The Homecoming Baby (9 page)

“I'll be stuck at the Eagle. Oh, well. I'll just leave it. If she likes it, maybe she'll stop by to thank me, and I can talk her into staying and eating.”

Celia grinned. “Or running the cash register?”

Mitch's face brightened. “No, that's the good part. I hired the triplets. They start tonight. I'm hoping my staffing problems are over, and I won't have to impose on you two anymore. That's why I brought these.”

Celia reached out. “Well, in case you hadn't noticed, I
am
here. I'd like to open mine!”

Mitch handed one of the packages over. Celia propped it on the reception counter and untied the twine that held the wrapping on. After that, the thick brown paper unfolded easily, revealing the most beautiful framed photograph of Red Rock Bridge she'd ever seen. A full white moon hung so low it almost touched the rock, and cast a silvery glow over the whole scene.

Looking at this haunting, mystical photograph, she could really understand why the Native Americans had believed the place was magical.

“It's gorgeous,” she said, kissing his cheek. “It's my favorite place in the world—and you've captured everything that's extraordinary about it! You are really an artist, Mitch.”

“Oh, good grief.” He shook his head, but he was obviously moved by her enthusiasm. “Trish told me
you love it there. She says you go there sometimes when you need to think. It worries her, of course.”

They shared a grin. “Of course.”

She looked back at the photograph, and she realized there was a small white envelope tucked into the corner.

She frowned at Mitch. “There'd better not be any money in that envelope, mister,” she said. “We've told you a thousand times we won't take a nickel for helping out at the Eagle. With all you do for us—”

“It's not money. Look.”

She pulled out the envelope and opened it. Inside was a small note card with a charming photograph of the fountain in their complex courtyard, bubbling in the sunshine, catching rainbows. She unfolded the card.
A Farewell To The Fountain,
it read.
Sunday night. Bring a friend. 7:00 p.m. till????

She looked up. “A farewell to the fountain?”

Mitch nodded. “The drought is getting serious. Water restrictions go into effect Monday, and I'll have to turn off the fountain. So I thought it might be fun to have one last courtyard party and give the thing a formal goodbye.”

Celia did a small, happy tap dance, one tap with each foot so that she wouldn't look
too
silly to the patients seated in the waiting area. But, oh, Mitch was brilliant! She had been racking her mind, trying to think of an excuse to call Patrick. And now here it was!

“I see you like the idea,” Mitch said, smiling.
“Let me guess. Your favorite part is the part about bringing a friend?”

She nodded. “I need an olive branch, and this is the perfect one. He was so nice last night. He practically rescued me from the railroad tracks, and I wasn't very gracious about it. I'd like a chance to apologize.”

“Well, that's great.” Mitch went around the counter and arranged the package for Trish on her desk, careful not to mess up any of her neat stacks of charts and papers. “Then it'll be a good excuse for both of us. The only times I ever get to see Trish are when she's working at the Eagle, or when we have one of our parties. And now that I've hired three new waitresses—”

Celia grinned. “We'll have to have courtyard parties every single night!”

“Works for me.” He patted the package one last time. “And if you wanted to return the favor, you might just hint that it would be a good idea to stop by the Eagle tonight to say thanks.”

“I'll try.” Watching him get ready to go, Celia had a sudden anxious thought. She bent her head and lowered her voice. “Mitch, I have to ask you something. It's kind of crazy, but I'm a little worried—”

“What? Is something wrong with Trish?” He bent his head, too. His face was suddenly intense, somber.

“No, nothing like that. This sounds kind of silly, I know. But I have to ask someone, and you were around when it all happened. You knew everyone, so you'll have a better idea—”

“Celia. Make sense.”

“Okay.” She bit her lower lip. “Have you noticed that Patrick—well, that Patrick kind of looks like Teague Ellis? I mean, like the pictures of Teague Ellis that I've seen, anyhow.”

Mitch nodded. “Sure. We've all talked about it around town. It's kind of a shock, the first time you see the guy. But after a few minutes it wears off. He's really not very much like Teague. If you'd known him, you'd see what I mean.”

