Birthright

idea of meeting you when I called him. He’s just cleaning up from his golf game. Why don’t we sit in the living room? Just make yourselves comfortable. I’ll bring in some refreshments.”
    “I don’t want you to go to any trouble, Mrs. Simpson.”
    “It’s no trouble at all.” Barbara touched Callie’s arm, then gestured toward the stone-gray leather conversation pit. “Please, have a seat. I’ll be right back.”
    There was a huge, exotic and pure white flower arrangement on the lake-sized glass coffee table. The fireplace, filled for summer with more flowers and candles, was fashioned of white brick.
    Callie imagined the lacquer black cabinet against the wall held some sort of fancy media center.
    There were two other chairs, also in leather, in lipstick red. Her work boots were sunk into wall-to-wall carpeting a few delicate shades lighter than the conversation pit.
    She studied, with some unease, the three-foot white ceramic rabbit in the corner.
    “No kids,” Jake said as he dropped down on the leather cushions. “And no grandkids with sticky fingers let loose to run around in here.”
    “Dad said he had a daughter from the first marriage. A couple grandkids. But they still live up north.” With more caution than Jake, Callie perched on the edge of the long line of sofa. “This, um, Barbara is his second wife. My parents never met her. They got married after my parents moved to Philadelphia. Then Simpson moved to Virginia. Lost touch.”
    Jake reached over, laid a hand on Callie’s knee to stop her leg from shaking. “You’re bopping your foot.”
    “No, I’m not.” She hated when she caught herself doing that. “Give me a nudge if I start doing it again.”
    Then she was getting to her feet as Henry Simpson came in. He had a smooth golfer’s tan, and a little soccer ball–sized pouch under his summer knit shirt. His hair had gone into a monk’s fringe and was pure white. He wore metal-framed glasses.
    Callie knew him to be in his early seventies, but he had a young man’s grip when he took her hand between both of his.
    “Vivian and Elliot’s little girl, all grown up. It’s a cliché to say you don’t know where the time goes, but I sure ashell don’t. I haven’t seen you since you were a few months old. God, I feel creaky.”
    “You don’t look it. This is Jacob Graystone. My—”
    “Another archaeologist.” Simpson took Jake’s hand and pumped. “Fascinating. Fascinating. Please, sit. Barb’s just fussing with some lemonade and cookies. So it’s Dr. Callie Dunbrook,” he said as he took a seat and beamed at her. “Your parents must be very proud.”
    “I hope so, Dr. Simpson.”
    “You call me Hank now. Please.”
    “Hank, I don’t know how much my father told you when he contacted you this morning to ask if you’d see me.”
    “He told me enough. Enough to concern me, to make me sit down and go over everything I can think of that might be of some help to you.”
    He looked over as he wife came in, wheeling a chrome-and-glass cart. “No, no, sit,” she said, waving at Jake when he started to get up. “I’ll deal with this. I can tell you’ve already started to talk.”
    “I told Barbara about my conversation with your father.” Hank sat back with a sigh. “I have to be honest with you, Callie, I believe this woman who approached you is mistaken. Marcus Carlyle had a very good reputation in Boston. I would never have referred your parents to him otherwise.”
    “Hank.” Barbara set down a tray of tiny frosted cakes, then brushed a hand over her husband’s arm. “He’s been worried that if there’s any possibility of this being true, he’s somehow responsible.”
    “I sent Vivian and Elliot to Carlyle. I urged them both to look toward adoption.”
    He closed a hand over his wife’s. “I still remember when I had to tell Vivian she needed a hysterectomy. She looked so young and small, and damaged. She wanted a child, desperately. They both did.”
    “Why did you recommend Carlyle, specifically?” Callie asked.
    “I’d had another patient whose husband was infertile.We had explored alternate methods of conception, but they were disappointing. Like your parents, they got on waiting lists through adoption agencies. When my patient came in for her annual exam, she was overflowing with joy. She and her husband had been able to adopt a child, through Carlyle. She sang his praises, couldn’t say enough about him. With my specialty, I often