“You’re sa­ying we do ha­ve a re­la­ti­on­s­hip? I tho­ught you sa­id it wasn’t re­al.” Wary ho­pe kin­d­led in his ha­zel eyes.

  “I don’t know if I can ex­p­la­in. I had a fan­tasy ‘us.’ The fan­tasy is what wasn’t re­al-ne­ver exis­ted.”

  He stro­ked the back of her hand with his thumb. “What was yo­ur fan­tasy?”

  “That the­re wo­uld be this per­son who wants me for myself alo­ne and co­uldn’t ca­re less what I bring to the tab­le and will ne­ver le­ave me or send me away.”

  Ca­leb sat up stra­ight, ma­king it cle­ar he was not in the hos­pi­tal be­ca­use he was sick. He was we­aring a T-shirt and shorts. Every po­wer­ful, vi­tal li­ne of his body was re­ve­aled.

  “But I do want you for yo­ur­self alo­ne.” He pus­hed his ha­ir back, even tho­ugh it wasn’t in his eyes. He used to do that, she re­mem­be­red. And just li­ke now, he lo­oked so yo­ung. “That’s what kept con­fu­sing me! One mi­nu­te you’re this kit­ten. A kit­ten with a ge­ni­us IQ,” he cla­ri­fi­ed, “pre­ten­ding to be a nerdy pro­fes­sor, and I fall in lo­ve. The next, you’re this to­tal­ly hot ba­be, who is al­so a vul­ne­rab­le and co­ura­ge­o­us wo­man-and I fall in lo­ve aga­in. Then, you’re this tran­s­cen­dent be­ing with a vo­ice li­ke an an­gel, and I fall in lo­ve a third ti­me. And no mat­ter which one you we­re-or how hard I tri­ed to re­mem­ber it was all abo­ut ma­king Cal­ho­un pay-all I wan­ted was to be with you.”

  “Well.” Em­mie lo­oked down at her hands. “That hum­b­les me.”

  “It sho­uldn’t.” He lif­ted her chin with a gen­t­le fin­ger. “I blew it with you. I co­uldn’t see the truth abo­ut how I felt un­til I co­uld get Cal­ho­un out of my eye.”

  “And un­til I let go of the fan­tasy, I co­uldn’t see that I’d rat­her ha­ve you. Pic­kett stra­ig­h­te­ned me out. She sa­id, ‘Many for­ces bring a co­up­le to­get­her ini­ti­al­ly. It’s up to them to cho­ose what will ke­ep them to­get­her.’”

  “Whe­re do we go from he­re?”

  “I’ve be­en thin­king abo­ut that. Ne­it­her one of us has had very go­od mo­dels for long-term re­la­ti­on­s­hips, so we’re not go­od at it. But I am go­od at fri­en­d­s­hip. And so are you.”

  “Wa­it a mi­nu­te.” He flung up a hand, palm out. “No. You didn’t co­me he­re to gi­ve me the ‘can’t we be fri­ends?’ spe­ech, did you?”

  “Well, no. I’m just thin­king we sho­uld go with our strengths and see if we can work the rest out.”

  “Do­es this me­an we can ma­ke lo­ve?”

  “As of­ten as pos­sib­le.”

  “Sa­me ru­les? Mar­ri­age is on the tab­le? Fa­it­h­ful and lo­yal?”

  “A co­up­le of ho­unds, that’s us.”

  “Go­od­will, to­le­ran­ce for hu­man shor­t­co­mings, and for­gi­ve­ness?”

  “Tho­se we­ren’t part of our ori­gi­nal de­al.”

  He used his strength to pull her down on the bed with him. “I’ve be­en ta­king lo­ve les­sons. I might be fur­t­her along than you think.”

  And that’s how they fi­nal­ly fo­und…

  The Be­gin­ning

  Epilogue

  “Ca­leb, I’m so glad you’re he­re!” Lilly Ha­le held out her arms in cle­ar ex­pec­ta­ti­on of a hug.

  Ca­leb had anot­her one of tho­se “Whe­re the hell am I?” mo­ments. The­re we­re many des­c­rip­ti­ve na­mes for the phe­no­me­non: d?j? vu, d?j? v?cu, jama­is vu. In it­self the fe­eling wasn’t evi­den­ce of psychic ac­ti­vity, and yet in his own ex­pe­ri­en­ce it sig­na­led that a tur­ning po­int in his li­fe was ap­pro­ac­hing. He didn’t ne­ed psychic po­wers to know a tur­ning po­int was at hand. He was on long term lo­an to an agency wor­king on a pro­j­ect to de­ter­mi­ne if SE­ALs co­uld be ta­ught to ac­cess and en­han­ce the­ir psychic abi­li­ti­es, by hel­ping them to re­cog­ni­ze it in con­text. He was ex­ci­ted abo­ut it as he hadn’t be­en ex­ci­ted abo­ut ope­ra­ting-not for a long ti­me.