“Good. That's what I thought, too. But then, the first time Trish saw him, she was—uh, she seemed really upset. I know the memory of Teague can't be a happy one for her, no matter what really happened to Angelina.”

“Angelina ran away,” Mitch said, his voice growing louder.

Celia tilted her head curiously.

“Anybody who says it was a suicide pact, or murder, or whatever…anybody who says she's still at the bottom of that mine shaft—well, they just don't know how hard we looked. Between the town and the police, we went over every square inch of that place.”

Celia was surprised by his vehemence. A suicide pact? That actually was one interpretation of the legend she hadn't ever heard.

“Okay,” she said slowly. “I'm sure you're right. That's not what I meant, anyhow. It's just that anything about Tee would remind her of Angelina, wouldn't it? And losing Angelina was the toughest thing she ever endured. I wouldn't want to cause her
any pain by bringing around a guy who looks just like Tee Ellis.”

Mitch's face cleared. He looked embarrassed. “Oh, I see. Sorry. I was in Angelina's class at school, you know. The whole thing seems pretty real to me, and I get tired of all the cheap speculation about what happened that night.”

She nodded. “I can imagine. Well, what do you think? Is bringing Patrick to the party going to make it difficult for Trish?”

Mitch considered a moment. He took everything about Trish's well-being quite seriously. “No,” he said. “I'm sure it won't. Patrick Torrance isn't anything like Tee Ellis, really. Tee was a thug, a real badass. He was trash, and I'm not just talking about how much money his family had. He and I came from the same side of the tracks, so I don't set much store by all that.”

“I know that,” she said. No one could accuse Mitch of being a snob. He was the fairest man in Enchantment. He'd worked his way up from nothing, and everyone respected him for it. He had friends who lived in the glitzy chalets high in the mountains, and he had friends in the Lazy H Trailer Park on the south side of town.

“Anyhow, I don't think it'll bother her a bit,” he said. “The resemblance is all superficial. Once you get past the coloring and the good looks, those two men are as different as night and day.”

Celia felt a selfish relief sweep over her. She loved Trish—loved her like a mother—but, even so, it
would have been very difficult to give up the hope of more time with Patrick.

Mitch chucked her under the chin, obviously aware of all the conflicting emotions she'd been struggling with.

“It's okay,” he said. “I think you just may underestimate our Trish. She's actually a very strong lady.”

 

B
Y SIX-THIRTY
S
UNDAY NIGHT
, even the sky was dressed up for the party. Below its darkening bodice, it wore a flamenco skirt trimmed in striped ruffles of aquamarine and peach.

Celia was ready early, so she went out to enjoy the sight. At this time of day, the courtyard always went through a magical transformation. The sunset made the bricks glow warm and golden. It painted the white walls with peachfire. And it made the fountain seem—

Halfway across the courtyard, she stopped in her tracks. The fountain seemed to be foaming over with sunset-colored suds.

Finally she noticed Mitch, who was still in his jeans and rolled-up shirtsleeves, doggedly scooping suds out of the water and dumping them into a trash can, accentuating every movement with an irritated grunt.

“Mitch, what happened?”

He looked up, scowling. “Some damn fool put soap suds in the water. Careful where you step. I just mopped the courtyard. Bricks were covered in it and
slick as hell.” He scooped another handful. “Dancing would have been impossible for sure.”

She moved toward him. “Here. Let me help.”

“No—you're all dressed up.” Mitch seemed fully aware of her for the first time. “Wow. You look gorgeous.”

His reaction was obviously sincere, which gave her hope that Patrick might like it, too. She'd tried on everything in her closet before deciding on this one, a soft blue dress that had a low gypsy neckline, loose sleeves gathered at the wrist, a tightly smocked waist, and a flowing, knee-length skirt.

It wasn't San Francisco designer elegance, but it made her eyes look very blue and her waist look very small. And when she added her best dangly opal earrings and teardrop pendant, which had a lot of colorful fire in them, she had dared to believe she could compete.

