I am.” He smiled. “Nice woman. She works at the birthing center. But she clearly doesn’t have any idea what happened to her sister.”
Patrick stood up and moved to the edge of the folly. Turning his back on the ocean, he stared out at the crowded estate, where the pet auction was winding up. He couldn’t see Ellyn anymore. People were rushing to claim their winnings, hugging the poor, damaged puppies and kittens they’d rescued to the tune of thousands of dollars.
Ironic, wasn’t it? A little lost kitten could generate this kind of enthusiasm—all the do-gooders in San Francisco came running, their hearts bleeding for the poor abandoned things. But a real human girl could leave her newborn baby on the bathroom floor, one more piece of trash for the janitor to sweep away with the trampled corsages and dirty silver streamers.
She could do it. And then she could run away. And never look back.
He closed his eyes. What a fool he’d been to unearth this story! He hadn’t let himself toy with anything as stupid and dangerous as dreams since he was eight years old. Apparently he’d forgotten what a nasty sound they made when they exploded in your face.
“I’ve got all the information here,” Don said quietly. “All the names and addresses and such.”
Patrick turned. Don was holding out a plain white envelope. He must have retrieved it from his coat. That’s how petty the story was. It would fit in a man’s breast pocket.
For a moment, Patrick didn’t want to take it, but that would have looked ridiculous. He forced out his hand and accepted the slim envelope.
“Thank you,” he said. He didn’t sound like himself, so he made an effort to warm his voice. “Send the bill along. My office will cut you a check.”
The man hesitated. “Mr. Torrance—”
“Thank you, Mr. Frost. I do appreciate your fast work on this. You did a fine job.”
Frost knew he’d been dismissed. He wasn’t a stupid man, in spite of the six kids and the pregnant gerbil. And he didn’t seem to be a hard man, in spite of how routinely he must encounter the sordid side of the human race.
He stood and moved toward the stairs of the folly. But at the last minute he turned around. “I included all the pertinent names and addresses. I even included a map. You know. In case you wanted to—” He stopped. “It’s a pretty little town. And the sister. She’s nice, too. And if it’s all true, she’d be—”
She’d be Patrick’s aunt. But still Don Frost stopped short of using the personal pronoun. “Well, she’d be Angelina’s only remaining blood relative. She could tell you about Angelina and the boyfriend. Handsome kid, but from the wrong side of the tracks. No family. He had lived with an elderly father, but he died while he was still in high school. He ran pretty wild. Kind of a heartbreaker, they say.”
The man tilted his head, as if deciding how far to go. “Teague was his name. Teague Montague Ellis. They called him Tee.”
Patrick let the name settle in. Teague Montague Ellis. Handsome Tee Ellis, who broke hearts. Broke enough of them to end up broken himself, at the bottom of a mine shaft.
Teague Ellis and Angelina Linden. No matter how many times he repeated them to himself, the syllables were as random as nonsense words. What on earth had ever made Patrick think he wanted to know those names? They meant nothing to him.
Patrick gave the other man a cold smile. “Thanks, but I can guarantee you I won’t be making any trips to New Mexico,” he said. “I’ve already had one set of terrible parents, Mr. Frost. I certainly don’t need two.”
CHAPTER TWO
“OKAY,” CELIA BRICE SAID to her weeping patient. “I’ve got an idea. Let’s just lay the whole sad story out on the table and see how it looks.”
Celia smiled over at Rose Gallen, who had run through an entire box of Kleenex in the first thirty minutes of their session. Actually, Rose had used up four boxes in four sessions so far, and Celia had decided it was time to try a different approach.
“All right,” Rose said. She pulled out another Kleenex just in case, and stared at Celia with damp eyes. “What do you mean?”
“I mean let’s analyze the situation objectively. Let’s be sure I have the basic details right. Your thirty-two-year-old husband, who you said has a mean temper, iffy personal hygiene and a bad snoring problem, who got laid off nearly a year ago but still spends fifty-five dollars a week on liquor and cigarettes, ran off last month with a nineteen-year-old bimbo.”
Rose blinked. “Yes,” she said uncertainly. “But that’s just the bad stuff. He’s not always—”
Celia kept going. Usually psychologists just listened, but sometimes they had to redirect the flow.
“He did this, in fact, the day after you told him you were pregnant. You don’t hear a word for a full month. But now he calls. Collect from Phoenix. And what does he want? He wants you to wire him five hundred dollars to have the transmission in his girlfriend’s car repaired.”
Rose frowned.
“Yes,” she said again. She touched the Kleenex to her eye and wiped away a tear. “You make it sound pretty bad.”
“Just laying out the details you gave me, Rose.” Celia took a deep breath. “So my question is…are you sure that what you really, truly want to do right now is cry?”
Rose stared at Celia, as if the question mystified her. “I’m all alone. I’m pregnant.”
Celia didn’t blink. She didn’t say a word. It was up to Rose to consider the possibility that there might conceivably be another reaction. Celia’s instincts told her that the young woman was ready.
Rose seemed to be thinking hard. She sniffed once, then again, louder. She transferred the stare to the tissue in her hand, and then she slowly, deliberately crumpled it into her fist.
“You know,” she said finally, “you’re right.” Her voice was amazingly firm. “I don’t want to cry. I want to tell the son of a bitch to go straight to hell.”
Celia leaned back with a sigh. This was just momentary bravado, of course, but it was good. Very good.
She didn’t underestimate the difficulties ahead for Rose; the journey to true self-sufficiency was always long. And Celia should know. She was still traveling it herself, having decided just last month, after yet another particularly disappointing relationship, to take a complete vacation from men.
Frankly, the decision had been a relief. She spent all day solving the problems these women had with their husbands, boyfriends, lovers or sons. She didn’t have time for any man problems of her own.
Besides, who needed a man when you had work as gratifying as this? It was exciting to watch people take the first, most difficult step on that journey, as Rose had just done. She had admitted that she was angry, and that she didn’t deserve to be treated like dirt under Tad Gallen’s shoes.
“Okay. You’d like to tell him to go to hell. Let’s talk about that.” Under the table, Celia kicked off her shoes. This session was going to run late. But it was going to be worth it.
