Enright Family Collection (42 page)

“People used to cook in that fireplace because they didn’t have a stove,” Corri told Georgia, “and in the winter they slept in here because it would be warm.”

“That used to fascinate me too when I was little,” India told Corri. “I used to think of Eli and his wife and their children all huddled around the hearth at night, trying to stay warm while one of those fierce January storms pounded away outside.”

“And all of the recipes August used today are family recipes,” Delia told her children.

August chuckled. “The women in this family have been, through the ages, keepers of diaries, of journals, so we know what foods were served through the years. The Corri and squash we have today was from a very early recipe—early 1700s—but the stuffing for the goose was handed down by Amanda Devlin, who married Eli’s grandson Stephen and lived in this house in the late 1700s. She was the flower of the Tidewater, they say, and brought with her a cook from her parents’ plantation, thus introducing a southern touch to family tradition. The sweet potatoes with bourbon were Amanda’s contribution also, I believe—Georgia, you must try them. And of course, each successive generation has left its mark on the house, adding to it here and there, changing
the facade occasionally as fashion dictated, while at the same time adding to the family menus.”

“Which explains why there is a Victorian-style wraparound porch on this house that has roots that are almost three hundred years old,” India added.

“Three hundred years,” Georgia murmured.

“We’ll give you the grand tour after dinner if you like,” India told her.

After dinner things were less serene, the Enright sisters having volunteered for the predessert cleanup. After fifteen minutes of snipping at each other, Georgia slammed the door to the powder room and locked herself in, and India sought Nick’s help to talk her out before Delia realized that her two daughters were at each other’s throats.

“What were they arguing about?” an amused Nick asked as he followed India to the back of the house.

“I’m not really sure that I know,” she replied. “I went into the kitchen to put coffee on for dessert, and Georgia sort of whooshed past me into the powder room.”

“Zoey, where’s Georgia?” he asked innocently.

Zoey shrugged. “I’m sure it’s none of my business.”

“Zoey.” Nick leaned back against the counter and folded his arms across his chest. “What was it this time?”

“Georgia is hardheaded and intractable,” Zoey announced.

Nick rolled his eyes. Turning to the powder-room door, he rapped softly with his knuckles. “Georgia, come out here and talk to me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Not while
she’s
there.”

No question as to who “she” was. Nick sighed.

“What did she do?” he asked sympathetically.

“Oh, what did
she
do?” Zoey snorted. “Why do you always assume that it’s something that
I
did? Why do you always take her side?”

“Georgia, open the door and talk to me.”

There was silence for a long minute.

“Georgia?” Nick repeated. “Tell me what she did.”

“Oh, that’s the last straw!” Zoey took off her apron and flung it in the general direction of her brother’s head, then
she stomped into the front hallway and up the steps to the second floor.

“She’s trying to make me eat, Nicky.”

“What a fiendish thing to do.” He smacked his fist into his open palm. “We’ll send her away. Someplace where it’s always cold and there’s no Bloomingdale’s or chocolate.”

“Nicky, it’s not funny.” Georgia’s voice raised an octave. “I’m a big girl. I do not need my siblings forcefeeding me.”

“Georgia, we care about you. You don’t look well and it worries us.”

The latch slid softly and the door opened just wide enough to see Georgia’s tiny porcelain-doll face, eyes reddened, peering out.

“That’s a good girl.” Nick took her hand through the door. “How ‘bout if we get our jackets and take a little walk, you and I?”

Georgia nodded, and India took the cue to retrieve their-outerwear from the front hall.

“Not too long, Nick,” India told him, “unless you want your mother to come looking for you.”

“No, I don’t want that. See if you can stretch out the time till dessert. Tell them that the coffee’s not ready or something.” He kissed the tip of her nose on the way out the back door.

A somber Zoey joined India in the kitchen five minutes later and asked, “What can I do to help?”

“Here, you finish rinsing and I’ll empty the dishwasher,” India told her.