She pushed her sleeves up to her elbows. “I'll be careful,” she said. “You've already done most of it. Why don't you let me finish, and you can go clean up?”

He looked torn, as if he wanted to decline, but couldn't deny being glad to have some help. “Okay, just a few more scoops. I don't care if there are suds left, as long as they're not foaming over the sides, okay?”

“Okay.” She dug her hands in and pulled out an armload of sparkling, peach-tinted bubbles that shimmied and popped against her skin.

They worked together maybe ten minutes, filling
three more trash cans. Then, when she could see they were finished—the rest of the suds fit safely within the deep basins of the fountain—she picked up one last handful and held it in front of her face.

“Mitch,” she said. He looked up, and, pursing her lips, she lightly blew the pretty foam in his direction.

Several tiny bubbles landed on his hair. He made a small growling sound. He obviously hadn't recovered his sense of humor yet.

“Go get dressed,” she said. “Your party is about to start, and you're going to miss it!”

He checked his watch, though he had to blow away suds to see the numbers. “Damn,” he said. “You're right.”

But before he was able to take a single step toward his own apartment, Eddie from number 8 came out, all dressed in black, which was his standard artistic affectation. Trish, who looked lovely in a royal-blue pantsuit clasped with a wide turquoise and silver belt, followed him.

“Mitch! Celia! Wait!” Eddie was rushing toward the fountain, his guitar dangling from one hand. “I need your help with something.”

Celia looked over at Trish, who was smiling but shaking her head in that tolerantly amused way she had when she thought people were being foolish. Eddie frequently brought out that look from everyone. He was a genius on the guitar, but he wasn't firmly attached to reality. He slept all day, played guitar all night, ate only fruit and nuts, and was generally infamous for his whacky, New Age ideas.

“I've found it! I've found the answer!” He seemed oblivious to the suds in the fountain. He propped his foot up, steadied his guitar on his knee, tossed his long, lank black hair out of his face dramatically and strummed a chord.

“The answer to what?” Mitch seemed a lot less amused than Trish. But then, he was covered in sticky suds and perspiring from his exertions.

“The drought, of course,” Eddie said. “I've been researching Native American rain dances. I can teach them to you. They're quite simple. I'll accompany you on the guitar, and you three can dance, and before you know it, the heavens will open.”

Mitch looked as if he might grab the guitar away, but Trish, who had always had an inexplicable soft spot for this young man, put her hand on Mitch's arm. “Maybe we should wait until
after
the party, Eddie. If it pours, it will spoil everything.”

Eddie strummed again, just one melodramatic note. Several more residents had come out into the courtyard, and he realized he had an audience.

“No. Enchantment cries out for rain. Our pitiful party is totally insignificant compared to the damage being done to our environment. With every moment that passes, something out there dies.”

Mitch leaned over and whispered into Celia's ear. “A few more of his brain cells, for instance.”

Probably fifteen or twenty residents and guests now crowded the courtyard, which was dimming to a dark, shadowed rose as the sun sank completely behind the
Sangre de Cristo Mountains. The overhead strings of lights began to emerge like low-hanging stars.

Eddie strummed again, and someone started the chant. “Rain dance. Rain dance. Rain dance.”

Celia spotted Patrick among the others, and suddenly her blood felt as twinkling and bright as the lights strung between the rooftops. When she'd telephoned him with the invitation, he'd said he'd be glad to come. But it felt as if she'd been holding her breath, just waiting for him, all week.

Maybe even longer than that.

He was smiling. It was such a sexy smile. And it was a beautiful night, Eddie's guitar had begun a rhythmic, primitive melody, and her body was already responding. She squeezed Trish's hand, tossed an “oh, well” grin at Mitch, and then moved toward Patrick, her hands outstretched in welcome.

“You're just in time,” she said as she reached him. “Come on, Mr. Torrance. Rain dance!”

A
T FIRST
, P
ATRICK HAD FELT
as if he'd stumbled onto the set of a Zorro movie. The Spanish colonial courtyard, the classical guitar, the casks of red wine, the guests all dressed in cowboy boots, string ties and Mexican peasant skirts…

And a rain dance.

