He saw his parents sitting in chairs against the far wall. Maybe it was his dad who had sounded the family alarm. As Deputy Chief of Operations for the San Francisco Fire Department, Jack Callaway would have been immediately informed of his trip to the hospital.
His gaze moved down the row of seats.
Or maybe it was his sister Emma who'd called the troops together. She worked as a fire investigator, and judging by her navy blue slacks and white button-down shirt, she was also on duty, which meant she'd probably already seen the initial reports on the fire.
And then there was Shayla, who was now walking towards him. She wore a white coat over a floral dress and had a stethoscope around her neck. He hadn't seen her in the E.R. when he arrived, but he knew she was currently on that rotation as she finished off her final year of residency.
"Did you have to call everyone, Shayla?"
She gave him a smile. "I didn't call anyone. I think I was the last to know you were here. I was taking a toy soldier out of a kid's throat when you were brought in. How are you feeling?"
"Like I got blown out of a building."
She frowned. "Don't joke about it. You could have been hurt a lot worse."
"But I wasn't." He paused as his sister Nicole rushed into the waiting room, two little boys hanging on to each hand.
"Colton." She let out a sigh of relief as she saw him. "Are you okay? I got here as soon as I could. But it was early release day at school, and I had to stop there first to pick up the boys."
"I'm fine. You really didn't need to rush over here."
"What did you do to your hand?" Seven-year-old Kyle asked curiously, his eyes immediately settling on Colton's wrapped fingers.
"I broke a couple of fingers."
"Does it hurt?"
"A little."
"Can you still throw a baseball?" Kyle asked.
"Probably not today."
"That's enough questions, Kyle," Nicole said, giving him an apologetic smile. "I'm glad you're all right. Mom didn't have any details when she called."
"So you're the one who got everyone down here," he said to his mother.
Lynda Callaway gave him an unrepentant smile. "What was I to do when your father calls and tells me you're on your way to the hospital? You know I don't like to get those calls, Colton."
She had to be used to them by now with most of his siblings performing jobs with a high level of inherent danger, but he hated that he'd been the one to put the worry in her eyes. He also hated the fact that he was annoyed with his family for rushing to the hospital when he was damned lucky to have so many people who cared about him. "Sorry, Mom."
"The doctor said you have a concussion," his father put in, giving him a sharp, searching look.
"Mild. I was hit harder playing football."
"You'll come home with us tonight," Lynda said decisively. "I want to keep an eye on you."
"I don't need a babysitter."
"You shouldn't be alone," Shayla said, backing up his mom's idea. "It's always a good idea to have someone around the first night after a head injury."
"I just bumped my head."
"I wouldn't argue," Aiden advised with an empathetic grin. "You're only going to lose, Colton."
"Why aren't you at work?"
"I'm on lunch," Aiden replied. "But I am going to take off now. Rest up, little brother."
"I will. But don't worry. I'm fine." Colton got to his feet, refusing to admit the action made him feel a little dizzy. However, the spark in Shayla's eyes told him he might be fooling everyone else, but he wasn't fooling her—or his mother.
Lynda immediately put a hand on his arm to steady him and said, "Get the car, Jack." As his father left to go to the parking lot, she added, "You don't have to act tough with us, Colton. We're your family. Sit down."
Since he thought sitting down would be less embarrassing than falling down, he did as she suggested.
"I'm going to call Drew and Sean and let them know you're all right," Lynda said.
"And I'm going to get back to work," Shayla put in. "Call me if you need anything."
"Thanks."
As his mom and Shayla moved away, Burke and Emma came over to him.
"You did a nice job today, Colton," Burke said.
His jaw tightened at the hollow words. He met his brother's gaze. "It wasn't a good job. The victim died."
Burke's blue eyes darkened with shadows. "Sometimes that happens. You did what you could. Don't beat yourself up."
"I wish people would stop telling me that," he muttered.
"Yeah, sorry," Burke said, an empathetic gleam in his eyes. "Those words never made me feel better; I don't know why I said them." He paused. "I need to get back to the station. I'm glad you're all right."
"Before you go, what can you tell me about Mitchell Warren?" Colton asked. "He started as my new captain this morning, and he apparently hates the Callaways."
"He hates us?" Emma interrupted. "Why?"
"That's what I'm trying to find out. Captain Warren pulled me aside the second he came into the firehouse to let me know I was not going to get special treatment because of my name or who I was related to."
"Warren," Emma murmured thoughtfully. "Didn't he used to work with you, Burke?"
"We worked together for a couple of months many years ago," Burke said, his voice terse, his words clipped.
"So is his attitude stemming from something that happened between the two of you?" Colton asked.
"Not on the job," Burke replied cryptically.
"What does that mean?"
"It means nothing. Don't let him get to you, Colton. Just do your job."
"I always do my job, but I would like to know what I'm dealing with when it comes to my new boss."
"He's a decent enough firefighter. He knows what he's doing," Burke said. "That's all I can tell you."
Colton frowned, thinking his brother could tell him a hell of a lot more—if he wanted to. But Burke apparently didn't want to. In fact, he was halfway to the door before Colton could even consider asking another question. He turned to Emma. "Is it just me or was Burke acting shady?"
