Birthright

backpacks—that she gave everyone birthday cake for breakfast.
    She brewed iced tea for her cold jug, licked icing off her fingers and was delighted to see Leo wander into the kitchen.
    “Happy birthday.” He set a package down on the counter. “And I want to make it clear that I had nothing to do with it.”
    Callie poked the box with her index finger. “It isn’t alive, is it?”
    “I can’t be held responsible.”
    She poured the tea into her jug, then carried the box to the table to open. The wrapping was covered with balloons and the bow was enormous and pink. Once it was open, she dug through Styrofoam peanuts, then pulled out a shallow, somewhat square-shaped dish glazed in streaks of blue, green and yellow.
    “Wow. It’s a . . . what?”
    “I said I had nothing to do with it,” Leo reminded her.
    “Ashtray?” Rosie ventured.
    “Too big.” Bob looked over her shoulder to study it. “Soup bowl?”
    “Not deep enough.” Dory pursed her lips. “Serving bowl, maybe.”
    “You could put, like, potpourri in it. Or something.” Fran picked up her own jug as everyone crowded around the table to see.
    “Dust catcher,” was Matt’s verdict.
    “Art,” Jake corrected. “Which needs no other purpose.”
    “There you go.” Callie turned it over to show the base. “Look, she signed it. I have an original Clara Greenbaum. Man, it’s got some weight to it. Plus, it’s a very . . . interesting shape and pattern. Thanks, Leo.”
    “I am not responsible.”
    “I’ll call the artist and thank her.” Callie set it in the middle of the table, stepped back. It was, very possibly, the ugliest thing she’d ever seen. “See, it looks . . . artistic.”
    “Potpourri.” Rosie gave her a bolstering pat on the shoulder. “Lots and lots of potpourri.”
    “Right. Well, enough of this festive frivolity.” She moved over to dump ice in her jug and close it. “Let’s get to work.”
    “What are you going to call it when you thank her?” Jake wondered as they started out to the car.
    “A present.”
    “Good thinking.”
    S uzanne wiped her nervous hands on the hips of her slacks as she walked to the door. There was a flutter just under her heart, another in the pit of her stomach.
    And there was a part of her that wanted to keep that door firmly shut. This was her home. And the woman outside was partially responsible for damaging it.
    But she steeled herself, squared her shoulders, lifted her chin and opened the door to Vivian Dunbrook.
    Her first thought was the woman was so lovely—so perfectly dressed in a tailored gray suit accented with good, understated jewelry and wonderful classic pumps.
    It was a knee-jerk female reaction, but it didn’t stop Suzanne from remembering she’d changed her outfit twice after Vivian had phoned. Now she wished she’d worn her navy suit instead of the more casual black slacks and white blouse.
    Fashion as the equalizer.
    “Mrs. Cullen.” Vivian’s fingers gripped tighter on the handle of the bag she carried. “Thank you so much for seeing me.”
    “Please come in.”
    “Such a beautiful spot.” Vivian stepped inside. If there were nerves, they didn’t show in her voice. “Your gardens are wonderful.”
    “A hobby of mine.” Back straight, face composed, Suzanne led the way into the living room. “Please, sit down. Can I get you anything?”
    “No, please, don’t trouble.” Vivian chose a chair, ordered herself to sit slowly and not just collapse off her trembling legs. “I know you must be very busy. A woman in your position.”
    “My position?”
    “Your business. So successful. We’ve enjoyed your products very much. My husband particularly. Elliot has a weakness for sweets. He’d like to meet you and your husband, of course. But I wanted, first . . .I hoped we could talk. Just you and I.”
    She could be just as cool, Suzanne told herself. Just as classy and polite. She sat, crossed her legs, smiled. “Are you in the area long?”
    “Just a day or two. We wanted to see the project. It isn’t often Callie has a dig close enough for us to . . . Oh, this is awkward.”
    “Awkward?” Suzanne repeated.
    “I thought I knew what to say, how to say it. I practiced what I would say to you. I locked myself in the bathroomfor an hour this morning and practiced in front of the mirror. Like you might for a play. But . . .”
    Emotion clogged Vivian’s voice. “But now, I don’t know what to say to you, or how to say it.