Enright Family Collection (26 page)

“Hey, stranger, you’re home early!”

The blast from the horn of the small red car that had pulled next to her at the one stoplight in the center of town shook India abruptly from her fantasy.

“Darla, hi! I was going to call you tonight.”

“I heard this incredible rumor.” Darla leaned over the seat, her eyes dancing. “I heard on good authority that you are coming home for a while. Could that be possible?”

“It could.” India nodded.

“When?”

“Well, I still have to talk to my boss, but I’d like to do it as soon as possible.”

“Strictly for Corri’s sake, of course.” Darla’s eyes glistened with mischief.

“Of course, for Corri.” India frowned.

“And the presence of a certain handsome man having taken up residence in Devlin’s Light would have nothing to do with your decision.”

“Darla, how do you know?”

“Corri told us at dinner the other night that she and Nick spent the weekend with you in Paloma a few weeks back. In your house. Both of them.”

“Anything else she piped into the neighborhood hotline?”

“Only that Nick made you breakfast on Sunday morning.” Darla laughed.

“Well, I’d say she didn’t miss much,” India grumbled. “I think Miss Corri and I are going to have to have a talk.”

“Too late,” Darla told her cheerfully. “Everyone in Devlin’s Light has already heard about it.”

“I don’t suppose she bothered to tell anyone that Nick slept on the sofa and that she slept with me.”

“Nope. Don’t remember having heard that part. Okay, okay, I’m going,” Darla called over her shoulder to the driver of the car that had pulled behind her at the light and was now blowing the horn, anxious to proceed.

“I’ll catch up with you tomorrow. August invited us to join you for dessert.” Darla waved as she sped off.

India pulled all the way up the driveway to park in the
shadow of an ancient pine. The slamming of the car door startled a squirrel, which had been foraging at the base of the tree, seeking acorns that might have been previously overlooked. From a branch halfway up a jay scolded, and across the yard finches and chickadees chatted at the bird feeder Ry had given to Aunt August for her birthday three years ago. The perennial bed that ran the length of the back fence, so lush with color just months earlier, now displayed little more than dried stalks that had once held glorious day lilies. The remains of what had been tall, nodding heads of red and white phlox, even through October, now sagged toward the cushion of leaves discarded by the elm, maple and sassafras trees that lined the way leading out toward the dunes.

A lone herring gull circled overhead, its summer-white head feathers beginning to streak brown, signaling, her father would have said, a harsh and early winter. India shielded her eyes against the sun with one hand while she watched it glide and dip closer to the beach, calling to its compadres of some impending danger with a sharp
ga ga ga ga.
Stepping around the fence to the back of the dune, she walked to its crest, her feet sinking slightly into the sand, and scanned the sky. Nothing. Motion from the top of a nearby telephone pole at the back of the Kesslers’ property several hundred feet away caught her eye. Indy held her breath and watched as the bald eagle took flight across the marsh. It was a sight that had never failed to thrill her, to fill her with wonder. The massive bird soared on flat wings toward the densely wooded area beyond the marsh.

She wondered how many were nesting now in and around Devlin’s Light and thought back over the years, to Christmases when she and Ry had accompanied their father on the annual bird count, which recorded the birds seen on that one day at the Light. The first few years she had been less than a gracious participant, wanting only to play with her dolls and read her new books so early on the long awaited day, but over the years her interest had grown, until she and Ry had become rivals in their search for the largest number of recorded species. She remembered clearly the first bald eagle she had ever seen. It had soared from the top of the lighthouse the Christmas India had been nine and left
her breathless in the wake of its majestic flight. She had never forgotten the sight of that bird as it winged its way across the inlet, and never again had she complained about having to count birds on Christmas morning. Determined to keep the tradition alive, she thought perhaps she’d take Corri with her this year. And maybe Nick, if he was free.

Maybe she’d drive over to see him later, she was thinking as she walked toward the house. Less than twenty feet from the back door, the smells of holiday baking seeped out to greet her.

“Ah, Aunt August.” India sighed with pleasure, knowing the sight that awaited her on the other side of the back-porch door. “It’s good to know that some things never change.”