However, he soon realized he was too accustomed to Ellyn Grainger's themed costume parties. Ellyn could have staged a scene exactly like this one to benefit abandoned Appaloosa horses or some nearly extinct turtle.

But this wasn't a stage set. This was the real thing.

He could hear the authenticity in Eddie Lopez's guitar. He could smell it in the perfumes that rose from the lush geraniums—not sweet, as Ellyn thought all flowers should be, but sharply pungent and alive.

He could see it in the sky, which was vast and black over their heads, not like a foggy canopy, but like the beginning of infinity.

He definitely wasn't in San Francisco anymore.

After the nonsense of the rain dance, the real party had begun. He had danced with Celia for an hour that felt like a minute. They didn't talk a lot privately—
people were always coming by between songs, keeping a steady conversation of chatter and gossip.

And when they were dancing, the experience was too quiet, too physical and personal for words. Celia was a wonderful dancer, and whenever she moved the opals at her ears flickered with fire. He could have watched them forever.

But eventually even Eddie Lopez grew tired of playing and wanted a break. People drifted toward the long tables laden with food, talking and bursting into bits of song, sometimes Spanish, sometimes English, sometimes a mix of the two.

A woman came up asking Celia for help mixing a new batch of sangria, so he relinquished her reluctantly, glad to see that she looked disappointed, too. He went to see if he could help Mitch with the food.

Mitch looked grateful. “Food's all right, but I think I should bring out some soft drinks. If you could lug one end of the cooler, I'd appreciate a hand.”

Patrick agreed, and the two of them walked toward the southern end of the square.

“Sorry about the mess,” Mitch said as they reached his door. “I renovated the rest of the apartments first, and what with the restaurant and all, I haven't had time to get around to my own.”

“I'll bet this complex took a lot of work. It looks wonderful. You did it all yourself?”

Mitch nodded. “Hired out what I could. But I turned out to be the cheapest help I could find. Not the best, necessarily, but the cheapest.”

Patrick chuckled. He liked the older man's attitude.
He obviously worked hard and kept a cheerful attitude about it.

The apartment was unlocked—another indication that Patrick definitely wasn't in San Francisco anymore—and Mitch told him to make himself at home in the living room while he washed up.

“I'm crusted in dried soap suds. I kept meaning to come back and wash off, but there hasn't been a free minute. I won't be long.”

“Take your time. I'm fine.”

Patrick always enjoyed seeing how other people lived. It told him a lot. It didn't take a psychiatrist, for instance, to look around his own father's living room and see that a very sick, very rich man had lived there. The theme of every piece of expensive art he had possessed was domination. Romans in chariots whipped their horses, eagles lifted off with their talons full of prey, Sabine women were dragged off by their hair.

Mitchell Dixon's living area, on the other hand, was the room of a thoughtful, intelligent man. He mostly had hung his own photographs on the walls—just as he had at The Silver Eagle.

They were interesting. Scenes of local landscape, local people. Patrick studied them. Mitch had an extraordinary talent for capturing the stark beauty of New Mexico. Patrick knew that in San Francisco these would be hailed as masterpieces.

The man owned a lot of books, too, which appealed to Patrick. Cheap bookcases strained to hold hundreds, some expensive art volumes, some tattered pa
perbacks—all well loved, well read. Patrick scanned the titles. Everything from Proust to Grisham, and one whole shelf that seemed to be…high school year-books.

Patrick's curiosity quickened.
Linden High Lions.
The books were arranged in chronological order, and they covered about twelve years. That was odd. Nobody spent twelve years in high school.

Mitch came out of the back, rolling up the cuffs of his fresh white-oxford-cloth shirt. He saw immediately what had caught Patrick's attention and smiled.

“Only the first four are my own high school career. The rest I bought because I took a lot of the pictures in them. I was trying to build my photography business, so I donated my time to get the exposure.”

Patrick laughed. “I
was
wondering,” he admitted. He looked at the dates on the earliest ones. The fourth from the left—that was the year of his birth. “Mind if I take a look?”

