The Homecoming Baby (10 page)

Mitch thought she was beautiful, though. Celia watched her two friends, who looked so right together, and wondered why some people found it so difficult to give in to love.

She toyed with a sprig of bougainvillea that grew along the nearest wall. It had thorns, she knew, so she touched the soft petals carefully.

“You know,” she said suddenly. “I've been thinking. I wonder if maybe my issues all go back, somehow, to my father.”

She heard herself with a sense of shock. How many glasses of sangria had she consumed? She counted and came up with only two before this one. She wasn't drunk, then. So why was she blurting out such half-baked psychobabble?

“What issues?” Patrick looked at her with a small smile. “Your determination to handle everything on your own? Your fear of being smothered by a domineering male? Your habit of choosing boyfriends who are comfortably needy and weak?”

She was momentarily unable to speak. When she could, she said, “Did Mitch tell you that? Or was it Trish?”

He chuckled. “Neither one. I've been in Enchantment for a week now. That's plenty long enough to hear about the Scratch and Dent Club.” He leaned against the archway, facing her. His eyes glittered in the shadows, and she could tell he was smiling. “And of course I did meet Jerry Killebrew.”

“Oh. Right.” She let her head fall back against the cool plaster wall. It was all too obvious to bother denying. The only bewildering thing was why it had taken so long for her to understand the heart of her own problem. Physician, heal thyself, indeed.

“What is your father like?” To her surprise, Patrick really sounded as if he wanted to know.

“Brilliant. Authoritative. He's a surgeon.” She hesitated, thinking it through. “I love my father, I really do. But he's very overwhelming. Very demanding. I can't remember a single day that my mother hasn't spent trying to placate him. She is a smart, talented woman who, because she adores a tyrant, has been reduced to a slave. She cooks his meals, entertains his friends and strokes his ego. That's her life.”

“And you think that might happen to you.”

She sighed and shifted, resting her shoulder against the wall so that she could watch Eddie coax magic from his guitar. And so that she wouldn't have to look at Patrick.

“It might, if I ever fell in love with a tyrant.”

“Then you're right to be cautious.” Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Patrick's glass glide upward,
catching the light from the courtyard. “You're right to want to protect yourself.”

“Am I?” She felt something move deep inside her, something that felt like a powerful yearning. But for what? Safety? Or something more exciting?

“Am I?” she repeated in a half whisper. “I honestly don't know anymore.”

He didn't answer. His glass moved again. Then she heard the soft clink of crystal against concrete as he set it down. He moved to her side of the archway, and he stood close behind her, his hands on her shoulders.

Eddie was singing an old Mexican lullaby, a melody so poignant Celia felt an aching in the pit of her stomach. She leaned her head back against Patrick's chest, which was solid and warm behind her.

After a few minutes of that intimate silence, Patrick finally spoke.

“I think maybe we all live our lives in reaction to what our parents were like,” he said. “I know I do. My own father was…an extremely violent man. When I was little, my mother tried to explain it. She said he couldn't help it, because his father had been violent, too.”

Celia turned without leaving the circle of his arms. She looked up at him, but the alcove was too dim to reveal the nuances of his expression.

“How terrible,” she said. “Her explanation must have seemed dreadfully inadequate.”

He nodded. “It did. And yet, the idea of that inescapable inheritance of violence has shaped my life.
I've always felt it would be too dangerous for me to fall in love, to get married, have children and start the cycle all over again.”

“Yes, I can see how it would feel that way,” she said. “But it isn't really true. People break those patterns all the time. Strong people do. And you strike me as a very strong person.”

He shrugged. “I didn't say it was logical. I just said it was true.”

She scanned his handsome face. No one would ever guess he carried scars like this inside. He was strong. Strong enough to survive all that and still be generous and kind.

“I don't think it is true,” she said. “I don't believe for a minute that you'd ever be cruel to anyone weaker than you. You simply don't have that kind of violence in you.”

He looked down at her. They were so close that his breath, warm and clean and tinged with sangria, blew softly against her forehead. He reached up and feathered his fingers through her hair.

“You're very sweet,” he said. “Is this how you salvaged all your Scratch and Dent boys? When your eyes burn with so much conviction, it would be very hard for any man to doubt you.”

“Patrick—”

But she didn't get to finish her sentence. He put his arm around her and pulled her deeper into the shadows. And then he kissed her.