  Emmie had ac­cep­ted a post at the Uni­ver­sity of Ca­li­for­nia in San Di­ego, and he had co­me back East to help her pack. They had ti­med the trip to co­in­ci­de with Aunt Lilly Ha­le’s fa­mily re­uni­on-the sum­mer one, that over one hun­d­red pe­op­le ca­me to.

  He knew abo­ut hug­ging old la­di­es now-it wasn’t a stran­ge ex­pe­ri­en­ce an­y­mo­re. As she pul­led away her gray curls brus­hed the un­der­si­de of his chin, and his thro­at tig­h­te­ned aro­und a stran­ge lump. That wasn’t un­fa­mi­li­ar at all. It al­ways hap­pe­ned when Aunt Lilly Ha­le hug­ged him. May­be his un­con­s­ci­o­us was sig­na­ling him to pay at­ten­ti­on be­ca­use this ti­me, for the first ti­me in his li­fe, the fa­mily he had co­me to vi­sit was his own.

  “I ex­pect you’re a very use­ful yo­ung man,” Lilly Ha­le twin­k­led, so ob­vi­o­usly si­zing him up, it was im­pos­sib­le to ta­ke of­fen­se.

  “Yes ma’am, I am,” he la­ug­hed. It had be­co­me a pri­va­te joke bet­we­en them. “Ne­ed so­me tab­les set up?”

  “Not to­day, but I’ve be­en wa­iting and wa­iting for you and Em­mie to get he­re. I ne­ed the pi­ano mo­ved.”

  “Ma­ma,” her da­ug­h­ter, a plump fif­t­yish wo­man with a se­ve­re gray ha­ir­cut, over­he­ard the con­ver­sa­ti­on, “We’ve al­re­ady told you, not­hing short of a cra­ne is go­ing to mo­ve that pi­ano. We lost the pop­lar that sha­ded that wing in that storm in the spring,” she ex­p­la­ined to Ca­leb, “and now the sun co­mes in. Ma­ma’s wor­ri­ed that the sun isn’t go­od for the pi­ano. Which it isn’t, but that Vic­to­ri­an mon­s­t­ro­sity we­ighs abo­ut a mil­li­on po­unds. Even if it co­uld be sho­ved to a dif­fe­rent pla­ce it wo­uld le­ave go­uges in the har­d­wo­od flo­or. We’re just go­ing to ha­ve to or­der shut­ters for that win­dow.”

  “I don’t want shut­ters in the­re,” Lilly Ha­le obj­ec­ted. “If we re­ar­ran­ge the fur­ni­tu­re we can put the pi­ano on the si­de whe­re the sun ne­ver co­mes in.”

  “But ma­ma, that ma­ho­gany lo­ve se­at alo­ne-”

  “Eli­za­beth.” Lilly Ha­le si­len­ced her da­ug­h­ter with the one word. “I va­lue yo­ur opi­ni­on, but I do not wish to le­arn why I can’t. I want to know how I can.”

  Cal­ling the pi­ano a mon­s­t­ro­sity was a trif­le harsh, Ca­leb de­ci­ded when he stu­di­ed the prob­lem, but the in­s­t­ru­ment, true to its Vic­to­ri­an aes­t­he­tic (altho­ugh com­p­le­tely re­bu­ilt on the in­si­de forty ye­ars ago) lo­oked li­ke a pi­ano on ste­ro­ids. By them­sel­ves, the fat scroll legs en­ding in mas­si­ve claw fe­et had to we­igh two hun­d­red po­unds, and the to­tal we­ight pro­bably top­ped one tho­usand. Eno­ugh men co­uld lift it, but Lilly Ha­le pro­bably knew that. Why did she ne­ed him?

  Be­si­de him, Lilly Ha­le fol­ded fleshy arms un­der mat­ronly bre­asts. “Did I tell you,” she as­ked, blue eyes twin­k­ling up at him, “my gre­at-ni­ece has bro­ught her chil­d­ren who don’t se­em to re­la­te to an­y­t­hing that do­esn’t run off bat­te­ri­es?”

