“I understand. Ry told me you were good at what you do. He bragged about you all the time. About how many convictions you’ve gotten. He was very proud of you.”
“I was very proud of him.” India twisted the small sapphire ring she wore on the middle finger of her right hand. “It is very difficult for me to accept that he is gone, Nick. And harder still that there’s no way of knowing what happened there that night. It’s just so frustrating. I guess I think if I look hard enough, I’ll find something.”
“Indy?” A voice called from the other side of the screen door.
“Yes?” India turned toward it.
“Your cousin Blake is here. Your aunt would like you to please come in.” Patsy Carpenter opened the door and stuck her broad face out. “Oh. Hello, Nick.”
“Hello, Patsy.”
“Indy …”
“I’ll be right in. Thank you.”
The screen door closed softly.
“I’d like to finish this conversation sometime later. That is, if it’s all right with you.”
“Of course.” He watched her unfold from her seat on the opposite side of the porch swing and stood up as she did.
“At your convenience.”
“I just need to
know
, Nick.”
“I understand completely, India.” He watched the afternoon sun cross her cheek as she turned toward the door. “If you think it would help, you’re welcome to come out to the cabin.”
“That’s very kind, Nick. And maybe it would help me to see it in my head. It might be easier if I’m there.”
“Whatever you think is best.”
“Thank you.” She nodded and extended a hand to him. “Thank you, Nick. For everything.”
She slipped into the cool of the house, unaware that eyes the color of honey followed her well-fitting black linen sheath as it disappeared through the doorway, or that the man leaning against the porch railing could suddenly think of nothing but the way her golden hair curled around her face.
Chapter 3
India awoke to the sound of ill-mannered gulls squabbling over some luckless fish that, having ventured too far into shallow water, was now a sure bet to end up as breakfast for the gull that emerged victorious from the fray. She could picture it in her mind, having watched countless such seaside struggles over the years. The gull with the fish would be hounded and harassed until it swallowed the prize— often live and whole—or dropped it, leaving others to pursue the catch until one of them got lucky and managed to snatch the meal and fly off with it.
A vast change from the early morning sounds of the city. India smiled wryly as she stretched out her full five-foot-five-inch frame and pushed her toes out from under the light summer throw. There were no street noises to speak of much before noon in Devlin’s Light, unless you counted the sound of the Parson boy’s bike as he slowed down to toss a newspaper onto the front porch. And that wasn’t till around seven or so, so it didn’t really count. In the city, the first-edition newspapers landed on the front steps well before the sun came up, and you were lucky if someone hadn’t lifted your copy by the time you came outside looking for it.
India squinted at the small numbers that circled the hand-painted face of the delicate porcelain clock that stood on the bedside table. Eight o’clock. India could not remember
the last time she had slept till eight o’clock. On a normal workday, she’d be halfway through the documents she would need for court that day. Here in Devlin’s Light, there was no courtroom, no jail beyond the single holding cell where prisoners, mostly DUIs, would be housed till they made bail or were transferred over to the county jail. The crime rate in Devlin’s Light was so low it was almost nonexistent. There were exactly two unsolved crimes in the files of the Devlin’s Light police. One was the theft of the Lannings’ skiff the summer before. The second was the suspicious death of Ry Devlin.
India threw her legs over the side of the bed and sat up in a single motion. For a few minutes she had almost forgotten what had brought her here, to the peace and quiet of a weekday morning in the old house on Darien Road, when this hour of the day would normally find her in a flurry of activity in her busy, noisy office in Paloma. She squeezed her eyes tightly shut.
Ry.
For the first time in a week she had had almost two minutes of consciousness when she had not thought of Ry. And not thinking of Ry had given her a reason to think of him.
From down the hall she could hear the early morning sounds of a house coming to life. Aunt August, plagued by allergies this time of year, sniffled softly from the front bedroom where she had awakened almost every morning of her life, not counting those four years of college upstate many years ago. Water splashed in the sink in the bathroom next door. Corri washing her face, India guessed. The old faucet squeaked as the water was turned off—as it had squeaked for as long as Indy could remember—and the door opened softly. Corri’s little feet padded lightly on the rag runner that traced the length of the hallway as she returned to her room quietly, as if afraid to disturb anyone.
