by Nora Roberts
“I know the priorities, Rosie. And I know, intellectually, the pattern of causing fear and doubt and distraction. But it’s a pattern because it works. I’m afraid and confused and distracted, and I don’t feel like I’m any closer to finding what I’m looking for.”
She toweled off, grabbed the fresh underwear she’d brought in with her. “Why haven’t you asked me about it? About the Cullens, and what it feels like to find out you started out life as somebody else?”
“I started to once or twice. But I figure, when you’re ready, I won’t have to ask. And I don’t think you should need to be told the team is behind you. But I’m telling you anyway.”
“If I wasn’t part of the team, the project wouldn’t be in trouble.”
Rosie picked up a jar of body cream from the back of the john. Opened it, sniffed. Lips pursed in approval, she slid her finger into the jar, then rubbed cream on her arms.
“You are part of the team. You made me part of it. You go, I go. You go, Jake goes. Jake goes, Digger goes. The project’s in a lot more trouble if that happens. You know that, too.”
“I could talk Jake into staying on.”
“You overestimate your powers of persuasion. He’s not going to let you out of his sight. In fact, I’m surprised, and not a little disappointed, I didn’t find the two of you in the shower. It would’ve gone to the first page of Rosie’s personal memory book.”
“We’ve got enough gossip around here without Jake and me taking showers together.”
“Now that you mention it.” She dropped the jar of cream into Callie’s hand, played with a bottle of moisturizer while Callie massaged cream on her arms and legs. “If I did have a question, it would pertain to that particular area. What’s up with you two?”
Callie hitched on fresh jeans. “I don’t know.”
“If you don’t, who does?”
“Nobody. We’re still sort of . . . we’re trying to . . . I don’t know,” she repeated, and reached for her shirt. “It’s complicated.”
“Well, you’re complicated people. That’s why it was so interesting watching it the first time around. Like being witness to a nuclear reaction. This time it’s more like watching a slow-burning fire, and not being entirely sure if it’s just going to keep smoldering or burst into active flame at any given moment. I always liked seeing you together.”
“Why?”
Rosie gave a quick, musical laugh. “Coupla sleek, handsome animals stalking around, not sure if they should rip each other to shreds or mate.”
She took the moisturizer, slathered it on her face. “You’re full of analogies.”
“I’ve got a romantic nature. I like seeing the two of you, always did. Right now that man just wants to cuddle you up, but he doesn’t know how. And he’s smart enough to be cautious because if he cuddles the wrong way you’ll peel the skin off his bones. That right there’s a conundrum for him. Because your temperamental nature’s just one of the things he loves about you.”
Slowly, Callie unwound the towel, picked up her comb. “I like being sure of things.” She tapped the comb on her palm before running it through her wet hair. “I was never sure he loved me. I thought he cheated on me. Veronica Weeks.”
“Shit, she drew a bead on him from day one—and as much because she was jealous of you as because your man’s one sexy hunk. She wanted to cause trouble for you. Hated your guts.”
Callie combed her hair back from her face. “Mission accomplished.” Then she lowered the comb. “How come you knew that, and I didn’t?”
“Because it was in your face, sweetie pie. And I was just an observer. But I don’t think he ever dipped a toe into that pool, Cal. She wasn’t his type.”
“Get out. Tall, built, available. Why wasn’t she his type?”
“Because she wasn’t you.”
On a long breath, Callie studied her own face in the mirror. Objectively, honestly. “I’m okay to look at. If I take the time to fiddle around, I can be pretty damn attractive. But that’s the limit. Veronica was beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous.”
“Where’d you pick up the insecurity complex?”
“It came with the package when I fell in love with him. You know his rep, you know how he’s always touching women, flirting with them.”
“The touching and flirting’s just one of the ways he communicates. The rep was before you. And all of that,” Rosie continued, “is part of what you fell for.”
