Читать книгу The Homecoming Baby - Kathleen O'Brien - Страница 10

THE STAFF MEETING at The Birth Place was almost always held at the noon hour on Fridays. Lydia ordered in pizza loaded with vegetables, and Trish brought fresh fruit and cheese. They ate while they talked over clinic issues. It was friendly but focused. Clearing even an hour of everyone’s schedule at once was difficult. Any more would be impossible.

Celia, who wasn’t technically on the birthing center’s staff, attended only every now and then. Often she was busy seeing patients at her own small downtown office. But this time she’d been lucky—the meeting had been moved to a Monday, and she’d been able to schedule patients around the staff meeting.

It was great to see everyone and to feel a part of the team. She watched the Birkenstock-and-earth-mother midwives chatting comfortably with the button-down administrative staff and smiled to herself. The atmosphere here was really very special.

If she ever had a baby, she wouldn’t think of delivering it anywhere else.

If she ever had a baby. But given how her life was going, how likely was that? She popped a piece of pineapple into her mouth and wiped her hands on her paper napkin briskly, aware that the meeting was coming to an end.

She wandered over to Trish’s reception counter, which, as always, was neat and organized. Papers wouldn’t dare get out of line on Trish’s watch.

Trish looked up with a smile. “Penny for your thoughts. Surely the debate over the new copier didn’t put that pensive look on your face.”

“No.” Celia picked up the snow globe of Venice that sat beside Trish’s keyboard, the one frivolous note amid all the streamlined practicality. She shook it, sighing. “I guess I was just wondering when I’ll ever get to see The Birth Place from…from the other side.”

“Not anytime soon, I hope.” Trish raised her eyebrows, took the snow globe from Celia’s dreamy fingers and set it back on the desk. The snowflakes sank around the delicate Venetian gondola and died. “Unless…is there something you’re not telling me about that episode in the ghost town?”

Celia laughed. “Oh, for heaven’s sake, no. I meant someday. I do want a family, you know. A big one. I was just thinking that sooner or later I’ll find Mr. Right, and—”

“Not if you keep going on like this, you won’t.”

Annoyed that Trish had seemed to read her mind, Celia scowled. “Don’t start that. Didn’t I tell you I’m through picking men who need fixing up?”

“Right. And now you’re picking traveling salesmen.”

“Patrick Torrance is not a—”

“Whatever.” Trish lowered her voice, obviously not wanting the others to overhear. “I don’t care what it says on his business card. He may not be a scratch-and-dent, but he’s a hit-and-run. Here today and gone tomorrow.”

She gave Celia a straight look. “And you can’t tell me that’s a coincidence. If ever a woman was hell-bent on staying single, you’re it.”

“I—”

But she never got to finish her sentence. The front door to the clinic opened, and two patients entered, waddling over to sign in with the slow contentment of the heavily, happily pregnant. At the same time Kim Sherman, the clinic accountant, stuck her head out from the administrative office suite. “Trish,” Kim said, “can I steal you a minute? This statement is a mess.”

It was just as well, Celia thought as she watched Trish walk away. She hadn’t known how she was going to finish that sentence anyhow.

Trish would simply have to see Patrick Torrance for herself. Then she’d understand.

The clinic door opened again, but this time it wasn’t one of the slow, smiling mothers-to-be coming in for a routine checkup. This time it was Rose Gallen, and the young woman was in obvious distress.

Rose was crying, limping slightly, her sobbing face half buried in the crook of a man’s arm, her hands holding tightly to his shirt.

Celia excused herself to the women who were still signing in and began to move around the counter. “Rose,” she said. “Rose, are you all right?”

Rose didn’t lift her face from the man’s chest. The face of the man himself was obscured by one of the lush potted plants that flanked the doorway, and the sunlight was so bright it was hard to be sure…

But he couldn’t possibly be Rose’s husband, Tad. Tad had a beer belly that made him look several months pregnant himself.

This man, on the other hand… He bent his head, obviously saying something comforting to Rose, and Celia’s heart did a strange wiggling maneuver. He looked up when she arrived at Rose’s side, and their eyes met.

This man was Patrick Torrance.

