The Homecoming Baby (13 page)

He nodded. “Perfect.”

Her car was obviously too small for him, so they took his rental SUV. It was large and comfy and better suited to the rocky terrain. But she grabbed a couple of blankets and a jacket from her own trunk. It could get darn cold on that bridge at night.

She navigated, and they found their way there in no time. Excited at the prospect of sharing this awesome, intimate pleasure with him, she felt her pulse quicken.

She had him park the car at the foot of the formation, where they had the best view. They got out of the car. And then she waited.

Thank goodness, he didn't rush to say anything pat about how beautiful it was. She was so glad. She had been sure he would understand.

The moon was no longer full, but it was bright enough to turn the vast sky an inky purple, against which the natural arch of the bridge formation was silhouetted dramatically.

A shiver ran down her spine, as it always did when she came here at night, and she reached out for his hand. Nothing moved. Nothing made a sound. And yet the silence throbbed with earth music, as if your
very blood thrummed its response to something you only half understood.

During the daytime, these twists and juts of rock were orange, yellow and red—easily explained seabed sediments full of iron that had oxidized over millions of years. But at night they were as cryptic as Stonehenge. Mysterious monuments that somehow spoke of the complicated interconnection of God and Nature and Man. Of eternity and courage and struggle.

She shivered again, and he turned to her quickly. “You're cold,” he said.

She nodded. So he went back to the car, reached in and grabbed the blankets. And then he took her hand and began to lead her toward the rock.

His steps were so sure, his body so strong and well suited to anything athletic. She watched his graceful power, and found it thrilling.

Halfway up the abutment, she stumbled. Only his hand kept her from sliding down to the ledge just below them. She gripped his hand more tightly, unhurt, but strangely unsettled. This formation wasn't treacherous. It had a mild slope, and plenty of wide footholds. She'd climbed it many times, ever since she was a little girl.

But this was the first time she had ever lost her footing.

It wasn't terribly high—maybe only fifteen feet or so—and they reached the top quickly. He wasn't even winded.

For several minutes they stood on the broad, flat
ledge, staring out at the arching “bridge” that stretched before them. It had always been her own private fantasy place. Though no one in New Mexico would think of actually setting foot on one of these fragile environmental treasures, she had often danced on that bridge in her dreams.

He spread out one blanket beneath them, and opened the other one so that it floated across their shoulders. They sat with their backs to the rock tower, his arm around her, his hand resting on her knee.

Gradually she grew warmer, as if he'd spun a cocoon of soft wool and body heat. They didn't talk. They just watched the bridge that arched away from them into the darkness. Stars swam over it like silver minnows, and the wind whispered into the hollows between rocks, speaking a language no human being knew.

He was relaxing, too. In all the places where his body met hers, she could feel the rigid muscles begin to smooth out. He let his head fall back against the rock.

“What a horrible day,” he said. Then a beat of silence. “I hurt people today. People I cared about.”

She looked at him. His eyes were shut, and his profile was as black against the purple sky as if he, too, were made of rock. She resisted the urge to touch him, to reassure herself that he really was flesh and blood.

She couldn't do that—not yet. But maybe she could help.

“Was one of them Ellyn Grainger?”

He turned his head toward her. “Yes,” he said, his voice surprised. “How did you know that?”

“I saw her. We had a long talk.”

“About me?”

“Mostly. She came into The Silver Eagle while I was having lunch. She was crying, so I went over to see if I could help.”

“She was crying?” He frowned sharply. “Are you sure? Things must have been worse than I imagined. Ellyn never cries.”

Celia smiled. “Well, maybe I should say she was delicately damp around the eyes. It wasn't exactly wailing and gnashing of teeth.”

“No. Never that, not with Ellyn.” He hesitated for a second. “Would it be betraying a confidence to tell me what she said?”

“Not at all. In fact, that's one of the reasons I was looking for you tonight. I wanted to tell you what I found out. I was hoping it might make you feel better about everything.”

“Why? What did she say?”

“She said that the two of you had broken things off. At first, she said, she'd been hurt. But then when she thought it through, she realized what bothered her most was the thought of losing the two million dollars you'd promised to her animal shelter.”

He just looked at her for a moment. And then, suddenly, he burst out laughing. The sound was beautiful and clear in the empty, open sky.

“That's exactly how I thought you'd react. At least I hoped you would.”

“She should have known I never intended to withdraw the offer. God, I wouldn't dare.”

“Why not?”

He shook his head, still amused. “You don't know Ellyn. If I don't help her build that damn shelter, she'll have me adopting every stray dog in the Bay area.”

“She's a lovely person, isn't she?” Celia sighed happily. “I like her.”

