Claiming Callie: Part two (26 page)

Mrs. Michaels smiles at her children and husband. “See! Callie
’
s happy to share.
And why shouldn
’
t she be? You can see the two of them are blissfully in love. How could they not be—”

“Mom,” Dean says, a warning tone in his voice.

“
Oh, fine.
” Mrs. Michaels sighs and waves him away. “You
’
re so touchy about this. So private. It
’
s cute. G
o ahead, Callie.”

The table quiets and Jinny leans her elbows on the table. “Yes, go ahead, Callie,” s
he quips.

Callie plays with her hands in her lap. She can see Dean watching her from the corner of her eye but refuses to look over at him. She can
’
t meet
his gaze.

Clearing her throat, she tries to relieve the pressure welling in her chest, but it
’
s no use. She forces the hands in her lap to stop moving and grips the side of her chair to stop from squirming in her seat. She racks her brain for the right th
ing to say and nothing comes to her, so she begins, without a plan. “It was weird, the way it happened. One minute, Dean and I were just friends, and the next…
I don’
t know.” She pauses, chewing on her lip, unsure of whether or not she can say more.

She
blinks, taking a deep breath and trying to calm the knocking against her ribs
.
Suddenly, she
’
s not sitting at a table with his family, staring across at Mrs. Michaels, who
se
hand rests over her heart. Instead, she
’
s sitting back in the car outside, wrapped
up in Dean
’
s warm embrace, feeling the strength in his arms, consumed by his kiss. And this image, that feeling, allows her to find the words.

“It was like someone flicked a switch. In a room that had once been dark, where I could only see shapes and shad
ows, suddenly everything turned bright. The darkness lifted, and I could see... I saw him.”

Callie swallows, not daring to look at Dean beside her.

“Oh!”
Mrs. Michaels
’ hands fly to her mouth, her eyes filling with tears. “That is…that
’
s wonderful,
” she sa
ys, and she seems to be at a loss for words. She falls silent before raising her glass in the air. “To our Callie and our Dean,” she says, and everyone follows suit, raising their glasses in a toast.

Callie bumps glasses with Jinny and leans over the table
to Mr. and Mrs. Michaels, then turns without thinking. Dean faces her, his glass outstretched and his eyes searching hers, seeming to pick at something deep inside of her. Her chest constricts, his sharp gaze makes it hard to breathe. “Callie,” he whisper
s, so quietly she doubts anyone else can hear.

She has no idea what he might say, but before he has a chance, his mother says, “
Well, don
’
t just sit there staring at each other. Let
’
s finish eating, shall we? We don
’
t want the food getting cold.”

#

The
rest of dinner goes smoothly. They eat a home-cooked meal, laugh, joke, and talk about things unrelated to Callie and Dean
’
s relationship. It feels just like old times in the Michaels household, and it
’
s not lost on her how easily she fits into this family
.

After supper, Callie tries to help Mrs. Michaels with the dishes, but she shoos her away and gives the task to Jinny and Dean. Callie sinks down into the overstuffed couch in the family room across from Mr. Michaels, who rests in his favorite armchair. S
everal minutes later, Mrs. Michaels appears amid Jinny
’
s grumbling in the kitchen, followed by the banging of a pot.

“Callie, come upstairs a minute, would ya?”
Mrs. Michaels
asks, untying her apron.

“Sure.” Callie stands and follows her up the stairs into
her bedroom, where Mrs. Michaels wordlessly rummages through her walk-in closet. She disappears inside of it and comes out, holding a relatively large white box, along with two small photo albums.

Callie settles onto the edge of Mrs. Michaels
’
bed, as com
fortable in here as her own home, borne from years of friendship and playing with Jinny as a child—not to mention the year she spent here after her parents
’
passing. Settling in next to her, Mrs. Michaels takes the small albums from the top of the box and
holds them out. “
I don’
t know that you
’
ve ever seen these before. I was the only one that had a camera with us that summer, so I
’
m not sure your mom had an album.”

