The Homecoming Baby (4 page)

Celia's brother lived in Seattle and her parents had recently moved to Santa Fe, but they all were in constant contact with letters, e-mails, phone calls and visits.

A happy family created a happy child, and the happy child became a happy woman. It was like a mathematical equation. And of course the opposite was just as inexorably true, as well.

Trish didn't envy Celia, not really. But as she watched the young woman skip up the front walk as if someone had drawn a hop-scotch board on it, her waist-length hair dancing in the dappled sunlight, Trish couldn't help the pang of…something…that tightened around her heart.

She couldn't remember ever, ever feeling that light and full of joy.

“Trish!” Celia swept open the clinic door and blew in on a gust of spring sunshine. “I hoped you'd be here!”

Trish smiled. “Why? Did you want to help wash the windows?”

“No, I wanted to tell you about the wonderful, amazing thing that happened to me out at Silverton!”

Trish put the spray bottle down on the windowsill. “You went to Silverton alone again? Celia, you know how dangerous—”

“No lectures, please,” Celia said. She plopped onto her knees on the sofa beside Trish. “I'm fine, honestly. See? Completely unscratched. Virtue intact.” She grinned. “Unfortunately.”

Trish frowned. “What exactly does that mean?”

“It means I met the most marvelous man. His car broke down and he needed a ride. His name is Patrick Torrance.” She said the name on a sigh of delight. “Even you would approve of him, Trish. Not a scratch or dent in sight.”

Trish rolled her eyes. “For a psychologist, that's a pretty dumb comment.” She picked up her spray bottle and moved to the next windowpane. “If you just met him this morning, you have no idea what the extent of his dents might be. He'll probably turn out to be an emotional wreck, which of course you'll find irresistible, and he'll become your next pet project.”

But Celia had no intention of coming down to earth. She wrinkled her nose at Trish and smiled like the Cheshire cat.

“That's where you're wrong,” she said, arranging her full blue cotton skirt around her knees. “The beauty of Patrick Torrance is that he's just here for a week or two. He's a tourist. On vacation. Temporary. Even if he had dents the size of golf balls on every inch of his psyche, which he doesn't, I couldn't turn
him into a project. In two weeks, he'll go right back where he came from.”

“Which is?”

Celia hesitated, plucking at her skirt. “I'm not exactly sure.”

“Oh, great.”

Celia sighed again. “Don't be such a grump. He's gorgeous and smart and funny and a gentleman. What does it matter where he comes from?”

“Well, if he comes straight from San Quentin, that would matter.”

“He doesn't.”

“Or if he comes straight from his wife and three kids. That would matter.”

“He doesn't.”

“The loony bin? An AA meeting? The unemployment line? Would any of that matter?”

Celia leaned her head back and smiled at the ceiling. “He doesn't.”

“Celia, listen to me.” Trish was nervous now. She'd seen Celia make plenty of mistakes with her love life. She was always taking on hopeless cases, sure that she could mold them into better people. But her attitude had always been half Mother Teresa, half Florence Nightingale—and Trish had understood that Celia's heart wasn't really touched at all.

This was different. Trish knew what that sparkling smile, those waves of energy, those restless movements, meant. They meant that this time there was nothing maternal about it. Patrick Torrance had somehow, perhaps quite by accident, perhaps simply the
lucky chemistry of giving off the perfect pheromones, had found the trigger that turned on an electric current inside the beautiful Celia Brice.

“Just think about it a little bit, that's all I'm asking. Go slowly.” But Celia was hardly listening. She was still staring at the ceiling as if it were a night full of stars. “Celia, what exactly are you considering here?”

Celia brought her head back down. The dewy gleam in her blue eyes said it all. It seemed a shame even to try to break this bubble of joy.

“What are you considering?” she repeated.

“Nothing dangerous,” Celia said. “Honestly, Trish. Stop worrying so much. Just…I don't know. A fling. A spring fling. A short, exciting two weeks of dinner and dancing and flirting and—”

“And?”

“I don't know. Maybe nothing. He might not be interested. But if he is…then maybe a little fantastic sex.”

