by Nora Roberts
She pulled out a gray pin-striped suit, put it back again. “No, looks like I’m trying too hard. Working temporarily out of the home, something just a little more relaxed, but still . . . Ah!”
She grabbed a slate-blue jacket. “This works. I have to call Jo—Brock’s mother—and see if he can go over there for a couple hours. Then I’m going to impose on you to drive him over.”
She tossed the outfit onto the bed, snatched up the portable phone and was already dialing as she dashed back to the bathroom to dry her hair.
“I’ll drive him over, but I’m coming back. I’m going to be part of this meeting.”
“That’s not up to me. That’s up to Callie.”
“No, it’s up to me,” he corrected, and stepped out again.
She was cool and composed again when she showed Callie and Jake into the living room. “I think it’s best to have the meeting here. The office I use upstairs is small, and this might work toward keeping him relaxed and friendly.”
“Let’s serve tea and cookies.”
“Callie.” Lana laid a hand on her arm. “I know you’re not happy with him, and you feel he’s been blocking you. But we need him on our side, or at least open to our side, if we’re to get his help in finding his father. Every other avenue we’ve tried has been a dead end.”
“A guy just doesn’t drop off the face of the earth.”
“I agree. And I’m sure we’ll find him, eventually, if we keep looking. But with Richard Carlyle’s help, we could find him sooner.”
“Why should he help me find his father, when my intention is to see the rat-bastard son of a bitch in jail for the rest of his life?”
“Probably not a good idea to bring that up.” Jake took a seat, stretched out his legs. “Or to call him a rat-bastard son of a bitch when talking to his son.” Jake jerked a shoulder at the glittering glare Callie aimed in his direction. “Just my take on it.”
“And mine. Sit down, Callie.” Lana gestured to a chair. “However hostile you might be feeling, it won’t do us any good to alienate Richard Carlyle. He and his father may be estranged, but they’re still father and son. The fact is, I have some concerns about the number of people here for this meeting. Carlyle asked to speak to me and my client. I don’t think he’s going to be happy to walk in and find himself this outnumbered.”
“That’ll be his problem.” Jake nodded at Doug.
Doug folded his arms, didn’t budge. “I’m not going anywhere. Carlyle feels a little uncomfortable, that’s too damn bad. My family’s felt uncomfortable for going on thirty years.”
“And if you take the sins-of-the-father attitude with him, he’s likely to blow us off.” But Lana knew when she was beating her head against rock. “I won’t ask you to go, but I’m going to insist you let me handle the meeting. He’s come here all the way from Atlanta. He’s come onto your turf,” she said to Callie. “Let’s give him some credit for it.”
“I’ll give him plenty of credit once he tells us where his rat-bastard, son-of-a-bitching father is. Just getting that out of my system.” She smiled fiercely at Jake.
At the sound of a car driving over gravel, Lana went to the window, nudged back the curtain. “I’d say this is our man. Doug, for God’s sake sit down and stop hulking.”
“Okay.” He went to the sofa, sat on the other side of Callie.
“Great.” She poked her elbows in his and Jake’s ribs. “Now I’ve got bookends. Let me breathe a little, would you? I think I’m a little past the point where I can be snatched again and put up for resale.”
“Stop bitching,” Doug said mildly. “This is what we call a show of solidarity.”
“Yeah, the hundred-and-twenty-pound infant, her long-lost brother and her ex-husband. Some show.”
Jake draped an arm behind her, over the back of her shoulders. “I’m enjoying it.”
Lana opened the door. Her voice was coolly polite. “Mr. Carlyle? I’m Lana Campbell.” She offered a hand. “I’d like to thank you for coming all this way to speak with us. Please come in. I hope you’ll excuse the informality. There was a fire in my office recently, and I’m working temporarily out of my home. I believe you’ve met both Dr. Dunbrook and Dr. Graystone.”
He looked, Callie thought, considerably fatigued. More than a short flight warranted. He also kept a firm grip on the handle of his briefcase.
