gave Callie a quick hug, then ran a hand over her hair. âWhen did you get here?â
âLast night.â She didnât lift her head. She wasnât ready to look at her motherâs face. âI thought you and Dad were in Maine.â
âWe were. We decided to come home today instead of Sunday. Your father was obsessing about his garden, and he has a full day at the hospital on Monday. Baby . . .â Vivian put a hand under Callieâs chin, lifted it. âWhatâs wrong? Arenât you feeling well?â
âJust a little groggy.â Her motherâs eyes were brown, Callie thought. But not like her own. Her motherâs were darker, deeper, and went so beautifully with the rose and cream skin, the softly curling hair that had the texture and color of blond mink. âIs Dad here?â
âYes, of course. Heâs taking a look at his tomato plantsbefore he brings in the rest of the luggage. Sweetie, you look awfully pale.â
âI need to talk to you. To both of you.â
Iâm not ready. Iâm not ready, not ready, her mind screamed, but she pushed herself to her feet. âWill you ask Dad to come in? I just want to wash up.â
âCallie, youâre scaring me.â
âPlease. Just give me a minute to throw some water on my face. Iâll be right down.â
Without giving Vivian a chance to argue, she hurried out and into the bath across the hall.
She leaned on the sink, took slow, deep breaths because her stomach was clutching again. She ran the water cold, as cold as she could stand, and splashed it on her face.
She didnât look in the mirror. She wasnât ready for that, either.
When she came out, started down, Vivian was in the foyer, clutching her husbandâs hand.
Look how tall he is, Callie thought. How tall and trim and handsome. And how perfect they look together. Dr. Elliot Dunbrook and his pretty Vivian.
Theyâd lied to her, every day of her life.
âCallie. Youâve got your mother in a state.â Elliot crossed over, wrapped his arms around Callie and gave her a bear hug. âWhatâs wrong with my girl?â he questioned, and had tears burning her eyes.
âI didnât expect you back today.â She stepped out of his arms. âI thought Iâd have more time to figure out what I wanted to say. Now I donât. We need to go in and sit down.â
âCallie, are you in trouble?â
She looked at her fatherâs face, into his face, saw nothing but love and concern. âI donât know what I am,â she said simply, and walked across the foyer into the living room.
The perfect room, she thought, for people of taste and means. Antiques, carefully chosen, carefully maintained. Comfortable chairs in the deep colors they both favored. The charm of folk art for the walls, the elegance of old crystal.
Family pictures on the mantel that made her heart ache.
âI need to ask you . . .â
No, she couldnât do this with her back to them. Whatever sheâd learned, whatever she would learn, they deserved to speak directly to her face. She turned, took one deep breath.
âI need to ask you why you never told me I was adopted.â
Vivian made a strangled sound, as if sheâd been dealt a hard punch to the throat. Her lips trembled. âCallie, where did youââ
âPlease donât deny it. Please donât do that.â She could barely get the words out. âIâm sorry, but I went through the files.â She looked at her father. âI broke into the locked drawer, and the security box inside. I saw the medical records, the adoption papers.â
âElliot.â
âSit down, Vivian. Sit down.â He pulled her to a chair, lowered her into it. âI couldnât destroy them.â He stroked a hand over his wifeâs cheek as he might a frightened childâs. âIt wasnât