“Yeah.” Disgusted with herself, Callie dragged the comb through her hair again. “What I fell for, then immediately started trying to change. Stupid. I just couldn’t believe he wouldn’t jump on other women. Especially Veronica Weeks and her obvious invitation—especially when I found her underwear under our bed.”
“Oh.” Rosie drew the word out into three syllables.
“She set me up, and I fell for it.” She threw the comb in the sink. “I hate that. I fell for it because I didn’t believe he loved me, at least not enough. So I pushed, and kept pushing, and when I couldn’t get an answer to either question, I pushed him right out the door.”
“Now you’ve let him back in. Wouldn’t hurt to let yourself enjoy that part.” Rosie stepped up to the sink, met Callie’s eyes in the mirror over it. “Did he cheat on you, Cal?”
“No. He screwed up in other areas, but he never cheated on me.”
“Okay. Any screwups on your part?”
Callie hissed out a breath. “Plenty.”
“All right. Now listen to wise Aunt Rosie. If my life was in this kind of flux, I’d appreciate having a big, strong man willing to stand behind, beside or in front of me. In fact, I appreciate having a big, strong man about any time at all. But that’s just me.”
Callie tipped her head until it bumped lightly against Rosie’s. “Why aren’t you married and raising babies?”
“Honey, there are so many big, strong men out there. Who can pick just one?” She patted Callie’s shoulder. “I’ve got some herbal pads that’ll work wonders on those duffel bags under your eyes. I’ll get you a couple. You slap them on, stretch out for a half hour.”
She felt pretty foolish lying down on top of her sleeping bag with pads that smelled like freshly cut cucumber covering her lids. And she imagined she looked like a blond version of Little Orphan Annie.
But they felt good. Cool and soothing. And though she rarely thought about her appearance when working, Callie had a healthy sense of vanity. She didn’t enjoy knowing she’d been walking around looking awful.
Maybe she’d give herself a facial. Rosie always had plenty of girl stuff in her pack. She’d spruce up a little. And she’d remember to put on makeup in the morning.
There was no reason to go around looking like a hag just because she felt like one.
She couldn’t manage the thirty minutes, but considered it a victory of willpower that she’d lasted fifteen. She got up, tossed the pads away, then took a long, critical study of herself in the little hand mirror from her pack.
She’d looked worse, she decided. But she’d sure as hell looked better.
She’d go down, forage some food from the kitchen, then see what Rosie recommended she slap on her face. She could handle leaving her skin smothered in gunk while she worked on the dailies.
Considering it an intelligent compromise, she started down. Then stopped halfway down the stairs when she saw Jake at the door, and her parents on the other side.
They made an awkward tableau, she thought. How many times had they actually met, face-to-face? Twice? No, three times, she corrected.
Another mistake, she supposed. She’d considered Jacob Graystone so alien to her parents’ lifestyle that she’d made no real effort to blend him into her family circle. And there was no doubt in her mind now that he’d had exactly the same reservation with her and his own family.
It was hardly any wonder they were so awkward with each other. Even without everything that had happened since July.
She skimmed her fingers through her hair and hurri
ed the rest of the way down.
“Well, this is a surprise.” She tried to keep her voice easy and bright, but the tension inside her, around her, was thick enough to drink. “You should’ve told me you were coming down, I’d have guided you in. It couldn’t’ve been easy to find us.”
“We only got lost twice.” Vivian stepped in, locked her arms around Callie.
“Once,” Elliot corrected. “The second time was just a reconnoiter. And we’d’ve been here an hour ago if your mother hadn’t insisted we stop for this.”
“A birthday cake.” Vivian loosened her hold on Callie as Elliot held up the bakery box. “We could hardly come all this way to wish you a happy birthday and not bring a cake. I know it’s not till tomorrow, but I couldn’t resist.”
Callie’s smile felt frozen, but she reached out for the box. “It’s never the wrong time for sugar.”
She could feel the curiosity and speculation pumping in from the living room where some of the team were sprawled. “Ah, this is Dory, Matt, Bob. And you remember Rosie.”