“So do I. Even if she was only after my money.”

She chuckled, trying to imagine anyone even remembering that Patrick had money when sitting this close to him.

She put her hand softly on his leg. “So what else is bothering you?” Her voice was warm and teasing. “Maybe Dr. Celia can make it go away, too.”

Within a fraction of a second, she regretted saying anything so foolish. His easy posture changed, and she felt him pull slightly away from her.

Something was hurting him. She could feel it in the tension of his broad shoulders. She could see it in the shuttered resistance of his face. He ached somewhere, somewhere deep inside that he hardly knew how to access.

She touched her own chest, which ached, too, suddenly. What was it? Something about his father?

She had no idea. But she knew it was there as plainly as if it had been a simple, visible gash on his cheek. She knew because the pain in him set up an answering pain in her, as if they were different pieces of the same body.

At first it frightened her. She'd sat next to people in pain so many times. It was her job. But, though she listened and empathized and counseled, she always maintained a professional distance. She had never felt connected in this vulnerable, almost mystical way…as though, if someone cut the palm of his hand, she would open her own and find it full of blood.

A piece of a poem came unbidden into her mind.
“A pity beyond all telling is hid in the heart of love.”

She couldn't remember where the quote came from, probably something she'd learned at school. But right now, up here, she felt as if she truly understood it for the first time in her life.

For a moment she couldn't breathe. How could she have let this happen? It was impossible. And it was obviously hopeless. But it was too late to guard against it. In defiance of all common sense, in spite of all her best-laid plans, she had fallen in love with Patrick Torrance.

And that meant his happiness had now become more important to her even than her own.

“Please tell me,” she said again, soberly this time. “Maybe I can help. Maybe I can make it go away.”

He shook his head.

“The rest of the day was significantly more complicated,” he said. “I can't fix it with a check. Not with a hundred checks. You can't fix it, either. No one can.”

She reached up and cupped his strong face in her hands.

“I didn't say I could fix it,” she whispered. She leaned in and kissed the pulse that beat hard against his throat. “I said I could make it go away.”

He swallowed roughly. His jaw was tight and throbbing under her hands. “No—”

“Yes.” She rose up on her knees and faced him. His eyes glimmered, and his breath was coming fast.

“I can, Patrick. I can make it go away. You just have to open up and let me in.”

E
VEN A VERY GOOD MAN
couldn't have resisted her.

And he wasn't a very good man.

He was an angry bastard, born to a mother who knew nothing about love, raised by a man who knew nothing about mercy. He had come to this town with resentment in his heart, determined to feed pain by the fistful to the people who had been responsible.

He had even exploited this beautiful woman in order to get the information he needed to find them.

No, he was far from a good man. But bitterness was like a caustic running through his veins, and she was offering the milky sweetness of her body as a respite from the pain. How could he say no?

He could have pretended it was the purple night, the otherworld quality of this strange rock formation on which they lay. He could have pretended he was caught in one of the vortexes people liked to believe swirled in the air out here. Hypnotized by the ancient murmuring of the wind, seduced by the stars.

He could have pretended those things…except for the condom he'd put in his pocket before he left the bed and breakfast. Except for that, the proof that he had always known it might come to this tonight.

He had no excuse. She peeled away his shoes, and he didn't say a word. She opened the buttons of his shirt, and he didn't stop her. She unbuckled his jeans, and slid them down his legs, and he gripped the rock under his hands until it began to crumble. But he didn't stop her.

He forced himself to lie motionless, a sacrifice on that rocky altar, while she touched him. His scars were clearly outlined by moonlight, and her hands found them all. She stroked the small ones with the tips of her fingers, and the longer, deeper ones she kissed, murmuring soft noises like healing spells.

The air was cold, and she was hot, and his whole body felt just on the verge of disintegration. But still he didn't stop her.

She wore only a plain denim jacket over a loose, flowered dress. She shed the jacket and tossed it carelessly to the side. He heard it slide over the rim of their ledge and, after a small silence, he heard it land softly on the rocks below.

Then she pulled off her dress, folded it and tucked it safely under the edge of the blanket.

But he was hardly aware of that. The instant he saw her kneeling there, white-hot curves against the cold purple sky, her breasts tipped in darkness, her hair flowing with moonlight, he had to close his eyes on a groan. He felt his torso jackknife forward once, doubled over by desire.

He reached out for her. It was too much. He couldn't wait.

She put her hand on his chest and pressed him back
against the rock. “Lie still,” she said. “There isn't much room. We have to be careful.”

He wanted to protest. This wasn't how he made love. He gave before he received. He controlled. He never relinquished control himself, never. This wasn't who he was….