Indy rose, lifting her arms toward the ceiling to stretch out the kinks. She gathered clothes from her suitcase— cutoff denim jeans and a blue and cream striped T-shirt— and headed for the shower.
By the time India had dressed and made her way downstairs, Aunt August and Corri had already finished their
breakfast in the cozy little nook off the kitchen. India joined them, grateful for the cup of freshly brewed coffee awaiting her.
“It’s a perfect summer day, Indy,” Aunt August said purposefully as she rinsed her breakfast dishes under a stream of steaming water in the kitchen sink. “You and Corri might want to think about taking a picnic down to the beach.”
“Sounds good to me,” India replied. “How ‘bout it, Corri?”
Corri shrugged indifferently.
“There’s lots of good things left over from yesterday.” August paused in the doorway and glanced at the child who was quietly beating a long, thin brown crust of her toast against the side of her plate. “I can pack up some chicken and some salad, some cookies that Liddy made …”
August’s worried eyes caught India’s from above the head of the little girl who was clearly tuning out.
“Do that, Aunt August.” India nodded. “We’ll be ready to go in half an hour. Soon as I finish my breakfast and take a glance at the morning paper.”
Corri looked up at her with wide brown eyes from the opposite side of the table. Without speaking she rose and repeated August’s activity at the sink, rinsing her plate, then her glass, before placing them both in the dishwasher that was one of August’s concessions to modern living in a house whose original section was close to three hundred years old. Without a backward glance, Corri moved like a zombie through the back door into the yard. From the breakfast-room window, August and India watched her as she climbed onto the swing Ry had made for her and hung over a branch of the enormous oak that stood like a sentinel in the far corner of the yard. Pulling against the ropes and pumping her little legs, she propelled herself ever higher, toward the sky.
“I’m almost afraid that one of these days she’ll try to fly right off that swing,” Aunt August told India. “She is so filled with sadness, India, she doesn’t know what to do with it all.”
“She is a very small girl who is being asked to cope with more than most adults could handle.” India stood up and
looked out the window. Corri’s head was tipped back as she sailed to and fro across the morning sky.
“I think she is afraid we will send her away.”
“Send her away? Why would we do that?”
“We wouldn’t. We won’t. But I don’t know that
she
knows that.”
“Well, before today is over,” India said, gathering her plate and her cup, “she will.”
“What do you think, Corri, is this a good spot?” India shaded her eyes from the sun’s glare and dropped the picnic basket on the sand.
“I guess,” Corri replied without enthusiasm.
“Well then, here”—Indy tossed a corner of the old patched quilt in Corri’s direction—“help me to spread this out. … There, that’s fine. Perfect.”
She placed the basket on one corner of the quilt, then knelt upon the worn, soft fabric.
“This old quilt has seen a lot of sand in its day,” India told her. “It was our regular beach blanket. Mine and Ry’s.”
She had decided they needed to speak of him, she and Corri, the sooner the better.
“We used to have picnics just like this. Aunt August even packed us pretty near the same lunch.”
Corri drew a circle in the sand with the toe of her sandal. “Why didn’t your mom?” Corri asked without looking up.
“Why didn’t my mom what, sugar?”
“Why didn’t your mom pack your picnic?”
“My mother died when I was just a baby.”
“Did your mommy drown too?”
“No. She died in the hospital, a few days after an operation.”
“Oh.” Corri pondered this for a few moments, then asked, “And then Aunt August took care of you?”
“Yes. Aunt August was my father’s sister, and she loved us. Just like she loves you and takes care of you.”
Corri appeared to reflect on this but offered no response.
“Want to walk along the water with me?” India kicked off her sandals and took a few steps toward the bay.
“I guess so.” Corri shrugged.
India set out toward the shoreline, an unenthusiastic Corri trailing behind.
“Oh, look, sea glass!” India bent to pick up the piece of wave-worn green glass. She handed it to Corri, who pocketed the offering without looking at it.
“Here’s some mother of pearl.” India lifted the pale, opalescent shell from the water’s edge. “The inside of an oyster shell … they call it ‘mother of pearl’ because pearls grow inside of oysters.”