Mitch shook his head. “No, help yourself. In fact…”

He came over and pulled out one of the books. Patrick looked at him questioningly.

“There's something in here that might interest you. I don't know if anyone's had the nerve to mention it to you outright, but there's this guy who used to live in Enchantment. A guy named Teague Ellis. Weird thing is you look a helluva lot like him.”

Patrick wondered what the most natural response was. He had heard it a couple of times. Just this morning, the woman who waited on him at Slim Jim's
Diner had blurted it out within ten seconds of meeting him.

“Yeah,” he said. “So I've been told. But I haven't seen a picture of the guy, so I can't judge whether it's true.”

Mitch made a low, snorting laugh and began leafing through the pages. “Oh, it's true. I went to school with Tee, and I can tell you the resemblance is uncanny. At least at first. After that, the differences are fairly easy to spot. Tee was kind of rough around the edges.”

He held out the book, pointing to the left-hand page. “Take a look for yourself. I'll be right back.”

Patrick took it. Keeping his face under control, he lowered his gaze to the picture.

It was an artsy black-and-white photo of a dark-haired teenager on a motorcycle. The cover page to the “Interests” section, it was larger than the average yearbook picture, taking up almost half a page, so it was easier to see the details.

The yearbook felt very heavy, and Patrick propped it against the bookcase so he wouldn't drop it.

So this was Tee Ellis. No wonder everyone did a double-take when they saw Patrick. He stared at the teen, who appeared to be staring back defiantly. Except for the shaggy hair, the snarling curl to the full lip, the dark eyebrow raised in a devil-may-care arch, it might have been a picture of Patrick himself.

It was damn unnerving. And it was practically impossible to think of this boy, with his angry attitude,
his thin, bony elbows that said he was always a little hungry, as anyone's father—much less his own.

He didn't look old enough, for starters. He was probably no more than eighteen, twelve years younger than Patrick was today.

After a couple of minutes Patrick had to look away. He turned toward the back of the book, where the junior class pictures were collected, in row after row of identical little rectangles.

J…K…L… Laramie, Leichester, Linden.

Linden, Angelina.

Patrick counted the spaces with his forefinger, and he stopped on a black-haired beauty so perfect he heard himself take in an astonished breath.

Angelina Linden. She was every high school boy's dream. Perfect teeth, perfect hair, perfect skin. Her laughing eyes, meeting the camera with an almost speaking look, said country club poise, dean's list brains. Her glossy hair, graceful neck and flawless makeup said privilege and class.

But where in that stylishly thin body had she hidden a baby? Had no one noticed that she suddenly switched to looser clothes, or that she seemed to put on weight?

She probably, as Don Frost had suggested, had starved herself. She wouldn't have minded if it damaged the baby, would she? After all, she didn't want the baby anyhow. Dirty diapers and dawn feedings would hardly fit into the princess-perfect life she loved.

Still…if Angelina really were a perfect princess,
where did Tee Ellis come in? Patrick looked closer. And he kept looking, going to the front for club shots, candid shots—the list of page numbers after Angelina Linden's name was two lines long.

Gradually, in the subtler details, he found the answer. Her intelligent eyes might say dean's list, but her full, sensual lips said…restless. In the candid shots, her head was frequently cocked to one side, as if teasing the cameraman. Her skirt was always just the telling inch or two shorter than the girls around her.

The real Angelina Linden wanted to escape from her button-down, country-club world. The real Angelina Linden wanted trouble. And apparently she'd bought herself some, wrapped up in a skin-and-bones, badass boyfriend named Tee Ellis.

And an unwanted infant named…

The Homecoming Baby.

 

C
ELIA DIDN'T KNOW WHY
P
ATRICK
and Mitch had left, but she knew that the minute Patrick wasn't there anymore, the party lost its sparkle. She fooled around with the corn-and-beans salad, stirred the chili, and made the best small talk she could.

But all the while she was watching, willing Patrick to hurry. She wanted Eddie to start playing again. She wanted to be back in Patrick's arms. Even when she'd been dreaming about this, she hadn't dreamed how right it would feel.