“Where’s Nicky and the little princess?”

“They went for a walk.”

Zoey
hummphed
and ran warm water over heirloom dinner plates absentmindedly.

“She makes me so angry, India.” Zoey fought back stinging tears. “Something is wrong with her and she’s shutting everyone out.”

“Maybe whatever is bothering her is something that she wants to deal with on her own.”

“I’ll bet she weighs just over a hundred pounds,” Zoey told her.

“I don’t know that that’s uncommon for a professional dancer.”

“Three months ago she weighed a good ten pounds more. I know something’s wrong, India.”

India rubbed a gentle hand on Zoey’s back. “Look, I never had a sister. I don’t think I fully understand the dynamics of that relationship. But I think if something is seriously wrong, Nick will find out what it is and he’ll help her deal with it.”

“She never lets me do anything for her,” Zoey said softly. “She’ll take help from Nicky but never from me.”

“Are we almost ready, dear?” Delia bustled in through the dining-room door. “I think Randall will be here…” She paused, observing. “Where are your sister and brother?”

“They stepped out for a bit of air,” Zoey told her. “Nicky wanted to stretch his legs, so Georgia went with him.”

Delia eyed her daughter suspiciously but did not challenge her. Instead, she turned to India and said, “August has told me about your little problem with that land-deal person. I hope you don’t mind that we discussed it.”

“You mean Lucien Byers?”

“Yes. She said his investigator has been unable to trace any of the parties who were at that so-called settlement.” Delia lifted a truffle from a small crystal plate and bit into it.

“Well, I don’t think it takes a genius to figure out that everyone put phony signatures to the documents.”

“India, I happen to know an excellent private investigator. He’s worked on a few things over the years. Would you mind if I asked him to look into this?” Delia asked.

“I don’t know what he’ll find that Lucien’s man has missed, but sure, that would be fine. I was planning on calling Lucien this week anyway. I’ll tell him.”

“Let’s not tell Mr. Byers just yet.” Delia started back toward the front room, where Corri entertained her new kitten with a long strand of red wool ribbon. “The fewer who know and all that.”

“Well, thank you, Delia, but …”

Delia had already left the room.

“You’d better get used to Mother if you plan to be around for any length of time.” Zoey sighed. “And from the looks of things, that’s a given.”

“I think your mother’s imagination is working overtime,” India confided, and Zoey laughed for the first time since dinner.

“Always. That’s what makes her the most popular mystery writer in the world.” Zoey turned a puzzled face to India. “But you know, I can’t help but wonder why my mother would need the services of a private investigator.”

Rosemary Potatoes
(makes 6 servings)

21/2-3 pounds new potatoes, scrubbed, unpeeled, and quartered

6 tablespoons butter, melted

1/2 teaspoon salt

1-2 teaspoons crumbled dried rosemary

Arrange potatoes in a baking dish. Combine butter, salt, and rosemary, pour over potatoes and toss.

Bake at 350° for 40 minutes or until tender.

Chapter 25

“India, do you really think you should be going out tonight?” August stood in the doorway of India’s bedroom, her hands on her hips, a worried look on her face.

“I’ll be okay.” India’s slight frame was wracked by a sudden cough. “At least I think I will. Anyway, Nick said he has something very special planned for dinner, and I don’t want to spoil it.”

“You’ll spoil a hell of a lot more than dinner if you come down with pneumonia,” August said dryly.

“I won’t. I promise.” India stood up shakily and wrapped her robe around her a little more tightly. “But maybe, just in case, a little hot lemonade with honey probably wouldn’t hurt.”

“Ah! So you have a sore throat too.”

And chills and a headache, but you don’t have to know that.

“I thought I’d drink some on a precautionary basis.” India suppressed another cough, hoping that her aunt would go to the kitchen to make her hot drink so that she could fall on the bed and cough her face off, which she did the minute August’s footsteps could be heard trailing from the hallway to the back of the house.

