Enright Family Collection (14 page)

“What does Zoey do?”

He laughed. “Whatever occurs to her at the time. Zoey has done a little bit of everything, from the evening news to selling perfume in high-priced boutiques. She’s still looking for that ‘something’ to turn on all her lights, so to speak, the way Georgia and I have.”

“Georgia is your other sister?”

“The baby. She’s a dancer. Classical ballet, modern ballet.”

“Isn’t it unusual to do both?”

“Maybe. She says she needs them both. She likes the structure of classical, the ‘freedom of expression’ associated with modern. So she does both. Georgia is very good at what she does. And she’s never wanted to do anything else.”

“It sounds as if you are close,” she observed.

“Very close. We always have been. Our dad left when I was ten, and we’ve been a team since then. When Mom first started writing, before she made any money with it, I used to have to entertain the two girls in the afternoon and after dinner so that Mom could have some time to work.”

“Well, it certainly paid off. Delia Enright is one of the most widely read mystery writers in the world. Just think, if you hadn’t helped her find time to write back then, we might have been deprived of Rosalyn Jacobs and Penny Jackson, not to mention Harvey Shellcroft.”

India rattled off a few more of the recurring characters in one or another of the series of books Delia had written over the years.

“You really have read a lot of her work.” Nick looked pleased.

“I’ve probably read just about everything she’s written,” India confessed.

“Wait till I tell her. She’ll be delighted.”

“Like it’s something she’s never heard before.”

“Mother always says that fan loyalty is not something to be taken for granted or treated cavalierly. Trust me. She’s always happy to hear that someone enjoys her work. That’s the only reason she keeps writing at this point. Because people look forward to reading something new of hers.”

That and that multimillion dollar contract I read about in
People
magazine a few months back.
India suppressed a smile but said nothing.
God knows that would kick-start my creative juices.

“And last but not least”—he pushed open the last remaining closed door—“my office.”

Nick Enright’s office overflowed with paper. Books. Magazines. Notebooks. Stacks of whatever it was he had printed off his computer. Research notes. And just notes, a word or phrase scribbled here and there, some impaled on a metal spike that protruded from a large smooth stone, some posted on the bulletin board that covered one wall behind the desk, which was shaped like a large C and overlooked the bay.

“Wow. Looks like you spend a lot of time here,” she said diplomatically.

“I do. Probably forty percent of my waking hours.”

“What exactly is it that you do?”

“Right now I’m working on the thesis for my doctorate in marine ecology. I’ve chosen to study the Delaware Bay, cataloging the species that are here now, comparing them to species we knew were in existence millions of years ago. To see how life here has evolved. Maybe find out what pushed some creatures into extinction while others thrived and adapted.”

“Are there many species that have survived intact through all those years?” He was too close, and she felt the need to make conversation. Suddenly the room seemed very small.

“One that might surprise you.” He leaned back against the desk casually and asked, “Care to take a guess?”

“Sharks?”

“Certainly there were sharks millions of years ago, though maybe not in the exact form we know them today. I was thinking of a species that goes back even farther. Try again.”

She thought for a minute, then shrugged. “I have no idea.”

“Old Limulus.” He tossed her a black-and-white photograph of what appeared to be a pile of shiny army helmets with tails.

“The horseshoe crab?”

“Also called the king crab.” He nodded. “Been around these parts for the past four hundred million years. Roughly one hundred and fifty million years before the first dinosaurs.”

“Ugly little buggers,” India noted.

“Ah, but they’re not totally without virtue,” Nick told her.

“The only thing I know they’ve ever been useful for is fertilizer. Except, of course, the eggs are a food source for the migrating birds in the spring.”

“Over the past several years marine biologists have discovered a number of uses for these ‘ugly little buggers.’”

“Like what?”

“There’s a substance in the blood of the horseshoe crab—
LAL, which stands for limulus amoebocyte lysate—which is used to test medical drugs for contamination and to detect vitamin B-12 deficiencies. And lately there’s been a great deal of interest in its use as a cancer inhibitor.”

“All that from the blood of a horseshoe crab?”

“Yup.”

“Wow. And to think that we Devlins have had unlimited access to millions of those homely things over the years.”