“I know that,” Corri told her impatiently. “Ry told me.”
“Did Ry used to walk on the beach with you?”
Corri nodded, her face settling into a sad little mask.
“What else did he tell you about the beach?”
“Stuff.” She shrugged her small shoulders under a thin pink T-shirt.
“Like what kind of stuff?” India persisted.
“About different kinds of shells. I used to find them and Ry would tell me what they were.”
“I used to look for shells with Ry too, when I was little.”
“You did?”
“Umm-hmm. Ry was four years older than me, and he was a good teacher.”
“That’s ‘cause Ry knew everything about the beach. He knew everything about the bay.” Corri’s eyes brightened slightly.
“Yes, I believe he did. He loved it here, and he—”
Corri froze as they rounded the tip of the cove. The lighthouse rose across the inlet, silent and tall and proud.
“I want to go back.” Corri turned to run, and India grabbed her gently by the arm.
Turning the little girl around as calmly and gently as she could, India told her, “It was the place he loved best, Corri. You can’t run away from it. You can’t hide from it if you’re going to stay in Devlin’s Light, sweetie.”
“Am I?” The tremulous voice was barely a whisper. “Am I going to stay?”
“Of course you’re going to stay.” Aunt August had been right. In addition to grieving over Ry, the child was uncertain of her future. And the uncertainty had her terrified. “Corri, we are your family. Aunt August and I love you. You
belong here with us, and absolutely, positively, you are staying here with us. Devlin’s Light is your home.”
“I … I … wasn’t sure. Ry adopted me, but my mama said—” She stopped suddenly, her little face taking on a worried look.
“Your mama said what, sweetie?” India sat on the sand and tugged on Corri’s hand. Corri sat down next to her and permitted India to put a loving arm around her. The child relaxed almost immediately, her slight body easing into India’s side.
“Mama said that we … we weren’t like Ry. That we never would be like real Devlins …” Her little voice faltered.
“Well …” India cleared her throat. Why was she not surprised that Maris had planted such seeds in her daughter’s young mind? “You know, your mother wasn’t married to Ry for a very long time, so maybe she never got to feel like a Devlin. But you’ve been family for two whole years now, and when Ry adopted you, your name changed to Devlin. That makes you very much a real Devlin.”
“You think?”
“I’m certain of it.”
Corri’s face visibly relaxed.
India let out what felt like a long-held breath. Whatever it took to give this child security, to make her understand how much she was loved, she would do.
Three sandpipers landed on the sand a mere fifteen feet from where they sat. The frenetic little birds pecked at the sand, seeking favored tidbits of food. Soon several other shore birds lighted at the water’s edge, looking for lunch, their little feet following the gentle ebb and flow of the waves.
“Look, Corri”—India pointed—“there are some terns.”
“Least
terns, they are called,” Corri corrected her.
“Hmm. Right you are.” Impressed, India smiled to herself. The child
had
spent a lot of time with Ry, who had known every variety of every shore bird on the East Coast.
“And those,” said the little girl, pointing a straight little finger at a small group of chunky little birds, dark feathered above, lighter below, “are purple sandpipers. Ry called them ‘rock peeps.’”
“Why, so he did.” India laughed. “I had forgotten that.”
“And there—look, India” A hushed Corri rose onto one knee, whispering excitedly. “That’s a plover. We don’t see so many of them, ‘cause they’re
dangered.
Ry called them ‘sand peeps.’”
“Very good, Corri.” India rubbed Corri’s back fondly. “Ry would have been so very proud of you.”
Corri beamed at the praise. For a moment, the child was there, in her smile, for the first time in days. And in that moment individual grief became shared grief. As she burst into tears, Corri buried her face in India’s chest.
“It’s okay, Corri, it’s okay to cry.” India fought herself to speak the words she knew the child had to hear, then gave in to the tears she herself had not yet shed that day.
India rocked the weeping child in her arms until the sobs slowly subsided and eventually ceased to rack the small body. Both Darla and Aunt August had expressed alarm to India that Corri had not wept since the night Ry had died. The cork on that bottle of emotions having finally popped, Corri cried until her throat hurt.