"Acting shady," Emma replied, a thoughtful gleam in her eyes. "I wonder what's between him and your boss."
"Me, too. Burke rarely has problems with anyone. Most people admire the hell out of him," he said. "His reputation as a straight shooter is well-noted in the department."
"Yeah, he has always been a leader among men," Emma said, a dry note in her voice.
He gave her a questioning look, curious about her tone.
"What?" she challenged. "Do you really think you're the only one in the family who has to live up to Burke's reputation in the fire department—or Dad's, or Grandpa's? Because I was a firefighter before you, and I didn't just get shit because I was a Callaway but also because I was a woman."
"I've never gotten shit because of my last name before."
"Then you've been lucky," she retorted.
"I guess my luck ran out."
"If Burke won't tell you what's between them, maybe your captain will. But I'd put all that aside for now and take it easy. I hope you'll feel well enough by Sunday to come to Grandma's birthday party at the Sunset Senior Center. Grandpa wants everyone to be there."
"I hope Grandma remembers it is her birthday."
"So do I. The new medication she's on seems to be helping, but there are still bad days. I just want her to stay with us as long as she can."
He wanted the same thing, but his grandmother had Alzheimer's, and the long-term prognosis was not good. Hopefully, she'd beat the odds. She was a stubborn Callaway after all, and Callaways did not go down without a fight.
"Mom said there's a writer coming to Grandma's party," Emma continued. "She wants to write a book about Grandma and some of the other ladies at the center."
"About Grandma? What on earth would that story be about? She's a wonderful woman, sweet, kind, generous, but I'm not sure her life story would merit a book."
<
br /> An odd look entered Emma's eyes. "Maybe there's more to her life than we know. Grandma has been trying to say something for a while now, but she can't quite remember what it is long enough to get the words out. Or Grandpa comes in and tells her to be quiet, that she doesn't know what she's talking about."
Colton gave her a doubtful look. "You're imagining things."
"I don't think so. Everyone has secrets, Colton."
"Not Grandma. And, sadly, even if she had a secret, she's probably forgotten it by now."
"I guess we'll see."
Chapter Three
Sunday afternoon Olivia Bennett pulled into the parking lot next to the Sunset Senior Center. The two-story building was directly across the street from San Francisco's Ocean Beach, and from her spot she had a perfect view of the water.
It was a windy day in late September, and the dark blue sea shimmered in the sunshine, not a cloud or a hint of fog anywhere in sight. Several people took advantage of the stiff breeze to launch colorful kites into the air. Others were sharing a late lunch picnic, and a few walkers and runners jogged along the shoreline as the ocean rolled onto the beach with big, crashing waves.
It wasn't the kind of sea too many people were going to venture into for swimming, although there were a few surfers in wet suits attempting to ride the waves. That didn't surprise her. Growing up in San Diego, a southern California city, she'd known a few surfers in her time. In fact, she'd ridden the waves herself, but that was when she was young and stupid, when she didn't think anything bad could ever happen to her.
Watching those intrepid surfers now, she felt nostalgic. She'd missed this California beach vibe. Since going to college at New York University and then later working as a freelance writer and research assistant for a famous biographer, she hadn't been back to California for longer than a couple of days in almost ten years.
Now she was reminded of the days of her youth.
She'd been so carefree as a child and a teenager. She'd had an amazing, wonderful life as the adored only daughter of Elaine and Hal Bennett, two people who tried to give her the world with every breath that they took. She'd truly been blessed to have such wonderful parents. And even though she'd lost her dad, she still had her mom, and they'd always been close.
As if on cue, her phone rang, her mom's number popping up on the screen. They tried to talk every Sunday. It had been their ritual since Olivia had left for college, and she still stuck to it whenever she could.
"Hi, Mom," she said. "I called you earlier, but you didn't answer."
"I had to drive Will to his sister's house. His car is in the shop."
"How is Mr. Hansen?" She wasn't quite sure how she felt about the budding romance between her mother and her former high school algebra teacher, but the two of them seemed to be spending a lot of time together.
"You can call him Will. He's not your teacher anymore," Elaine said.
"So how is Will?"
"He's a good man. I want you to get to know him better. I was hoping you'd come home on your vacation," Elaine said pointedly.
"I was planning to, but then this potential story came up, and I couldn't resist following up on it. You know I've been wanting to write my own book for years."
"I know. The man you work for is a pompous ass who is taking all of your hard work and making millions of dollars off of it."
Her mom was right about that. Philip Dunston was a world-famous, bestselling author of celebrity and political biographies, and she was more than a little tired of writing his books under the guise of being his research assistant. But he paid pretty well, and she'd had an opportunity to perfect her craft the last few years. Now, however, she was itching to get out on her own.
"What I don't understand," her mom added, "is why you think there's some great story to be found at a senior center filled with ordinary people living ordinary lives. You need to focus on getting a celebrity to talk to you."
"They're only going to talk to Philip. And ordinary people can have extraordinary moments. The letter I received from Molly Harper led me to believe that this group of women did something amazing, something worth writing about."
