The Homecoming Baby (16 page)

“I don't know yet. The ambulance has just taken her to the hospital. Kim was with her, and she's going to call as soon as they know.” She kept her voice steady. “It may have been a heart attack.”

“Was she conscious?”

“Absolutely. She was telling us that she was fine, leave her alone, she didn't need an ambulance. You know Lydia.”

“Yes.” Devon's voice was wry. “Yes, indeed I do.” She was silent another moment. “Has anyone called my mother or uncle?”

Those were Lydia's grown children. “I thought maybe you'd like to do that,” Celia said. “It might be easier to hear the news from you.”

“Okay. I'll call them right away.”

Celia could tell that Devon was eager to hang up and get the details in order, but still…she wasn't sure she'd said enough. Unfortunately she wasn't sure exactly how much Lydia wanted her to say.

“Devon—”

“Wait. Tell me something, Celia. When you decided to call me—was that your idea, or did Lydia ask you to do it?”

“She asked me to.” Celia chose her words carefully. “I know you're busy, but I think it would mean a lot to her if you came.”

Devon sighed, although over the telephone Celia couldn't tell whether it was a harried sigh that meant
I don't have time for this,
or a relieved sigh that meant
at least she still cares enough to want me there.

“Then if you talk to her, tell her I'm taking the next plane out.”

When Celia hung up the phone, she didn't realize her hands had started to shake. But Patrick did. He knelt on the floor in front of her, and he wordlessly wrapped his arms around her, holding tight.

She put her head against his collarbone. And then the seesaw emotions of the past few days finally caught up with her. She closed her eyes and, without even once wondering whether it meant she was weak, Celia began to cry.

 

T
RISH SAT PATIENTLY
in Patrick's sitting room for at least an hour.

She felt kind of silly, in her new blue dress, which was much more expensive than anything she'd ever bought before—more expensive than she could afford, actually.

But she'd always wanted a slim silk sheath dress. Fatty Patty couldn't have worn it, but she hadn't been Fatty Patty for almost thirty years. Why should she still keep dressing like that poor little girl?

Besides, the dress was flattering. It made her look pretty. And she wanted to look pretty for Patrick.

She'd even had her hair cut, and for the first time when the stylist had said, “Oh, you really should let
me do something new!” Trish had simply said, “All right.”

The result was a breezy collection of layers that looked messy compared to her old smooth pageboy, but everyone else had “oohed” and “aahed” as if she had been transformed into a movie star.

She stood up and went to the mirror that hung over the small corner fireplace. This was going to take some getting used to. She hardly recognized herself. But, whoever this new woman was, she looked about ten years younger than that other, more boring Patricia Linden. And about ten times happier.

She wondered what Mitch would think.

After a minute, she sat back down in her chair and tried to stay patient. But where were Celia and Patrick? Betty at the front desk had said maybe they'd be here by seven. It was seven-thirty already.

She found herself growing restless. At first it had been enough just to sit here, in Patrick's room, with all his things around her. She had quelled any urge to pry. She wasn't the prying type.

But eventually, as the minutes dragged on, the temptation became unbearable.

She knew so little about her son. She had missed everything, all the easy intimacy a real mother took for granted. All the days of folding his freshly washed clothes, all the nights of brushing back his hair from his forehead and tucking the sheet under his chin. She had never tended a scrape or put a wet cloth against a fevered cheek.

Someone else had done those things. She had spent
a lot of time conjuring pictures of the woman, the new mother, and hoping her hands were gentle.

She stood again. As if she were about to commit a crime, she walked slowly over to the desk where he'd obviously been working today.

Papers were everywhere. His gleaming black fountain pen lay where he'd tossed it. His jacket had been draped across the back of the chair, for easy access later.

She touched the sleeve of the coat. It was a rich, soft material—such a fine weave. He had grown up accustomed to nice things, obviously.

That hadn't necessarily been part of her dream for him. She'd grown up with money, too, and she'd learned the hard way that it didn't guarantee happiness.

No, when she'd dreamed about the perfect life for her lost little boy, she had dreamed of a place that had lullabies and laughter, books and cookies and bikes and nice neighbors, and maybe a sister or brother, someone to break the Thanksgiving wishbone with.

She picked up the jacket and held it to her face. This was how he smelled, then. Clean, manly, and expensive. He didn't smoke, that was clear. And he didn't use much cologne, if any. She breathed deeply, trying to get to know him, trying to imprint him on her senses.

Eventually, though, she just felt foolish. She put the jacket down, and she looked over at the scattered papers on the sitting room desk. He was a busy man,
wasn't he? Would he still have time for a mother, even if he could bring himself to accept her?

Timidly she reached for the topmost paper. It was a balance sheet. Someone had invested a great many dollars in some pharmaceutical company, and the returns were impressive. Maybe it belonged to Patrick himself? But then she remembered Celia had said Patrick was an investment specialist. It might belong to anyone.