“She’s all right, I think,” he said. “But someone should look at her. She was arguing with some bastard in the parking lot, and he ended up knocking her down.”

“It was Tad,” Rose said in a voice muffled by Patrick’s soft blue shirt. “Tad is back. He’s so angry, Celia. He said—he said—”

“It’s all right, Rose,” Celia said, taking the young woman’s hand. She looked up at Patrick. “Is Tad still out there?”

“Might be,” Patrick said. “When we left, he was on his hands and knees. I think he was trying to remember his name.” He gave Rose’s shoulder a quick, light rub. “Maybe you’ll get lucky. Maybe he never will.”

Rose tilted her face up at Patrick with a watery smile. “That would be great,” she said. “Thank you so much for—” She sniffed. “You were so nice to—I don’t know what I would have done if—”

“It’s okay,” he said with a smile. That smile. Rose blinked as if she were looking straight into the sun. “I promise you, it was my pleasure.”

“We’d better get you looked at,” Celia said. She and Rose had a scheduled session this hour, but her physical safety must come first. Rose was only about four months pregnant. If Tad had been knocking her around…

She looked toward the door to the administrative area, wishing Trish would come out of Kim’s office. She wasn’t sure where to take Rose. Which of the examination rooms was open? And she ought to tell Lydia the situation, considering it had happened on the clinic grounds. But she didn’t want to leave Rose alone, even with Patrick standing by. The young woman’s emotional state was clearly fragile.

Luck was with her. At that moment, Lydia and Katherine Collins, the clinic’s full-time midwife, came through the door. They looked over at Rose, saw that there was a problem and hurried to her side.

Lydia could handle any emergency, and Celia expected her to handle this one with her usual dazzling efficiency. But to her surprise, Lydia stopped about five feet short of where Celia and Patrick stood, with Rose between them, and seemed to freeze in place.

Lydia never betrayed much emotion, especially in front of the patients. Her years of running the clinic had taught her to project calm control at all times. So this was completely out of character, and Celia watched curiously as Lydia stared at Patrick Torrance.

A clear jolting shock changed Lydia’s face, but only for a split second. Her gray eyes widened, then narrowed, deep crow’s feet appearing at the edges. Her angular, weathered face slackened momentarily, then tightened, closing in, as if creating a mask to hide her reaction.

Only her hand, which was fisted at the base of her throat, betrayed how the sight of him had affected her.

Katherine looked at Lydia, then stepped forward, her long, graying ponytail swinging down her back. “Rose, you poor dear, are you all right?”

“I think so,” Rose said shakily. “It was Tad. He—” She began to cry again.

“Of course. Tad,” Lydia said dryly. “Now there’s a man who could use some anger management classes. You might want to consider offering a workshop soon, Celia.”

Celia smiled, glad that Lydia seemed to be recovering her equilibrium. The older woman had relaxed her hand, let it drop from her throat and put it out toward Patrick.

“Well, it looks as if we have you to thank for taking care of our Rose, Mr….?”

She paused, giving him time to introduce himself.

“Patrick,” he said, accepting her hand and shaking it. For a moment their gazes locked, gray steel against blue ice. Celia, watching, felt a strange chill.

“Patrick Torrance. I’m from San Francisco.”

Lydia’s gaze dropped first, but she seemed completely composed again. So calm and normal, in fact, that Celia began to wonder if she’d imagined that first, lightning-struck reaction.

“And I’m Lydia Kane. The founder of The Birth Place. Thank you again, Mr. Torrance.”

Without waiting for an answer, Lydia removed her hand and turned to Celia. “I want to take Rose back and check things over. She might like to have you along. Do you have time?”

“Oh, yes, please.” Rose looked up with tired, red-rimmed eyes. “I’d like Celia there, too.”

“Of course,” Celia said. “I have time.”

Patrick was still looking at Lydia. “Mrs. Kane—”

“You’ll have to excuse us, Mr. Torrance,” Lydia said. “But I know Rose thanks you, too, for stepping in to save the day.”

Obviously that was an understatement. Rose hadn’t yet peeled her hands from Patrick’s shirt. She looked as if she’d like to drag him into the examination room. As if she’d like to cling to his strength for the rest of the day—or the rest of her life.

