Enright Family Collection (27 page)

Butter the bottom of a 13x9x2-inch glass baking dish. Pour fruit mixture into dish and crumble topping over fruit. Bake in a preheated 350° oven for 25-30 minutes, or until the fruit is bubbly and the topping has browned.

Chapter 16

Thanks giving at the Devlin homestead varied little from one year to the next. At some point or another during the day, all of the Devlin cousins made an appearance. If not for dinner, then for brunch or later in the evening for dessert. But sooner or later, they all arrived at August’s front door, where they would be welcomed with open arms.

As a child, India had passed through the crowded rooms with canapés and candies on serving plates, or silver trays of spice cookies and tiny fruit tarts, depending on the time of day. Corri, being the youngest in the house these days, had inherited those duties, and having cut her teeth on passing small plates of peppermints two years earlier and trays of scones at last year’s brunch, she was ready for full duty this year, much to her pride.

August had cooked and baked and bustled since six that morning. India performed what she called the “accessory tasks”—chopping celery, cutting bread rounds for canapés, peeling potatoes and carrots, making sure that there was always fresh coffee and hot water for tea, cleaning the counters and rinsing bowls—while August took center stage in preparing the turkeys that would grace the dining-room table and serve as the focal points of the buffet to serve however many would show up that day. They were age-old
rituals that, August liked to say, were being observed in countless homes all across the country in much the same way as in Devlin’s Light. It was what she liked to refer to as a “connecting cord,” one of those common threads that wound through the fabric of so many folks from different backgrounds and ethnic groups in cities and suburbs, farms and penthouses, from one coast to the other. It was part of what made Thanksgiving a uniquely American holiday, she had often reminded India, and part of the reason for celebration. Every year, while India worked side by side with her aunt, August would recite what India had come to think of as the “whos and the whats” of the Devlin clan.

“Now, look for Lil—she’s first cousin to your dad and me—to be the first to arrive, usually by eleven. She’ll have a basket of pumpkin muffins on her arm and one of her granddaughters in tow. The rest of her group will arrive later, but Lil likes to be first. Her kids will stay for brunch, but they’ll leave to take the grandkids to the in-laws for dinner. Then Lil’s sister, Rachel, will be next, with all her brood. Children and grandchildren. Rachel will bring the biggest already cooked, already sliced ham she can find, along with her homemade rolls and that cranberry relish of hers that won, oh, more blue ribbons than I can recall at the state fair several years running.”

India would be thinking about Aunt Lil’s fragrant pumpkin muffins and those puffy, golden brown rolls of Aunt Rachel’s, and her mouth would be watering from early in the morning until dinner.

“Then of course, Jenny Devlin will come after brunch with several bottles of her elderberry wine—the same elderberry wine that has, over the years, been responsible for more than one Devlin embarrassing him- or herself before the day is over.” August chuckled.

Jenny Devlin—who, like August, had never married— would take charge of the dinner table, keeping the diners moving around the buffet, making sure that a bowl or platter was refilled the very second it was emptied, keeping a steady supply of clean plates and utensils flowing from the kitchen. To accomplish this particular feat, she commandeered members of the younger generations to wash, dry and restock the dishes so that there was never a shortage.
Everyone helped out, everyone ate well and everyone left swearing that next year they wouldn’t eat quite so much.

And it had all gone exactly as August had predicted. The brunch group had barely departed when the first of the dinner crowd arrived. The pace had kept India on her feet and moving, and it had given her something to focus on besides the pain that had taken up residence under her ribs when the tall, raven-haired beauty had walked onto Nick’s deck as if she belonged there. It had stung more than India had thought possible.

India had barely recovered from the dinner shift when August announced that dessert would be forthcoming shortly, an event that would be marked by a seemingly endless parade of pies and cobblers as well as Jenny’s Lady Baltimore cake, a trifle prepared by one of Claire’s daughters and several cheesecakes by one of Mae’s, a cremè bruleé, which had seemed to appear from nowhere, and a very elegant-looking sacher torte. The doorbell rang constantly as those August had invited only for dessert began to crowd through the front hallway into the parlor.