  It to­ok ro­us­ting most of them out of the po­ol, and res­cin­ding the “no bat­hing su­its in the ho­use” ru­le, but shortly Ca­leb had twen­ty-two kids, ran­ging in age from ten to twenty, rim­ming the pi­ano sho­ul­der-to-sho­ul­der. He sho­wed them how to spre­ad the­ir hands palm up aga­inst the un­der­car­ri­age.

  “We’re go­ing to pick it up?” A kid mis­sing twel­ve-ye­ar mo­lars as­ked, blue eyes ro­und with awe.

  “Pick it up and carry it,” Ca­leb af­fir­med. “Re­mem­ber, we only ne­ed to ra­ise it three in­c­hes. Hands in pla­ce? Ever­y­body re­ady? I’m go­ing to co­unt to three-”

  “Wa­it, wa­it! I want to do it!” A small fi­gu­re bar­re­led in­to the ro­om. Or­p­han An­nie curls of newly re-grown ha­ir sprang aro­und the gol­den frec­k­led fa­ce. Pe­achy co­lor blo­omed in her che­eks, which we­re fil­ling out aga­in.

  “Hey Vic­to­ria,” the kids cal­led. “Co­me on. We’re lif­ting a pi­ano!”

  “First gi­ve me a hug,” Ca­leb for­ced his vo­ice aro­und a lump the si­ze of an air­c­raft car­ri­er.

  Skinny arms cir­c­led his wa­ist in a re­as­su­ringly vi­go­ro­us squ­e­eze, and he in­ha­led lit­tle girl smell. He cup­ped the curly he­ad. “Vic­to­ria, huh?”

  She pul­led away eno­ugh to grin up at him. “That’s what I ma­ke ever­yo­ne call me now.”

  “We’re re­ad-d-d-d-y,” one of the kids yel­led im­pa­ti­ently.

  Ca­leb pro­mi­sed him­self he’d find her la­ter for a go­od long hug, and let go of her re­luc­tantly. “Mo­ve clo­ser to­get­her, you guys. Ma­ke ro­om for Vic­to­ria.”

  “Co­me in.”

  Te­ague Cal­ho­un, his Gulf-blue po­lo shirt the per­fect sha­de to bring out his eyes and whi­te ha­ir, lo­un­ged in Miss Lilly Ha­le’s desk cha­ir, his ex­pen­si­vely ma­ni­cu­red fin­gers re­la­xed on the po­lis­hed wal­nut des­k­top. He had sent for Ca­leb to me­et him in Miss Lilly Ha­le’s of­fi­ce. Ca­leb, non-com­mis­si­oned of­fi­cer that he was, knew a po­wer play when he saw one. Every in­s­tinct he had put him on gu­ard. Cal­ho­un’s cho­ice of ve­nue and pos­tu­re we­re in­ten­ded to ma­ke the sta­te­ment that Cal­ho­un’s po­si­ti­on was se­cu­re, whi­le Ca­leb’s wasn’t.

  Ca­leb didn’t li­ke be­ing sum­mo­ned, and he didn’t li­ke the sub­t­le dis­res­pect Cal­ho­un sho­wed to Miss Lilly Ha­le by ap­prop­ri­ating her desk. When Cal­ho­un didn’t sug­gest Ca­leb sit down, Ca­leb to­ok ad­van­ta­ge of the omis­si­on by le­aning non­c­ha­lantly aga­inst the wall be­si­de the long win­dow, thus put­ting his own fa­ce in sha­dow. “Yes, sir?” he in­qu­ired po­li­tely.

  “I wan­ted to talk to you”-Cal­ho­un squ­in­ted, trying to see Ca­leb’s fa­ce-“whe­re we co­uld co­me to so­me un­der­s­tan­dings in pri­va­te.” Be­la­tedly, the se­na­tor re­ali­zed his mis­ta­ke and wa­ved at the ro­om’s ot­her cha­ir. “Why don’t you ha­ve a se­at?”

  Ca­leb sho­ok his he­ad, grin­ning in­wardly. One po­int to me. “I’m fi­ne. What exactly do ‘we’ ne­ed to un­der­s­tand?”

  Cal­ho­un sto­od up-ah, that was bet­ter, his body lan­gu­age now ac­k­now­led­ged they we­re equ­als. Two po­ints to me. Cal­ho­un squ­e­ezed aro­und the desk un­til he co­uld see Ca­leb’s fa­ce. “Char­lot­te and I con­sul­ted a ge­ne­ti­cist. He stu­di­ed the DNA of Vicky’s bo­ne mar­row do­nor.”

  “Vic­to­ria’s.”

