“I feel that way every time I go over there.” He nodded in the direction of the Light.
“Do you ever feel him there?” she asked tentatively.
“All the time.” He smiled. “It’s one of the reasons I go. Ry was one of the best friends I ever had. I miss him.”
He said it simply and without apology.
“I miss him too. I always will. You know what they say about time healing and making it better? It doesn’t make it better. You just get a little more used to the feeling, that’s all. But you never stop missing. You never stop wishing.”
He reached over and massaged the back of her neck in the most natural of gestures.
“I’m sorry …” She shook her head, Ry suddenly too much with her.
“Don’t be.” He waved away her apology. “It’s natural, India. He was a part of both our lives. It would be unnatural, I would think, if we didn’t talk about him. Now come inside and let me get you something cold to drink. I was just stopping for lunch. I’d love to have some company.”
He held open the door for her, and she stepped into the little screened porch at one end of the deck.
“This is so cute,” she said, then laughed. “I don’t know if you appreciate ‘cute.’”
“It is cute.” He laughed without a trace of self-consciousness, pointing out the rocking chairs painted white, their cushions done in navy and white stripes, the table between the two chairs bright red. “My mom’s idea of
nautical
decor.”
“Aunt August mentioned that your mother did some, ah, redecorating.”
Nick laughed out loud.
“What my mother did was rebuild the cabin from the ground up,” he told her.
“Aunt August said that Delia Enright, the writer, is your mother.”
“She is.”
“I’m a big fan of hers,” Indy told him.
“Then that’s something else we have in common.” He smiled. “Want to see what else she did?”
“I’m afraid I’m wearing a bit of the bay.” India gestured to her wet shorts.
“India, this is a beach house, designed to be lived in by people who wear wet clothes and occasionally bring sand in on their feet.”
He opened the screen door for her and led the way into a cabin no one would ever have recognized as the place where the old crabbers had once hung their hats and their nets.
The entire cabin had been gutted and the resulting large, square room paneled in the warmest shades of honey pine. A scattering of colorful Native American rugs covered the heart-of-pine floor, and a fireplace of rough-hewn stone faced her from the opposite wall. A long sectional sofa of the softest, creamy ivory leather curved around the hearth, and a knitted afghan of fluffy tweeded wool in shades of green was flung casually over one arm of the sofa. Pillows heaped at one end of the sofa repeated the colors from the carpets, and abstract paintings hung on the walls. A large rounded table, piled high with books, occupied the space formed by the half moon of the sofa. To India’s right a long wooden refractory table—an antique piece if ever she’d seen one—was placed under a wall of windows that opened onto the bay, and beyond the table, a small kitchen area was tucked into the far corner of the large room. The entire
effect was homey, comfortable and, like the man who lived there, utterly charming.
“Your mother did all this?” India asked, her jaw dropping at the unexpected simple
luxury
of the room that had opened before her.
“Yes, bless her heart, she did. And no, to answer the next question before you ask, it doesn’t bother me that she completely took over the entire project.” He grinned.
“It doesn’t?” India frowned, wondering how she would feel if someone else tried to force their taste in furnishings on her.
“Nope. I guess you’d have to know my mother to understand. First of all, I can’t think of a thing I’d change here. I couldn’t have done better if I’d personally picked out every item, which I had neither time nor inclination to do. Let’s not even talk about the expense. Some things I did select, and some things I brought with me. Mother says she does stuff like this because she just has to feel that we still need her. She likes to feel like she’s still in charge, even though we all know that when it comes to the really important things, she isn’t. So she does things like this. You should see what she did in my sister Georgia’s condo.”
“When does your mother find time to write if she’s busy organizing everyone’s lives?”
“She takes her laptop with her wherever she goes—never misses a beat. And she never interferes with our lives, just our living spaces. It gives her great pleasure to spend her money on her children. So we humor her and let her do her thing when she wants to.”
“I would love to have to humor someone to this extent.” India waved her hands around to take in the room.
“Shhhh.” He held a finger to his lips. “Don’t let that get around! You’ll find her on your doorstep one of these days, and your townhouse will never be the same. ’India, dear, what would you think of skylights … and—tell me the truth, Indy—don’t you think that corner is just begging for a plump little chair?’”
“Does she speak like that? That fast?” India laughed at the characterization.
“Faster. Mom can talk you dizzy.” He opened the refrigerator. “Now, what can I get for you? Iced tea, soda, beer?”
“Iced tea is fine.” She watched as he took another red mug from a cabinet, filled it with ice over which he poured a pale brown liquid and handed it to her in what appeared to be one smooth movement.
India sipped at the tea, not realizing until now how dry her mouth was. Must be the salt air, she told herself. That and the heat.
“And of course she had a new bath put in.” Nick gestured for India to follow him to a small hallway off to the right of the fireplace and then to a handsome, spacious bathroom where the walls and floor were lined with what looked like small Mexican tiles, all in terra-cotta and cream, with dashes of bright enamel blue and yellow. No little shells or duckys for Delia Enright. India looked overhead to the large skylight that opened up the ceiling to the sky, and to the left where the whirlpool tub stood. Wide windows overlooked the swampy marshes. An oversized shower—with room for two, India noticed—completed the room. Looked like Mom thought of everything.
“Very nice.” India sipped at her tea, trying not to speculate how many doubles had showered in that Mexican grotto.
“And my bedroom.” He swung open the door and she could not help but smile.
A king-size bed covered in a dark green comforter filled the room, most of the other furniture being built into the walls, which were made of what appeared to be white birch logs. All very comfortable and masculine. A manly room. Right down to the large, well-worn teddy bear sitting in the middle of the bed.
“I saw that smirk,” Nick said, trying his best to look insulted. “Don’t think I didn’t notice.”
“I can’t help it, Nick.” India tried to stifle a giggle behind her hand. “The whole effect here is so ‘single man’—strong colors everywhere, solid, heavy furniture. And then there’s…”
“She’s laughing at us, Otto,” he said, addressing the bear. “We’ll pretend not to care, but deep inside, we’re crushed.”
“Have you been, ah, roommates for long?” India tried to adopt his serious tone.
“Since I was four. He looks pretty good for his age,
wouldn’t you say?” Nick pulled the bear across the bed by one plush foot and held him up for her inspection.
“I’d say he wears the years well.” She nodded.
Nick smiled and returned Otto to his place of honor. “Back this way,” he said, stepping into the hall and turning to the left, as she followed, “there is an office for me and a guest room.”
He opened the door to the guest room first. It was softer than the rest of the house, more feminine, with deeply piled sage-green carpet and three double-sized bird’s-eye maple beds and matching dressers. The beds were dressed in peach and green stripes of a silky fabric and were piled high with decorative pillows.
“This is some guest room,” India noted. “Three double beds?”
“For the queen, the duchess and the princess.” Nick grinned. “My mother thought that as long as she was doing the cabin over, she might as well prepare a little spot for herself and my sisters.”
“Do they come often, the three of them together?”
“Every once in a while they’ll drop in and stay for a few days. It’s like a slumber party for the three of them. They stay up all night and talk, take the boat out at dawn to watch the sun rise. It’s great for them. Sometimes just one—my mother or one of my sisters—will come alone. Last year my sister Zoey came down for a week or so, between jobs.”
“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.