She knew little about such things, and all those commas distanced her from him. She had lived a very limited life since her father had disinherited her. Ironically she was sorry that her son was so very rich. It seemed just one more way their paths had verged.

She kept looking, though. Under all the intimidating numbers there might be some more personal detail. Something that would say, yes, this child is mine.

She came across a large, bulky file that obviously held something other than the standard impersonal papers. She glanced toward the front door, hoping she wouldn't get caught at this. He probably wouldn't understand this need to connect, this need to know. He wouldn't have thought of her every day, missed her every day, the way she had missed him.

She pulled out an oversize, black sheet of filmy paper. Very odd. Not really paper at all. More like…

More like an X-ray.

She held it up to the light. It was someone's arm. A small arm. And right in the middle, was a dense white line, almost like a lightning bolt. The arm was broken.

That was just the first of many X-rays. Many documents and photos and forms.

She kept looking, hardly breathing as she pieced together the story. The terrible, pitiful story of a broken child, told in impersonal, clinical terms.

Terms she'd never heard before, like “metaphyseal fractures,” “coagulation profile,” “callous formation,” “bilateral and symmetrical immersion, absent splash marks.”

Some of it was more straightforward. At only six months old, bruises to the torso. At three years, a dislocated elbow. At five, a broken rib. Then a twisted wrist, a burned shin, a torn ligament. And always more bruises and fractures, so many her own body began to ache as she read about them.

She turned back to the pile of documents. A letter from a private investigator, a man named Don Frost.

Further down, a list of names. Trish's name was there, and Lydia's. But
Celia Brice
was at the top of the list, with three telephone numbers next to it, her home, her office and her cell phone.

Celia's name had been starred and underlined twice.
Friendly,
he'd jotted in the margins.
Should be easy.

Trish shivered slightly, She made a small noise that sounded strange and hollow in the quiet air. She almost dropped the sheet of paper. But somehow she made herself hold on.

She couldn't read all the rest of it here, not in his room, surrounded by the history of his pain. She
grabbed a few of the X-rays and documents, spilling others.

And then, blindly, she turned and walked out of his room.

T
HE NEWS FROM
K
IM
,
which came through about an hour later, was guarded, but optimistic. Doctors were still running tests, but Lydia's condition had stabilized, and all early indications were that the heart attack had been minor.

Celia, who got the call as she followed Patrick back to Morning Light in her own car, felt her grip on the steering wheel loosen. Thank God. Lydia was going to be all right.

After they'd straightened things up and locked The Birth Place for the night, Patrick had wanted Celia to leave her car there and ride with him. But he hadn't protested when she insisted on driving separately, which pleased her.

Funny how, even at a moment like this, she was always watching, always hoping he wouldn't reveal himself to be as bossy and dictatorial as her father.

How nice that he never failed these little tests, even though he had no idea he was taking them. This time he'd agreed easily, as if there were no question, naturally she should make her own decisions.

When they arrived at the bed and breakfast, they parked next to each other, and, after a quick kiss in
the parking lot that promised fiery magic to come, they walked in holding hands.

They didn't speak. He must have sensed she was too emotionally spent for chitchat. They'd communicate everything important with their bodies, as soon as they could get alone.

Dinner first. But they'd keep that short. And then…soon…

She felt need pulsing through her, and she squeezed his hand. Very soon, everything would be all right.

“Celia!” Betty, the owner of Morning Light, stood behind her check-in desk, waving her plump hand to get their attention. “Finally! I have a note for you.”

Celia glanced at Patrick quickly, but he looked as surprised as she was. “Really?” Letting go of his hand, she went over and took the small piece of stationery Betty was holding out. “Who is it from?”

“Trish.”

“Trish? But— Did she leave?”

“About half an hour ago.” Betty's face had been designed by Nature to be round and cheerful—Celia wasn't sure the older woman was capable of projecting a gloomy expression. But her smile did look a little less sunny than usual. Was something wrong?

She shut her eyes, realizing suddenly that she didn't have much energy left for dealing with anything else tonight.

“Trish said to make sure
you
got it right away.” Betty's glance moved in a dramatic sideways peek toward Patrick. Celia got the message.
You,
meaning Celia. Not
both of you.
Not Patrick, too.

He understood it, too. He moved to another small stack of envelopes—Betty always left guest mail on the counter—and sifted through it, checking for his own. Giving Celia space.

“Okay. Thanks, Betty.” Celia stepped aside, away from both Betty and Patrick, to open the note. She had to fight down a ripple of impatience. She and Patrick had sent a message about Lydia through Betty, and asked Trish to wait there. It hadn't been all that long—less than an hour. Why had she left?

Had she'd simply lost her nerve?

But the handwriting on the note was jagged and hard to read. The writing of someone in a hurry. Someone very nearly in a panic.

“I'm so sorry,” it read. “Don't say anything to Patrick, but please come right away. There's something you should know before you—” She'd gone back and scratched out the last two words, though Celia could still read them.

