On A Night Like This (Callaways #1)

her. He had dark brown hair, brown eyes, and wiry frame. Today, he wore black slacks and a white button-down shirt that had always been his uniform during the week. He seemed thinner than she remembered, although he’d always been fit. His sense of discipline extended to every part of his life.
    "Surprise," she said, forcing a smile on her face.
    "What are you doing here, Sara?"
    "It's your birthday on Sunday."
    "You should have called."
    "You would have told me not to come."
    "Yes, I would have done that," he agreed. "It's not a good time."
    It hadn't been a good time in over a decade. "Can I come in?" she asked.
    He hesitated for a long moment, then gave a resigned nod.
    She crossed the threshold, feeling as if she'd just gotten over the first hurdle. There would be more coming, but at least she'd made it through the door. Pausing in the entry, she glanced toward the living room on her right. It was a formal room, with white couches, glass tables, and expensive artwork. They'd never spent any time in that room as a family, and it didn't appear that that had changed. Turning her head to the left, she could see the long mahogany table in the dining room, and the same dried flower arrangement that had always been the centerpiece.
    The fact that the house hadn't changed in ten years was probably a sign that her father hadn't changed either.
    "You shouldn't have come without calling, Sara,” her father repeated, drawing her attention back to him.
    "Well, I'm here, and I brought you a present." She handed him the wine.
    He reluctantly took the bottle, barely glancing at the label. "Thank you."
    "It's very rare," she said, wishing for a bigger reaction.
    "I'm sure it is." He set the bottle down on a side table.
    She squared her shoulders, irritated by his lack of enthusiasm. But she knew it would take more than a bottle of wine to crack the iceberg between them. "I'd like to stay for the weekend."
    "You want to stay here?" he asked, dismay in his eyes.
    "Why not? You have the room." She headed up the stairs, figuring it would be best not to give her father time to argue. He was an excellent attorney, who knew how to win an argument. But she was pretty good, too.
    When she reached the upstairs landing, her gaze caught on the only two family pictures that had ever hung in the house. On the left was a family shot of the three of them, taken when she was about eleven years old. She remembered quite clearly how desperately her mother had wanted a professional family picture and how hard her father had fought against it, but it was one of the few battles that Valerie had won.
    The other photo was of her and her mother taken at her high school graduation. Her mother had a proud smile on her face. They looked a lot alike, sharing many of the same features, an oval-shaped face, long, thick light brown hair that fell past their shoulders, and wide-set dark brown eyes. A wave of sadness ran through her as she realized this was the last photo of her and her mother. Valerie had died two years later.
    Turning away from the memories, she moved down the hall. Her room was at the far end of the corridor. It had been stripped down to the basics, a mattress and box spring, her old desk on one wall, her dresser on the other. The bookshelves were empty and so were the drawers. Only a few nails revealed that there had once been pictures on the wall. There was absolutely no trace of her childhood.
    She shouldn't be surprised. Her father had shipped her several boxes a couple of years ago, but it still felt a little sad to see how her early life had been completely erased.
    Moving to the window, she looked out at a familiar view – the Callaways' backyard. The large wooden play structure that was built like a fort with slides and tunnels was empty now. Like herself, the Callaways had grown up. She wondered if any of them still lived at home.
    "As you can see, I'm not set up for guests," her dad said, interrupting her thoughts.
    She turned to see him standing in the doorway. "I'm sure there are some extra sheets in the linen closet. I don't need much."
    He stared back at her, his eyes dark and unreadable. "Why are you here, Sara?"
    "I wanted to be here for your birthday. It's been a long time since we've shared more than an email. We should talk, catch up with each other."
    "Why on earth would you want to talk to me?"
    The confusion in his eyes made her realize just how far apart they'd drifted. "Because you're my father. You're my family.