The Homecoming Baby (5 page)

He moved toward the second door. But as he stood there, uncertain whether to go in, he suddenly wished he hadn't come. What had he been thinking? This was exactly the kind of sentimental nonsense he ordinarily despised.

And it was illogical, too.

Hell, he didn't even know that this was the bathroom the wretched girl had used.

And even if it was… What good would it do him to see it? It had all happened thirty years ago. Nothing would be left to mark the event today.

“Sir?” The voice behind him startled him. Patrick turned, aware that the echoing emptiness of this building had affected him more than he'd like to admit.

A man was in the hallway, holding a large push broom and a cleaning cart. A light-skinned Mexican, the man was probably sixty years old, but he had a barely lined face, as if he didn't let life bother him much.

“Can I help you?”

“I'm sorry,” Patrick said. He'd known he might run into questions, and he had his story ready. “I hope it's all right for me to look around. I'm thinking of moving to Enchantment, and I wanted to check out the school my kids would be attending.”

If he had any.
But of course he didn't add that part.

“Oh, sure. The staff don't mind. Though things are stricter nowadays than they used to be.” The custodian leaned against his broom, clearly pleased to have an excuse to chat instead of sweep. “It's a good school. Good kids. I moved away once, went to work
in Taos, and what those kids wrote in the bathroom stalls you wouldn't believe. Disgusting.”

Patrick smiled and nodded. “I'll bet. But no serious problems here? Nothing for a parent to worry about?”

The man shrugged. “Well, they're teenagers. At sixteen they all think the f-word is pretty funny, you know? But still, I'm glad I came back. This was my first real job, and I guess it'll be my last.”

“Your first job?” Patrick did some quick calculations. “How long ago did you start working here?”

“'Bout forty years. The school was a lot newer then, easier to clean. Course I was younger, too. That might be why.”

Suddenly the older man's gaze slid toward the bathroom door, and, as if he had finally registered how peculiar it was for this stranger to be standing outside the girl's bathroom, he narrowed his eyes.

“Listen, what did you say you were—”

A look of understanding passed across his face.

“Oh, I get it. You've heard the rumors, haven't you? You heard that a girl had a baby in that bathroom. It was a long time ago, but still, you're wondering if it's true, aren't you? You're wondering if it's safe to let your kids go to a school where things like that happen.”

Patrick smiled, hoping he was pulling off the right amount of paternal concern and normal curiosity. “You're right. I did hear about it. But I don't know—I thought it might be some kind of urban legend, just a good creepy story to tell at sleepovers.”

To Patrick's surprise the man looked offended.
“Nothing creepy about it. It's a sad story, I'll admit that, sad as hell. But not creepy.”

Patrick raised his eyebrows. “Okay. But, still, it sounds kind of phony, don't you think? Do you think it's really true?”

“I don't
think.
I
know.
Every word is the God's truth.” The man crossed his heart for emphasis. “I found that baby myself, even before the cops, even before Mrs. Lydia over at the birthing center. Picked him up, poor little fellow, I never saw anything so tiny. He was crying something terrible. Must've been lying there a while.”

Patrick looked at the man, unable for the moment to invent an appropriate response. The custodian was looking down at his hands, as if he were reliving the moment he had held a wailing newborn in his arms.

The man seemed to collect himself after a second, but when he looked at Patrick, his eyes were softer, a little damp. “Yessir, a mighty sad story. But I'll tell you this much. That night changed my life.”

“It did?”

The man nodded. “My Anita was getting ready to have our own baby, our first, and I wasn't any too happy about it. I was thirty-two years old, but I'm sorry to say I wasn't much of a man yet. I wasn't ready to give up my drinking, my nights out with the boys. But when I saw that pitiful little baby on the floor, all that blood, and nobody to help him stop crying…”

He cleared his throat. “Well, I went home, and I kissed Anita, and I told her how our baby wasn't ever
going to cry himself to sleep. I told her I wasn't going to leave her alone, not ever again. We were going to have the happiest family in all of New Mexico.”

Patrick smiled. “And did you?”

“Yessir, we did.” The man stood a little taller. “We have eight, all boys, all grown now, and not a one of them ever cried himself to sleep.”

In spite of himself, Patrick thought of the long nights he'd spent, straining to hear whether Julian Torrance's footsteps were coming toward his room. Patrick hadn't cried, either. He hadn't dared to. Crying infuriated Julian, and it only made things worse.

