The Homecoming Baby (11 page)

“It has nothing to do with you, Ellyn. I'd be very
surprised if I ever get married. Somehow I don't think I'd make a very good husband.”

Her green eyes darkened. One corner of her mouth turned up—and then, with an oddly brittle sound, she began to laugh.

“Oh, you'll get married, Patrick. In fact, I bet you'll probably marry half a dozen times. You'll have to hire a new secretary just to mail out all the alimony and child support checks. One day the San Francisco phone book will have a whole page devoted to former Mrs. Patrick Torrances.”

That was as close to being cruel as Ellyn Grainger had ever come. Patrick looked at her, listening to the echoes of her laughter dying away in the lilac-scented air, and felt like hell.

He hadn't meant to, but he must have hurt her after all.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“Don't be,” she responded with her usual lovely smile. She gracefully dropped her napkin onto the small iron table and stood up. “As least now I know I won't be one of them.”

 

A
T LUNCHTIME
, T
RISH WENT
looking for Mitch.

She tried the restaurant first, but they said he'd gone home for a little while. He might be resting. She knew all too well how tired he always was. But, much as she hated to bother him, she had to talk to him.

And she had to do it before she lost her nerve.

The courtyard of their complex seemed oddly silent with the fountain turned off. She saw a small piece
of sparkling aluminum foil skittering across the bricks, chased by the feisty spring wind. Left over from last night's party, no doubt. She stooped, caught it and wadded it up in the palm of her hand.

It took Mitch a while to answer her knock, and when he came to the door, he looked bleary-eyed and disheveled. His shirt was unbuttoned over his T-shirt, and his brown hair stuck up in little spikes that were dangerously endearing.

He didn't seem to mind that she'd interrupted his nap, though. “Hi, there,” he said, yawning around a big smile. “Come on in.”

She hesitated, which was absurd because why else had she come? She glanced at her watch. “I can't stay long,” she said as she entered the living room. “I have to be back at The Birth Place in half an hour.”

He gave her a curious look as he shut the door. “Okay. Have you had any lunch? I could make a sandwich from last night's leftovers.”

“No. Thanks. I'm fine.”

He scooped up a couple of books from the sofa and stacked them on a pile in the corner. “Sit down, then,” he said. “I'm sorry about the mess.” He grinned. “I seem to say that a lot. I guess I really should do something about this place, huh?”

She looked around. He hadn't turned on any lights, and the room was cluttered and dim, even at the noon hour. Mitch's ex-wife, Marcy, would have hated this apartment. During their marriage, she and Mitch had lived in one of the new, stylish cabins high on the
mountain. Marcy, with her usual flair, had made the home a designer's showplace. When the divorce forced them to put it up for sale, the Realtor had found an ecstatic out-of-town buyer within forty-eight hours.

That was when Mitch had bought the apartment complex, a run-down piece of Enchantment's most-forgotten real estate. He'd labored two years now to restore the rental areas, but his own apartment was still old-fashioned and slightly ratty.

He didn't complain, but he was human. Trish knew he must sometimes miss his swanky mansion on the mountain.

Not to mention his glamorous, extravagant wife.

He'd been very angry when Marcy left, naturally. But Marcy had been gorgeous and sophisticated and sexy. Men could forgive a woman like that anything—and usually did. Mitch was no exception.

Trish remembered how, like so many boys, he had pined over the unattainable Angelina in high school. He hadn't noticed the pudgy, boring younger sister Trish back then, and he probably wouldn't much notice her now, except that he was still lonely.

And still on the rebound. If Marcy ever came breezing back into Enchantment, cooing about how sorry she was, how long before Mitch would be eating out of her hand all over again?

“Mitch, I need to talk to you about last night.”

He broke off in the middle of a yawn, obviously recognizing her tone of voice. He tilted his head. “Hey. Don't start backpedaling already. Last night
was nice. No big deal, just nice. Can't we just wait and see what happens next?”

“Nothing is going to happen next. That's what I wanted to talk to you about. I don't want you to get the wrong idea.”

He made an exasperated sound. “Come on, Trish, it was just a dance and a kiss. Don't sound so Victorian. I've got plenty of ideas, but there's nothing
wrong
with them. They're good ideas. Great ideas, in fact. And what's more, I think you know it.”

She clutched her elbows and leaned against the front door.

“We've talked about this so many times, Mitch. You know I like you very much. And I'd hate to lose our friendship, which is very special to me. But you have to accept that's really all it can be. A friendship.”

He stared at her, his jaw working. “Well, what if I don't accept it?”

She shook her head. “Don't be like that.”

“Like what? I'm sorry, but I
don't
accept it. You know what I think? I think you're as attracted to me as I am to you. I think you're afraid of something, but I'll be darned if I know what the heck it is.”

“Maybe I'm just afraid of ruining our friendship. Good friends are hard to replace.”