“Celia—”

But Celia laughed, a golden trill shot through with sensuality and excitement. She reached out and grabbed Trish's hand.

“Come on, Trish,” she said. “I'm twenty-eight years old, not eighteen. I'm— Well, I don't know how to explain it. He's very exciting. If you could see him, you'd know. Would it really be so wicked for me to have a brief, lovely, extremely safe romance with an extremely exciting man, especially since there
could be absolutely no long-term complications whatsoever?”

Trish shook her head. “No. Not if there were any such thing. But as any of your patients could tell you, there isn't.”

 

P
ATRICK'S SUITE
in Morning Light, the bed and breakfast his secretary had found for him, was surprisingly elegant.

The sitting room was spare but comfortable. A small, graceful fireplace filled one corner, and the sofa, which was covered in Navajo textiles, faced a picture window that overlooked the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

The bedroom was large and cool, with an equally stunning view. Pueblo pottery dotted the tables, and fine Mexican art filled the white-washed adobe walls with color.

He found himself whistling as he unpacked. He hadn't expected to find this strange adobe hotel even marginally acceptable. From the outside, it seemed to come out of the ground like a piece of lumpy, rounded earth, not a normal building at all. From the outside it looked dark and cramped.

But inside the proportions were generous, and the cool light was strangely soothing, the simplicity relaxing. You could focus your mind in a place like this. He thought he might get someone to redecorate his office when he got back to the city. Suddenly the dark oak paneling he had now seemed oppressive and heavy.

It seemed like something Julian Torrance would have picked.

The change in his mood surprised him on several levels. Just a few hours ago he'd been fairly grim, focused on the unpleasantness of his mission.

He hadn't come to Enchantment for R&R, as he'd told Celia Brice this morning. He'd come to Enchantment for one reason only—to find enough information about Angelina Linden to track her down.

It wouldn't be easy. But someone knew where she'd run—and probably that someone was her sister, Trish Linden, the receptionist at the birthing center.

Somehow he would find out the truth, and when he did—well, he wasn't quite sure what he'd do then. No point tackling that decision now. Later, when he knew more, he'd make up his mind exactly how to proceed.

But he had some documents he just might like to show this Angelina Linden. It just might give him a great deal of satisfaction to tell her exactly what he thought of her.

Not, at the heart, a pleasant task. But for the first time since he'd made the decision to come to Enchantment, he realized that there wasn't any reason he couldn't enjoy himself, at least a little.

Especially since things seemed to be going so well. Who would have thought that breaking down near a ghost town would get things off to such a promising start? He might have wasted days trying to meet someone connected with the birthing center, someone who might be able to introduce him to Trish Linden.

And yet, all because of a broken radiator hose, he'd met Celia Brice, who, it turned out, was the psychologist for the birthing center, and Trish's good friend.

It was as if the gods had conspired to assist him. Celia was open and welcoming, and she had already offered to show him around her beloved town.

A real find. A woman who had lived here all her life and knew everyone might just make this whole hunting expedition very easy indeed.

That she should be gorgeous, too, seemed like a good omen.

With a satisfied smile, he picked up the telephone. He'd start with dinner. She'd made it clear she'd love to hear from him again, and dinner conversations could cover a lot of useful ground.

And after that…

He hesitated. After that, he had to be careful. She really was unusually attractive. She radiated both sensuality and innocence, which was a fairly irresistible combination. And he was only human.

It was a damn fine line—acquiring the information without exploiting the woman. But he'd just have to walk it. He had no intention of leaving Enchantment, New Mexico, with any ugly blotches on his conscience

He called down to ask for the number of the local birthing center. He stared at the mountains as he dialed it. A breeze blew in the open window, and in it hung the scent of wildflowers.

Vanilla and lavender and something like chamomile tea. He shut his eyes, and he saw pink and purple
and white, soft petals spilling into a tumbling crystal brook.

And the sweet smell of sunshine. Yellow hair tumbling across ivory skin.

He tightened his hand around the phone. He opened his eyes, and then he lowered the receiver into its cradle.

Not yet. He needed to put together a careful plan. And there was no rush. Somehow he knew that whenever he was ready, Celia would be waiting.