  Cal­ho­un’s jaw tig­h­te­ned. He cle­arly wasn’t used to an­yo­ne cor­rec­ting him, but wi­se eno­ugh to pick his bat­tles, he nod­ded shortly. “Vic­to­ria’s. Don’t you want to know what the ge­ne­ti­cist sa­id?”

  Ca­leb felt his fa­ce har­den. “Why wo­uld I?”

  “Be­ca­use he told me, that the­re is a ni­nety-ni­ne per­cent pro­ba­bi­lity that the do­nor is my son. The do­nor was you, wasn’t it?”

  A tap so­un­ded on the do­or. Al­most im­me­di­ately it ope­ned, and Em­mie’s he­ad ap­pe­ared. “Ca­leb? Sorry to bot­her you. I ne­ed so­me­one to hold my hand. Can you co­me?”

  Ca­leb la­ug­hed alo­ud at the wi­de-eyed in­no­cent lo­ok and rat­her va­gue to­ne. She was be­ing pro­tec­ti­ve of him aga­in. It did so­met­hing to his he­art every sin­g­le ti­me. Pro­tec­ti­ve fe­ma­les we­re of­ten li­ke­ned to she-be­ars, but Em­mie didn’t do things the way an­yo­ne el­se did- in­c­lu­ding be­ars. She had ap­pa­rently le­ar­ned he was clo­se­ted with Cal­ho­un and was de­ter­mi­ned not to let him fa­ce the mo­ment alo­ne.

  He out­s­t­ret­c­hed his arm in in­vi­ta­ti­on. “Why don’t you jo­in us? I can hold yo­ur hand he­re. Mr. Cal­ho­un tells me Vic­to­ria’s do­nor is his son, isn’t that in­te­res­ting?”

  “Inte­res­ting,” Em­mie ag­re­ed, let­ting him tuck her aga­inst his si­de.

  “He al­so wants to know if I’m Vic­to­ria’s do­nor.” What a po­li­ti­ci­an the man was! With DNA evi­den­ce in his hands, he re­fu­sed to com­mit him­self. He had ne­it­her cla­imed he was Ca­leb’s fat­her, nor that Ca­leb was his son. Only that the “do­nor” was his son. He didn’t want to know who his son was. He was only trying to get Ca­leb to tell him how much da­ma­ge con­t­rol was ne­eded.

  Emmie, of co­ur­se, re­cog­ni­zed the im­p­li­ca­ti­ons in­s­tantly. She squ­e­ezed his wa­ist to tell him she un­der­s­to­od what this con­f­ron­ta­ti­on with Cal­ho­un me­ant to him and that she wo­uld wa­it for his le­ad. Kno­wing she had his back, sud­denly, he was no lon­ger ten­se-in fact, the si­tu­ati­on was a lit­tle funny. He tho­ught he wo­uld enj­oy wat­c­hing Cal­ho­un swe­at for a whi­le.

  He’d al­re­ady pre­pa­red an ex­p­la­na­ti­on in ca­se an­yo­ne ever no­ti­ced the re­sem­b­lan­ce bet­we­en him and Vic­to­ria. He put on his co­un­t­ry-boy per­so­na and tur­ned to Cal­ho­un. “Well now, Se­na­tor, they didn’t tell me who my mar­row went to, and I didn’t ask. Still and all, you and me, we co­me from the sa­me iso­la­ted area. I wo­uldn’t be a-tall sur­p­ri­sed to le­arn we we­re kin­folk.” He wi­de­ned his smi­le as if he’d just ma­de a dis­co­very. “I ex­pect just abo­ut ever­y­body in Ro­se Hill has the sa­me DNA.”

  The se­na­tor flic­ked a glan­ce at Em­mie, then back at Ca­leb. “Do you know who yo­ur fat­her was?”

  Ca­leb chuc­k­led in re­luc­tant ad­mi­ra­ti­on. He had to hand it to the se­na­tor. He was star­ting to swe­at, but he still wasn’t ad­mit­ting an­y­t­hing. Ca­leb tig­h­te­ned the screws. “Yes, sir. Su­re do.”

  This was the mo­ment he’d tho­ught abo­ut many ti­mes. He had Cal­ho­un exactly whe­re he wan­ted him. He co­uld des­t­roy Cal­ho­un in the me­dia, es­pe­ci­al­ly if he told not just who he was, but exactly how his mot­her di­ed. It was an op­ti­on he’d re­fu­sed in the past be­ca­use co­ming out wo­uld put ot­her SE­ALs in dan­ger. No lon­ger. At Em­mie’s ur­ging he’d be­en se­e­ing a co­un­se­lor. He had ac­cep­ted that his days of ope­ra­ting we­re over. He was of mo­re use in ot­her are­as now. He was free to ma­ke Cal­ho­un pay and pay. At the very le­ast, he co­uld ma­ke Cal­ho­un lo­se sle­ep for a long ti­me, won­de­ring when, or if, Ca­leb wo­uld drop his bom­b­s­hell. Funny how no­ne of that mat­te­red an­y­mo­re.

