Birthright

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’vejust returned from there, from his funeral and from assisting his current wife with the disposition 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
    J ake 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 truthhe’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,