T
HE STAFF MEETING
at The Birth Place was almost always held at the noon hour on Fridays. Lydia ordered in pizza loaded with vegetables, and Trish brought fresh fruit and cheese. They ate while they talked over clinic issues. It was friendly but focused. Clearing even an hour of everyone's schedule at once was difficult. Any more would be impossible.

Celia, who wasn't technically on the birthing center's staff, attended only every now and then. Often she was busy seeing patients at her own small downtown office. But this time she'd been lucky—the meeting had been moved to a Monday, and she'd been able to schedule patients around the staff meeting.

It was great to see everyone and to feel a part of the team. She watched the Birkenstock-and-earth-mother midwives chatting comfortably with the button-down administrative staff and smiled to herself. The atmosphere here was really very special.

If she ever had a baby, she wouldn't think of delivering it anywhere else.

If she ever had a baby. But given how her life was going, how likely was that? She popped a piece of
pineapple into her mouth and wiped her hands on her paper napkin briskly, aware that the meeting was coming to an end.

She wandered over to Trish's reception counter, which, as always, was neat and organized. Papers wouldn't dare get out of line on Trish's watch.

Trish looked up with a smile. “Penny for your thoughts. Surely the debate over the new copier didn't put that pensive look on your face.”

“No.” Celia picked up the snow globe of Venice that sat beside Trish's keyboard, the one frivolous note amid all the streamlined practicality. She shook it, sighing. “I guess I was just wondering when I'll ever get to see The Birth Place from…from the other side.”

“Not anytime soon, I hope.” Trish raised her eyebrows, took the snow globe from Celia's dreamy fingers and set it back on the desk. The snowflakes sank around the delicate Venetian gondola and died. “Unless…is there something you're not telling me about that episode in the ghost town?”

Celia laughed. “Oh, for heaven's sake, no. I meant someday. I do want a family, you know. A big one. I was just thinking that sooner or later I'll find Mr. Right, and—”

“Not if you keep going on like this, you won't.”

Annoyed that Trish had seemed to read her mind, Celia scowled. “Don't start that. Didn't I tell you I'm through picking men who need fixing up?”

“Right. And now you're picking traveling salesmen.”

“Patrick Torrance is
not
a—”

“Whatever.” Trish lowered her voice, obviously not wanting the others to overhear. “I don't care what it says on his business card. He may not be a scratch-and-dent, but he's a hit-and-run. Here today and gone tomorrow.”

She gave Celia a straight look. “And you can't tell me that's a coincidence. If ever a woman was hell-bent on staying single, you're it.”

“I—”

But she never got to finish her sentence. The front door to the clinic opened, and two patients entered, waddling over to sign in with the slow contentment of the heavily, happily pregnant. At the same time Kim Sherman, the clinic accountant, stuck her head out from the administrative office suite. “Trish,” Kim said, “can I steal you a minute? This statement is a mess.”

It was just as well, Celia thought as she watched Trish walk away. She hadn't known how she was going to finish that sentence anyhow.

Trish would simply have to see Patrick Torrance for herself. Then she'd understand.

The clinic door opened again, but this time it wasn't one of the slow, smiling mothers-to-be coming in for a routine checkup. This time it was Rose Gallen, and the young woman was in obvious distress.

Rose was crying, limping slightly, her sobbing face half buried in the crook of a man's arm, her hands holding tightly to his shirt.

Celia excused herself to the women who were still
signing in and began to move around the counter. “Rose,” she said. “Rose, are you all right?”

Rose didn't lift her face from the man's chest. The face of the man himself was obscured by one of the lush potted plants that flanked the doorway, and the sunlight was so bright it was hard to be sure…

But he couldn't possibly be Rose's husband, Tad. Tad had a beer belly that made him look several months pregnant himself.

This man, on the other hand… He bent his head, obviously saying something comforting to Rose, and Celia's heart did a strange wiggling maneuver. He looked up when she arrived at Rose's side, and their eyes met.

This man was Patrick Torrance.