“No.”

She raised her eyebrows. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, no. That's not what you're afraid of. It's bigger than that. Is it because I'm divorced?”

She started to deny it, but he took a deep breath and spoke over her.

“Look, I don't go around trashing Marcy as a rule, but if you want to know what went wrong in my marriage, I'd be glad to tell you. It's pretty pathetic, but it wasn't because I beat her, or cheated on her, or wore women's clothing after dark.”

In spite of herself, Trish laughed. “I know that,” she said. “Everyone knows you treated Marcy like a princess.”

He frowned. “Are you afraid I've still got a soft spot for her? Because I don't. The only soft spot I ever had for her was in my head, not my heart. And I've recovered from that, thank God.”

“Mitch, this is ridiculous. I only—”

“Oh, hell,” he said. “Is there somebody else for you? I thought—I mean, everybody you date seems to be just a friend. I know there was that one guy, a few years ago, the one who turned out to be married—”

Trish flushed. “That was ten years ago. I can hardly remember what he looked like.”

Mitch was clearly frustrated. His brows were tightly knit, and he ran his hand through his hair. “Damn it, Trish. What is it, then?”

He came over, so close she could see the wrinkles in his shirt from where he'd been sleeping on it. He touched her arm.

“I know I'm not a movie star, but there have been some women who haven't actually turned to stone at
the sight of me. And while Marcy didn't leave me with much, I make a fairly respectable living, and—”

She couldn't stand it. The idea of this decent, generous, delightful man trying to prove himself worthy of her was too outrageous. She almost sat down right then and blurted out a detailed confession, a list of all the sins of her past, just to make him be quiet.

Just so that it would finally be over.

But, as it had so many times over the past year, the dread of seeing that look of shocked horror come over his face stopped the words in her throat.

Besides, if she was right about who Patrick Torrance was, Mitch—and everyone else in Enchantment—would learn the truth soon enough. She simply didn't want to be there when Mitch heard it. She didn't want to see his expression go from admiration to disgust.

“Mitchell, don't. I have to go back to work now.”

The interruption was sudden—and harsher than she had meant it to be. She saw him recoil slightly.

“Fine,” he said, stepping back and holding his hands out, palms forward. “Go ahead and run away. Isn't that what you always do?”

B
Y LUNCHTIME ON
M
ONDAY
,
Celia had seen four patients, responded to six telephone calls, dictated two letters—and told herself a thousand times that Patrick was probably just busy. He'd call when he had the chance.

She'd brought a bag of fruit, intending to eat lunch in her office, but when the time came she couldn't do it. The walls were starting to close in on her. She needed to get outside, see people, take her mind off…things.

She went to The Silver Eagle, hoping she could sit in the kitchen and watch Mitch argue with Julio, which was always amusing. But Trixie—or was it Dixie?—told her that Mitch had taken the afternoon off.

Darn it.
Still, she knew Mitch needed all the business he could get, so she parked herself in a corner booth, decided to order a huge comfort-food veggie burrito and pulled a new paperback novel out of her purse.

“You'd better be bloody fantastic,” she informed the book. “With the mood I'm in,
pretty good
isn't going to cut it.”

“Huh?” Trixie was standing before her, pad and pencil in hand. Her mouth dropped open enough for Celia to see the little tooth-pocked oblong of gray gum. “Gimme a break, lady. It's only my second day.”

Celia looked at her a minute. Then she held up the novel. “Not you. I was talking to my book.”

Trixie frowned, as if her brain were processing the information, searching old files for a match on the word “book.”

“Oh,” she said finally, nodding. She chewed her gum for a minute. “Why?”

Celia smiled. “I don't like to eat lunch alone.”

The girl gave her a weird look that pretty clearly said maybe Celia would have better luck getting a lunch date if she didn't carry on conversations with inanimate objects. But she didn't actually say a word. She just took Celia's order with a surprising competence and then hurried off, no doubt eager to tell Julio all about the crazy lady in booth six.

The book was excellent, and yet Celia felt herself growing grumpier by the minute. Even the fact that the girl turned out to be an excellent waitress, anticipating her every need, didn't help. She didn't even care that Julio had outdone himself with the burrito.

Her mind kept drifting, and she found herself thinking far too frequently about her pocket, where her cell phone rested like a leaden lump, refusing to ring.

When the bell over the front door jangled, she looked up, grateful for any distraction. The Silver Eagle got more tourists than most of the less-expensive
Enchantment eateries, but locals did frequently come here—sometimes for business lunches, sometimes, like Celia, purely out of loyalty to Mitch.

The new customer wasn't a local. But Celia recognized her, anyhow. Even if she hadn't recognized that enviable auburn hair, she would have known that the chic sleeveless yellow sundress came straight from an upscale West Coast boutique.

