Page 117 of The Muse
She gives them a quick glance. “Oh,” she murmurs returning her focus to the piles of photos. “You can put those in the trash.”
“MD? Are you a doctor?”
“I was.”
“Are you joking? You called your degrees ‘unimportant.’”
“When you’re not using a degree, it is unimportant.”
“You retired?”
“Sort of.”
“Andwhydid you marry Mr. Rawlings?”
She glances up at me and chuckles. “Don’t let him fool you. He has many talents.”
“Well, I know he’s good at stacking cookies in that glass jar.”
“Like laying bricks,” she says.
“Huh?”
“Rupert was a master brick mason for twenty-five years after being trained as a carpentry and masonry specialist in the Army.”
“That’s …”
“Surprising? Because he lives in a big house and drives fancy cars?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Surprising because he wears a suit every day and sits in his office on a computer.”
“Mmm … well, that’s his hobby.”
“Weird hobby.” I scan another picture and move it to the folder with photos of her parents.
She stands, pulls a book from her shelf, and hands it to me.
“I’m dyslexic. And I hate reading,” I say.
“You don’t have to read anything beyond the cover.”
I take the book. There’s an outline of a man running toward a lake in the rain. “Beyond the Lake,” I read the title. The author is R. Rawlings. “Rupert Rawlings?” I ask.
“Yes.” She takes the book from me and returns it to the shelf. “Rupert has been writing thriller novels for over ten years. He hasn’t made any bestseller lists, but he loves it. And he loves me, so he wears suits because I think he looks handsome in them.”
I slowly shake my head.
“Money doesn’t change everyone,” Callie says. “It hasn't changed him. He could have taken a job with my family’s foundation. He could have been a day trader with money he didn’t make. But he chose to lay bricks while I went to medical school and practiced medicine. And he spent a lot of hours alone with our son because my job was demanding. So one day, he read a thriller novel, and another, and another. Then he opened a Word document on his computer and started writing. I knew nothing about it until it was done.” She smiles, sifting through the photos. “He was so proud. So was I.”
The photo I scan is of her grandson.
“When is the last time you talked to your son?”
Her joyous expression fades. “Seven years ago.” She slides the stacks of photos toward the edge of the desk. “Let’s call it a day.”
“I’ll tell you what’s behind my door, if you tell me what’s behind yours,” I say.
Callie tilts her head to the side and gives me a sad smile. “That’s kind … and brave of you.” She steps behind me and wraps her arms around my neck. She smells like flowers, but different ones than June.
