On A Night Like This (The Callaways) (19 page)

"They lied," she said.

"Who lied?"

"My parents. My mother and father lived a big, fat lie."

He was confused. "What are you talking about?"

"I'll show you," she said, pulling her hands away from his. She turned and headed upstairs.

He shut the door and followed her up to her room.

On her bed were at least twenty or thirty photographs. They'd obviously come from the box she'd found in the basement.

She searched through the pictures, found the one she was looking for and held it up. "Look at this. What do you see?"

"Your parents and you."

"No, that's not me, that's another baby. And look at my dad," she added. "Have you ever seen him smile like that?'

"No, but I don’t think I'm someone he would smile at."

"Neither am I. Only
this
child was worth a smile."

"Who is this baby? I don't understand what you're talking about."

"I'm sorry. Wasn't I clear? This is my brother, Aiden, my older brother, the child my parents never told me about, the son my father always wanted. He was even named after my dad, Stephen Jr."

His amazement grew with each word. "That's impossible. You would have known. Someone would have known. Someone would have said something."

"Someone like my mother, who I thought I was really close to? That kind of someone?"

"Sara," he breathed, seeing a tremendous amount of pain in her eyes. "Are you sure?"

"There's a name on one of the pictures," she said wearily, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I did an Internet search and found birth records. I also found an obituary for a four-year-old. He was born six years before me. I don't know how he died. I don't know why his existence was kept from me, kept from everyone." She paused, tilting her head. "Do you think your parents knew?"

"I – I don't know. You didn't move here until you were…"

"Nine," she said. "Of course your parents didn't know. It all happened long before we moved here."

"I don't know what to say." He was stunned by the revelation.

"It's strange. I remember asking my mom about where they used to live before I was born, and she never had much to say. She was always vague about it. I don't recognize the house in any of the photos, so it was probably different than the one where I was born." She paused. "Maybe this is just the tip of the iceberg. What else don't I know about my parents?"

He could see the anger, frustration and fear bubbling up inside of her. "You need to talk to your father."

"I can't imagine what I would say."

"How about – why have you been lying to me my whole life?"

She stared back at him. "I want to ask him that, but I can't do it right now, Aiden. I'm too confused. My head is aching, and my heart is pounding out of my chest, and if I go to see him now, I don't know what I'll say. I need to be better prepared. I need to calm down. I feel so shaken. The earth is moving all around me, and I can't find solid ground to stand on. My flight leaves in two hours, but I can't get on the plane like this. I also don't want to stay here in his house, with his lies staring me in the face. I need to breathe. I need to think. I need time, Aiden."

He knew exactly how she felt. Their circumstances were different, but their needs were the same.

"Let's get out of here," he said impulsively.

"Where – where would we go?"

"I don't know."

"We can't just take off without a destination."

He smiled. Destroyed and distraught, Sara was still Sara. "Your bag looks like it's mostly packed," he said, tipping his head toward her suitcase. "Let me throw some stuff into the truck, and we'll go for a drive."

"With our bags?" she asked, wariness entering her eyes.

"You said you didn't want to stay here."

"I don't, but…"

"You can trust me, Sara."

She drew in a big breath and then said, "All right. I'll meet you at the truck." As he turned toward the door, she added, "Don't take too long or I might change my mind."

* * *

It took Aiden five minutes to throw his clothes into a duffel bag. When he jogged down the driveway he could hear laughter and conversation coming from the open windows in the kitchen. Fortunately, no one seemed to be looking outside. He didn't want to answer questions, didn't want to have to explain what he was doing or where he was going, because he had no answers. Like Sara, he just needed some time to think, and it was obvious his time at home had run out. His father and grandfather were determined to have some sort of discussion, a conversation he was not in the mood to have.

Sara was waiting at the truck when he got there. She didn't say anything to him, just handed him her suitcase and then got into the passenger seat. There was a determined expression in her dark brown eyes now, a decided improvement over the pain and grief he'd witnessed earlier. She was getting herself together. Hopefully, putting some distance between her and those photographs would help.