And then again, as if Trish knew how frustrating such a request would be, she added one more time, “I'm sorry.”

No,
Celia thought with a sudden flash of resentment.
Damn it, no.
Tonight was important to her. She wasn't going to be yanked away, like a puppet on a string, by this overheated, cryptic note.

She loved Trish, but this was too much. Celia's relationship with Patrick, whatever it turned out to be, and Trish's relationship with him, however that played out in the end, were completely separate. Celia
had met him, been drawn to him, even fallen in love with him, before she had any idea who he was.

It had nothing to do with Trish, or Angelina, or the Homecoming Baby. Shouldn't they be allowed to pursue it without being buffeted by every ghostly ripple that washed their way from a thirty-year-old tragedy?

Or was she just being selfish? She wanted to go into that room with Patrick. She wanted to lie down on his bed and let him hold her, make love to her, be both her emotional harbor and her physical release. Did she want it so much that she was ignoring a very real call for help?

He came to her side and put the warm palm of his hand behind her shoulder. “Something else is wrong, isn't it?”

She hesitated, so torn by her ambivalent emotions that she hardly knew what to say. She folded Trish's letter and put it in her pocket.

“I don't know,” she said finally. “Maybe.”

He looked at her a minute, and then he smiled wryly.

“I'm sure most of your friends probably think you're making a mistake, getting involved with a stranger. You don't think they'd actually go so far as to have heart attacks one by one, just to keep you away from me?”

She tried to laugh, as he undoubtedly meant her to.

“I don't think so,” she said. She sighed. “I think it's just coincidence. Just a run of very bad luck.”

She looked up at him. His blue eyes were dark, almost as black as his hair. She remembered how soft
his hair felt between her fingers. She remembered the strong, perfect lines of his body rimmed in starlight.

She wanted him so much she almost sank to her knees.

“Damn it,” he said quietly, but with feeling. “You have to leave again, don't you?”

She was aware that Betty was still watching. Celia closed her eyes once, then opened them and met his gaze. She tried not to be swallowed by the dark depths.

“Yes,” she said. “I'm afraid I do.”

 

T
EN MINUTES LATER
, Patrick turned the key of his suite and opened the door, suddenly tired as hell, though it wasn't even ten o'clock. He threw the keys, and they hit the nightstand, skittering into the nearest pottery knickknack with a loud clatter.

He looked back at it instinctively. He hoped he hadn't broken the damn thing. Or maybe, if he were honest, that was exactly what he needed to do. It was bloody exhausting to maintain this civilized, modern gentleman facade when every natural instinct was calling for caveman tactics.

He'd had a moment there, out in the lobby, when he'd thought the only possible answer was to scoop Celia up in his arms and carry her back to the room whether she wanted to come or not.

Except that she
did
want to, damn it. You didn't have to be a caveman to see that.

The “mail received” icon was blinking on his open laptop, but he ignored it. Who gave a damn how the
DOW had done today? Instead he went into the bedroom, unbuttoning his shirt roughly. He dragged the tails free of his slacks, but then left it hanging open, too weary even to shrug it off.

He seemed to remember a miniature bottle of something in the room's mini-fridge. Whatever it was, he planned to chug it down like water.

And if that didn't work, he was going to have something stronger delivered. He had been sitting on a razor edge of sexual tension for two days now, and if he didn't find something to dull it, his psyche was going to end up sliced to bloody ribbons.

What the hell was happening to him? He couldn't remember being this sick over any one woman in his life. It was just sex, for God's sake.

Or was it? With Celia, out there in that strange place, it had been different. More. As poetic as fire and freedom, as primitive as bread and water, as clean as confession.

Hell, this bedroom was too small. He couldn't get away from the mental pictures of what should have been happening in here right now.

He paced back out to the sitting room and flicked on the television. Some fool in a Ford Taurus was chasing some idiot in a Corvette. He changed the station. Somebody sincerely wanted to sell him allergy medication.

Now if they were offering a tranquilizer,
that
he might be interested in.

He snapped off the TV, yanked out the desk chair and sat. He might as well try to work.

But when he looked down at the desk, his heart, which had been pounding unpleasantly in its thwarted frustration, suddenly went into a paralyzed stall. He froze in place.

The packet Ellyn had brought him had been opened, its contents spilled all over the desk. Someone had been looking through it.

Not just someone. Trish. She was the only one who had been in this room. For more than an hour. All alone.

And somewhere during that time, she'd opened the file and looked at the whole ugly story. The X-rays and the anger. The bruises and the bitterness. The Polaroids and the plot a vengeful man had hatched to make somebody pay.

He stared down at the mess, suddenly seeing it through Trish's eyes. And for the first time he saw it as it really was. He realized that the whole thing said as much about him as it did about Julian Torrance. Yes, Julian had been cruel. But Patrick was selfish, deceitful and vindictive.

Trish had undoubtedly seen that, too. That must have been why she ran.

And now she was telling Celia.