“Good for you,” he said to the custodian, his voice sounding thick to his own ears. “Not many people can say that.”

The man looked pleased and nodded his humble acceptance of the compliment.

As if to return the favor, he pointed one of his callused hands toward the bathrooms. “Want to have a look? It might set your mind at ease. The kids say sometimes they can hear a baby crying in there, but it's not true. Maybe it's the old pipes, maybe pure imagination. That baby's long gone. Mrs. Lydia found it a good home. But, still, I'll show you if you'd like.”

Patrick shook his head.

“No, thanks,” he said, suddenly eager to get out of this cavernous place, away from that closed door. Away from this man who had once had Patrick's blood on his large, gentle hands.

“As you said, it's ancient history. There's absolutely nothing left for anyone to see.”

C
ELIA LOVED
M
ITCH
D
IXON'S
restaurant, The Silver Eagle. Everyone in Enchantment loved it. Except Mitch himself.

The whole town knew the story. Mitch hadn't ever wanted to own a restaurant. At forty-nine, he had built up a good business as a photographer. But his restless wife Marcy had whined until he let her buy this empty property on the town square and decorate it with turquoise tablecloths, black marble floors and a huge silver sculpture of an eagle.

She'd whined some more, and he'd let her hire a well-known chef. And then she'd covered the walls in expensive Native American paintings.

She'd spent a fortune, and then she'd grown bored. Two years ago she'd left Mitch and the restaurant. He'd been struggling to keep it afloat ever since.

The silver eagle was still there, but the paintings had been auctioned off, replaced by Mitch's own photographs, the cheapest things he could find to hang in the empty spots.

The chef was still there, too, creative and cantankerous as ever, but because of the man's cranky personality Mitch found it impossible to keep help on
the floor. Celia had pitched in running the cash register or busing tables more times than she could count.

She was sweeping crumbs from one of those turquoise tablecloths right now—into one of the sterling silver crumb catchers Mitch's ex-wife had found so quaint.

“Thanks, Celia,” Mitch said as he passed her after taking an order. “As soon as the dinner crowd thins out I should be fine. And I have triplets coming in for an interview any minute now. Unless they're morons, I'm going to put aprons on them and get them on the floor tonight.”

Celia glanced at him to see if he was kidding, but his plain, friendly face looked quite sober as he made his way back to the kitchen. And sure enough, fifteen minutes later, she saw him escorting three identical giggling blondes back to his office.

She walked over to the register, which Trish was manning. Trish had been refusing Mitch Dixon's romantic advances for a full year now, but she was too kindhearted to refuse his request for help.

“Did you see that?” Celia tilted her head toward the back office. “Trixie, Dixie and Kicksie just came in looking for jobs. Mitch says he's going to hire them on the spot.” She smiled. “I think he's just trying to make you jealous.”

Trish didn't answer for a minute, busy adding numbers in her head. She was the only person Celia knew who double-checked the computer's math.

Finally she looked up. “I think he's just trying to survive.” She glanced in the direction of Mitch's of
fice, and Celia was pleased to see a soft, concerned expression in her eyes.

“Poor man. He's swamped. Marcy should be horsewhipped for leaving him with all this.”

“Marcy can't be found,” Celia reminded her. “And besides, I'm glad she's gone. I don't know why such a nice man married someone like that in the first place.” She grinned. “Unless it was because the woman he really cared about wouldn't give him a chance.”

Trish went back to counting receipts. “Give it up, Celia,” she said. “I'm not interested.”

But Celia had seen the faint coral spots that flared along Trish's cheeks, and she was satisfied. Trish might not be ready to admit it, but she was definitely interested.

And besides, Celia was too happy to get into an argument tonight. She had called Patrick Torrance at the B and B this morning to thank him for his help with Rose, who had checked out just fine and had gone to stay with her mother. Patrick hadn't been in his room, so Celia had left a message, inviting him to dinner here at the Silver Eagle.

The wait for a response had been long and nerve-racking. What if he wasn't interested? What if he had checked out and gone back to San Francisco? What if Enchantment simply didn't hold enough excitement for a man like him?

But when she got out of her last session this afternoon, her message light had been blinking. Patrick
had called. He might be late, he said, but he'd be there by seven.