It didn't start off with a gentle, hesitant exploration.
They both knew they were stealing seconds, and there was no time for that.

Instead, their lips met hard, urgent, sangria-sweet—and then their tongues. She gripped his shoulders. His hands buried themselves in her hair. The wall was behind her, and when he pressed, there was nowhere to go but against each other. Their bodies met, intimately, perfectly. She would have cried out, but his mouth was there, soothing the sound into silence.

For five seconds, ten… Time stopped, while Eddie's guitar wept lullabies into the courtyard. The heat and the music, the kiss and the shadows, all melted together, until she was dizzy with wanting him.

Finally, though, the song was over. And Patrick pulled back.

She looked up at him, slightly dazed. It couldn't have lasted a full minute. But it felt like a lifetime.

“Patrick,” she began. It seemed impossible that they would rejoin the party, and yet she knew there was no alternative.

“We have to go back,” he said.

“But—” She touched his fingers.

The smile he gave her was oddly remote, and somehow very sad.

“I know,” he said. “It wasn't enough. But I think perhaps it was a great deal more than I deserve.”

“T
HERE YOU ARE
!”
Trish said as soon as they emerged from the archway. “We've been wondering where you two had wandered off to!”

The light in the courtyard was so much brighter than the shadows of their alcove it took Celia's eyes a couple of seconds to adjust. But she could hear the tension in Trish's voice, and, with her own emotions in turmoil, she found herself resenting it. She had been gone less than ten minutes. Was that really such a crime?

But then she noticed that someone new was standing by Trish's side. A woman Celia had never seen before. The woman was smiling, watching Celia and Patrick with a polite but intense curiosity.

She was about thirty, and beautiful, with pale skin, auburn hair and a creamy silk pantsuit that even Celia, who didn't find clothes particularly interesting, recognized as a big-name, high-ticket item.

Maybe it was the outfit, which had not been bought anywhere in Enchantment. Maybe it was the possessive quality of the gaze she turned on Patrick. But Celia knew somehow, even before anyone spoke, that the woman had come here for him.

“Patrick, there's someone—” Trish began.

But Patrick had already begun to walk toward the woman. He was smiling. “Ellyn! What a surprise!”

The woman held out her hand to greet him. “Not an unpleasant one, I hope,” she said. Celia thought she heard a note of anxiety in the woman's voice.

Patrick's expression should have eliminated any doubts. He looked completely unperturbed by her arrival. “Of course not. But how on earth did you find me?”

“When I inquired for you at the bed and breakfast, they told me you'd be here.” She glanced at Trish and Mitch, who were standing together. “They didn't mention it was a party. I'm so sorry to crash like this.”

Mitch shook his head. “Everyone's welcome. ‘The more the merrier' is a cliché that was invented for parties like this. Can I get you some sangria?”

“I don't know—maybe I should be going—” She looked at Patrick. “I just brought you that file you asked for. I can always give it to you tomorrow. I've booked a room at the Morning Light myself.”

She had come all the way from San Francisco to New Mexico to deliver a file? Celia didn't believe it, and she could tell Patrick didn't, either. What she couldn't judge was how he felt about the situation.

“Don't be silly,” Patrick said. “It will hurt Mitch's feelings if you leave before you have a glass of sangria. Come on, let me introduce you to everyone.”

Ellyn Grainger was her name. She was a friend of Patrick's from San Francisco. Friend, Celia noticed.
Not assistant, or secretary, or co-worker—or any other title that would be expected to fetch and carry business files.

She also noticed that Ellyn Grainger slipped her arm through Patrick's as if that were its natural place. Patrick showed no signs of minding.

When Celia's turn came, she met Ellyn's bright smile with one of equal wattage. She, too, was introduced as a friend. The two friends professed themselves delighted to meet one another.

What exactly was happening here? Celia felt as if she had been thrust onstage in the middle of a play, but she didn't recognize the script. Was it a comedy of errors—or the opening act of a tragedy?

Nonsense, she told herself. How could it possibly be a tragedy? Even if this woman were Patrick's girlfriend, fiancée,
wife…
Celia might be disappointed, but on a mere week's acquaintance, disappointment was as strong a word as she had any right to use.

When Eddie struck the chord for another ballad, and half a dozen couples drifted around the bubbling fountain, locked in each other's arms, Celia saw Ellyn glance inconspicuously at Patrick. Immediately he turned and asked her to dance.