But it was who she wanted him to be. And so he took shallow breaths and dug at the rocks with his fingers and forced his body to be still.

She positioned herself between his legs, and, very slowly, she bent over him. Her moon-white hair teased his skin first, and then her warm, panting breath. He felt unseen muscles begin to twitch and burn.

When she closed her mouth over him, he cried out so harshly it rang from one thrusting rock tower to another, and back again. He heard it from a great distance. The only reality he knew was the blinding ache between his legs, and the gentle, rhythmic agony of her mouth.

At the last possible, spiraling moment, she stopped. She shifted, and he knew she was going to climb onto him, with the void dropping away on either side of her knees, and she was going to absorb him into her body.

Yes. He reached up blindly and took her tight, pebbled breasts into his hands. His body was still rocking slightly, as if her mouth were still on him. Yes.

He couldn't possibly wait.

But he had to.

He reached out with one hand and fumbled through
his twisted jeans, which were inside out. And then he found it, thank God he found it before he could give in to the voice that said
go ahead, who cares, to hell with the condom.

Her smile was dazed and tender. Her fingers were trembling, yet sure as she put it on him.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“No,” he said thickly. She must not thank him. She had brought this fevered blessing, this fierce sweetness to him, and he didn't deserve any of it. But it was hard to speak, and he couldn't think of the words. “No.”

With a small, hungry whimper that said she was as ready as he was, she lowered herself onto him.

“Celia—”

But then she moved. She moved again. And again. The rock beneath him caught fire. The purple sky turned red.

And every word he had ever known went up in the dazzling flame.

 

T
HE NEXT MORNING
, Trish arrived at The Birth Place very early and began straightening up the waiting room, stacking the toys a little more neatly and making sure the magazines were all current. The busy-work was comforting to her. It gave her the illusion of control. The appearance of order.

She had thought about staying home today. Though it was something very few other people realized, May 15 had always been a difficult day for her. It was the anniversary of the day they found Teague Ellis's
body. The day the investigation into Angelina's disappearance opened up all over again.

It was also the day she and her father had had their final argument, the one from which their relationship never recovered. Her father, embarrassed and infuriated by the renewed investigation, had been calling his missing daughter all kinds of names.

He'd started with the usual.
Tramp. Selfish bitch.
But it got worse. “I wouldn't be surprised if she pushed that poor boy down that shaft.”

Poor boy.
That was a real joke. When Angelina and Tee had been dating, J. P. Linden had called him names far less sympathetic.

And finally he'd said the words Trish could never forgive him for. “Any fool knows she hoped that baby would die. Even an animal would protect its young better than that.”

Trish had flown at him in a rage. He'd been stunned. He'd never seen a temper in his younger daughter before. But when she told him to shut up, to stop saying such disgusting things about Angelina, he didn't know anything about it, not anything, he had been furious.

He was already raw, easy to inflame. He knew the town had been talking. They thought it was ironic, in a deliciously macabre way, that Angelina had decided to deliver her unwanted, illegitimate baby at the school named after her arrogant, wealthy father. Angelina had really thumbed her nose at the old tyrant that time, hadn't she?

So when Trish sided with Angelina, it had been the
last straw. They hardly spoke after that. She moved out as soon as she could, and when he died ten years later, he left all his money to a college in Santa Fe. Trish got a silver tea service. Angelina's name wasn't even mentioned.

All because someone found Tee's body at the bottom of a forgotten mineshaft.

Twenty-eight years ago today.

She tried to shake off the whole black cloud of memory. It was only a date on the calendar. It didn't mean anything. It was ancient history. Why not come to work? There was nothing to do at home but remember and brood.

Just before 8:00 a.m., she heard a car pull up in the driveway. She went to the window, and saw that it was Mitch. Instinctively her hand went to her hair, smoothing it into place. She tugged at her skirt, hoping it wasn't rumpled. In spite of everything, it made her heart race to see him walking up the front steps.

But what did he want?

She stood there, a small stuffed elephant in her hand and waited. The door was already unlocked, and he pushed through like a man who had something on his mind.

“I need to talk to you,” he said.

“All right.” Her throat felt slightly dry. Something was wrong. But she managed to motion politely with the elephant. “Do you want to sit down?”

He shook his head. “I'm not staying. I just have something to tell you, and from there it's up to you. You're going to have to decide what happens next.”

“All right,” she said again. She'd never seen Mitch look so tense. Ordinarily, he was laid-back and tolerant, no matter how many things were coming unglued around him.

She tucked the elephant under her arm. “What is it?”

He looked her straight in the eye. “I've got a buyer for the Eagle.”

