The Homecoming Baby (15 page)

“I'm not,” Celia said. She sighed. “Just wait until you really get to know him.”

She hugged Trish, her joy clearly overflowing. It probably looked so neat and clean to her. The man she loves turns out to be the son of the woman she thinks of as a mother. Violins play, and everyone rides off into the sunset together.

“Honestly, Trish,” Celia said. “You're underestimating Patrick. It may take a while for everything to sort itself out, but it will be fine. He's a fantastic man. How could he be anything else? After all, he's your son.”

Trish looked at Celia, warmed by her sweetness and love. But inside she continued to hear the small, uneasy voice that wouldn't be stilled. The voice that said…

He's Tee Ellis's son, too.

 

C
ELIA SLEPT ON
T
RISH'S COUCH
that night. The two of them had stayed up till nearly dawn, discussing the details, making plans, toying with the salad Celia had brought. At about 4:00 a.m., emotionally drained and finally talked out, Trish had agreed to try to sleep.

When Celia woke up about seven, the light was already streaming in Trish's eastern window, tinged a pinkish gold as it filtered through the overhanging bougainvillea.

She eased Trish's door open an inch, just enough to confirm that Trish was still asleep. Then she dug her cell phone out of her purse, quietly opened the
front door and stepped a foot or two outside, just into the courtyard for privacy.

She'd already memorized Patrick's cell phone number, even though she'd dialed it only a couple of times in her life. She knew he was an early riser, so she hoped he wouldn't mind being disturbed. Though her mother had always drilled into her that nine was the earliest hour at which refined young women made telephone calls, she didn't think she could wait.

Besides, Celia's mother had had a list as long as the Sante Fe Trail of things refined young women didn't do. She worshiped it almost as slavishly as she worshiped the edicts laid down by Celia's father. The first independent decision Celia could remember making was to burn that list the minute she moved out of her parents' house.

Excellent decision. Because right at the top of that list, undoubtedly, was a commandment that refined young women must never, ever make love outside, in the open air, on top of Red Rock Bridge.

And that was one memory she wouldn't trade for anything on earth.

Patrick answered after only two rings. He didn't sound a bit sleepy.

“Celia,” he said. “Are you all right? Where have you been?”

She was so taken aback she hesitated. “Well, I—”

“No, wait a minute. That was all wrong.” She heard him take a deep breath. “Let me start over. I don't want to come off like a caveman here. I just want to be sure you're okay.”

“Why wouldn't I be? What's the matter?”

“I went by your apartment last night,” he said. “Very late—after two in the morning. I thought maybe your date had run long, and you didn't feel right coming by the bed and breakfast. But I wanted to see you, so—”

“So you came to me.” She smiled. “But I wasn't there.”

“That's right.” In spite of his determination to leave the caveman behind, his voice sounded tight. “Your car was, though. I was a little concerned.”

Concerned? He could call it whatever he wanted, but Celia's heart did a happy
thump-thump.
He was jealous.

“You thought I spent the night with Whatshisname.”

A brief silence. “I didn't know exactly what to think.”

“Actually you were right. I did.”

A longer silence—and icier. Finally she heard him shift the telephone. “I see.”

She laughed. “Except it's actually Whats
her
name. And her name is Trish. I spent the night with Trish, just two doors down.”

This time the silence was ever so slightly sheepish.

“Okay, let's see,” he said finally. “The last time I made this much of a fool of myself, I think I was nine years old.”

She leaned against the cool courtyard wall, smiling. “Oh, yeah? What did you do then?”

“I'd seen my sixteen-year-old baby-sitter kissing
her boyfriend in the backyard, so I wrote her a very emotional letter accusing her of breaking my heart. Luckily she couldn't read it, because my cursive was still so bad it was illegible.”

Celia laughed, thinking how cute he must have been at nine. His dark, wavy hair would have been tousled all the time, and his blue eyes would have been too big for his little boy's face.

“Awww,” she said. “That's so sweet.”

He chuckled. “I couldn't help myself. She was very hot, for a sixteen-year-old.”

“Gross. Dirty old little boy.”

“You'll be happy to hear I don't go for sixteen-year-old girls anymore.”

“Really? What's your favorite age now?”

“How old are you?”

She laughed. “Twenty-eight.”

“What a coincidence. That's the one.” His voice was low and husky, and she closed her eyes, letting it move through her like warm water. “Now, to get to the more important questions. What time do you get off work?”

“Six.”

“I don't suppose I could persuade you to ditch your afternoon clients?”