Over the heads of August’s card-playing buddies India could see Darla enter the dining room, accompanied by Jack and Ollie, both of whom disappeared into the kitchen with Corri, only to emerge minutes later with small trays of chocolates that the girls passed to the guests, Jack following behind to snitch first one, then another of the homemade truffles brought by who knew whom. India hugged Darla in the doorway and pulled her into the kitchen for a breather.

“I am dead on my feet,” India told her, as she sank gratefully into a nearby chair, seeking a comfort that she knew would be only temporary. “And my aunt barely looks winded.”

“She’s a breed apart from the likes of us.” Darla laughed. “How many people have come through that door today?”

“I have no idea. All of Aunt August’s cousins and at some point during the day most of their families. Then she invited several people that she knew from town who had noplace to go today for dinner, her card club, various and sundry others, so that swelled the ranks. She thrives on all this, I swear she does.”

“Well, you’d best be taking notes, honey, because someday
all of this will be yours.” Darla waved her hand toward the dining room, and India groaned.

“I heard that, Darla Kerns,” August said, entering the kitchen with a silver pot from the ornate service that stood upon the sideboard. “And I’ll have you know that I’m not ready to throw in my apron just yet.”

August hugged her in passing, then handed India the coffeepot. “India, refill this, please, and check to see that the creamer is full.”

“I’ll hit the creamer, you fill the pot,” Darla told India, who was rising slowly from her chair. “It will give me an excuse to nab a slice of the sacher torte before it’s all gone.”

A newcomer appeared in the kitchen doorway, a handsome woman in her midfifties, simply dressed in a heather-gray cashmere sweater set and matching skirt that closely matched her hair. Her eyes were lively and her smile bright. She was familiar, somehow, though India knew she’d never met her before. She would have remembered. The woman wore a sure and casual presence the way some women wore perfume.

“Is August here?” she asked India.

“Yes, I’m …” August poked out from the butler’s pantry where she had been dusting a tray of cream puffs with powdered sugar. “Delia! Why I’m so pleased to see you!”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t mind.” The elegant woman beamed and pecked a kiss on August’s cheek, placing a beautiful gift basket on the counter as she did so. “Nicky said you’d invited him to stop over this evening. I didn’t expect to still be here tonight, but we had a rather full house at Nicky’s for dinner.”

“I’m delighted that you’ve joined us.” August patted her arm.

India tried to sneak past her aunt’s back to escape up the back steps while she tried to talk her heart into beating at a normal rate.

“Delia, I’d like you to meet my niece, India.” August grabbed her with one hand as she started for the doorway. “India, this is Delia Enright. Our favorite author. And Nick’s mother, of course.”

“India. I’m so pleased to meet you.” Delia held out a hand that was impeccably manicured and beautifully jeweled.
A fat diamond in a wide gold band. A tennis bracelet set with rubies. Diamond studs. A wide shimmer of gold at her neckline.

“It’s my pleasure, Mrs. Enright,” India said, forcing her best manners into play. “And my aunt is correct, you are my favorite author.”

“Really?” Delia laughed. “Then everything I’ve heard about you is obviously true. And please, call me ‘Delia.’”

India was just about to ask what Delia had heard, and from whom, when Nick appeared, dragging the dark-haired beauty past the dessert table and into the kitchen. The young woman was even more beautiful close up, with flawless ivory skin and laughing sapphire-blue eyes. India searched the deepest recesses of her memory to try to recall if she had ever felt such a stab of jealousy the likes of which she experienced at that very moment. It seemed to rip at her insides and burn all the way to her throat.

“India.” Nick smiled at her and reached for her hand, and that only made things worse. She felt weak-kneed and confused that he would bring this woman into her house, into her family gathering.

“Oh!” the young woman said. “So you’re India. Nicky has told me so much about you. I’m Zoey.”

Zoey?

“Nicky’s sister.” She offered a slender hand to India, who could not seem to react quickly enough to take it.

“Nicky’s sister,” India repeated dumbly.

His sister. You idiot, she’s his sister! Yes! His sister!

“India,” August said pointedly.
What has addled that girl?

India looked down at the hand that was still stretched out and waiting.

“Oh. Oh, I’m sorry.” India, relieved to the point where she fought the urge to kick her heels together and dance, attempted to recover. “I … um … I have something sticky on my hands … that’s why I didn’t …”

August turned her head to look at her as if she was daft. Delia looked down at her own hand, as if searching for some sticky residue India might have left there. Not finding any, she shrugged.

