Birthright by Nora Roberts Page A

me. Financially solvent. Intelligent, caring peoplewho could and would provide a loving and secure home. Did I want a child, or did I just want to be pregnant? If I wanted a child, we could have a child. I wanted a child.”
    â€œWe went to an agency—several,” Elliot added. “There were waiting lists. The longer the list, the more difficult it was for Vivian.”
    â€œMy new obsession.” She sighed. “I repainted the nursery. Gave the crib away and bought a new one. Gave away everything we’d bought for Alice so that this new child, when it came, would have its own. I thought of myself as expecting. Somewhere there was a child that was mine. We were only waiting to find each other. And every delay was like another loss.”
    â€œShe was blooming again, with hope. I couldn’t stand the thought of that bloom fading, of watching that sadness come into her again. I spoke of it to Simpson, her OB. Told him how frustrating and how painful it was for both of us to be told it could be years. He gave me the name of a lawyer who did private adoptions. Direct with the birth mother.”
    â€œMarcus Carlyle,” Callie said, remembering the name from the files.
    â€œYes.” Steadier now, Vivian sipped at her coffee. “He was wonderful. So supportive, so sympathetic. And best of all so much more hopeful than the agencies. The fee was very high, but that was a small price to pay. He said he had a client who was unable to keep her infant daughter. A young girl who’d had a baby and realized that she couldn’t care for her properly as a single mother. He would tell her about us, give her all the information about what kind of people we were—even our heritage. If she approved, he could place the child with us.”
    â€œWhy you?” Callie demanded.
    â€œHe said we were the kind of people she was looking for. Stable, financially secure, well educated, childless. He said she wanted to finish school, go to college, start a new life. She had run up debts trying to support the baby on her own. She needed to pay them off, and needed to know her little girl was going to have the best possible life withparents who would love her.” Vivian lifted her shoulders. “He said he would let us know within weeks.”
    â€œWe tried not to get too enthusiastic, too hopeful,” Elliot explained. “But it seemed like fate.”
    â€œHe called eight days later at four-thirty in the afternoon.” Vivian set down the coffee she’d barely touched. “I remember exactly. I was playing Vivaldi on the violin, trying to lose myself in the music, and the phone rang. I knew. I know that sounds ridiculous. But I knew. And when I answered the phone, he said, ‘Congratulations, Mrs. Dunbrook. It’s a girl.’ I broke down and sobbed over the phone. He was so patient with me, so genuinely happy for me. He said it was moments like this that made his job worthwhile.”
    â€œYou never met the birth mother.”
    â€œNo.” Elliot shook his head. “That sort of thing wasn’t done then. There were no names exchanged. The only information given was medical and hereditary history, and a basic profile. We went to his office the following day. There was a nurse, holding you. You were sleeping. The procedure was we didn’t sign the papers or pay the remainder of the fee until we’d seen you, accepted you.”
    â€œYou were mine as soon as I saw you, Callie,” Vivian said. “The instant. She put you in my arms, and you were my baby. Not a substitute, not a replacement. Mine. I made Elliot promise that we’d never refer to the adoption again, never speak of it, never tell you or discuss it with anyone. Because you were our baby.”
    â€œIt just didn’t seem important,” Elliot said. “You were just three months old. You wouldn’t have understood. And it was so vital to Vivian’s state of mind. She needed