“This is Douglas Cullen,” Lana began.
“I didn’t agree to speak with any of the Cullen family.” Pointedly, Richard turned away from Doug, stared down at Lana. “I specifically requested a meeting with you and your client. If those terms weren’t agreeable, you could have saved me considerable time and trouble by saying so.”
“As representative of the Cullen family, Mr. Cullen’s presence is not only reasonable but sensible. My client would, naturally, relay any outcome of this meeting to the Cullens.”
Lana spoke smoothly, and without giving an inch. “Having Mr. Cullen present will avoid any chance of miscommunication. I’m sure you haven’t come all this way to object to the inclusion of one of the members of Dr. Dunbrook’s biological family. You called the meeting, Mr. Carlyle. As I’m aware you’re a very busy man, I’m sure you had good reason to make this trip.”
“A very inconvenient trip. I want to make it clear, I won’t be interrogated.”
“If you’d sit down, I’d be happy to get you coffee, or something cold.”
“I won’t be here that long.” But he took a seat facing the sofa. “Dr. Dunbrook and her associate gained access to my office by claiming a family connection.”
“You assumed the family connection,” Callie corrected. “We said I had a connection to your father. Since he made a great deal of money from selling me, that connection stands.”
“Accusations like that are slanderous. If your attorney hasn’t warned you, then she’s incompetent. I checked on the documents you left in my office. While it’s true that the papers for the adoption by Elliot and Vivian Dunbrook of the infant girl were not properly filed—”
“They were fraudulent.”
“They were not properly filed. As your own attorney should know, this oversight might very well have been the fault of the court, a law clerk, an associate or assistant.”
“I hardly find that valid”—Lana took a seat as well—“as the petition for adoption and the final decree were both signed by all parties, bore what appears to be a forged court seal. And neither was filed in the appropriate docket.”
“And some overworked and underpaid clerk is probably responsible.”
“The exchange—fee for child—was made in your father’s office, Mr. Carlyle. In your father’s presence.”
“A number of infants were placed through my father’s practice. And as with any successful practice, many people worked on the cases he took. Whatever else my father was, he was a highly respected attorney. To accuse him of taking part in this sort of heinous baby bartering is ridiculous. I won’t see his reputation damaged, and by association my own. I will not see my mother nor my children harmed by gossip.”
“You’re not telling us anything you didn’t say in Atlanta.” Because he could feel her revving, Jake dipped his arm from the back of the couch, laid a restraining hand on Callie’s shoulder. “You don’t strike me as a man who’d waste time repeating himself.”
“If it bears repeating. I sympathize with your situation, Dr. Dunbrook, Mr. Cullen. I know from my own verification of the documents and articles you left with me that your situation is both very real and very tragic. Even if I believed, which I do not, that my father was in any way involved, I couldn’t help you.”
“If you’re so sure he wasn’t involved, why don’t you ask him?” Callie demanded. “Why don’t you show him the papers and ask him to explain?”
“I’m afraid that’s just not possible. He’s dead. My father died ten days ago. In his home on Grand Cayman. I’ve just returned from there, from his funeral and from assisting his current wife with the disposi
tion of his estate.”
Callie felt the bottom drop out from under her. “We’re supposed to just take your word that he died? So conveniently?”
“Hardly conveniently. He’d been ill for some time. But no, I don’t expect you to take my word for it.” He opened his briefcase, reached in for a file. “I have copies of his medical reports, his death certificate and his obituary.” Watching Callie, he passed them on to Lana. “You can easily have them substantiated.”
“You told us you didn’t know where he was. If you lied then, this could just be another way to cover it all up.”
“I didn’t lie. I hadn’t seen my father for years. He treated my mother shabbily. And, from all accounts, repeated the pattern with his second wife. His third? I can’t say. I was aware he was most likely in the Caymans or in Sardinia. He bought property in both places in one of his various mistresses’ names a number of years ago. But I didn’t feel I had any obligation to relay that assumption to you. My obligation is to protect my mother, my wife and children, my reputation and my practice. That’s exactly what I intend to do.”