Nobody in Enchantment would spend that much on a dress. And nobody in New Mexico would trust the hinky spring weather enough to go sleeveless in early May. Ellyn Grainger might as well have hung a sign around her neck that said, Not From Around Here.

Celia had an uncomfortable moment, wondering if Patrick might be about to enter the restaurant right behind his file-delivering “friend.” But no one appeared, and a minute later Celia heard Ellyn's low, cultured tones tell Trixie, “Yes, just one, please.”

She seemed preoccupied and didn't notice Celia tucked away in the corner booth. She let Trixie lead her to a table by the window—Trixie obviously knew by instinct who rated the best view—and then she spent a long time staring down at her menu.

Too long.

Curious, Celia watched her from behind her paperback. For at least five minutes, Ellyn kept her hands folded in her lap, and she never turned from wine list to appetizer, or from appetizer to entree. Finally, just when Celia was wondering if the woman was all right, Ellyn slipped her hand in her pocket, pulled out a tissue and dabbed at her eyes.

Was she crying?

Celia fought with herself for all of thirty seconds. It wasn't any of her business, really. And yet she had to know. Was Ellyn crying over Patrick Torrance?

She slid her paperback into her bag, stood up and went over to the window table.

“Hi, Ellyn,” she said with a tentative smile. “I'm Celia Brice. We met last night.”

The other woman looked up, clearly surprised. Yes, Ellyn had been crying. Nothing dramatic, of course. All very well-bred and restrained. But still, she had cried off all the mascara on her lower lashes. Her tissue had several black smudges across its ivory surface, and her eyes looked young, red-rimmed and vulnerable.

“I'm sorry if I'm intruding,” Celia said. “But I wondered—if everything is all right.”

Ellyn managed a smile. “Yes, fine,” she said, though she was obviously lying. “It's good to see you, Celia. How are you?”

“Fine.” Celia touched the chair back in a delicate question, and after the briefest hesitation, Ellyn nodded.

Celia sat down. “I eat here a lot. Maybe I can recommend something.”

Ellyn waved at her menu. “I thought I might just have coffee. I'm not terribly hungry, and I have to get going soon. I need to get to Taos in time for a six o'clock plane.”

Celia was so surprised she couldn't quite hide it. “You're leaving? Already?”

Ellyn nodded. “Yes. There's no reason for me to stay.” To Celia's horror, her green eyes began tearing up again. She reached up with the tissue. “I'm sorry,” she said. “It's been a rather difficult morning.”

Suddenly Celia felt ashamed of herself. She shouldn't be bothering this woman. It was selfish, and staggeringly bad manners. The cold truth was, she was just being a snoop. She wanted to know what those tears meant. She wanted to learn whatever she could about Patrick Torrance.

Like whether he and Ellyn Grainger were a couple. Like whether Trish had been right. Was he just a hit-and-run flirt, enjoying the chance to cheat a little without fear of getting caught?

But she had no right to intrude on this woman's unhappiness. Pure self-centered curiosity didn't confer any rights on anyone.

“I'm so sorry,” Celia said. She made a motion to stand. “This isn't any of my business. I'm sure you'd rather be alone, and—”

“No,” Ellyn said with a weak smile. “Stay. Actually, it is your business, in a way.”

Celia paused, her hand on the back of the chair. “It is?”

“Yes.” Ellyn refolded her tissue, hiding the smudges. “If you're interested in Patrick Torrance it is.” She looked up. “Are you?”

Celia thought about denying it, but that would have been foolish. She probably was as easy to read as that menu.

“Yes, I am,” she said. “At least, I'd like to be. If there's…no reason I shouldn't be.”

“You mean if I don't have a prior claim on him?”

“Well, yes.” Celia grimaced. “Something like that.”

Ellyn made a low, scoffing sound. “No woman has ever had a claim on Patrick Torrance,” she said. “Not one. Least of all me.”

“Oh. Well.” Celia wasn't sure how to respond to that.

“Not that I didn't try,” Ellyn went on. “Once, a few years ago, I thought I wanted to marry Patrick more than anything on earth. But I've known for a long time now that it wasn't ever going to happen.”

Celia waited. It seemed that Ellyn wanted to talk. And Celia's training had prepared her to be a good listener. They were silent a moment as Trixie brought them water and a plate of soft, crusty bread, and then, finally, Ellyn continued.

“It isn't as if he led me on,” she said. “If anything, he's always been brutally honest about his lack of intentions.” She smiled. “Of course, it's human nature to think you'll be the one to change his mind.”

Celia knew all about that. She remembered the parade of Scratch and Dent men she'd believed she could fix. “I guess so,” she said. “But it's a lot harder to change a person than you think, isn't it?”

Ellyn took a sip of her water. “It's impossible, at least with Patrick. He's dead set against commitment, exclusivity, marriage—the whole package.”

Celia nodded. “Because of his father, you mean?”