As he started the engine, he saw Emma come out of the house. Sara saw her, too.

"Just drive," Sara ordered. "Now."

He pulled away from the curb. In his rearview mirror he could see Emma standing on the sidewalk with a thoughtful expression on her face.

"I should have talked to Emma," Sara said a minute later, guilt in her voice. "That was rude."

"You'll talk to her when you're ready. She'll be fine."

"I can't imagine when I'll be ready."

As he turned the corner, Sara rolled down her window, letting the cool air dry the lingering tears on her face. It was a beautiful, sunny day, warm for early November, the temperature in the high seventies, the sky pure blue, not a cloud to be seen.

It was a good day to be going somewhere – he just wasn't sure where.

He weaved through the city streets without much thought, and when he found himself heading over the Bay Bridge toward Berkeley, he kept on going. She wanted miles between her and her father, and he was happy to gain some distance from his family.

Coming off the bridge, he continued north, heading toward the Napa wine country. As they left some of the bigger cities behind, the scenery grew more rural. Driving through the Napa Valley, they passed lush vine-covered fields, and historic stone buildings that housed wine cellars and offered tastings on Sunday afternoons. He could feel Sara's tension ease and she finally broke the quiet of the last hour.

"Look, hot air balloons." She pointed to a half dozen bright, colorful balloons soaring over the valley. "I wonder if it's peaceful or scary. I'm sure it wouldn't scare you to be that high."

"Actually, I'd feel more comfortable with a parachute strapped to my back."

She glanced at him, her gaze curious. "What's it like, Aiden? Jumping out of an airplane?"

He thought for a minute, searching for the right words. "It's monumental, exhilarating, mind-blowing. I don't even know if I can explain it. Right after you jump, you go into free fall, your body hurtling towards the earth at an incredible speed. It's amazing. Then the chute opens, and your life is saved. That moment is followed by an incredible quiet, a sense of wonder and amazement. It doesn't last long enough. Soon, you're trying to use the wind to land on the ground and not in a tree."

"You love it," she said with a small smile.

He smiled back at her. "The jumping never gets old. The rest of it – let's just say landing is not always that smooth and clean."

"Have you ever landed in a tree?"

"More times than I'd like to admit. I've also dumped myself into a lake, some really sharp rocks and even a patch of poison oak."

"But none of that stops you from doing your job once you're on the ground," she said.

"Sometimes it slows me down, but unless I've broken something, I don't stop. I'm there for a purpose." He felt a rush of pride at the admiration in her eyes. He'd seen so much condemnation and criticism in recent weeks that he'd forgotten what it was like to be someone who was good at his job.

"You were always a daredevil. I remember when you and your brothers set up your own version of a skateboard park in front of the house. It started with a ramp going down the driveway, over a pile of boards and around some garbage cans. It was wild. I sat on the porch thinking any minute one of you was going to kill yourself. I even had the phone handy in case I had to call 9-1-1."

He grinned, remembering how much fun they'd had that day. "That was a great course. Unfortunately, it only lasted until my father came home."

"Actually, I think it ended when Sean broke his wrist," she said dryly.

"I forgot about that. Collateral damage," he said lightly.

"I don't think your brother saw it that way."

"Hey, I didn't think he should be on the course at all. Sean always got hurt. He tried to climb the tree out front and fell into the garbage can. He tripped over the stairs during tag and sprained his ankle. He rode his bike into a rosebush and ripped up his legs. I could go on and on. I told him to stay off the skateboard. He didn’t listen."

"He was the little brother. He wanted to be like you and Burke and Drew."

"He's gone his own way now with his music."

"He's very good. I was impressed. He has a soulful quality to his singing. It made me wonder what his story is, where he's finding all that emotion."

"I don't know, either," he said, her words reminding him that he'd lost touch with Sean along with so many of his siblings. It had been a long time since they'd had more than a three-minute conversation.

