The Homecoming Baby. Kathleen O'Brien

and vinegar solution in hand, she knelt on the sofa cushions and rubbed at the front multipaned window, giving each of the rectangles special attention. The cleaning crew sometimes ignored the edges.

      Through the shining window, she could see the front parking lot, where a couple of cars sat, drowsing under the spring sunlight that filtered through the pines.

      After a few minutes, Celia’s silly little Volkswagen Bug pulled in. Celia leaped out and executed a happy twirl in a shaft of light, arms outstretched as if she wanted to gather in the spring day and give it a hug.

      Trish’s hand stilled, and she watched with a deep, vicarious pleasure. Even at twenty-eight, even though she was well educated and smart and dealt with real problems in her patients every day, Celia was in many ways as innocent as a child.

      She believed the whole world was as good and gentle as she was. She picnicked in the mountains alone at night, she picked herbs in ghost towns, she made wishes on Red Rock Bridge in the moonlight and expected them to come true. It worried Trish, but she could never find a way to stop her.

      That was because Celia had never known anything but love and affection. Her physician father was a little arrogant, and her mother was just a touch subservient, but nothing truly wicked ever happened at the Brice household.

      Celia’s brother lived in Seattle and her parents had recently moved to Santa Fe, but they all were in constant contact with letters, e-mails, phone calls and visits.

      A happy family created a happy child, and the happy child became a happy woman. It was like a mathematical equation. And of course the opposite was just as inexorably true, as well.

      Trish didn’t envy Celia, not really. But as she watched the young woman skip up the front walk as if someone had drawn a hop-scotch board on it, her waist-length hair dancing in the dappled sunlight, Trish couldn’t help the pang of…something…that tightened around her heart.

      She couldn’t remember ever, ever feeling that light and full of joy.

      “Trish!” Celia swept open the clinic door and blew in on a gust of spring sunshine. “I hoped you’d be here!”

      Trish smiled. “Why? Did you want to help wash the windows?”

      “No, I wanted to tell you about the wonderful, amazing thing that happened to me out at Silverton!”

      Trish put the spray bottle down on the windowsill. “You went to Silverton alone again? Celia, you know how dangerous—”

      “No lectures, please,” Celia said. She plopped onto her knees on the sofa beside Trish. “I’m fine, honestly. See? Completely unscratched. Virtue intact.” She grinned. “Unfortunately.”

      Trish frowned. “What exactly does that mean?”

      “It means I met the most marvelous man. His car broke down and he needed a ride. His name is Patrick Torrance.” She said the name on a sigh of delight. “Even you would approve of him, Trish. Not a scratch or dent in sight.”

      Trish rolled her eyes. “For a psychologist, that’s a pretty dumb comment.” She picked up her spray bottle and moved to the next windowpane. “If you just met him this morning, you have no idea what the extent of his dents might be. He’ll probably turn out to be an emotional wreck, which of course you’ll find irresistible, and he’ll become your next pet project.”

      But Celia had no intention of coming down to earth. She wrinkled her nose at Trish and smiled like the Cheshire cat.

      “That’s where you’re wrong,” she said, arranging her full blue cotton skirt around her knees. “The beauty of Patrick Torrance is that he’s just here for a week or two. He’s a tourist. On vacation. Temporary. Even if he had dents the size of golf balls on every inch of his psyche, which he doesn’t, I couldn’t turn him into a project. In two weeks, he’ll go right back where he came from.”

      “Which is?”

      Celia hesitated, plucking at her skirt. “I’m not exactly sure.”

      “Oh, great.”

      Celia sighed again. “Don’t be such a grump. He’s gorgeous and smart and funny and a gentleman. What does it matter where he comes from?”

      “Well, if he comes straight from San Quentin, that would matter.”

      “He doesn’t.”

      “Or if he comes straight from his wife and three kids. That would matter.”

      “He doesn’t.”

      “The loony bin? An AA meeting? The unemployment line? Would any of that matter?”

      Celia leaned her head back and smiled at the ceiling. “He doesn’t.”

      “Celia, listen to me.” Trish was nervous now. She’d seen Celia make plenty of mistakes with her love life. She was always taking on hopeless cases, sure that she could mold them into better people. But her attitude had always been half Mother Teresa, half Florence Nightingale—and Trish had understood that Celia’s heart wasn’t really touched at all.

      This was different. Trish knew what that sparkling smile, those waves of energy, those restless movements, meant. They meant that this time there was nothing maternal about it. Patrick Torrance had somehow, perhaps quite by accident, perhaps simply the lucky chemistry of giving off the perfect pheromones, had found the trigger that turned on an electric current inside the beautiful Celia Brice.

      “Just think about it a little bit, that’s all I’m asking. Go slowly.” But Celia was hardly listening. She was still staring at the ceiling as if it were a night full of stars. “Celia, what exactly are you considering here?”

      Celia brought her head back down. The dewy gleam in her blue eyes said it all. It seemed a shame even to try to break this bubble of joy.

      “What are you considering?” she repeated.

      “Nothing dangerous,” Celia said. “Honestly, Trish. Stop worrying so much. Just…I don’t know. A fling. A spring fling. A short, exciting two weeks of dinner and dancing and flirting and—”

      “And?”

      “I don’t know. Maybe nothing. He might not be interested. But if he is…then maybe a little fantastic sex.”

      “Celia—”

      But Celia laughed, a golden trill shot through with sensuality and excitement. She reached out and grabbed Trish’s hand.

      “Come on, Trish,” she said. “I’m twenty-eight years old, not eighteen. I’m— Well, I don’t know how to explain it. He’s very exciting. If you could see him, you’d know. Would it really be so wicked for me to have a brief, lovely, extremely safe romance with an extremely exciting man, especially since there could be absolutely no long-term complications whatsoever?”

      Trish shook her head. “No. Not if there were any such thing. But as any of your patients could tell you, there isn’t.”

      PATRICK’S SUITE in Morning Light, the bed and breakfast his secretary had found for him, was surprisingly elegant.

      The sitting room was spare but comfortable. A small, graceful fireplace filled one corner, and the sofa, which was covered in Navajo textiles, faced a picture window that overlooked the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

      The bedroom was large and cool, with an equally stunning view. Pueblo pottery dotted the tables, and fine Mexican art filled the white-washed adobe walls with color.

      He found himself whistling as he unpacked. He hadn’t expected to find this strange adobe hotel even marginally acceptable. From the outside, it seemed to come out of the ground like a piece of lumpy, rounded earth, not a normal building at all. From the outside it looked dark and cramped.

      But inside the proportions were generous, and the cool light was strangely soothing, the simplicity relaxing. You could focus your mind in a place like this. He thought he might get someone to redecorate