Ellyn looked confused. “What about his father?”

“His father's temper. You know how he seems to feel destined to end up being just as violent. It's not true, of course, but I think it's enough to make him very wary.”

“No, I don't know.” Ellyn put down her water. “Patrick's father was violent? He's never said a word about that to me.”

Now it was Celia's turn to be confused. “He hasn't? Uh, just last night, before you arrived, he was saying that—” She stopped. “I don't know. Maybe I misunderstood.”

“No, you didn't.” Ellyn was looking at her narrowly. “This is fairly amazing, you know that, don't you? In one week you've learned something intensely personal about Patrick that I never learned in, what…about ten years?”

Celia shook her head. “It's not so amazing, really. People always find it easier to talk to a stranger. You know, someone who isn't a part of your normal life.”

Ellyn's gaze was still focused, appraising. “No,” she said. “I don't really believe that's all it is. Do you?”

There was a long silence. Celia laced her fingers together and looked at them. “Honestly, Ellyn, I don't know what to believe. For some reason I've felt a little turned around ever since I met him.”

Ellyn laughed. “You and the rest of the female population west of the Mississippi.”

Celia tried to think how to say this. “At first I just thought he was terrifically attractive. I thought it
might be fun to, you know, flirt a little. Nothing serious. But then, when you arrived last night, I—”

“You thought I had a prior claim.”

“That's right.”

“And you discovered that you didn't like it. I mean,
really
didn't like it.”

Celia sighed. “That's right.”

Ellyn reached out and patted the back of Celia's hand. “It's okay,” she said. “I don't have a claim. And neither does anyone else, for what that's worth. Go for it.”

“But—” Celia looked down at Ellyn's tissue. “You're clearly unhappy. If that's because of Patrick. I mean, because of me—”

Ellyn laughed out loud. “No, bless your heart for caring, but honestly it's not that.” She leaned forward. “You want to know why I was crying? You want to know the real, honest, embarrassing truth?”

Celia couldn't help half-smiling in response. Ellyn's voice was so wry, as if she had something truly ironic to impart. “Yes,” she said. “Yes, of course.”

“All right, here it is. I'll admit I've been sort of tearful off and on all morning, ever since Patrick and I talked. He made it clear he wasn't going to change his mind about being exclusive, and I made it clear that I was ready to move on to someone who could.”

Celia waited, well aware that this wasn't the end of the confession.

“But while I was packing, feeling a little sorry for myself, I suddenly decided it's not so much Patrick
himself I'm going to miss.” Ellyn bit her lower lip and wrinkled her nose. “It's his money.”

Celia couldn't help it. She was shocked. His money? This elegant, intelligent woman was actually a gold digger?

“His money?”

“It sounds awful, I know.” Ellyn held up thumb and forefinger close together. “But he was
this close
to writing a big check toward the building fund for my new animal shelter. It was the check that was going to put us over the top. We were planning to break ground this summer.”

She sighed heavily and picked up her menu, obviously ready to order after all. Trixie, whose instincts were eerily accurate, began trotting over.

Ellyn smiled at Celia. “Deep inside, I knew I'd never get my greedy hands on Patrick Torrance's heart. But oh, what high hopes I had for that lovely two million dollars!”

 

P
ATRICK PULLED UP IN FRONT
of The Birth Place just before 1:00 p.m. It was a pretty building; he'd noticed that last time. Simple adobe with turquoise tracing around the windows and roofline. Buckets of pink flowers by the door. Towering green pines that seemed to stand guardian, whispering in the breeze and casting silently moving shadows on the cream-colored walls.

Hardly cutting edge architecture. And yet the simplicity wasn't boring. It was strangely peaceful. Patrick hadn't ever realized how many things competed
for your attention in a big city. In San Francisco you were bombarded visually by a thousand things at once, leaving little mental space for your own thoughts. Here in Enchantment, it felt as if you had more time to get to know yourself.

The parking lot was nearly empty. But Trish Linden's car was there—and Celia's wasn't. The perfect arrangement.

He turned off his car and went up the walk, carrying Trish Linden's sweater in one hand. He'd offered to return it for Ellyn, and things had been awkward enough between them that she'd been glad to let him.

His luck held. Trish was at the reception desk, but the waiting room was, for once, completely empty. She looked up as he walked in. Was it a trick of the light, or did she pale slightly at the sight of him?

“Hi,” she said. She cast a doubtful glance behind her, where the administrative offices were located. “Celia's not here right now, but—”

“I didn't come to see Celia. I came to return your sweater. Ellyn says thanks very much.”

He gave her an easy smile, hoping he could keep her from being too nervous.

To his surprise, he had discovered he liked Trish Linden. He had heard some of the stories, and he knew she had never been anything like her wild older sister, Angelina. Trish had always been self-effacing, overly conscientious and willing to do anything for anyone.