She stood in the doorway and inhaled, grinning broadly. That little Dorothy girl with the ruby slippers had gotten it right, all right. There was no place like home.

Mince pies and pumpkin, apple and cherry stood side by side with a row of peach cobblers across the counters.

“Now don’t stand there with that back door open,” August scolded as she wiped flour from her hands onto her apron.

“Sorry, Aunt August.” India leaned to sniff the cobbler as she passed by on her way to hug her aunt. “Ah, glorious.”

“India Devlin, I swear you have stuck your face in every peach cobbler I have baked for the past twenty-nine years.”

“A record I pride myself on.” India winked. “Oh, it’s so good to be home. What can I do to help?”

“You can keep out from underfoot,” August told her as she cut butter into a bowl for the crust of what would become yet another pie. Apple crumb, India guessed, judging from the pile of thinly sliced apples mounded in the old mixing bowl. “By the way, we saw you on the news this morning.”

“Saw me on the news?” India frowned and opened the cupboard. She needed coffee to go with the smidge of cobbler she planned to talk her aunt out of.

“They showed you coming out of the courtroom the other day after that rapist changed his plea to guilty. Such a nice-looking young man and such a lovely family.” August
tsk-tsked
as she floured her pastry board.

“Why would they show that today? The trial was over on Monday.”

“His attorney read a statement he made—get that spoon away from that cobbler, India Devlin—about why he had confessed to the crime.” August paused to point toward the coffeepot. “That coffee’s been sitting there since around seven this morning. Make a new pot and I’ll join you in a cup as soon as I finish this pie.”

“What did he say?” India asked, curious now.

“He said that he had to confess because the prosecutor had worked voodoo on him.”

India burst out laughing.

“He what?”

“He said you put some sort of spell on him and he had to tell the truth.” August looked up and grinned. “Oh. And the newspaper reporter referred to you as ‘Voodoo Devlin.’”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” India banged her cup on the counter. “Are you serious?”

“Umm-hmm.” August nodded. “Most unprofessional, I thought.”

“Oh, brother.” India groaned.

“Now, can his lawyer go back to the judge and ask that the case be tried again?”

“He would have to prove that I somehow did something illegal or underhanded, which of course I did not do.” India could almost hear the razzing she would get when she returned to her office. Suddenly she wished she had already put in for her leave.

“I’m thinking about taking a leave of absence.”

“So I heard.”

“Corri.”

“She is so happy. All she talks about is when Indy comes home to stay.” August flattened a mound of dough with the same wooden rolling pin that had been used by her mother. “Just make sure she understands that a leave is
temporary
, India. She has to understand that it doesn’t mean you’re coming home for good.”

“I know.” India nodded.

“Three months will seem like a much longer time to her than it will to you, so don’t lose sight of that.”

“Okay.”

“India, I don’t want that child hurt by one more leaving.”

“Neither do I.”

“She seems to have it in her head that you might stay.” “I told her it would only be like a long vacation for me. I’ll talk to her again.”

“Why?” August turned to her niece. “Why does it have to be only that? Why can’t you come home for good, India?”

“Maybe I can, Aunt August. Maybe that’s one of the things we’ll find out over the course of the next few months.”

August turned the crust into the pie plate and fit it close to the sides with sure fingers.

“Not that you’re not doing a wonderful job with Corri, Aunt August. I don’t for a second mean to imply that I think—”

“Please.” August held up one hand. “For heaven’s sake, India, I’m sixty-five years old. Too old to do a lot of things with her that need to be done. Darla has kindly lent a hand, and Nick is always there for us, but what if something happened to me, India? What would she do?”

“Aunt August, nothing is going to happen—”

“India, I’m not being negative, I’m simply being practical.”

“I thought about taking Corri to Paloma with me,” India said softly, waiting for a reaction.

“I was afraid you would, sooner or later.”

“I don’t think it’s the best thing for her.”

“You won’t get an argument from me.”

“I think she belongs in Devlin’s Light,” India told her. “I guess I just need to know if I belong here or not.”

