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.”
And so it went, everyone in the room adding a little something. India thought she could almost feel him there, could imagine his smile, which would be humble and grateful for the accolades. It was the closest she had permitted herself to feel toward him since the morning they buried his body up on the little rise overlooking the bay. Finally, when it was her turn to speak, she said simply, “Ry was a very special man who left us long before he should have. I get angry every time I think about all of the sunsets he’ll never see, all of the birdsongs he’ll never hear. Ry loved Devlin’s Light, and he loved this family, and we are all a little better for having been loved by him. I miss him terribly.”
She swallowed the hard, tennis ball of a lump in her throat. “Darla?” she said softly, offering her a chance to speak.
“I can’t.” She shook her head.
India nodded to Jeremy to indicate she was finished, and he looked around the room. When it appeared that all the tributes had been made, he raised his glass. Before he could speak, however, Corri tugged on India’s skirt and said, “Can I tell about Ry too?”
“Of course you may, sweetie.” India lifted the child in her arms so that she could be seen by the rest of the family. “What would you like to say?”
“That Ry wanted to be my daddy, and he read good stories to me. He played soccer with me.” Her tiny fingers twisted a button on the front of her dress. “And he told me all about birds and shells. He took me fishing. Sometimes he called me ‘Amber,’ ‘cause he said that sometimes my hair looked like amber.” Her fingers tugged at a curl. “He was so fun. And I wish he didn’t die.”
“Thank you, Corri. I sincerely doubt that anyone in this room could have paid a more eloquent tribute to Ry than you just did.” Jeremy smiled, and, glancing around the room to insure that there were no more comments, he raised his glass. “To Robert.”
“May he rest in peace.”
“That’s quite an interesting tradition you have there,” Nick said as he added a log to the fire and gathered some empty glasses from the mantel in the sitting room.
“It’s a Devlin thing.” India shrugged as she picked up the dessert plates from the tables. “Passed down for two hundred plus years.”
“Really?”
“Yup. We’re on our fourth Bible.”
“Every single Devlin?”
“Every single Devlin who died since 1738. That’s when Jonathan died. His death was the first one recorded. One of his nephews—the son of one of his sisters, that is—died in 1703, the year they built the first lighthouse, but it isn’t recorded here.”
“That’s amazing.”
“I guess it is when you stop and think about it. Which I don’t usually do. The oldest Bibles are in a safe-deposit box. The entries are very tiny,” she told him. “My dad always used to say that whoever wrote them had excellent vision.”
“What else is left in here, India?” August poked a weary head into the sitting room, the guests all having long since departed except for the Enrights.
“Very little, Aunt August. I’ll wash up everything. You go relax.”
“I am tired.” August appeared to be surprised by the admission, even though she had been up since the first light of day. She had spent the entire day on her feet, and it was now nearing eleven.
“I would think so.” India placed a fond kiss on August’s temple and led her back to the kitchen. “Tea and a comfortable chair for you, Aunt August.”
“Tea it is.” Darla poured a hot cup of mandarin orange tea and placed it on the table.
At India’s prompting, Nick brought in a rocking chair from the front room and directed August to sit in it.
“Is there another dry dish towel?” Zoey asked. “This one just about drank its fill.”
India went through two drawers before she found another towel, which she passed to Zoey.
Funny
, India thought,
just last night I dreaded finding out who this woman was, and tonight, here she is, in our kitchen, drying dishes like a member of the family, well on the way to becoming a friend. Of course, last night, I hadn’t known that she was Nick’s sister.
India shivered, recalling how the hot pangs of jealousy had ripped through her as she rowed the boat back to the beach.
“Penny for them.” Nick caught up with her in the butler’s pantry and trapped her in his arms.
“I don’t think you really want to know,” she said, laughing ruefully.
“What is it?”
She shook her head.
“Okay. Then I’ll ask why you didn’t let me know when you got home yesterday.”
“I tried to.”
“What does that mean?” He frowned.
“I rowed out to the cabin in the afternoon.”
“I didn’t see you.”
“Well, that was pretty much the idea,” she said with a sigh, “after I saw you.”
“I don’t get it.”
“I saw you on the deck with Zoey.”
“Why didn’t you join us? She was dying to meet you.” “I didn’t know she was your sister, Nick.” He stared at her blankly.
“I still don’t get it.”
“I thought she was maybe your… your girlfriend, a house guest… whatever,” India told him sheepishly.
“Zoey?” He laughed. “You thought Zoey was my girlfriend?”
“Nick, I had no way of knowing. All I knew was that I saw an absolutely beautiful young woman on your deck and you had your arm around her.”
“Well, how ‘bout that?” He rubbed his chin. “And here I was, all put out because you didn’t let me know you were here, and there you were, all … all … what would you say you were?”
“Jealous,” she told him. “Sick with envy.”
“You weren’t.”
She nodded and could almost feel the knot well up in her, just thinking back to it. He put his arms around her and held her very close to him.
“There is no girlfriend, Indy. There isn’t anyone I care about, except you. No one I’d care to have as a house guest—family excluded, of course—except you.” He wrapped her up close to his face, rubbing his cheek against hers. “There isn’t anyone I want in my life except you. Got that, Indy?”