“Of course. Nice to meet you.” Vivian ran a hand up and down Callie’s arm as she spoke. “Wonderful to see you again, Rosie.”
“Why don’t we take this back to the kitchen? It’s the only place we have enough chairs anyway.” She turned, shoving the cake box at Jake before he could escape. “I’ll make some coffee.”
“We don’t want you to go to any trouble.” Though Elliot followed along. “We thought you might like to go out to dinner. We’ve got a room in a hotel just over the river. We’re told the restaurant’s very good.”
“Well, I . . .”
“I can lock the cake up somewhere,” Jake offered. “Otherwise, it’ll be a memory when you get back.”
“Like I’d trust you around baked goods.” Callie took the cake back and made the decision on impulse. “I’ll hide it. And you’ll have to come with us.”
“I’ve got work,” he began.
“Me too. But I’m not turning down a free meal away from the horde, and I’m not leaving you with this cake. I’ll be down in ten,” she told her surprised parents, then hurried out with the cake.
Jake drummed his fingers on his thigh, thought of half a dozen ways he could make Callie pay for putting him on the spot. “Listen, I’m going to cut out. I know you want some time alone with Callie.”
“She wants you to come.” There was such simple bafflement in Vivian’s voice, Jake nearly laughed.
“Just tell her I headed back to the site.”
“She wants you to come,” Vivian repeated. “So you’ll come.”
“Mrs. Dunbrook—”
“You’ll need to change your shirt. And wear a jacket. A tie would be nice,” she added, “but they aren’t required.”
“I don’t have one. With me, I mean. I own a tie, it’s just that I don’t . . . have one with me,” he finished, feeling like an idiot.
“The shirt and jacket will be fine. Go on and change. We’ll wait.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Elliot waited until they were alone to lean down and kiss his wife. “That was very sweet of you.”
“I don’t know how I feel about it, or him, but if she wants him, she gets him. That’s all there is to it. He was so flustered about the tie. I might just forgive him for making her unhappy.”
He wasn’t just flustered. He was totally out of his depth. He didn’t know what to say to these people under the best of circumstances. And these were far from the best.
The shirt needed to be ironed, he discovered. He didn’t have a goddamn iron handy. The only reason he had the dress shirt and jacket was for the occasional television interview or university visit.
Trying to remember if the shirt had been laundered after the last wearing, he sniffed at it. Okay, points for him. It didn’t smell. Yet.
He’d probably sweat through it before they got to the entrée.
If Callie had pushed him into this to punish him, she’d hit a bull’s-eye.
He dragged on the shirt and had to hope the jacket would hide most of the wrinkles.
He dawdled now, refusing to go back out there until the last possible minute. He changed his work boots for a pair of slightly more presentable Rockports. Then he ran a hand over his face and remembered he hadn’t shaved in days.
He snagged his kit and stomped off to the bathroom to take care of it.
A guy shouldn’t have to put on a damn jacket and shave to have dinner with people who were going to look at him like the suspicious ex-husband. He shouldn’t have to try to weather what was bound to be an emotional evening.
He had work to do and thoughts to think. And he just didn’t need the aggravation.
He was scraping the razor through lather when the knock sounded. “What?”
“It’s Callie.”
He shoved the door open, one-handed, then grabbed her and yanked her in. “Why are you doing this to me? What have I done to you lately?”
“It’s dinner.” She arched her head back to avoid getting smeared with shaving cream. “You like to eat.”
“Get me out of this.”
Her brows winged up. “Get yourself out of it.”
“Your mother won’t let me.”
Her heart warmed. “Really?”
“She made me change my shirt.”
“It’s a nice shirt.”
He hissed out a breath. “It’s wrinkled. And I don’t have a tie.”
“It’s not that wrinkled, and you don’t need a tie.”
“You put on a dress.” He batted it out, a vicious accusation. He turned back to the mirror and, scowling, continued to shave.