“Well, I guess by the time your three months are up, we should have a pretty good idea, won’t we?” August dumped the apples into the crust with one swift motion.

“I guess.” India nodded and poured water into the coffee maker she and Ry had bought for August several Christmases back. “This thing is slow as molasses,” she noted, “and it’s making a funny noise.”

“Just needs cleaning. You can do it after dinner.”

“Is the entire clan gathering tomorrow?”

“Of course. Dan and Mabel Jane will be here by noon, as always, with their families.” August ran down the list of cousins and when they were expected to arrive. “Claire and Bonnie will be in around two. Dinner is set for four, as always, and dessert will be at seven.”

“Why so late?”

“Because Gordon and Evie were going to their grandson’s for dinner but they did want to stop by. Christine and Andrew were having guests, but they wanted to stop by. So I decided to have a dessert buffet this year. So that everyone could come for the memorial if they wanted to.”

“That’s a lovely idea.” India nodded, thinking it would extend the holiday, which would be nice for Corri. And good for her and Aunt August to be very busy on this first holiday without Ry.

“And I invited some other folks.” August waved her hand vaguely. “I left a message on Nick’s answering machine and told him he was welcome to stop by and join us.”

“Did he call back and say he would?” India asked with all the nonchalance she could muster.

“I didn’t ask him to. India, get that phone for me, will you?”

One of the ladies from Aunt August’s card club, wanting 10 know what time the dessert buffet would be. With a chuckle, India turned the telephone over to her aunt and, pouring herself a cup of coffee, walked back outside and followed the lane to its end, where it met the beach.

It was beautiful on this cool November afternoon. India sunk back into her fisherman’s knit sweater and sat on the back of the overturned rowboat that sat on the beach. Ry’s boat. She wondered what to do with it, since she couldn’t drag it back to the house by herself.

On a whim, she rolled it on its side and slid it across the sand to a point where the bay was deepest, the bottom falling off about a foot offshore. Tucking the oars inside, she climbed in and pushed off, first on one side, then on the other, until the bottom of the small boat cleared. Her face into the wind, she rowed toward the end of the inlet. She had missed him terribly, she admitted, and wanted to see him. She would surprise him. She smiled to herself as she
rowed with a solid stroke to where the marsh began. Following the line of cattails and marsh grasses, she rowed quietly, stopping sometimes to let the current take her. It was such a clear day, so perfect, cloudless and sunny. It was wonderful to be here. The sounds of the marsh, the smell of the bay, the warmth of the sun filled her with a joy she had not experienced in years.

Still reveling, she floated around the tip of the inlet, fifty feet from Nick’s floating dock. Her heart leapt at the sound of the screen door slamming, and she looked up, seeking his form at the railing.

She had not been prepared for the woman who stood next to him on the deck. Tall and lean, with waves of black hair swirling in the wind around what even from a distance was clearly a perfect face. The woman’s light laughter rang out as Nick appeared and draped an arm over her shoulder in a clear and casual sign of affection. India sat down in her little boat, momentarily stunned, a hole the size of Nebraska opening in her chest.

Her heart pounding, India rowed as quietly as possible to the edge of the marsh, hoping that the tall grasses would hide her presence and permit her to flee unseen, back to the inlet, not quite certain that she was ready to know who the woman was or how she fit into his life.

Cranberry-Cherry Crisp

Topping:

1 cup flour

1 cup old-fashioned oats (not instant)

2/3 cup packed brown sugar

1/2 cup (1 stick) butter at room temperature

Mix flour, oats and brown sugar in bowl. Cut butter into pieces. Combine butter with the flour/oat mix, until the mixture resembles coarse meal.

Filling:

1 large jar cherry pie filling

1 bag fresh cranberries

2/3 cup sugar

1/2 tablespoon grated orange peel

Wash cranberries and sort through, discarding berries that are mushy or white. Put cranberries into a pot with just enough water to cover, add sugar and heat through till boiling, about 10 minutes. Drain berries, combine in a large bowl with the cherry pie mixture, grated orange peel and sugar.