"That still sounds vague to me. Have you spoken to this woman yet?"
Olivia sighed at the question. "Unfortunately, no. There's been a bad turn of events."
"What happened?"
"Molly Harper had a stroke two days ago. She's in the hospital. I called the other number she'd given me and spoke to the director at the senior center. She said the prognosis is not good."
"Oh, dear. I'm sorry about that, but now I really don't understand why you're in San Francisco. Why don't you take a plane down the coast and spend the week with me?"
Olivia hated to quench the hopeful note in her mom's voice. "I need to follow up with some of the other women. I'm actually sitting in my car in the parking lot outside the senior center. They're having a birthday party today for Eleanor Callaway, one of Molly's best friends. Eleanor was mentioned in Molly's letter as someone I needed to speak to. I figured since I was already in San Francisco, I might as well meet the other women in Molly's group."
"So meet them and then come home. By the way, I ran into Jeff Lawson the other day. He's working as an attorney in his dad's law office now and he's single. He asked about you."
Olivia smiled. Her mom was convinced that the only way she was going to get her daughter back to San Diego was if Olivia came home and fell in love with someone who lived there. She was constantly mentioning old boyfriends or someone's gorgeous son who still happened to be single. Jeff Lawson fell into the old boyfriend category. She'd dated him for six months when she was a sophomore in high school, and all she really remembered about him was that he liked to talk about himself—a lot.
"He's handsome and he has a good job," Elaine continued. "You should definitely reconnect when you come back here."
"Mom, I'm not looking for a boyfriend. Right now I'm just looking for a good subject for a book."
"Well, Jeff might know someone interesting. He's very well connected in the community down here."
"I'm sure he is, but we can talk about him some other time. I need to go."
"Fine, go, and as soon as you realize there's no fantastic story to be discovered, then come home and spend a few days with me. It's been too long since we actually got to see each other in person, and I miss you, Liv."
"I miss you, too, Mom."
"And I worry about you. I know you want a career, but I don't want you to shut yourself off from the rest of life and miss out on the fun stuff."
"I'm not exactly over the hill," she protested. "I'm only twenty-six. I have time for work and fun."
"I know you're not old, but you are cynical, Olivia. It started when your dad died, and it seems to get worse every year."
Her mom wasn't completely wrong about that, but her cynicism wasn't a topic she wanted to get into right now. "Mom, I have to go."
"Just promise me you'll keep your heart open. There's nothing better than a love that makes your heart pound, and your palms sweat and sends little chills up and down your spine."
"I promise," she said, not really because she meant it, but because she wanted to get her mother off the phone. She didn't understand how her mom could still be a romantic after the tragedy of her own love affair, but somehow she was. "I'll call you later."
"All right. Love you, honey."
"Love you, too."
As she ended the call and slipped her phone into her purse, her gaze fell on the lavender-scented purple envelope lying on the seat.
She picked it up, reminded again that the piece of paper inside was the first letter she'd received by snail mail in—she couldn't remember when. The penmanship was beautiful, the sign of a time gone by, and the words were written with the kind of formality that couldn't be found in an email.
The letter from Molly Harper had been forwarded around the world for almost three weeks by Philip's personal assistant as Olivia accompanied him on a European
press tour for the release of his new biography on Carlton Hughes. Hughes was a man who'd entertained the world as an actor and then risen through state politics to national office, eventually serving as the U.S. Secretary of State for over a decade.
Mrs. Harper's letter had finally reached her at her final stop in London. While Philip had been hosting a party in his penthouse suite, she'd been feeling a little like Cinderella, working on her notes in her small room on a much lower floor. She'd tried not to think about the fabulous party she was missing or all the great lines from the book that Philip would be taking credit for. She'd been hired to do a job, and she would do it, until she could find something better or something of her own. She'd opened Molly's letter thinking it was some type of fan mail to be passed on to Philip.
However, the letter hadn't been addressed to Philip, but to her.
She read it again now, even though she'd already committed most of the words to memory.
Dear Miss Bennett:
I'm seventy-seven years old, and I grew up in a generation where women were supposed to be silent, where the men did the talking for them, but in my life I have met many women who amazed me with their courage in the face of enormous odds. One of them I consider to be not only my best friend but also my savior. Her name is Eleanor Callaway. We met forty years ago, and we were part of a very special theater group.
Now you may not think a theater group is particularly interesting, but I can assure you that it was not an ordinary group. We did something that was pretty shocking and amazing. Sometimes I can hardly believe what we accomplished without getting caught.
It's been a long time, and for years we kept our secrets to protect not only ourselves but others—many others. But we are getting older, and our stories will die with us unless we find someone to write them down, someone with integrity and bravery, a woman who is not afraid to speak up for those who cannot.
We need you, Miss Bennett!
We've read about your work and we believe you are the right person to help us. It's a lot to ask. You're a young woman with a busy job, and you're probably not interested in talking to a bunch of old ladies, but I promise that you won't regret the trip.
When Shadows Fall (Callaways #7) Page 2