“She's all right, I think,” he said. “But someone should look at her. She was arguing with some bastard in the parking lot, and he ended up knocking her down.”

“It was Tad,” Rose said in a voice muffled by Patrick's soft blue shirt. “Tad is back. He's so angry, Celia. He said—he said—”

“It's all right, Rose,” Celia said, taking the young woman's hand. She looked up at Patrick. “Is Tad still out there?”

“Might be,” Patrick said. “When we left, he was on his hands and knees. I think he was trying to remember his name.” He gave Rose's shoulder a quick, light rub. “Maybe you'll get lucky. Maybe he never will.”

Rose tilted her face up at Patrick with a watery
smile. “That would be great,” she said. “Thank you so much for—” She sniffed. “You were so nice to—I don't know what I would have done if—”

“It's okay,” he said with a smile. That smile. Rose blinked as if she were looking straight into the sun. “I promise you, it was my pleasure.”

“We'd better get you looked at,” Celia said. She and Rose had a scheduled session this hour, but her physical safety must come first. Rose was only about four months pregnant. If Tad had been knocking her around…

She looked toward the door to the administrative area, wishing Trish would come out of Kim's office. She wasn't sure where to take Rose. Which of the examination rooms was open? And she ought to tell Lydia the situation, considering it had happened on the clinic grounds. But she didn't want to leave Rose alone, even with Patrick standing by. The young woman's emotional state was clearly fragile.

Luck was with her. At that moment, Lydia and Katherine Collins, the clinic's full-time midwife, came through the door. They looked over at Rose, saw that there was a problem and hurried to her side.

Lydia could handle any emergency, and Celia expected her to handle this one with her usual dazzling efficiency. But to her surprise, Lydia stopped about five feet short of where Celia and Patrick stood, with Rose between them, and seemed to freeze in place.

Lydia never betrayed much emotion, especially in front of the patients. Her years of running the clinic had taught her to project calm control at all times. So
this was completely out of character, and Celia watched curiously as Lydia stared at Patrick Torrance.

A clear jolting shock changed Lydia's face, but only for a split second. Her gray eyes widened, then narrowed, deep crow's feet appearing at the edges. Her angular, weathered face slackened momentarily, then tightened, closing in, as if creating a mask to hide her reaction.

Only her hand, which was fisted at the base of her throat, betrayed how the sight of him had affected her.

Katherine looked at Lydia, then stepped forward, her long, graying ponytail swinging down her back. “Rose, you poor dear, are you all right?”

“I think so,” Rose said shakily. “It was Tad. He—” She began to cry again.

“Of course. Tad,” Lydia said dryly. “Now there's a man who could use some anger management classes. You might want to consider offering a workshop soon, Celia.”

Celia smiled, glad that Lydia seemed to be recovering her equilibrium. The older woman had relaxed her hand, let it drop from her throat and put it out toward Patrick.

“Well, it looks as if we have you to thank for taking care of our Rose, Mr….?”

She paused, giving him time to introduce himself.

“Patrick,” he said, accepting her hand and shaking it. For a moment their gazes locked, gray steel against blue ice. Celia, watching, felt a strange chill.

“Patrick Torrance. I'm from San Francisco.”

Lydia's gaze dropped first, but she seemed com
pletely composed again. So calm and normal, in fact, that Celia began to wonder if she'd imagined that first, lightning-struck reaction.

“And I'm Lydia Kane. The founder of The Birth Place. Thank you again, Mr. Torrance.”

Without waiting for an answer, Lydia removed her hand and turned to Celia. “I want to take Rose back and check things over. She might like to have you along. Do you have time?”

“Oh, yes, please.” Rose looked up with tired, red-rimmed eyes. “I'd like Celia there, too.”

“Of course,” Celia said. “I have time.”

Patrick was still looking at Lydia. “Mrs. Kane—”

“You'll have to excuse us, Mr. Torrance,” Lydia said. “But I know Rose thanks you, too, for stepping in to save the day.”

Obviously that was an understatement. Rose hadn't yet peeled her hands from Patrick's shirt. She looked as if she'd like to drag him into the examination room. As if she'd like to cling to his strength for the rest of the day—or the rest of her life.