She found Trish putting out new blue cornmeal dumplings. Earlier, before the real dancing started,
she had noticed Patrick and Trish having a short conversation at the sangria bowl. It had seemed to go well—both of them had been smiling—so Celia hoped Patrick had made a good impression.

“Well?” She began helping to arrange the dumplings on the plate. “What do you think of him? He's pretty fantastic, don't you think?”

It seemed that Trish took an extra second before answering. Celia waited anxiously, but finally the older woman smiled.

“He's really surprisingly nice,” she said.

Celia nibbled on a corn chip. “Nice? That's kind of an understatement, don't you think? I mean, he's gorgeous, he's friendly to everyone, he's smart, he's witty, he's a superb dancer, he—”

Trish touched her hand, stemming the flow of superlatives. “I like him, Celia,” she said. “I like him quite a bit. I'm very pleased that he turned out to be so—”

Celia made a teasing face. “So nice?”

Trish gave her a steady look. “There are worse things to be.”

“Mitch is nice,” Celia observed. Turnabout was fair play.

“Yes,” Trish said, her gaze moving to the side, and softening with a sudden awareness. “I know he is.”

Celia looked, too. Her heartbeat did a little double-time skipping thing. Patrick and Mitch were headed their way, carrying a huge cooler between them. They dropped it in front of the food table.

“What's that?” Trish asked.

Mitch knelt down to open the cooler. “Gotta offer people something besides sangria, or come morning we'll find everybody passed out in the fountain.”

Trish nodded. “Should I make coffee, do you think?”

“Good idea,” Mitch said. “I'll help.”

As Mitch and Trish walked away, Celia turned to Patrick, who seemed a little subdued. She hoped Mitch hadn't been giving him the third degree. After all, a guy passing through town shouldn't have to fill out an application to have a brief fling with one of the willing locals.

“Want another glass of sangria?” She didn't particularly want one herself, but that table was on the far side of the courtyard, and she wanted to be alone with him.

“Sure,” he said. “Although that's particularly potent stuff you guys have brewed up over there.”

They walked side by side to the wine table. Each filled a glass, and then, as if by agreement, they moved over to one of the shadowy arches overgrown with bougainvillea. It created an illusion of privacy, although they were still close enough to hear every rippling note of Eddie's guitar. The young musician was mellower now, and his songs were romantic and slow.

Celia looked at Patrick, who seemed lost in the music. He really did have an intelligent face, she thought as she enjoyed his somber profile. When he smiled, he was so charming she just about fell right
out of her clothes. But when he was serious, he looked like a man she could spend an entire night just talking to.

“I've been meaning to tell you how sorry I am about the other night,” she said abruptly. Not very gracefully done, she thought. But she needed to apologize. She wouldn't feel completely comfortable until she did.

He turned his face toward her. He looked as if he had no idea what she was talking about.

“When you were at my office. You know, with Tad. You were right, I should have gone home. I really wasn't much help to my patient anyhow. I was just being stubborn. I suppose I felt I needed to be…stronger than that.”

“I know.” He smiled.

“Anyhow, I'm sorry I was so ungrateful. I hope you don't think I didn't appreciate your help, and your offer to stay.”

“Not at all. I was actually very impressed with your professionalism.” He grinned. “And, of course, I knew you'd stab me through the heart with your letter opener if I didn't do what I was told.”

She laughed, relieved that he hadn't taken offense, that he wasn't the kind of man who felt threatened by a woman who refused to cling and weep and admire his superior strength.

Although she could sense how comforting that strength could be in the right circumstances.

They were silent another minute. It was a very comfortable silence. The others were all dancing,
even Trish and Mitch, who must be finished brewing coffee. Trish looked so lovely tonight. The strands of light caught a few flecks of gray in the dark brown pageboy, but it didn't make her look old. It sparkled, like silver. Not that Trish cared about things like that. She could have been beautiful, if she'd worked at it. But she would have thought that was frivolous, when there were so many other kinds of work to be done.