loss of a child. She deserves some answers.”
Doug didn’t know the last time he’d been so angry. There was no talking to his mother—he’d given that up. It was like beating your head aga
inst the iron wall that was her will.
He was getting no help from his grandfather either. Reality, reason, reminders of the dozens of disappointments in the past did nothing to budge either of them an inch.
And to find out that his mother had gone to this Callie Dunbrook. Actually gone to her motel room—with family pictures, yet. Humiliating herself, tearing open scars, dragging an outsider into a personal family tragedy.
The way Woodsboro worked, it wasn’t going to take long for the Cullen family history to be dug up, sifted through and discussed endlessly all over again.
So he was going to see Callie Dunbrook himself. To ask her not to speak of his mother’s visit with anyone—if it wasn’t too late for that. To apologize for it.
He wasn’t going to get a better look at her, he assured himself. As far as he was concerned Jessica was gone. Long gone, and no amount of wishing or searching or hoping was going to bring her back.
And if she did come back, what was the point? She wasn’t Jessica now. If she was still alive, she was a different person, a grown woman with a life of her own that had nothing to do with the baby they’d lost.
Whatever way it worked, it was only more heartache for his mother. Nothing he said or did could convince her of that. Jessica was her Holy Grail, the quest of her life.
He pulled over to the side of the road by the construction fence.
He remembered this spot—the soft ground of the field, the exciting paths through the woods. He’d gone swimming in Simon’s Hole. Had once skinny-dipped there on a moon-drenched night with Laurie Worrell and had very nearly talked her out of her virginity in the cool, dark water.
Now there were holes in the field, mounds of dirt and rope lines strung everywhere.
He’d never understand why people couldn’t leave well enough alone.
As he stepped out of the car to head toward the fence, a short man in mud-brown attire broke away from a group and walked to meet him.
“How’s it going?” Doug said for lack of anything else.
“Very well. Are you interested in the project?” Leo asked him.
“Well . . .”
“It probably looks a bit confusing right now, but in fact, it’s the early days of a very organized archaeological dig. The initial survey produced artifacts that we’ve dated to the Neolithic era. Human bones nearly six thousand years old were discovered by a backhoe operator during excavation for a proposed housing development—”
“Yes, I know. Dolan. I . . .caught the report on the news,” Doug added and scanned the people at work over Leo’s shoulder. “I thought there was a Callie Dunbrook heading this up.”
“Dr. Dunbrook’s the head archaeologist on the Antietam Creek Project, with Dr. Graystone as head anthropologist. We’re segmenting the area,” Leo continued, gesturing behind him, “measuring off by square meters. Each meter will be given a number for reference. It’s one of the most vital steps, the documentation. As we dig, we destroy the site. By documenting each segment, with photographs and on paper, we maintain its integrity.”
“Uh-huh.” Doug didn’t give a flying fuck about the dig. “Is Dr. Dunbrook here?”
“I’m afraid not. But if you have any questions, I can assure you either I or Dr. Graystone can answer them.”
Doug glanced back, caught the look. Jesus, he thought, the guy thought he was some moron dropping by hoping to hit on a woman he’d seen on TV. Smoothly, he switched gears. “The only thing I know about this stuff is what I’ve seen in Indiana Jones. It’s not like I expected.”
“Not as dramatic. No evil Nazis or chase scenes. But it can be just as exciting.”
Couldn’t just walk away now, Doug realized. Questions were expected. And, God help him, small talk. “So, what’s the point? I mean, what do you prove by looking at old bones?”
“Who they were. Who we were. Why they lived here, how they lived. The more we know about the past, the more we understand ourselves.”
As far as Doug was concerned, the past was over, the future was later. It was today that ran the show. “I don’t feel like I have much in common with—what was it?—a six-thousand-year-old man.”
“He ate and he slept, he made love and he grew old. He got sick, felt cold and heat.” Leo took off his glasses, began to polish them on his shirt. “He wondered. Because he wondered, he progressed and gave those who came after a road to follow. Without him, you wouldn’t be here.”
“Got a point,” Doug conceded. “Anyway, I just wanted to take a look. I used to play in those woods as a kid. Swam in Simon’s Hole in the summer when I could.”
“Why do they call it Simon’s Hole?”