Celia had to smile. She wished Trish could be here to see this. Apparently Celia wasn't the only woman who found herself eating out of Patrick Torrance's hands the minute she met him.

Celia looked at him, wishing things were different, wishing they could have even a few moments alone. She wondered why he had been in the parking lot. Had he come here to see her?

But her patient must come first.

“Yes,” she added, equally polite, knowing Lydia was watching. “Thank you so much.”

“It was nothing,” Patrick said, completing the circle of courteous formality. “I'm just glad I was in the right place at the right time.”

Lydia extracted Rose from his arm. She shot one more quick glance at Patrick's face. “Yes,” she said. “That was quite a coincidence, wasn't it, Mr. Torrance?”

Patrick looked at Lydia, tilting his head so that the spring light caught the brilliance of his eyes and picked out the blue glistening in his black, black hair. His smile was enigmatic and had sharp edges that seemed to gleam.

“Actually, Mrs. Kane,” he said with a peculiar flatness in his voice, “I don't believe in coincidences. Do you?”

Lydia didn't answer. She pretended she hadn't heard him, busying herself with Rose. But Celia knew she had heard, and had chosen not to respond.

Which Celia, staring over at the older woman thoughtfully, decided was very strange indeed.

 

A
T THREE-THIRTY
,
PATRICK PARKED
his car along Cooper Avenue, just down the block from the J. P. Linden High School. Impressive. The Linden family must have been big stuff around here once. Don Frost's report had said that both Linden daughters had been disinherited. Patrick wondered why. Maybe the old man had found out about the baby and didn't much approve?

School was just over. Patrick watched the kids come pouring out of the building like a liquid rainbow. Some of them lined up, noisily jabbing and teasing, to climb into big yellow buses. Others trudged along stoically, watching the sidewalk, heavy backpacks dragging on their shoulders.

A few others, the ones with straight white smiles, shining, well-cut hair and expensive designer clothes, danced in groups toward the parking lot. Their trucks and sports cars waited like rows of lapdogs, ready to perk up at the sound of their masters' remote control chirps.

He knew what their lives were like, those lucky ones. Back at San Francisco's elite Master's Preparatory Academy, Patrick had been one of them, the envy of even the richest of his friends. Out of all the top-of-the-line sports cars in the Academy parking lot, Patrick's Mercedes had been the coolest.

High tech sound, alloy wheels, gliding sunroof, global positioning system before anyone else had ever heard of it. Low slung, with lots of attitude. Shining black on the outside, deep, rich maroon interior.

Red and black, wasn't that perfect? Red and black to match the bruises that had once colored his arms, to match the bloody vomit that came up whenever Julian Torrance's fists caught him in the kidneys.

He waited until everyone seemed to have left. He waited until the gray stone building stood motionless against the huge blue sky. And then he opened his car door, headed down the sidewalk and went inside.

J. P. Linden High School.
A carved stone archway
proclaimed the school name. The double doors were unlocked. Though a sign asked him politely, as a visitor, to check in at the front office, no one stopped him when he passed by without a glance.

The dimly lit hallway lined with sports trophies and “State Champion” banners, smelled like all high schools. Part chalk, part textbook, part musty old building. And under everything the lingering smell of the kids—cheap cologne and sweaty gym clothes, hair spray and hormones.

His footsteps echoed as he walked. The school seemed huge for such a small town; it must draw from nearby communities. That would account for all the buses.

Still, it didn't take him long to find the gymnasium, where, according to Don Frost Investigations, the Linden High Homecoming Dance had been held every November for more than thirty years.

The gym was deserted, as well. It was too late in the year for basketball, too early for the prom. Today it was just a big empty floor and stacks of collapsible bleachers. Streams of dusty sunlight struggled in through high, dirty windows. The floor was well worn, overdue for replacing. Obviously this school hadn't been new even back when The Homecoming Baby was born.

He stood at the gym door and surveyed the nearest hallway. Two doors were set into the far end, maybe twenty yards away, just far enough to hide the weak wails of a newborn. Boys, the first door read. And the second, Girls.