Birthright

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 know. 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.