“What? Oh.” Doug looked back at Leo. “The story is some kid named Simon drowned there a couple hundred years ago. He haunts the woods, if you’re into that kind of thing.”
Lips pursed, Leo slipped his glasses on again. “Who was he?”
Doug shrugged. “I don’t know. Just a kid.”
“There’s the difference. I’d need to know. Who was Simon, how old was he? What was he doing here? It interests me. By drowning here, he changed lives. The loss of anyone, but particularly a child, changes lives.”
A dull ache settled in Doug’s belly. “Yeah. You got that right. I won’t hold you up any longer. Thanks for your trouble.”
“Come back anytime. We appreciate the community’s interest.”
It was just as well she hadn’t been there, Doug told himself as he started back to his car. What could he have said to her, really, that wouldn’t have made things worse?
Another car pulled up behind his. Damn tourist attraction now, Doug thought bitterly. Nobody ever left things alone.
Lana jumped out, gave him a cheery wave. “Hi there. Taking a look at Woodsboro’s latest claim to fame?”
He placed her. Hers wasn’t a face a man forgot quickly. “Bunch of holes in the ground. I don’t know how it’s any better than Dolan’s houses.”
“Oh, let me count the ways.” Her hair tossed in the breeze. She let it fly and put her hands on her hips as she looked toward the dig. “We’re already starting to get some national attention. Enough that Dolan won’t be pouring any concrete slabs anytime soon. If ever. Hmmm.” Her lips pursed. “I don’t see Callie.”
“You know her?”
“Yes, we’ve met. Did you take a tour of the site?”
“No.”
She shifted slightly, angled her head. “Are you naturally unfriendly, or have you just taken an instant dislike to me?”
“Just naturally unfriendly, I guess.”
“Well, that’s a relief.”
She took a step away, and cursing under his breath, Doug touched her arm. He wasn’t unfriendly, he assured himself. Private was different from unfriendly. But rude was rude, and his grandfather was very fond of her.
“Look, I’m sorry. I’ve got some things on my mind.”
“It shows.” She took another step, then turned back quickly. “Is something wrong with Roger? I’d have heard if—”
“He’s fine. He’s just fine. Got a thing for him, do you?”
“A huge thing. I’m crazy about him. Did he tell you how we met?”
“No.”
She paused, then laughed. “Okay, don’t nag, I’ll tell you. I wandered into the bookstore a few days after moving here. I was setting up my practice, I’d put my son in day care, and I couldn’t seem to hold two thoughts together. So I went for a walk and ended up in your grandfather’s place. He asked me if he could help me with anything. And I burst into tears. Just stood there, sobbing hysterically. He came around the counter, put his arms around me and let me cry all over him. A complete stranger who was having an emotional breakdown in his place of business.
“I’ve been in love with him ever since.”
“That’s just like him. He’s good with strays.” Doug winced. “No offense.”
“None taken. I wasn’t a stray. I knew where I was, how I’d gotten there and where I needed to go. But at that
moment it was all so huge, so heavy, so horrible. And Roger held on to me, and mopped me up. Even when I tried to apologize, he put the Closed sign on the door, took me into the back room. He made tea and he let me tell him everything I was feeling. Things I didn’t even know I was feeling and had never been able to say to anyone else. There’s nothing in the world I wouldn’t do for Roger.”
She paused again. “Even marry you, which is what he’d like. So watch yourself.”
“Jesus.” Instinctively, he took a step in retreat. “What am I supposed to say to that?”
“You could ask me to dinner. It’d be nice to have a meal or two together before we start planning the wedding.” The look on his face was so perfect, so priceless, so utterly filled with male horror, she laughed until her sides ached.
“Relax, Doug, I haven’t started buying place settings. Yet. I just thought it fair to tell you, if you haven’t figured it out, that Roger’s got this fantasy in his mind about you and me. He loves us, so he figures we’re perfect for each other.”
He considered. “Nothing I say at this point could possibly be the right thing to say. I’m shutting up.”
“Just as well, I’m running behind. And I want a quick look at the progress before I head back to the office.” She started toward the fence, glanced back with a brilliant smile. “Why don’t you meet me for dinner tonight? The Old Antietam Inn. Seven o’clock?”
“I don’t think—”