“Not quite ‘unlimited’ these days. The state of New Jersey passed restrictions—I think in ’93—limiting the harvest of the crabs to three nights per week. It’s rankled a good number of the locals who make their living off the bay, I understand.” He dropped the photograph back onto his desk. “And I don’t know that there aren’t some who have found a way around the limits.”

“I see you’ve been to the beaches for the spawning.” She pointed to a photograph tacked to the corkboard by one large green pin, in which the sky was blackened with swirls of indistinguishable shapes. Only one who had witnessed the phenomenon would recognize the shadowy forms as an endless flock of birds.

“It’s one of the things that drew me to Devlin’s Beach,” he told her, sliding into his chair. “I had, of course, read about the massive migration of birds from the southern hemisphere flying north to breed in the Arctic, how they come to the Bay to feed on the eggs of the spawning horseshoe crabs. How those two events coincide perfectly.”

“My father always said there were no coincidences in nature.”

“I agree with him.” He nodded. “But it wasn’t until I actually experienced the sight: millions of birds, thick as fog, swirling around the beaches, most of them little more than bone and feather at this point in their long journey … gobbling up the eggs laid on and under the sand by thousands and thousands of spawning crabs. It was the most truly primitive thing I’ve ever witnessed. I half expected some prehistoric beasts to appear on the dunes.”

“It is something to see.” India recalled the countless times that she and Ry had watched, from the top of the dunes or the top of the lighthouse, while millions of birds— from Brazil and Guyana, from Tierra del Fuego and
Belize—fed like gluttons until they had regained their strength and added enough extra body fuel to take them the rest of the way north to their Arctic breeding grounds.

“It’s been said that up to eighty percent of an entire species can be found here at one time,” he said, twirling a paper clip around on a pencil point. “It’s staggering to watch.”

“Exciting, though,” she added, “in a very primal way.”

“Very primal.” His eyes, the softest, palest brown and very flecked with gold, sparked mischief.

India backed slightly toward the door as other equally primal forces were beginning to stir within her. The room was growing smaller by the minute and was suddenly far too small to contain both her and Nick.

“I had, of course, read about the phenomenon long before I’d witnessed it,” he continued, leaning back against the edge of the desk to indicate he was in no hurry to follow her to the door. “Did you know that the birds leave their southern homes at a precise time each year, navigating through the night by some internal compass, to arrive at this exact spot at the exact time when the horseshoe crabs are hauling themselves from the bay to the shore? And that the birds will continue to fly until some of them literally drop from the sky in fatigue?”

“Yes. I’d heard all that.”

“It makes you wonder, doesn’t it, about how many of our instincts are preprogrammed from another time, just how much is inherent in our species. And I know I for one certainly have a healthy respect for that urge to survive and to procreate.”

“I’ll just bet you do.” She nodded.

“What?” His brows knit together.

“I mean, studying all the species here on the bay, and watching firsthand, as you do, all the adaptations that have occurred to ensure their survival…” She was rambling, backing into the hallway, away from those eyes that seemed to narrow and darken somewhat, as if they were teasing her and enjoying the joke.

“Hmm. Right.” He rose and started toward her.

“So. I don’t want to keep you from your work.”

“I had just stopped for lunch when you arrived. Why
don’t you join me? I make a wicked grilled-cheese sandwich.”

“I, ah, promised Corri I’d pick her up at school and take her shopping this afternoon.” India continued to back down the hall, hoping she didn’t look like she was fleeing from him, though she knew she was. He probably knew it too, but she couldn’t help it. He was too close and she was too unprepared for the likes of Nick Enright.

“How is she doing?” He took the now empty cup from her hands as they passed from the dim hallway into the large and airy great room.

“She’ll be okay.” India frowned. “At least I think she will be. She has a lot of adjustments to make, but overall, I think we’ll be able to work it all out.”

“You know, of course, that if I can do anything for you, anything for Corri, that I am always available. Anything at all, India.”

“I appreciate that, Nick, I do.” India had backed herself to the door and there seemed little to do at this point but open it and go right on through.

“Well, if I can’t talk you into lunch, how ’bout dinner?”