“Nope.”

“How about dinner at six-fifteen, then? Meet me here at the bed and breakfast.”

She had to laugh. “Six-fifteen? That's cutting it very tight.”

“Well, I expect to be pretty damn hungry by six o'clock tonight.”

She loved that tone, that teasing, growling, possessive tone. In fact, she realized, she loved practically everything about him. She couldn't wait for Trish to have the chance to find out all the wonderful things Celia knew about this man.

“Patrick,” she said hesitantly. “I have a big favor to ask.”

“What is it?”

“It's about tonight. I know you were looking forward to being together, just us, but…”

“Looking forward to it? That's a hell of an understatement. I'm starved for you, damn it. Don't tell me you don't feel the same way, because I won't believe it.”

“Of course I do. But—”

She crossed her fingers, hoping he wouldn't mind too much. “I feel kind of selfish leaving Trish out. She's having a rough time right now, and I don't like to leave her alone. That's why I stayed at her place last night. Would you be terribly disappointed if I invited Trish to join us—just for dinner?”

The wonderful, wonderful man, he hesitated only a moment.

“All right. If you think she needs it, invite her to join us. But only dinner. After that, I want you to myself. I've sent the caveman back into his den, but he won't stay there forever, you know.”

“I know.” She swallowed a fluttering sigh. Maybe she
was
only sixteen. She was so happy she could
imagine scratching his initials into this adobe wall and then drawing a heart around it.

“So…” She held the phone against her cheek. “Shall I bring my hiking boots and blankets?”

“Hell, no,” he growled. “I've got a thousand things in mind for us tonight, none of them can be done on a cold, hard, red rock bed.”

A
T FIVE-THIRTY
R
OSE
G
ALLEN
called. Celia almost didn't answer the phone. Selfishly, she didn't want to give anyone or anything the chance to ruin the evening she had planned.

It wasn't completely selfish. She was hungry to see Patrick, yes. But Trish's happiness was involved, too. The idea of joining them for dinner had initially intimidated Trish, but Celia had refused to take no for an answer, and eventually she'd said yes.

How could she have resisted?

A quiet dinner with the son she had thought she'd never see again. Celia had seen the glow come back to her tired face, and she knew that, deep inside, in spite of the anxiety, Trish was as eager for six-fifteen to arrive as she was.

But the phone kept ringing, and Celia knew she had to take the call, whoever it was, whatever it meant about tonight. Her patients had put their trust in her, and she couldn't let them down.

After talking to a frantic Rose, and promising to meet her at The Birth Place at six-thirty, she telephoned Patrick, her heart heavy.

How many annoying postponements would he be
willing to tolerate? He had an intense physical desire for her, but he'd never hinted he felt any more than that. And he probably had a thousand women back home who would join him for a romp without dragging along all this baggage.

Heck, probably even a few women here in Enchantment could be easily persuaded. She'd seen them looking, and she'd known what those speculative, moist-lipped expressions had meant.

The phone went right to his voice message. He must be on the line. She'd noticed that he did a lot of his investment business by telephone, and he probably was spending the day getting some details taken care of.

So she just left a message, letting him know she'd have to be late. A patient was having a crisis, and she'd asked to see Celia at the birthing center at six-thirty. She'd meet him at the bed and breakfast as soon as she could.

She started to add how disappointed she was, how frustrated and aching and…

But that was unprofessional, not to mention embarrassing. So she signed off without anything more elaborate than a heartfelt “I'm sorry.”

She tried Trish, too, but she'd already left The Birth Place for the day, and she wasn't answering at home. Celia wondered if she might be out shopping for a new dress. She would want to look her best. She would want to make her son proud…even if he didn't know it.

Celia felt a lump in her throat, just thinking of how
Trish's life was about to change. Patrick's, too. It was touching, and somehow a little exciting.

She tried not to be selfish, not to think of what it all might mean for her. But the thoughts insinuated themselves into her psyche, anyhow. Patrick wouldn't just go back to San Francisco now, would he? He wouldn't just leave and never come back. Now he was tied, at least in some small way, to Enchantment….

When she arrived at The Birth Place, she was shocked to see Patrick's SUV already in the staff parking lot. He was standing beside it, looking devastatingly sexy in khakis and blue oxford-cloth shirt rolled up to the elbows. He was clearly waiting for her.

How lucky could a girl get? This black-haired, blue-eyed miracle belonged, at least for tonight, to her.