"How does your father handle Sean being a musician, breaking with the family tradition to do something of service for the community? Singing doesn't exactly go with the Callaway code of serve and protect."

"I think he always knew that Sean wasn't going to be a firefighter. Sean had a bad experience with fire when he was a little kid and for months after that he'd hide under the bed when he heard the sirens. My dad tried to take him to the firehouse, break him of the bad memories, but it didn't work."

"What was the bad experience? I don't remember hearing about that."

"Sean was in the car with my dad. They were just coming home from the store, and they stopped at a light. My dad saw smoke and flames coming out of a house. He called it in, then jumped out of the car and ran into the house. Sean was alone outside when a little girl came running out of the house, her pajamas on fire. My dad ran after her and rolled her in the grass, but she was screaming, and I guess Sean was traumatized. He was like six at the time."

"I can't blame him. That must have been terrifying for a little kid."

"My dad tried to tell him that she was going to be all right, that her burns weren't bad, that he'd gotten her out in time, and that firefighters were the good guys. But Sean never wanted anything to do with the job." Aiden paused. "I thought he might follow Drew into the Coast Guard since he liked to swim, but it was always about music for him. My dad keeps telling him to get a real job, but Sean is a stubborn Callaway like the rest of us." He paused, adding, "My father hates it when he can't control his kids. We're all grown up now, and he still treats us like we're twelve. It drives him nuts when he can't make us do what he wants."

"Then you must have sent him all the way to crazy by now."

"No doubt."

"Your father is lucky he has Lynda to talk him down. She always seems like she's calm and centered."

"She does a lot of yoga."

"Maybe I should try that. I'm far from calm and centered right now. Lynda has the perfect personality to balance your father's volatility; they're a good match."

"Lynda does her best. My father doesn't always listen to her."

Sara turned her gaze on him, a curious look in her eyes. "Why don't you call Lynda, Mom? You're the only of your siblings who doesn't. I always wondered why."

He hadn't had to answer that question in a long time. "Habit," he said. "I couldn't think of her as my mother in the beginning. I was five when my mom died and eight when my dad and Linda got together. I knew she wasn't my real mother, and it felt wrong to replace her. Plus, I wasn't sure Lynda was going to stick around. My dad dated a few women in between my mom and her. For a while, it seemed like there was a new woman at the dinner every other week. Lynda was one of the few who wasn't scared off by a man with four boys, one of whom was still in diapers."

"I didn't realize your father had dated anyone else. I suppose that was natural."

He sighed. The death of his mother had left a hole in his heart that he'd never quite filled. He'd moved on as they all had, but he still thought about her sometimes, wondered why no one ever talked about her. "There was nothing natural about any of it," he said a moment later. "My mom was way too young to die. She got cancer when Sean was only a year old. She was in her mid-thirties – a year older than I am right now." He shook his head, filled with regret and anger that his mother hadn't had anywhere close to a full life.

"I'm sorry, Aiden," Sara said softly. "I didn't mean to bring up a touchy topic. We didn't move in next door until you were all one big blended family, so I never really thought about your real mother, or even about Emma's real father. Although, I do remember early on when Emma and Nicole would go visit him on the weekends. She hated to do that, and then suddenly the visits just stopped. I guess he got married and moved away somewhere. Emma seemed mostly relieved."

"I didn't know their father. He never came around our place. If Emma and Nicole saw him, they went to his house." He paused. "It's been a long time since I thought about those days. We moved into Lynda's house right after the wedding. Not much of my mother came with us, a few photos, that was about it. I understood that my dad was trying to be respectful to Lynda, but it seemed wrong to just erase my mother, as if she'd never existed, never made a mark on our lives."

"Maybe that's the real reason why you can't call Lynda, Mom. You're still protecting your real mother's memory. I can understand that."

"I don't mean it to be disrespectful," he said quickly. "Lynda raised me. She's been great. My dad got lucky when he found her."