Smiling carefully, Celia turned toward the food table. She hadn't been helpful enough tonight. She'd been selfish, lost in her own flirtation with Patrick Torrance, leaving the bulk of the work to everyone else.

She met Trish's sober gaze over a plate of raw vegetables.

“Celia—”

Celia lifted her chin, picked up a stalk of celery and pointed it at her friend.

“Don't say it. I know you told me so, but don't you dare say it.”

Trish shook her head. “I wasn't going to, sweetheart,” she murmured. “Some things simply don't need to be said.”

 

T
HE NEXT MORNING
was a little difficult.

Celia rose early, so that she could get an hour or two of work done in her herb garden before her first patient arrived at nine. Trish, who was a first-rate gardener and had taught Celia everything she knew, would be disappointed in her if she let it go to seed.

And spring was such a busy time in a garden, even a tiny one like hers. She had to thin all the woody stems from her clay pots of thyme. The rosemary was still blooming its heart out and needed to be pinched back. Over in the dappled shade of the wisteria-threaded ramada, her border of sweet Cicely was delicately flowering. She was going to have to decide how to handle things if this drought didn't end soon.

It was getting late. The morning light threw her shadow before her on the pink brick path that wound between beds of green herbs and colorful flowers. She should go in and shower. It must be nearly eight.

She looked down at her cordless phone. She'd brought it with her into the garden an hour ago, but it had been stubbornly silent. She pressed the talk button, just to be sure she had a dial tone. Yes, of
course she did. She sighed and clicked it off again. Darn phone.

Celia wasn't a martyr by nature, but somehow she hadn't quite been able to stop thinking about how Patrick and Ellyn had spent the night at the same bed and breakfast. Probably they were having the breakfast part now.

As for the other part…

Trish's voice came suddenly from behind Celia's left shoulder. “Hey. Wake up. Have you weeded yourself right into a trance? It's eight-fifteen. Don't you have a session at nine?”

Celia looked up at Trish with a smile. “Oh, yes, thanks. I lost track of the time.”

Trish looked down at the telephone, its hard beige plastic so alien against the dusty soil. She obviously knew what its presence out here meant about Celia's state of mind.

“Celia,” she began again. She'd started ten sentences that way since last night, but Celia hadn't let her finish any of them.

“It's okay,” Celia said. “I just thought maybe…” She shook her head. “Really. It's okay.”

“Is it?”

“Well, of course it is. He's thirty years old,” Celia said, wiping the dirt from her knees and putting her clippers and trowel into a small plastic pot. “A thirty-year-old man has a life. He has a past. It's inevitable. Even I knew that.”

“A past that will come chasing five hundred miles to find him?” Trish held out her hand to help Celia
to her feet. “Frankly, that sounds a little more like the
present,
don't you think?”

“Maybe that's Ellyn's perspective. But maybe Patrick doesn't see it that way. Remember, Jerry Killebrew was dead wrong about me.”

“And you think Ellyn Grainger is as dense as Jerry Killebrew?”

Celia picked up her phone and slipped it into her pocket. “I don't know what to think, Trish,” she said. “I just know that it's possible things aren't what they seem. I want to wait and hear what he has to say before I jump to conclusions.”

She remembered what Patrick had said about how she had looked when Jerry Killebrew had kissed her. Something in her face, in her body language, had assured him she wasn't really interested.

Well, something in Patrick's body language last night had said the same thing. She went over it in her mind one more time, trying to figure out where the clues lay—or whether it was all a serious case of wishful thinking.

He had been polite to everyone. He and Ellyn had stayed a respectable time, almost another hour. They stayed for the formal dousing of the fountain at midnight, which was, of course, the climax of the evening.

In that hour, Patrick had danced twice more with Ellyn, once with Gina Vaughn, who was safely married, and once with Trish. He had not asked Celia to dance again.

When Ellyn shivered delicately, Trish had loaned
her a sweater, and Celia had brought over a cup of coffee. But nothing seemed to warm Ellyn enough—she hadn't dressed properly for a cold New Mexico spring night—and finally Patrick said he'd better take her home.

He had been the perfect big brother, the perfect friend…but nothing in his manner really cried out that he was the perfect lover.

Of course, perhaps he had just found himself in the awkward position of having two would-be lovers at the same party and was playing it cool, keeping both of them at arm's length.