She hopped out of her Volkswagen, which she had parked in the empty space next to his. At this time of day, almost all the spaces were empty.

“Hi,” she said, suddenly shy now that they were actually face to face. “What are you doing here? Did you get my message?”

“That's why I'm here,” he said. “I don't know who your patient is, but in case it's the woman with the lunatic husband, I didn't like the idea of you being out here all alone after hours.”

What a guy! She grinned like that sixteen-year-old ninny she seemed to have turned into, clutching her satchel to her chest as if it were her book bag.

God, what was happening to her? This was exactly what she'd been afraid of—that falling in love would turn her into a clichéd, helpless female. And she wasn't even fighting it.

And this business about coming to stand guard… A week ago, she would have found that threatening. He'd dared to inject himself into her life, dared to imply she couldn't handle things on her own.

It might even have alienated her, made her back off for fear he would turn out someday to be an over-bearing dictator like her father.

But, shockingly, she found that, when the right man worried about you and protected you and tried to battle your dragons for you, you didn't really mind at all. You thought it was romantic and gallant and you loved him all the more.

“Thanks,” she said. “That's very sweet. But I won't really be alone. Lydia's car is still here. She stays half the night sometimes.”

“Good.” He looked at her and held out his hand. “Come here.”

She went, without even caring that they were out in the open, without even wondering what Lydia would think if she happened to look through the window right now.

He didn't seem to be thinking about that, either. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her, long and slow enough to make her melt against him.

He lifted his head, finally, and smiled down at her.

“Hi,” he said. “I've missed you.”

“I know.” She put her head against his chest. “Me, too.”

They stood that way a long minute, and then she felt him twist his wrist to look at his watch. “You'd better go in,” he said. “Your patient will be here soon.”

She sighed. “I know.”

“I think I'll stay out here anyhow, just till you're finished,” he said. “I've called the bed and breakfast and asked Betty to explain things to Trish. She'll let her wait in my sitting room.”

She looked at him. She wondered if he could read her heart in her face. It felt as if it were pumping love out like a flooding fountain.

“You don't need to, honestly. I'll be fine.”

“Sorry, I'm not doing it for you. I'm doing it for me. You see, if you have to stab that guy with your letter opener, you'll be spending tonight in jail.”

He touched her cheek. “And you may remember, sweetheart, that I have other plans.”

 

C
ELIA AND
R
OSE TALKED
for almost an hour, during which Rose told her that she'd decided to file for divorce. They discussed what the next steps would likely be, what kind of reaction she might expect from Tad, and which lawyer Rose ought to choose.

It was a good session. Once or twice Rose got a little weepy, but overall she was surprisingly strong.

“I might have stayed with him forever, if it wasn't for the baby,” Rose said. “But he's a selfish bastard, and he's mean, and I won't let my baby grow up with
that kind of role model. My mom says it's okay if we live with her until I can make it on my own.”

“It seems as if that decision makes you happy,” Celia said, looking over Rose, who for once seemed to have been correctly named. Her cheeks were pink and healthy, and her eyes were bright with hope. “You seem very sure.”

“I'm sure this little guy is worth ten of Tad,” she said, putting her hands over her stomach. “I think he gives me courage.”

When they were finished, Celia walked Rose out through the back door, where the young woman's mother was waiting for her. And then, with a light heart—everything seemed to be going so well—Celia went back in for a minute, to say good night to Lydia.

But, in a troubling repeat of the last time, Celia got no answer when she knocked on the office door. This time, though, there was no noise at all coming from inside. Celia glanced out the window. Was Lydia gone?

But there were three cars in the parking lot. Her own, Patrick's—and Lydia's.

Celia's heart began to race. She knocked again, more loudly, and then, acting on instinct, she pushed open the door.

“Lydia!”

The older woman had slumped into a half-sitting, half-lying position on her large sofa. She looked as if she had sat down to rest, but then collapsed. She was not conscious.

Celia rushed across the room, digging her cell
phone out of her satchel and pushing the auto-dial for 911 as she ran.

“Lydia.” She knelt before the sofa and put her cheek against Lydia's chest. She was breathing. Thank God.

“We need an ambulance sent to The Birth Place,” she said when the emergency operator answered. “The front door is open. I'm in the administrative offices, just behind the reception area, with Lydia Kane. I think she may have had a heart attack.”

Lydia stirred, then, as if Celia's voice had roused her. She tried to raise herself.

“No,” Lydia said weakly but irritably. “No, I'll be all right.”