Carlyle got to his feet. “It’s over, Dr. Dunbrook. Whatever he did or didn’t do, he’s dead. He can’t answer your questions, explain or defend himself. And I won’t see my family punished. I won’t let that happen. Let the dead stay dead. I’ll show myself out.”
Twenty-two
Jake heard the deep, sorrowful sound of the cello. He couldn’t name the piece or the composer. He’d never had the ear for recognizing the classics. But he knew the mood, and therefore, Callie’s.
She was sulking.
He couldn’t blame her for it. As far as he was concerned, she’d had more than enough for one summer. He wished he could pack her up and off somewhere. Anywhere. They’d always been good at picking up stakes. Maybe a bit too good, he admitted, and shoved away from his computer.
They’d never dug roots for themselves as a couple. And he, at least, hadn’t thought them important. Not then, he reflected as he got up to pace. Back then, it had been all about “the now.” No matter how determinedly the two of them had dug into the past of others, their own relationship had been steeped in the moment.
They’d rarely spoken of their yesterdays and had given no thought to their future. He’d sure as hell had a lot of time to think about both over the past year. The single truth he’d come to was that he wanted plenty of tomorrows with Callie.
One way to do that was to strip their yesterdays for each other and build a now instead of just riding on it.
A good plan, he thought. Until her past had reared up and sucker-punched her.
There was no moving on from this. No picking up stakes and playing nomads. They were both going to have to stick.
He walked around to the kitchen, where Dory was working at the table. “We found some great stuff today. The hand ax Matt dug up was amazing,” she offered.
“Yeah, a good find.” He opened the refrigerator, nearly reached for the beer, then passed it over for wine.
“I’m, ah, coordinating Bill’s notes. I thought somebody should.”
“You don’t have to do that, Dory. I’ll take care of it.”
“No, I . . . I’d like to, if it’s okay. I wasn’t very nice to him. I mean I ragged on him a little—a lot,” she corrected. “About the way he trotted around after Callie. I feel so . . . I just feel so bad about it.”
“You didn’t mean anything by it,” he replied.
“We never mean most of the stupid stuff we do. Until it’s too late. I made fun of him, Jake. Right to his face.”
“Would you feel better if you’d made fun of him behind his back?” He opened the wine, poured her a glass. “I gave him some grief myself.”
“I know. Thanks.” She picked up the wine but didn’t drink. “I couldn’t blame you since you were both putting moves on Callie. In your own ways,” she added. She looked up at the ceiling. The music was soft and distant, almost like the night sounds whispering through the open window. “That’s pretty, but so damn sad.”
“Cello never sounds very cheerful, if you ask me.”
“I guess not. She’s really talented. Still, it’s kind of weird. An archaeologist who hauls a cello around to digs so she can play Beethoven.”
“Yeah, she just couldn’t play the harmonica like everybody else. Don’t work too late.”
He carried the rest of the wine and two glasses upstairs. He knew what it meant when Callie had her door closed, but he ignored the signal and opened it without knocking.
She sat in the single chair, facing the window as she drew the bow over strings. Her profile was to him, that long line of cheek exposed with her hair bundled back.
Her hands, he thought, always looked so delicate, so female, when she played. And whatever he’d said to Dory, he’d missed hearing her play.
He walked to the desk, poured wine.
“Go away.” She didn’t turn her head, just continued to stare out into the night and draw those thick, rich notes out of the air. “This isn’t a public concert.”
“Take a break.” He crossed to her, held out good white wine in a cheap dime-store glass. “Beethoven can wait.”
“How did you know it was Beethoven?”
“You’re not the only one with an appreciation and knowledge of music.”
“Since Willie Nelson is the epitome of an artist in your world—”
“Watch it, babe. Don’t insult the greats or I won’t share my adult beverage.”
“How come you brought me wine?”
“Because I’m a selfless, considerate man.”
“Who’s hoping to get me loose so he’ll get lucky.”