Nick folded his arms and leaned against the doorway,
terribly amused by India’s totally uncharacteristic bumbling.

“I was just telling Mother that this is how I always pictured a proper Thanksgiving. We always have just us. Though this year we had Georgia and a few of her friends from her dance troupe.” Zoey’s voice was pure honey over whiskey, sexy and sure.

“Is Georgia here?” India attempted to redeem herself by speaking coherently.

“No, they all went back to Baltimore. She’s doing the Nutcracker starting tomorrow evening. Mother invited her and all her friends to Nicky’s for dinner.”

“And did Nicky cook dinner?” India directed the question to Nick.

“Now, do I detect a bit of sarcasm there, Miss Devlin?” Nick frowned, reaching out to snag her arm and pull her toward him. “I’d be willing to bet that I did more cooking today than you did.”

“Don’t let him con you, India,” Zoey stage-whispered. “Mother’s
cook
cooked dinner.”

“Hey, who heated everything up, huh?” Nick pretended to be wounded that his sister had seemingly belittled his efforts.

“You did, Nicky.” Zoey patted him on the back affectionately and pretended to be contrite. “And you did a damned fine job too.”

“Well then, now that Nick is here, I think we can start, India.” August tapped her on the arm. “Will you please get the family Bible and call everyone into the front parlor for the memorial?”

India’s throat tightened. She had tried not to think about this part of the Thanksgiving ritual. Every year, the names of those who had departed this world over the past twelve months would be entered into the old family Bible, and those who had something to say about—or to—the deceased would have a chance to do so. It was a beautiful tradition, a fine way of remembering those whose presence would be missed at future family gatherings.

“Nick, could I impose upon you to help my nephew Adam pass the champagne for the toast?”

August handed Nick two bottles of well-chilled cham-pagne
and led him off in search of Adam, calling over her shoulder, “India, go out on the back porch and tell the children it’s time.”

Within minutes, the entire group was crowded into the front parlor, many of them spilling into the hallway. A hush had fallen upon them, their voices lowering to a whisper one might reserve for church.

August lit the candles that were clustered atop the baby-grand piano in the corner, upon which rested the Devlin family Bible and a gold fountain pen.

“Jeremy.” August nodded to her cousin, the oldest of the male Devlins gathered.

“Tonight we will record the names of those we have lost since the last time we gathered here.” The elderly man’s voice was low but steady. “August, if you will do the honor of adding the name of Evelyn Devlin Boone. Is there anyone who would like to say a word about Evie?”

“I remember the summer Evie and I were sixteen.” Cousin Berry—Barbara—spoke up, her old woman’s voice strong despite her eighty-five years. “It was 1927, and all the girls were bobbing their hair. Evie was the first one in Devlin’s Light to sneak off to the hairdresser’s down on Hoolihan’s Lane and get her hair cut short and curled. Oh, my, what a scandal she caused in church the next morning.” Berry chuckled, then paused for just a moment before adding, “I always thought Evie had more fun than anyone I knew. I always wished that I could have been as bold as Evie.”

The silence in the room was expectant, respectful. August’s cousin Jeremy looked around the group to see if anyone else had memories to share of cousin Evie. Evie’s children spoke up, one by one, each recalling an anecdote that demonstrated a cherished aspect of their mother’s character. When the last tribute had been spoken, Jeremy raised his glass and said, “To Evelyn,” to which the others responded, “May she rest in peace.”

“Robert Forman Devlin.” Jeremy announced the name slowly, and August nodded, making the letters with a firm hand upon the page.

There was a very long, heavy silence before Elena Carney, a contemporary of India’s, spoke up.

“When I was little and afraid of the water, Ry took me in the bay and taught me how to swim.” Elena stopped, overcome and unable to continue.

“The year my dad died, Ry went on my Cub Scout camping trip with me,” Bill Devlin recalled, then smiled a shaky half smile. “He taught me how to mark a trail, how to make a fire, how to catch crabs with your hands. He was like a big brother to me.” Bill’s voice faltered and he shrugged his shoulders, adding, “He was the best.”