Birthright

window. “She walked out. Just fucking walked out of the hospital when the deputy was distracted. Nobody remembers seeing her leave, nobody knows where she went or how she got there. She’s just gone.”
    D oug swung by his mother’s. The phone, he’d decided, wasn’t the way to tell her what they’d learned. He wasn’t sure what her reaction might be and knew, at this time of day, before his grandfather had closed the bookstore, before his father had made the trip from his last class across the county line, she’d most likely be alone.
    When he was sure she was all right, he’d drive to Lana’s. They’d go together to hook up with Callie and Jake.
    He pulled up behind her car.
    He wanted to box all of this up, close the lid and set it aside so they could all get on with their lives. He wanted a chance at that life. The sheer normality of it. He wanted to be able to tell his mother he was in love, planning to give her a ready-made grandchild, and he hoped more as time went on.
    He walked in the front. He hadn’t paid enough attention to the life his mother had made for herself, he admitted. How she’d built a business, created a home. The way she surrounded herself with pretty things, he mused as hepicked up an iridescent green bowl from a table. The strength and will it must have taken to create even those small bits of normalcy when her spirit had been shattered.
    He regretted, very much, not only the way he’d ignored what she’d managed to do, but that he’d resented it.
    “Mom?”
    “Doug?” Her voice carried down the stairs. “You’re back! I’ll be right down.”
    He wandered into the kitchen, sniffed the air gratefully when he scented fresh coffee. He poured a cup, then decided to pour a second. They’d sit at her table, drink her coffee while he told her what they’d learned.
    And he’d tell her something he’d stopped telling her too long ago to remember. He’d tell his mother he loved her.
    He heard the click of heels on wood—quick, brisk, female. And when he turned, nearly bobbled the second cup of coffee.
    “Wow,” he managed. “What’s up with you?”
    “Oh. Well. Just . . . nothing really.”
    She blushed. He didn’t know mothers could blush. And apparently he’d forgotten how beautiful his own mother was.
    Her hair was swept around her face, and her lips and cheeks were attractively rosy. But the dress was the killer. Midnight blue and sleek, it was short enough to show off terrific legs, scooped low enough at the bodice to give more than a hint of cleavage, and snug enough in between to show off curves he wasn’t entirely comfortable thinking about his mother having.
    “You hang around the house like this very often?”
    Her color still high, she tugged self-consciously at the skirt. “I’m going out shortly. Is that coffee for me? Let me get you some cookies.”
    She hurried to the counter to pick up a clear glass jar.
    “Where are you going?”
    “I have a date.”
    “A what?”
    “A date.” Flustered, she circled cookies on a plate, justas she had when he’d come home from school. “I’m going out to dinner.”
    “Oh.” A date? Going out to dinner with some guy? Dressed like . . . barely dressed at all.
    She set the plate down, lifted her chin. “With your father.”
    “Excuse me?”
    “I said I have a dinner date with your father.”
    He sat down. “You and Dad are . . . dating ?”
    “I didn’t say we were dating, I said we had a date for dinner. Just dinner. Just a casual dinner.”
    “There’s nothing casual about that dress.” Shock was slowly making room for amusement, and trailing just behind was a nice warm pleasure. “His eyes are going to pop right out of his head when he gets a load of you.”
    “It looks all right? I’ve only worn it to a couple of cocktail events. Business functions.”
    “It looks amazing. You look amazing. You’re beautiful, Mom.”
    Surprise, then tears filled her eyes. “Well, for goodness sake.”
    “I should have told you that every day. I should’ve told you I love you, every day. That I’m proud of you, every day.”
    “Oh, Douglas.” She lifted a hand to her heart as it simply soared. “There goes the thirty minutes I spent on my face.”
    “I’m sorry I didn’t. I’m sorry I couldn’t. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you because I was afraid you blamed me.”
    “Blamed you for . . .” Even as the tears spilled over, she lowered her cheek to the top of his head. “Oh,