Birthright by Nora Roberts Page A

hospital on Monday. Baby . . .” Vivian put a hand under Callie’s chin, lifted it. “What’s wrong? Aren’t you feeling well?”
    “Just a little groggy.” Her mother’s eyes were brown, Callie thought. But not like her own. Her mother’s 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. “Is Dad here?”
    “Yes, of course. He’s taking a look at his tomato plantsbefore he brings in the rest of the luggage. Sweetie, you look awfully pale.”
    “I need to talk to you. To both of you.”
    I’m not ready. I’m not ready, not ready, her mind screamed, but she pushed herself to her feet. “Will you ask Dad to come in? I just want to wash up.”
    “Callie, you’re scaring me.”
    “Please. Just give me a minute to throw some water on my face. I’ll be right down.”
    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 didn’t look in the mirror. She wasn’t ready for that, either.
    When she came out, started down, Vivian was in the foyer, clutching her husband’s 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.
    They’d lied to her, every day of her life.
    “Callie. You’ve got your mother in a state.” Elliot crossed over, wrapped his arms around Callie and gave her a bear hug. “What’s wrong with my girl?” he questioned, and had tears burning her eyes.
    “I didn’t expect you back today.” She stepped out of his arms. “I thought I’d have more time to figure out what I wanted to say. Now I don’t. We need to go in and sit down.”
    “Callie, are you in trouble?”
    She looked at her father’s face, into his face, saw nothing but love and concern. “I don’t know what I am,” 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.
    “I need to ask you . . .”
    No, she couldn’t do this with her back to them. Whatever she’d learned, whatever she would learn, they deserved to speak directly to her face. She turned, took one deep breath.
    “I need to ask you why you never told me I was adopted.”
    Vivian made a strangled sound, as if she’d been dealt a hard punch to the throat. Her lips trembled. “Callie, where did you—”
    “Please don’t deny it. Please don’t do that.” She could barely get the words out. “I’m sorry, but I went through the files.” She looked at her father. “I broke into the locked drawer, and the security box inside. I saw the medical records, the adoption papers.”
    “Elliot.”
    “Sit down, Vivian. Sit down.” He pulled her to a chair, lowered her into it. “I couldn’t destroy them.” He stroked a hand over his wife’s cheek as he might a frightened child’s. “It wasn’t right.”
    “But it was right to conceal the facts of my birth from me?” Callie demanded.
    Elliot’s shoulders slumped. “It wasn’t important to us.”
    “Wasn’t—”
    “Don’t blame your father.” Vivian reached up for Elliot’s hand. “He did it for me,” she said to Callie. “I made him promise. I made him swear. I needed . . .”
    She began to weep, slow tears streaming down her face. “Don’t hate me, Callie. Oh God, don’t hate me for this. You were my baby the instant you were put in my arms. Nothing else mattered.”
    “A replacement for the baby you lost?”
    “Callie.” Now Elliot stepped forward. “Don’t be