A hot shower would help warm her up too, she told herself, but she found that the hot water and cool air in the
bathroom only left her feeling more chilled. Common sense told her that she belonged in bed—alone—but it was New Year’s Eve and Nick had planned a surprise for her that night. A black-tie evening, he had told her, though he refused to say where. Who could resist such temptation?

And she had a new, beautiful, long satin dress of midnight blue to wear and her Christmas earrings. Surely she could hold herself together until midnight.

She barely made it past nine o’clock.

Nick picked her up in a chauffeured limousine promptly at eight-fifteen. Seeing Randall, Delia’s driver, India had assumed that they would be spending the night with Nick’s family. So she was surprised when he turned into the lane leading to Nick’s cabin. Thinking perhaps they were stopping to pick up something that Nick had forgotten, India offered to wait in the car.

“It will be a long, cold New Year’s Eve for both of us if you do that.” Nick held out his hand to assist her.

She shivered in her long black evening cape as they strolled the deck walkway to the front of the cabin. He held the door ajar for her to enter into the warmth of the big room, which was warmed by a blazing fire and the aroma of all manner of wonderful things.

“India, this is Mrs. Colson,” he told her. “I borrowed her from mother. She is preparing an incredible dinner for us.”

India smiled and said an uninspired hello to the short-haired woman with the wooden cooking spoon in her hand. Nick took her wrap and her teeth began to chatter. Perhaps if she stood a little closer to the fire.

“Sweetheart, I promise you this will be a New Year’s Eve you’ll never forget,” Nick whispered in her ear.

She turned around in his arms—and passed out cold.

When India woke up, she was in his bed. Gone was her satin dress, replaced by flannel pajamas that must have been Zoey’s, judging by their length. In spite of the flannel garments and the flannel sheets, the down comforter and the afghan, she shook unmercifully.

“India, why didn’t you tell me you were so sick?” He leaned over her anxiously.

“I didn’t want to spoil your surprise,” she answered weakly.

“Dinner we can always have,” he told her, then shook his head. “Why is it that women do not want to admit that they have a problem? First Georgia, now you.”

“Did you ever find out what was troubling her?”

“More or less. I think the head ballet guy in her troupe has been stringing her along for a while,” Nick made a fist with one hand and massaged it roughly with the fingers of the other. “He’s been giving her a hard time, and now it appears he has replaced her with another dancer. But none of that has anything to do with the fact that you are one very sick lady.” He pulled the covers up to her chin. “Which is why I called Bradshaw’s Pharmacy. Luckily I caught Tom just as he was closing up for the night. He offered to send over some over-the-counter products that he thought might be helpful. He should be here in about ten minutes.”

In less time than that, Mrs. Colson appeared in the doorway and held up the bag from the pharmacy. India greeted her with a cough.

“Fever, chills, headache, sore throat, hacking cough?” Mrs. Colson ventured.

“That pretty much sums it up.” India nodded miserably.

“Tylenol. Juice. Stay in bed. More Tylenol. More juice.” The cook nodded ruefully. “Forget the pate.”

Nick popped the lid off the Tylenol bottle and handed two to India, which she washed down with the juice brought in by Mrs. Colson.

“How does some herbal tea sound?” he asked.

“It sounds good,” India told him.

“Peppermint or chamomile?”

“Peppermint.”

By the time Nick returned from the kitchen with her tea, India was sound asleep. He tucked Otto next to her on the pillow and went to call August to let her know that her niece would not be home that night, nor probably the next.

Fueled by fluids and aspirins, cool compresses to her forehead and warm blankets, India drifted in and out of consciousness for the next thirty-six hours. All she could later recall was that every time she opened her eyes, Nick was there. Morning, afternoon or the dead of night, he was there with a drink, cough medicine, or a book to read aloud
to her. It was late afternoon on the third day that she realized that the book was
Gone with the Wind
and that he was well into the story.