It was six-thirty now, and she found herself looking up every time the silver bell over the front door jingled. She couldn't remember feeling this antsy and excited since…

Well, since ever. The men she'd dated over the past few years weren't exactly the type to make anyone's heart go pitter-patter, as Trish was always pointing out.

The bell jingled once more, and Celia looked up eagerly. But it still wasn't Patrick. A stocky young man stood at the edge of the lobby, his gaze searching, obviously looking for someone in particular.

Trish smiled. “Look, Celia,” she whispered. “It's one of your Scratch and Dent grads.”

“Shh—he'll hear you.” Any other night, Celia would have been pleased to see Jerry Killebrew, who had been her boyfriend for about six weeks last Christmas. But not tonight.

Trish chuckled. “Well, Madame Makeover, I guess I'll let you handle this one yourself.”

“Oh, Trish, don't—”

“Sorry. I've got to make the bank deposit before it gets too late.” She raised her eyebrows. “Besides, I'm sure you two need a little private time to catch up on…things.”

“Darn it, Trish. Since when did you want to hook me up with Jerry Killebrew? I seem to remember you once said he was as dull as a day-old dog biscuit.”

Trish patted her shoulder. “Since it was a choice
between the dog biscuit and the traveling salesman, sweetheart. That's when.”

Helplessly, Celia watched Trish pass Jerry in the lobby. Jerry clearly asked where Celia was, because Trish pointed toward the main dining room with an exaggerated air of helpfulness and a mischievous smile.

Thanks a lot, Celia thought, steeling herself for the encounter. To tell the truth, she'd always privately agreed with Trish. Jerry was a little…tepid. But he had been sweet and needy, and not at all threatening. The perfect project.

And now here he came, running his hands through his hair, double-checking his cuff buttons and adjusting his shirttails under his belt.

Jerry had always been nervous around her. She'd once found it cute, but right now it seemed much less appealing. Suddenly she discovered that she didn't want a “project.” She far preferred a man who marched forward with confidence, with a sparkle in his eyes and a roguish wave in his blue-black hair.

And, with any kind of luck, a man exactly like that would be arriving any minute.

Still, it wasn't poor Jerry's fault that Celia's tastes had changed—quite inexplicably, all because of a chance encounter at a ghost town. She owed it to him to be pleased to see him after all these months. He was a decent person, boring or not.

So somehow, as Jerry wandered into the dining room, Celia managed to put on a smile big enough for the occasion.

“Jerry!” She held out her hands. “How are you, stranger?”

He looked over at her and grinned, proud and sheepish all at once.

“Hi,” he said, taking her hands. He wasn't tall, maybe five-eight, but he was muscular and very handsome, especially when he smiled. “I guess you know why I'm here.”

Celia squeezed his hands. “I hope I do,” she said.

The last time she'd seen Jerry, he'd been in the middle of a career crisis. He had just finished law school, but, though he was the son of a hugely successful trial attorney, he suddenly wasn't sure he wanted to practice after all. Celia had privately diagnosed a bad case of cold feet about the bar exam, and she'd done everything she could to help him see that merely taking the exam didn't lock him into a life as a lawyer. But
not
taking it would leave him with an abiding sense of failure.

“So?” She smiled. “Am I right? You took the bar? And you passed?”

Jerry took a deep breath. “Top ten percent.”

“Hurray!” She reached out and wrapped her arms around him. She loved it when one of her projects turned out well. “I knew you could do it. Congratulations!”

To her surprise, Jerry pulled her in and hugged her tightly.

“Jerry,” she said, looking up at him. This was hardly the tame admirer she remembered. “You haven't forgotten that we—”

But before she could finish her sentence, he lowered his face to hers and kissed her. At first, she was too shocked to react. This was Jerry Killebrew? In their six weeks of dating, he had never found the courage to kiss her, not once.

Besides, she'd made it plain to him at their last meeting that it was over between them, that he should get on with his life for his own sake—not to try to win her back.

Now here he was, acting as if the bar exam was the only thing that had ever stood between them. Acting as if he had been sent off to slay that dragon just so that he could come home to claim his reward—Celia herself.

Oh, dear. She pulled gently against his embrace, not wanting to insult him. She must not have given very clear signals after all. And by encouraging him to be brave, she seemed to have created a monster.

Now what? He had lowered his face again, his lips rooting around, searching for hers.

Just her luck. At that very moment the silver bell rang out one more time.

And Patrick Torrance walked into the restaurant.