Oh, she was driving herself mad with all this analysis. Celia vowed to put it out of her mind. He'd either call with an explanation, or he wouldn't.

“I'd better get that shower,” she said to Trish, who was still frowning, biting her lower lip.

“Please protect yourself, Celia,” Trish said. “I really don't want you to get hurt.”

“I know you don't,” Celia answered. “But I've discovered there's a serious problem with always playing it safe.”

Trish raised her eyebrows. “And what's that?”

Celia smiled, remembering the hot, stolen kiss under the bougainvillea.

She touched Trish's tense shoulder affectionately. “You miss all the really good stuff.”

 

B
REAKFAST AT THE
M
ORNING
L
IGHT
Bed and Breakfast was plain, but hearty—eggs and ham and toast and cereal, with lots of hot tea and coffee. You could
eat in your room, the common dining room, or outside on one of the garden tables—as long as you were willing to bring your own dishes back to the kitchen.

Patrick had opted for the garden. The common area didn't provide enough privacy for the serious talk he could see looming on the horizon. The bedrooms, on the other hand, provided way too much.

It had not been a relaxed meal so far. Ellyn had been watching him carefully over the small nibbles she took of her dry toast, and he knew she was waiting for the perfect psychological moment to start asking questions.

“It was a darling party last night,” she said. It was the social equivalent of the first move in a chess game. Tentative. The inching of a pawn, to see what kind of response came back.

“Yes, it was.”

“And it was so nice of them to include me on the spur of the moment like that.”

“Yes,” he said. “They're very low-key around here. Very friendly.”

“You didn't mind, did you?” She was smiling. “I mean, when I first got there, you seemed…busy. With that pretty psychologist from the birthing center.”

That was a much bolder move than Ellyn usually risked. A sudden thrust forward of a key piece. But Patrick didn't feel like playing chess anymore. He liked Ellyn. He liked her too much to play games with her feelings.

He leaned forward. “Ellyn, what's really going on
here? You know we've both always dated other people.”

It was true. He and Ellyn had been good friends, and sometimes more, for years now. They'd become the other's official fallback companions—the ones who could always be counted on in a pinch. But exclusivity had never been part of the deal.

She nodded, still smiling. “Yes, I know,” she said. “I guess I can assume you've already given me the answer to my next question. You are dating Celia Brice.”

He shrugged. “Dating? That doesn't seem like quite the right word. It's…complicated.” But that sounded cagey, like more game-playing. He gave her a straight look. “But if you're asking am I attracted to her, the answer is yes.”

She nodded again. “I thought so. Women can always tell those things.”

“Oh, yeah?” He laughed. “That's pretty scary.”

The spring wind was gusty today, and filled with the scents from the garden's purple lilacs. Patrick liked it, but the breezes were playing havoc with Ellyn's glossy auburn hair. She kept tucking it back behind her ears with a small tick of frustration. Something was bothering her. Could it really be that she was jealous of Celia—someone he'd known for only about a week?

Not possible. Ellyn had never said a word about his other women friends. Not even the ones he took on holiday to Cancún, or weekends in Paris.

“Ellyn,” he said, suddenly serious. “Why did you
come all the way out here? And don't tell me it's the files. It would have been much easier to mail them.”

She glanced at him once, then, to his surprise, she looked away. She fiddled with her hair, and then she looked down. She pinched a tiny pleat into her green silk skirt. Then she took a deep breath, smoothed her skirt, and looked up at him again.

“I'm not sure I can explain it,” she said. “I just had the feeling I ought to—” She raised her eyebrows. “Would it sound too weird if I said I had some kind of sixth sense?”

“About what?”

“About us, I guess.” She smiled at him. “Tell me the truth, Patrick. I think it's time for me to hear it, out loud. In words. What you and I have… It's not really—” She tilted her head. “We aren't ever going to get married, are we?”

He must have had some kind of sixth sense, too. He'd been half expecting this question all through the eggs and toast, though they had never uttered the word, not even once, throughout their entire relationship.

“No,” he said gently. “I don't think so. Do you?”

“No.” She sighed. “Once, I thought maybe… I mean, I— But no. I don't think so, either. I just needed to hear you say it.”

He touched her hand. He couldn't believe she was really heartbroken—he'd never led her on. And Ellyn was a champion at the chess game of relationships. She'd been bred to it.