  “Was it me?”

  Lit­tle as Cal­ho­un wan­ted him to be his son, Ca­leb wan­ted even less to ha­ve Cal­ho­un for a fat­her. The­re was only one an­s­wer be­ca­use the­re was only one thing he wan­ted from Cal­ho­un now. Do-Lord lo­oked Cal­ho­un stra­ight in the eye. And li­ed. “No, sir.”

  Cal­ho­un had the gra­ce not to lo­ok re­li­eved. In­s­te­ad, he to­ok on the ex­p­res­si­on of be­ne­vo­lent con­cern that ma­de him be­lo­ved by the vo­ters. “Be­ing a do­nor for so­me­one, whet­her or not you we­re Vic-Vic­to­ria’s, was a bra­ve and ge­ne­ro­us act. I li­ke to see go­od de­eds re­war­ded. I ha­ve so­me pull in a few pla­ces.” The se­na­tor smi­led at his lit­tle self-dep­re­ca­ti­on. “Is the­re an­y­t­hing I can do for you?”

  “The­re is.” Ca­leb squ­e­ezed Em­mie’s wa­ist. She hadn’t mo­ved a mus­c­le, but she was vib­ra­ting with such in­ten­se joy, he ex­pec­ted her to start hum­ming any se­cond. When he’d cut Cal­ho­un lo­ose, he was the one who was fre­ed, and she had felt it. “I want Vic­to­ria to be my lit­tle sis­ter. The way I see it-if I was her do­nor- my mar­row is ma­king her blo­od’s red cells. Even if we we­ren’t blo­od kin be­fo­re, we su­re are now.”

  Cal­ho­un lo­oked sur­p­ri­sed for a mo­ment, but canny ma­ni­pu­la­tor that he was, he cal­cu­la­ted the cost-be­ne­fit ra­tio to him­self. Ca­leb’s ex­p­la­na­ti­on of the­ir kin­s­hip wo­uld work, if an­yo­ne qu­es­ti­oned Ca­leb’s sud­den in­c­lu­si­on in the se­na­tor’s li­fe. He ga­ve a ge­ni­al chuc­k­le and re­ac­hed out to sha­ke Ca­leb’s hand. “Son,” he bo­omed, “we’d be ple­ased to con­si­der you an ho­no­rary mem­ber of the fa­mily.”

  Ca­leb clo­sed the of­fi­ce do­or be­hind the de­par­ting Cal­ho­un (no­ting with a cer­ta­in sa­tis­fac­ti­on that in the end, he was the one who held the ter­ri­tory). He le­aned aga­inst the do­or and ope­ned his arms for Em­mie.

  “Just a se­cond.” She ex­t­rac­ted an old-fas­hi­oned key from a poc­ket in her skirt, in­ser­ted it in the hu­ge old key­ho­le, and tur­ned it. The­re was no click.

  “You know”-Ca­leb cros­sed his arms over his chest and lo­oked down to watch the pro­ce­edin­gs-“the mor­ning of Jax and Pic­kett’s wed­ding, I tho­ught you we­re pul­ling me in he­re for a qu­ic­kie. Is it too much to ho­pe that’s what you ha­ve in mind now?”

  Emmie jig­gled the key, fe­eling for whe­re it struck the lock’s tum­b­lers. She snor­ted and rol­led her eyes. “You can ta­ke the man out of the joc­keys, but you can’t ta­ke the jock out of the man.”

  Ca­leb la­ug­hed. “Ta­king the man out of the joc­keys works for me. Spe­ci­al­ly if we can get the girl out of the… Ha­nes Her Way?”

  “Vic­to­ria’s Sec­ret.”

  “A thong? Oh hell, don’t tell me. You’ve got on a thong un­der the­re!”

  “Well, I do, and if you be­ha­ve”-she aimed a sultry smi­le over her sho­ul­der-“may­be I’ll show it too you-la­ter!” The bolt at last slid in­to pla­ce with a so­lid clunk. She stra­ig­h­te­ned and grip­ped his up­per arms, dig­ging in­to the warm, so­lid flesh with her fin­ger­tips, sin­ce her hands didn’t go even hal­f­way aro­und his bi­ceps.