Birthright

with nasty graffiti scrawled all over your ride.”
    She hissed out a breath. “Damnit.” But because he had a point, she climbed into his car. “If you’re driving, I’m in charge of the radio.”
    “No way, babe.” He settled in, punched in the CD. “Rules of the road are the driver picks the music.”
    “If you think I’m listening to hours of country music, you’re brain-damaged.” She clicked off the CD player, tuned in the radio.
    “Country music is the story-song of the American culture, reflecting its social, sexual and familial mores.” He switched it back to CD. Clint Black managed to get out the first bar before she pushed radio and blasted him back with Garbage.
    Arguing about the selection of music for the next fifteen minutes took the edge off the morning.
    H enry Simpson lived in an upscale suburban development Callie was certain Ronald Dolan would have approved of. The lawns were uniformly neat and green, the houses on them as trim and tidy as soldiers standing for inspection.
    They were all big, spreading over their lot nearly end toend. Some had decks, some carports, some were fronted with stone while others were as white, as pristine, as a virgin’s bridal gown.
    But there was a sameness to it all that Callie found depressing.
    There were no old trees. Nothing big and gnarled and interesting. Instead there were pretty dwarf ornamentals, or the occasional young maple. Plots of flowers were planted, primarily in island groupings. Now and again she saw one that demonstrated the owner’s, or their gardener’s, flare for creativity. But for the most part it was back to the soldiers again, with begonias and marigolds and impatiens lined up in static rows or concentric circles.
    “If I had to live here, I’d shoot myself in the head.”
    “Nah.” Jake checked house numbers as he crept down the cul-de-sac. “You’d paint your door purple, put pink flamingos in the front yard and make it your mission to drive your neighbors insane.”
    “Yeah. It’d be fun. That’s it there, the white house with the black Mercedes in the driveway.”
    “Oh, thanks, that really narrows it down.”
    She had to laugh. “On the left, next drive. Now, we agreed. I do the talking.”
    “We did not agree. I simply said you’re always talking.” He pulled into the drive, shut off the engine. “Where would you live if you were picking a place?”
    “It sure as hell wouldn’t be here. I need to handle this, Jake.”
    “Yeah, you do.” He got out of the car. “Some big, rundown place in the country. Something with history and character that you could fix up some. Leave your mark on.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “The kind of place I’d pick to live, if I were picking a place.”
    “You couldn’t just fix it up.” She dug a brush out of her purse, gave her hair a few whacks. “You’d need to research, to make sure whatever you did respected that history and character. And you’d have to have trees. Realtrees,” she added as they walked up the white brick pathway to the white house. “Not these froufrou substitutes.”
    “The kind that can hold a tire swing.”
    “Exactly.” Still she frowned at him. They’d never talked about houses before.
    “What?”
    “Nothing.” She rolled her shoulders. “Nothing. Okay, here goes.” She pressed the doorbell and heard the three-toned chime. Before she could drop her hand to her side, Jake took it in his.
    “What are you doing?”
    “Being supportive.”
    “Well . . .stand over there and be supportive.” She slapped at the back of his hand. “You’re making me nervous.”
    “You still want me, don’t you?”
    “Yeah, I still want you. I want you roasting marshmallows in hell. Let go of my hand before I—”
    She broke off, heard his quiet chuckle, as the door opened.
    The woman who answered the bell was middle-aged and had found a way to bloom there. Her hair was a glossy chestnut, cut in soft, short layers that flattered her creamy white skin. She wore narrow, cropped pants and a loose white shirt. Salmon-pink toenails peeked out of strappy sandals.
    “You must be Callie Dunbrook. I’m Barbara Simpson. I’m so glad to meet you.” She offered a hand. “And you’re . . .”
    “This is my associate, Jacob Graystone,” Callie told her. “I appreciate you and Dr. Simpson agreeing to see me on such short notice.”
    “Why, it’s no problem at all. Please come in, won’t you? Hank was absolutely delighted at the