“I promised Corri I’d take her to dinner when we finish shopping.”

“Then how ’bout dessert and coffee afterward?”

“Well, I …”

“It’s a full moon tonight, India. Didn’t you want to come out and sit on the deck and try to re-create the scene by the light of a full moon?”

“Yes. Actually, I did.” She frowned again. Who knew how long it would be before she was in Devlin’s Light for another full moon? “You’re on. I’ll drive out after I get Corri to bed. Probably by eight-thirty or so.”

“Great. I’ll have the coffee on.” He reached around her, his hand grazing her hip as he reached for the doorknob to open it for her.

“I’ll see you then.”

“Right. Thanks.” She followed her feet down the steps to the bottom of the dock. As she untied the small boat and racked the oars, she made the mistake of looking back up to the cabin where he leaned against the jam of the open door, looking all too adorable with his hair falling across his
forehead almost to the top of his dark glasses. All too adorable indeed.

“Indy, I can’t decide.” Corri frowned, looking down at her feet, where one foot wore a gray leather Buster Brown strap shoe, and the other a black-and-white oxford that tied.

“Let’s get them both,” India said, nodding to the sales-woman that they would take both pairs of shoes as well as the sneakers and the soft black leather dress shoes. “Tappy shoes,” Corri had called them, for the sound the heels made on the tiled area of the otherwise well-carpeted floor.

“Wow. Really?”

“Really. Sure.” India handed over her American Express card at the cash register and watched the sales assistant slide the four boxes into the open mouth of a shopping bag. “Now, let’s see, what else do we need?”

“Nothing. Aunt August took me out right before school started and bought me some stuff.”

“Are you sure you don’t need anything else?”

“I’m sure.” Corri fairly danced from the store opening into the mall proper. “Can we eat now?”

“Sure. Any place in particular you like?”

“The Brown Cow.” Corri pointed across the mall.

“The Brown Cow it is.”

“So, what was the best thing that happened at school today?” Indy asked after they had been seated in a comfy brown-and-white plaid booth and had placed their orders.

“Ummm … Kelly shared her cookies with me at lunch.”

“What kind?”

“Chocolate cookies with white chocolate chips.” Corri pulled the white paper tube from her straw and blew bubbles in her chocolate milk, sneaking a peek at India to see if she would object. India was busy squeezing a lemon into her diet Pepsi.

“Yum. That sounds very gourmet.” India nodded.

“Her mom made them. She makes all kinds of neat stuff. Sometimes she bakes stuff and sells it to Mrs. Begley and she sells it in her shop with Darla’s stuff.” Corri leaned back to permit the waitress to place a plate holding chicken fingers and fries before her on the table.

“Oh.” India bit her lip and drizzled low-fat salad dressing
on her small bowl of greens, wondering how many of the other moms sent their kids off to school with home-baked goodies.

“Kelly’s mom knows how to make doughnuts,” Corri told her, as if in awe of the feat.

Trying not to sound peevish, India said, “Well. It sounds as if Kelly’s mom is quite the baker.”

“She is, Indy.” Corri nibbled on the end of a fry.

“I’m sorry that I’m not home to do things like that for you,” India told her, all of a sudden feeling sad. Sad and guilty. She was not there to bake for Corri. Corri had to share other kids’ homemade snacks. She was overwhelmed with guilt, was two beats away from letting the lump in her throat erupt into tears.

“It’s okay, Indy. You do important stuff too.” Corri nodded, seemingly unaffected by India’s shortcomings. “And besides, Aunt August bakes neat stuff too.”

Of course, Aunt August would. The Devlin honor was intact.

India thought back to days long past, when she and Ry would arrive home on frosty afternoons to find a freshly baked treat newly sprung from the oven and waiting for them.

“Does she still make raspberry cobbler?”

“Umm-hmmm.” Corri nodded. “And peach and apple too.”

“Well then, I don’t feel as badly now.”

“Why do you feel badly, Indy?”

“Because I don’t do enough for you. Because I’m not here when you need me.”

“But I like the stuff Aunt August bakes. And she shows me how to do things. Do you know how to not let pie dough crawl up your arm?”