Celia shook her head—she'd heard enough of that the last time. Lydia was the boss here, and everyone was accustomed to obeying her orders without question, but this was different.

Celia was no doctor. But she knew that Lydia's gray face and thready pulse were very bad signs that couldn't be brushed away.

Celia kept the 911 operator on the line, in case she needed guidance, but she took Lydia's hand and smiled reassuringly.

“Lydia, someone needs to look at you. If you've had a heart attack, you know the sooner you get help the better.”

Lydia was too weak to protest any further. “Get me an aspirin?” she asked thinly. “In the desk drawer.”

Celia found it and brought it over. Lydia opened
her mouth like a baby bird, and Celia put the tablet on her tongue.

“Chew it,” she said. Chewing dispersed the medication faster.

Lydia obeyed, though that small effort seemed to exhaust her. When she finished, she lay her head back against the arm of the sofa and shut her eyes. Her color was a little better, but she was still short of breath. She was perspiring profusely, though the spring night was cool and crisp.

She looked so tired, Celia thought. Her face was slack, her skin smooth over her strong cheekbones, which made her look strangely young and helpless.

Lydia. Helpless. That was like watching the moon come tumbling right out of the sky. Somehow Celia ignored the cold fear that ran through her system and kept murmuring soothing things and massaging Lydia's hand.

The seconds stretched, time lost in the hyper-focused struggle to stay focused, stay calm, stay alert. But when she finally heard the siren of the approaching ambulance, she looked at her watch and only three minutes had passed.

The emergency medical technicians bustled into the office. To Celia's surprise, Patrick was with them, his face almost as gray as Lydia's.

As Celia backed out of the technician's way, Patrick scooped her into his arms. “What happened? When I heard the ambulance, I thought—”

She looked at him, ashamed that she had forgotten that he was outside, waiting, guarding. She hadn't
even considered the possibility that he might hear the sirens and think something had happened to her.

“It's Lydia,” she said. “She collapsed. I'm not sure exactly what happened. It may have been a heart attack.”

“Oh, my God.” Patrick looked over at the sofa, where two EMTs were talking to Lydia, starting their routine of stabilization. Another EMT came in just then, rolling a stretcher in front of him.

“I'm sorry, but could you two wait outside?” The young man looked sympathetic but implacably efficient. “We need the room.”

“Of course,” Celia said. She smiled at Lydia. “I'm going to call Kim,” she said. “Is there anyone else you'd like me to call?”

Lydia's gaze was clearer now. She nodded slowly.

“Yes, please,” she said in a husky voice that sounded torn at the edges. “Call Devon.”

 

I
T WAS ONE OF THE MOST
difficult calls Celia had ever made. Devon was Lydia's granddaughter, and though they had once been very close, their relationship had been strained for months. Devon was on the board of directors of The Birth Place, but she lived in Albuquerque and came to Enchantment as seldom as was humanly possible.

So Celia was very glad that Patrick was there, standing beside her, holding her hand and lending moral support. He seemed to recognize that this wasn't his world, it wasn't his tragedy, but he stayed
close, near enough that she understood he was offering his strength if she needed it.

Strength.
Funny—it wasn't the domineering, terrifying quality she'd always imagined it to be. It was quiet and steady, and it didn't diminish her own strength one bit. It buttressed it, so that, to her amazement, she ended up feeling stronger than ever.

The Birth Place was strangely silent. Lydia was gone, with Kim Sherman at her side in the ambulance. Kim had promised to call Celia's cell phone as soon as they had news.

But now it was up to Celia to tell Devon.

Taking a deep breath, she dialed Devon's Albuquerque number. It rang seven or eight times before anyone picked up.

“Hello.” Devon's voice sounded crisp and impatient. She probably had seen The Birth Place on her caller ID, and she undoubtedly thought it was going to be her grandmother. Celia felt strangely sorry for Lydia, even though the woman hadn't heard it. What an impersonal tone to take with your own flesh and blood!

“Hi, Devon,” she said. “It's Celia Brice.”

Devon was a very smart woman. She obviously knew instantly that something must be wrong. Celia and Devon liked each other, but they weren't in the habit of chatting long distance on the telephone.

“Hi, Celia. Is something wrong?” Her voice was still cool, but Celia thought she detected a note of smothered anxiety.

“Yes, I'm afraid so,” Celia said. “I think every
thing is going to be fine, but I wanted to let you know that Lydia isn't well.”

She heard a sharp split-second of hesitation, then Devon spoke. “Not well? What exactly does that mean?”