Celia had to smile. She wished Trish could be here to see this. Apparently Celia wasn’t the only woman who found herself eating out of Patrick Torrance’s hands the minute she met him.

Celia looked at him, wishing things were different, wishing they could have even a few moments alone. She wondered why he had been in the parking lot. Had he come here to see her?

But her patient must come first.

“Yes,” she added, equally polite, knowing Lydia was watching. “Thank you so much.”

“It was nothing,” Patrick said, completing the circle of courteous formality. “I’m just glad I was in the right place at the right time.”

Lydia extracted Rose from his arm. She shot one more quick glance at Patrick’s face. “Yes,” she said. “That was quite a coincidence, wasn’t it, Mr. Torrance?”

Patrick looked at Lydia, tilting his head so that the spring light caught the brilliance of his eyes and picked out the blue glistening in his black, black hair. His smile was enigmatic and had sharp edges that seemed to gleam.

“Actually, Mrs. Kane,” he said with a peculiar flatness in his voice, “I don’t believe in coincidences. Do you?”

Lydia didn’t answer. She pretended she hadn’t heard him, busying herself with Rose. But Celia knew she had heard, and had chosen not to respond.

Which Celia, staring over at the older woman thoughtfully, decided was very strange indeed.

AT THREE-THIRTY, PATRICK PARKED his car along Cooper Avenue, just down the block from the J. P. Linden High School. Impressive. The Linden family must have been big stuff around here once. Don Frost’s report had said that both Linden daughters had been disinherited. Patrick wondered why. Maybe the old man had found out about the baby and didn’t much approve?

School was just over. Patrick watched the kids come pouring out of the building like a liquid rainbow. Some of them lined up, noisily jabbing and teasing, to climb into big yellow buses. Others trudged along stoically, watching the sidewalk, heavy backpacks dragging on their shoulders.

A few others, the ones with straight white smiles, shining, well-cut hair and expensive designer clothes, danced in groups toward the parking lot. Their trucks and sports cars waited like rows of lapdogs, ready to perk up at the sound of their masters’ remote control chirps.

He knew what their lives were like, those lucky ones. Back at San Francisco’s elite Master’s Preparatory Academy, Patrick had been one of them, the envy of even the richest of his friends. Out of all the top-of-the-line sports cars in the Academy parking lot, Patrick’s Mercedes had been the coolest.

High tech sound, alloy wheels, gliding sunroof, global positioning system before anyone else had ever heard of it. Low slung, with lots of attitude. Shining black on the outside, deep, rich maroon interior.

Red and black, wasn’t that perfect? Red and black to match the bruises that had once colored his arms, to match the bloody vomit that came up whenever Julian Torrance’s fists caught him in the kidneys.

He waited until everyone seemed to have left. He waited until the gray stone building stood motionless against the huge blue sky. And then he opened his car door, headed down the sidewalk and went inside.

J. P. Linden High School. A carved stone archway proclaimed the school name. The double doors were unlocked. Though a sign asked him politely, as a visitor, to check in at the front office, no one stopped him when he passed by without a glance.

The dimly lit hallway lined with sports trophies and “State Champion” banners, smelled like all high schools. Part chalk, part textbook, part musty old building. And under everything the lingering smell of the kids—cheap cologne and sweaty gym clothes, hair spray and hormones.

His footsteps echoed as he walked. The school seemed huge for such a small town; it must draw from nearby communities. That would account for all the buses.

Still, it didn’t take him long to find the gymnasium, where, according to Don Frost Investigations, the Linden High Homecoming Dance had been held every November for more than thirty years.

The gym was deserted, as well. It was too late in the year for basketball, too early for the prom. Today it was just a big empty floor and stacks of collapsible bleachers. Streams of dusty sunlight struggled in through high, dirty windows. The floor was well worn, overdue for replacing. Obviously this school hadn’t been new even back when The Homecoming Baby was born.

He stood at the gym door and surveyed the nearest hallway. Two doors were set into the far end, maybe twenty yards away, just far enough to hide the weak wails of a newborn. Boys, the first door read. And the second, Girls.

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.”