Callie draws in a breath and stares down at the photo albums in Mrs. Michaels’ hands. She wa
sn
’
t expecting this tonight, and a part of her is unsure of whether or not she can take any more emotions swirling through her already overwhelmed system. She
’
s managed in the past week to push aside the fact that the anniversary of her parents’ death is a
pproaching in the next few weeks, but she has built herself up on stilts. Her defenses are tiny brittle things that can be broken with the flick of a finger, and these albums may be one giant shove.

Mrs. Michaels must not notice Callie
’
s hesitation because
she reaches over and flips open the cover to the first album. “You look so much like her in this one,” she says, pointing to the first photo. Her mother stands, long and lean, in a pink-and-black bandeau bikini. Her blonde hair is crimped and teased high
on her head. She looks every bit the eighties beauty queen.

“We were only eighteen here. But we thought we were at the top of the world. Hot stuff. This was the summer your mother met your father.”
Mrs. Michaels
’ voice is velvet smooth, reverent, as she sp
eaks, as if by remembering the dead, she can honor them somehow. But it
’
s not that easy for Callie. Even after almost five years, remembering comes with too much pain.

Mrs. Michaels flips the page. “My aunt and uncle had a cabin just outside the Allegheny
Valley mountains we stayed at that summer. It was just us, in this little town, where you could walk to get ice cream and pizza, go bowling or to the drive-in, swim in the lake from dusk till dawn. We had so much fun.”

“Sounds like it,” Callie says.

“Go ah
ead.” Mrs. Michaels signals to Callie to turn the page, handing her the album. Flipping the page, she stops at a picture of her mother wearing a neon green miniskirt and lace fingerless gloves, and Callie can
’
t help but laugh at the enormous fluff of bangs
and green eye shadow. “Wow.”

Mrs. Michaels chuckles.
“Yeah. Hey, it was the early eighties, and it was just getting good. Parachute pants were just about to come out.”

“Oh, Lord.”

“Well, despite how awful it looks now, we were pretty hip back then. Your m
other was always glammed up with the latest fashions. Always daring and willing to try something new. She had impeccable taste for the times. She
’
d be in awe of you. I
’
m sure that
’
s where you got it from.”

Callie nods and thinks of all the fashion advice
she got from her mother. Fashion and clothes were their thing. Special shopping trips were always something they did together. Even as a teenager, in the years where most girls would rather die than be seen at the mall with a parent, Callie cherished the t
ime with her mother and took an interest in her polished sense of style.

Callie, always gorgeous and put together, was the envy of her friends for having a mother so fashionable and in touch with the times. From her, Callie learned about quality garments.
She was taught that clothes were more than just a necessary part of life—they were an expression of yourself. They could tell a story, set a mood. The right outfit could change your demeanor just by putting it on. And the times she spent with her searching
for the perfect pair of shoes or jewelry to accessorize a particular top were far from superficial. They were the times Callie was able to fill her mother in on her life, spill about boys, or fights with friends. She could talk to her about her concerns w
ith going to college in a short time, or the trouble she was having in a class. It was their time. And although Callie cherished it, she also took it for granted. She assumed she would always have those times with her, that her mother would always be there
. But everything changed in a moment, and before Callie knew what had happened, both her parents were gone.

Callie
’
s throat feels raw, the memory of her mother scraping her inside out like sandpaper. The all-too-familiar ache in the back of her throat will
s her to cry, but she chokes it back.

Mrs. Michaels flips the page. “Aha! Here it is. Here
’
s the one I wanted you to see.”

Callie squints at the photo. “Is that…
my dad?
”

“Yep. He
’
s in a few more from this summer. This is when they first met. Did your mom e
ver tell you about that?”

Callie smiles. Growing up, her father always dodged the camera. So seeing these candid pictures of him now was like seeing something rare and exotic for the first time. “Not really. I knew he was younger than her and it was some
time until they got married.”

Mrs. Michaels nods.
“He was visiting the same area that summer with his cousins. They also had a little cottage there. Well, from the moment he laid eyes on your mother, he was enamored. Head over heels. But he was also a year
younger, so he hadn
’
t graduated high school yet. Well, being the big bad graduates we were back then, the last thing either of us were interested in was a high school kid. We were on to bigger and better things. We wanted older men, college boys.”