“You’re nervous about having dinner with my parents.”
“I’m not nervous.” He cursed when he nicked his chin. “I don’t see why I’m having dinner with them. They don’t want me horning in.”
“Didn’t you just say my mother wouldn’t let you get out of it?”
He sucked in a breath and scalded her with a look. “Don’t confuse the issue.”
Look how sweet he was, she thought. Just look at the sweetness she’d ignored. “Are we trying to get somewhere together, Graystone?”
“I thought we were somewhere.” Then he paused, rinsed off the blade. “Yeah, we’re trying to get somewhere.”
“Then this is part of it. It’s a part I can’t skip over again.”
“Yeah, yeah, I’m going, aren’t I?” But he shifted his gaze, ran it down her. “Why’d you have to go put on a dress?”
She lifted her hands, managed to turn a little circle to show off the way the short, snug black material clung. “You don’t like it?”
“Maybe I do. What’s under it?”
“If you’re a good boy and behave, you may just find out for yourself later.”
He tried not to think about that. It seemed rude to think about getting Callie out of the little black dress when he was sitting at a table for four with her parents.
And the conversation was so pointedly about anything but her parentage, the facts of it rang like bells.
They talked about the dig. A topic that seemed safest all around. Though no one mentioned the deaths, the fires.
“I don’t think Callie’s ever mentioned what got you into this kind of work.” Elliot approved the wine, and glasses were poured all around.
“Ah . . . I was interested in the evolutions and formations of cultures.” Jake ordered himself not to grab for his glass and glug wine like medicine. “What causes people to form their traditions, build their societies in the way . . .”
And the man wasn’t asking for a damn lecture. “Actually, it started when I was a kid. My father’s part Apache, part English, part French Canadian. My mother’s part Irish, Italian and German and French. That’s a lot mixed into one. So how do you get there? All those pieces have a trail back. I like following trails.”
“And you’re helping Callie follow hers now.”
Everything stilled for a moment. He could feel Vivian
stiffen beside him even as he saw Callie lift a hand, lay it on her father’s in a gesture of gratitude.
“Yeah. She doesn’t like help, so you have to badger her.”
“We raised her to be independent, and she took it very much to heart.”
“Then you didn’t intend to raise her to be stubborn, hardheaded and obstinate?”
Elliot pursed his lips, then sipped his wine with a gleam of humor in his eyes. “No, but she had her own ideas about that.”
“I call it being self-sufficient, confident and goal-oriented.” Callie broke off a piece of bread, nibbled. “A real man wouldn’t have a problem with it.”
He passed her the butter. “Still here, aren’t I?”
She buttered a piece of bread, handed it to him. “Got rid of you once.”
“That’s what you think.” He shifted back to Elliot. “Are you planning to come by the dig while you’re here?”
“Yes indeed. Tomorrow, if that’s convenient for both of you.”
“If you’ll excuse me a minute.” Vivian pushed back from the table. As she rose, she laid a hand on Callie’s shoulder, squeezed.
“Ah . . .I’ll go with you. What?” she hissed as they walked away from the table. “I’ve never understood this girl thing about going to the john in groups.”
“There’s probably some anthropological basis for it. Ask Jacob.” Inside the rest room, Vivian did indeed take out her compact. “You’re twenty-nine years old. You’re in charge of your own life. But despite everything, I’m still your mother.”
“Of course you are.” Worried, Callie stepped in, pressed her cheek to Vivian’s. “Nothing changes that.”
“And as your mother, I exercise the right to stick my nose into your business. Are you and Jacob reconciled?”
“Oh. Well. Hmmm. I don’t know if that’s a word that will ever apply to me and Jake. But we’re sort of together again. In a way.”
“Are you sure this is what you want, and not because your emotions are in turmoil?”
“He’s always been what I wanted,” Callie said simply. “I can’t explain why. We messed it up so bad the first time.”
“You’re still in love with him?”