 

T
WO HOURS LATER
, Celia wanted to kill them both.

The three of them had eaten dinner together, all in the same roomy horseshoe-shaped booth. It had been a downright surreal experience. She'd expected tension, lots of it. Jerry might be suspicious of Patrick, the handsome stranger. Patrick might be jealous of Jerry, the cozy old boyfriend…

But she couldn't have been more wrong. Apparently it hadn't occurred to Jerry that Patrick might be anything more than what she said—a visitor to Enchantment who had courteously rescued one of her patients. Jerry's lack of imagination, she remembered, always had been one of his most annoying shortcomings.

Even worse, Patrick hadn't seemed to mind one bit seeing Celia in Jerry's arms, with her lipstick all over Jerry's mouth. He hadn't even blinked. It was very depressing. Apparently he didn't give a darn who she kissed.

In fact, the two men had hit it off like long lost brothers. Which, in a way, it turned out they were. Fraternity brothers, though from different universities, different years. Before the first course, they were exchanging hell week stories. By dessert, Patrick was cheerfully encouraging Jerry to sing the old fight songs, even though Jerry managed to hit only about one of every three notes correctly.

Finally she couldn't stand it any longer.

She was sandwiched between them, so when she said “Excuse me,” both men moved instinctively.

Everyone laughed, and then Patrick relinquished the honor to Jerry gracefully. In her mood, that annoyed her, too. Patrick wasn't even interested enough to fight for the right to let her out.

She didn't head for the ladies' room. Instead she went back to the kitchen, where Mitch was sitting on the counter, trying to keep his chef, a big genius
named Julio, from quitting over a half-eaten duck breast with papaya vinaigrette.

“Be reasonable, Julio. Gina Vaughn is only five feet tall. Where would she put all that duck? She ate as much as she could.”

“It is an insult. My Duck Papaya is light, the wings of angels. Size does not matter when the food is made of the clouds of heaven.”

“Everyone knows your duck is the best, Julio.” Mitch turned toward Celia with the desperate face of a man at the end of his rope. “Don't they, Celia?”

Celia looked at the chef without a lot of sympathy. Julio's face was as red as a tomato, and he was brandishing a very large, very pointed knife. In her personal opinion, Celia thought, people like Julio should not be allowed to handle anything sharper than a butter knife.

“Of course,” she said, trying for Mitch's sake to swallow her annoyance. But good grief, what an ego. “It's a sad fact, Julio, that some people just don't have a very sophisticated palate.”

His face calmed a little, and the knifepoint wavered, dropping an inch. “Yes,” he said, considering. “Tragically, that is true.” He turned to Mitch. “From now on, you will not let such people come into this restaurant.”

That was too much even for the patient Mitch. “You're right, Julio,” he said, climbing down off the counter with a grunt. “In the future I'll give them a palate-check at the door. It's not like we need the business or anything.”

The knife went up again, along with Julio's color. He knew sarcasm when he heard it.

“Mitch,” Celia put in. “Can I see you for a minute? It's important.”

Julio growled, but Mitch followed Celia into his office. “God,” he said as he closed the door. “I hope you and your two boyfriends ate every damn bite of that crème brûlée. There'll be bloodshed here tonight if you didn't.”

“We did.” Celia smiled at him and perched on the edge of his desk. “But they're not my two boyfriends.”

“Oh, yeah?” Mitch smiled back. “That's not what Trish told me.”

She perked up. “She told you about Patrick? What did she say?”

“The truth? She said she thought you were about to make a big mistake. She said this one is a love-'em-and-leave-'em kind of guy. To be perfectly honest, she asked me to do whatever I could to discourage the whole thing.”

“Oh.” She plucked disconsolately at her skirt. “Then I guess you wouldn't be interested in helping me get a little time alone with Patrick.”

“Who says I wouldn't?”

She looked up at him. “If Trish told you to discourage—”

“What does Trish know about romance? She is clearly a bad judge of these things. Otherwise, she would have said yes to me a year ago.”

His laugh held a poignant note in it, and Celia felt
a rush of affection for this very nice man. He was more than landlord and friend—though he was both of those to her. For several years now, he'd been like a father, and he was a far sight more gentle and understanding than her real father, a successful surgeon whose interpersonal skills weren't quite as good as his surgical ones. In fact, her dad's preferred method of dealing with opposition was to mow it down like a Sherman tank.