Enright Family Collection (28 page)

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?”

“Got it, Nick,” she whispered.

“Well, well.” Darla’s eyebrows were raised in surprise as she stepped inside the doorway and bumped into the embracing couple.

Nick groaned.

“Could’ve been worse, honey.” She winked as she stacked dishes on the shelf. “I could have been Corri. That’d be just like having everyone in Devlin’s Light pass through.”

Zoey stuck her head in through the doorway. “Oh. So that’s where the plates go. Here, Nicky, put these away.”

“Do you people care that you’re interrupting a moment here?” Nick complained as he reluctantly disengaged himself from India and took the stack of plates from his sister.

“Oh.” Zoey looked from Nick to India, then back to Nick. “Sorry.”

“Come on, Zoey.” Darla grabbed Nick’s sister by the arm. “Let’s go find some dishes to wash.”

“Talk about a mood breaker,” Nick muttered. “Now, where were we?”

“You were put out and I was jealous,” India reminded him. “And I was right about here.” She tucked his arms around her and lifted her face to his.

“Right. Oh, right, I remember.” He nodded. “I think I was just beginning to do this”—he nibbled lightly on her bottom lip—“sort of as a prelude to this.” His tongue parted her lips and slid into her mouth, and she tasted wine
and raspberries and knew that if he didn’t stop immediately, they would very shortly embarrass themselves in front of both their families.

India struggled slightly to pull herself away, fighting off the mental image of her dragging him to the floor of the butler’s pantry and having her way with him.

“I think we’d best join the others,” she whispered.

“In just a minute.” He sought her mouth again, still hungrily and insistently. “I haven’t quite finished giving thanks.”

Cousin Rachel’s Cranberry Relish

1 package (16 oz) fresh cranberries

1/2 cup water

2 oranges, unpeeled, quartered

1 cup sugar

2 tablespoons fresh lemon juice

Wash and pick over cranberries. Mix berries with sugar, water and lemon juice in large, heavy saucepan. Over medium heat, cook berries until they begin to pop (5-7 minutes). Using off/on turns, chop oranges in food processor, gradually add cooked cranberries to processor and chop until berries are coarse. Cover and refrigerate until ready to use.

Chapter 17

“Indy, there’s a man at the door to talk to you. Corri bounced into the laundry room and, having made her announcement, was preparing to bounce right on out.

“What man?” India frowned as she sorted darks from lights, heavy fabrics from delicates, and yesterday’s table linens from everything else.

“I don’t know.” Corri shrugged. “A man.”

“Where’s Aunt August?”

“She went to the library to return some books.”

“Ask him to wait.” India flipped the last handful of yesterday’s dish towels into the gaping mouth of the washing machine and closed the lid. “You didn’t let him in, did you?”

“Of course not.” Corri drew back, stung by the very suggestion that she would not know better than to let a total stranger into the house. “He’s waiting outside.”

“I’ll be right down,” India told her. She turned to see Corri pulling a brightly knit wool cap down over her strawberry curls. “Are you going out to play?”

“Me and Ollie are going to roller skate.”

“Be careful.” India eased up the zipper on Corri’s jacket, smoothed the flat brim of the hat and kissed the tip of the child’s nose. Corri had already made a dash to the steps to
join her friend by the time India realized she had done what every mother does before sending her child out to play on a chilly late fall day. Zip the jacket. Straighten the hat. Kiss the kid and always remind them to be careful.

“I’m India Devlin,” she announced as she opened the front door. A well-dressed man in his late thirties stood patiently on the porch, hands respectfully folded in front of him, military style.

“I’m sorry.” He smiled, not unpleasantly. “It was
Maris
Devlin I was looking for.”

“Maris?” India’s eyebrows were raised nearly to her hairline.

“Yes. Is she available?”

“Ah, Mr. …”

“Byers. Lucien Byers.” His voice held a gentle trace of the South.

“Mr. Byers, Maris Devlin is dead.”

“Oh,” he exclaimed, clearly taken aback by the news. “Oh, I had no idea. I’m so sorry. And she was … your sister?”

“No. My brother’s wife.”

“Well then, perhaps I should speak to your brother.”

“Mr. Byers, my brother is also deceased.”

“Oh, dear. I really am so sorry.” He seemed to digest this latest bit uneasily.

“Is there something I can help you with?”

“Actually, Miss Devlin, I’m not sure. You see, I—that is, my company, Byers World—purchased some land from Mrs. Devlin several years ago.”

“I wasn’t aware that Maris owned any land.”

“Well, actually, I believe it may have belonged jointly to her and her husband.”

“Mr. Byers, any land that my brother owned was part of a family trust. Since I am the only other party to the trust, I can tell you with all certainty that there has been only one parcel of Devlin land sold in the past hundred or so years. And it was not to Byers World.”

“Miss Devlin, I have a deed, I have an agreement of sale for the property that we purchased.” Byers looked confused.

“With you?” India raised a skeptical eyebrow.

“Not the deed, but I think there may be a copy of the
agreement of sale in the file.” He patted the side of a plush chocolate-leather briefcase.

“Mr. Byers, perhaps you should come in.” India opened the door all the way to permit him to enter.

“May I?” he asked, holding up the briefcase.

India nodded, gesturing to the mahogany table at the bottom of the steps.

Byers slid a pair of tortoise-shell glasses onto his well-tanned face and opened the leather case, from which he removed a carefully drawn map.

“This”—the index finger of his right hand traced a bright yellow line on the map—“marks the boundary of the land we purchased two years ago.”

India peered over his shoulder. “Why, that’s the land on either side of the river.”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Byers—”

“’Lucien.’”

“Lucien, I think there’s been a terrible mistake here. We—the Devlin family, that is, the Devlin trust—own that land. We have not
sold
that land.”

“Ah, but you have.” He searched through his files, opened one up and said, “Yes, this one. Here. Right here.”

He handed her an agreement of sale. Her eyes quickly scanned the page until resting on the signature and date at the bottom of the document.

Maris Steele Devlin. June 21, 1994. Right next to a very poorly forged version of Ry’s signature.

India half laughed. “Mr. Byers—Lucien … I hate to have to tell you this, but this agreement of sale is worthless.”

“Worthless? How can you say that? It’s notarized, I paid Mrs. Devlin.”

“Lucien… here, come sit down.” She led a shaken Byers into the sitting room and offered him a chair. “Lucien, I don’t know what Maris told you, but she couldn’t have sold that property to you. She didn’t own it. Her signature is worthless, and the signature purported to be my brother’s is a very obvious forgery.”