She didn't answer immediately. She wanted to be sure she understood. “That's good, isn't it? You've been hoping to sell—”

“That's not all.” He put his hands in his pockets. “These people want to buy the apartment complex, too. If I sell them both, I'm leaving Enchantment. The restaurant and the building are the only things keeping me here. If I sell them, I'm packing up and starting over somewhere else.”

“Oh.” She felt a little as if she'd been slapped. “I see.”

“No, I don't think you do.” He set his jaw. “What I'm telling you, Trish, is that I've played the fool here long enough. I'm leaving this town unless you come to me and tell me flat out that you want me to stay.”

She wished they were sitting down. Her knees didn't feel quite normal. She looked at him, at the flushed frustration on his kind, handsome face. “Well, of course you know I want you to stay—”

“Not like that.” He put his hand out to stop her quick protestation. “Not like a friend, not like a landlord. Like a man.”

“Mitch—”

“No. Don't say anything right now. I want you to think it over.” He went to the door and put his hand on the knob. She saw that he held it so tightly his knuckles were pale.

“Listen, Trish, I don't know who's hurt you in the past, but it damn sure wasn't me. So if you're ready to move on beyond all that and have a real relationship, I'm here.”

He opened the door. “And if you're not, I'm gone.”

 

C
ELIA FLOATED THROUGH HER MORNING
, through a meeting with her accountant, a session with a patient trying to lose weight, and another who thought her husband was cheating. She floated through lunch, and even through signing the checks her secretary brought for her review.

When she hummed as she signed, the woman gave her a strange look—bill-paying day was usually one of Celia's least favorite days of the month—but she didn't come right out and ask any questions.

Questions like, Hey, boss, why do you have that stupid grin on your face? Why have you been humming the same tune for hours? What on earth did you
do
last night?

Celia was surprised that the truth wasn't written all over her face. She went into the bathroom to wash her hands after lunch, and, looking in the mirror, it seemed pretty obvious to her. This pink-cheeked, dewy-eyed, idiotically blissful face belonged to a
woman who had spent all night having soul-stirring, toe-curling, magnificent, marvelous sex.

And hoped to do so again tonight.

So, because this was the first time she'd ever really been in love, she just kept on floating, enjoying the sensation. If it once or twice occurred to her that she might be floating a little too near the sun, she put the thought out of her mind immediately. If her wings melted, so be it. At least she would have touched that wonderful, fiery star, which was more than most people could say.

After a short session at the teen center, she headed to the Birth Place for a couple of late appointments. She would probably run into Trish, something she both looked forward to and dreaded. The giggling, girlish part of her was eager to tell Trish all about it. Eager to tell Trish that, in spite of everything people said, there
was
such a thing as a perfect man.

But the tiny part of her that was still connected to reality knew that Trish would be distressed to know that Celia and Patrick had made love. Trish liked Patrick, Celia was sure of that. And yet Trish maintained the unshakable position that Patrick was not good for Celia.

Of course, Celia rationalized, Trish was always overly cautious. She lived every day as if it were a tightrope walk over an alligator pit.

Sometimes Celia, who tended to be impulsive, appreciated her friend's sensible guidance. After all, that's what mother figures were for.

More often, like today, she just wanted to let go and love life.

She arrived at The Birth Place at four, a full half an hour before her first appointment. Maybe she could find a little privacy to talk to Trish. She'd like to be the one to tell her…

But the minute she walked in the door, she knew something was wrong.

Trish hardly looked up as Celia arrived—which was completely unlike her. As the receptionist, Trish considered it her responsibility to greet warmly and personally everyone who entered the building.

Today, though, she was staring down at her desk, apparently lost in thought. She didn't seem to hear the door at all. Worried, Celia waved at some of the patients in the waiting area, then hurried to Trish's desk.

“Hi,” she said. “Are you okay?”

Trish's head came up, and Celia caught her breath. Trish's eyes were so shadowed and bleak that she looked like a stranger. A stranger who hadn't slept for a week.

Celia glanced down at the desk, wondering what Trish could have been staring at. Trish's left hand was resting on her little Venetian snow globe. The other was holding a pencil, point down against a sheet of paper, as if she had been in the middle of writing something, but couldn't remember what.

None of that helped Celia to understand. But the desk calendar did.

Oh, God. She had forgotten. This was the anniver
sary of the discovery of Tee Ellis's body. Trish didn't ever talk about it; she wasn't one to discuss her problems openly. But Celia had been her friend long enough to know that this was one of two days each year when Trish seemed to have difficulty putting the whole Angelina tragedy behind her. November 25, the anniversary of Angelina's disappearance, and this day, May 15.