“Naturally, but I’m still considerate.”
She took the glass, sipped. “I see you went all out. It’s excellent wine.” She set the glass on the floor, then angling her head, studied him as she slid out the first bars of “Turkey in the Straw.” “More your speed, huh?”
“Would you like to discuss the cultural and societal stages of folk music and its reflection in arts and tribal customs?”
“Not tonight, professor.” She reached down, lifted the glass for another sip. “Thanks for the wine. Go away now and let me brood.”
“You’ve exceeded your brooding limitations for the evening.”
“I’m on overtime.” She set the glass down again. “Go away, Jake.”
In response he sat down on the floor, leaned back against the wall and drank.
Irritation flickered over her face, then smoothed out. She set the bow again, then played the two-toned warning notes from Jaws.
“It’s not going to bother me.”
Her lips curved, and she continued to play. He’d crack. He always did.
He made it for nearly thirty seconds before his skin began to crawl. Leaning forward, he slapped a hand on her bow arm. “Cut it out.” But even as he fought off a shudder, he had to laugh. “You’re such a bitch.”
“Damn right. Why won’t you go away?”
“Last time I did that, I stayed mad, sad and lonely for the best part of a year. I didn’t like it.”
She wanted to hunch her shoulders. “This isn’t about you.”
“No, it’s about you. And you matter.”
Weakened, she rested her forehead against the neck of the cello. “God, when did I get to the point where having you say something like that makes me stupid?”
He ran his hand gently up and down her calf. “Why was I ever at the point where I couldn’t say it to you? But this time I’m not going away. I know what you’re thinking, what’s been stuck in your craw all day. The fucker had to go and die on you.”
“Maybe Carlyle Junior’s lying. Maybe the death certificate’s bogus.”
Jake kept his gaze steady on hers. “Maybe.”
“And I know what you’re thinking. What would be the point? He knows we’ll have it checked. The bastard’s dead, and I’ll never look him in the eye and tell him who I am. Make him tell me what I want to k
now. He’ll never pay the price for what he did. There’s nothing I can do about it. Not a damn thing I can do.”
“So, it stops here?”
“That’s the logical conclusion. Carlyle’s dead. Simpson and his bitch of a wife are gone. Maybe if I had nothing but time and money I could keep an investigator or a team of them working indefinitely to track them down. But I don’t have that luxury.”
“Whether or not you can look the bastard in the eye, you know who you are. Whatever price he’d pay wouldn’t change what he did to the Cullens, to your parents, to you. What you do now, for them and for yourself, is what counts.”
Everything he was saying had already played through her head a dozen times. “What am I going to do, Jake? I can’t be Jessica for Suzanne and Jay. I can’t ease the guilt my parents feel for their part in all this. The one thing I felt I could do was get down to the answers, put the person responsible on trial.”
“What answers do you need?”
“The same I always need. All of them. How many others are there? Others like me, others like Barbara Halloway? Do I look for them? What do I do if I find them? Do I walk up to someone and turn their life into chaos, the way mine’s been for the last couple months? Or do I walk away, leave it alone. Let the lies stand. Let the dead stay dead.”
He leaned back against the wall again, picked up his wine. “Since when have we ever let the dead stay dead?”
“This could be the first.”
“Why? Because you’re pissed off and depressed? You’ll get over it. Carlyle’s dead. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t still have the answers. You’re about the best I know at finding answers from the dead. With me being the best, of course.”
“I’d laugh, but I’m busy being depressed.”
“You know where he was living. Find out what he was doing there. Who he knew, kept in contact with. How he lived. Explore his stratigraphy and extrapolate your data from the layers.”
“Do you think I haven’t considered all that?” She rose to set her cello back in its case. “I turned it over in my head and looked at it from every angle after we went back to the dig this afternoon. And none of those angles gives me a reason. Nothing I can think of tells me what good it would do, for anyone. If I keep at this now, without Carlyle as a focal point—or more, a target—it’s only prolonging the anxiety for my parents, and the unhappiness for the Cullens.”