Devlin's Light (41 page)

“You are very welcome. Now let’s go show Mother how perfect they look on you.”

“Your mother already saw them?”

“She was with me when I found them in Baltimore, the weekend we went down to watch Georgia dance.” He
hopped out the driver’s side and slammed the door, then waited for India at the end of the walk. “So were Georgia and Zoey. The consensus was that I would never again find stones such a perfect match to your eyes and that you had to have them. I almost think if I hadn’t bought them for you, my mother would have.”

India slipped her hand through his arm, thinking about all the Enrights gathered around the counter discussing the color of her eyes in a Baltimore antique store, and she smiled. She could see and feel the circle of her life expanding to hold them all, Nick and his sisters, his mother, and the smallest seed of joy began to expand slightly inside her chest.

“Where’s my baby sister?” Nick asked from the hallway.

“We’re all in here,” Delia called from the dining room. “You’re just in time. August and I have dinner just about ready to serve.”

“Mother, you’ve been cooking again,” Nick teased, knowing that his mother hadn’t prepared an entire meal in fifteen years, having employed a full-time cook to do the honors for her. He swept Georgia off her feet, spinning the tiny elfinlike blonde around the room, before gently setting her down.

“Yes, I have been cooking, darling.” Delia kissed his cheek. “And it’s been fun. August and I have had a wonderful time. India, dear, let me see those earrings on you. Oh, yes, perfect with your eyes. Look, girls, India is wearing the sapphire earrings.”

Swept up in the Enrights’ descent upon her earlobes, India found herself laughing. The Enright women were filled with love and the warmth of the holiday spirit, and in seeing them all together, India thought perhaps she had found the genesis of Nick’s sensitivity and gentleness, of his ease with women and his understanding of the opposite sex. He was, she knew, a man who without apology wore his heart on his sleeve. It was all there in the toast he offered at the dinner table.

“To the extraordinary women in my life.” He stood, his glass of Christmas wine held aloft in a gold-rimmed goblet. “To Miss Corri Devlin”—he addressed the child who sat at his left—“who delights us all just by being Corri. To
August, a woman of great strength and wisdom, who shared her wonderful family with me and permitted me to feel a part of it. To Georgia, the iron butterfly, who looks so delicate but who we know is solid as a rock; and to Zoey, who brings spirit and life to everything she touches. And Mother, who is the glue who holds us all together, and who always inspired us to follow our hearts. … And to India”—his voice dropped just slightly—“who has filled all those tiny places in my life that I never even knew needed filling. … Thank you all for sharing this wonderful holiday season with me.”

There was a silence as the women at the table sipped at their wine, all hoping to dislodge the lump in their throats.

“Thank you, Nick.” August sniffed. “And if I may, I’d like to offer a blessing on our children, Delia.” August looked to the opposite end of the table, where Delia occupied the head, and said, “Those who are with us, and those who are not.”

Delia nodded slowly, then raised her glass to her lips. “To
all
of our children.”

Delia and August exchanged a look of quiet sympathy.

“Well then, Delia, shall we feed the ones we have with us today?” August rose, motioning for India to help serve the many dishes that were lined up on the sideboard, waiting to become part of the holiday feast.

“That was lovely, Nicky.” Zoey sighed. “Sometimes it’s just so hard to believe that you’re the same brutish beast who used to tie us up and leave us in the orchard and tell Mother that we ran away from home.”

“I only did that once,” he reminded her.

“No, it was more than once,” Georgia corrected him. “It was at least three times that I remember.”

“I think you have me confused with Ben,” Nick replied innocently. “It was Ben who used to like to torture you.”

“Nice try, Nicky. But as I recall, it was Ben who always saved us from you.” Zoey sipped at her wine and peered at him across the long, low centerpiece of greens, pineapples and pomegranates that marched down the center of the antique dining table.

“I wonder where Ben is these days,” Georgia mused.

“I’ve wondered that many times myself,” Nick said as he
rose at the silent command from his mother to come into the kitchen.

“Me, too.” Zoey swirled her wine slowly in the thin crystal goblet.

“You always had such a crush on him,” Georgia recalled.

“Who is that, dear?” Delia entered the room ahead of her son, who carried the golden Christmas goose on an ornate silver tray.

“We were talking about Ben Pierce,” Georgia told her, “and wondering whatever happened to him.”

“I’ve gotten the occasional card from him over the years.” Delia said, placing a silver serving bowl of mashed potatoes and leeks on the table.

“I didn’t know that.” Zoey turned to look at her mother. “Why didn’t you ever tell me? When was the last time?”

Delia shrugged. “It didn’t occur to me, I suppose. Or maybe you were on one of your little jaunts when it arrived, Zoey, I don’t really recall. The last card was for my birthday, maybe two or three years ago. I believe I mentioned it to Nicky.”

“I think that last one was posted in London,” Nick added.

“Yes, that sounds right,” Delia said over her shoulder as she returned to the kitchen.

“London?” Zoey looked at Nick. “I wonder what Ben would be doing in London.”

“Same thing he could be doing anywhere,” Nick said with a shrug, “since we don’t know what he does for a living. Or maybe he was on vacation.”

“Isn’t it odd that he remembered Mother’s birthday after all these years?” Zoey mused thoughtfully.

“Yes and no,” Nick said. “I think Mother is his link to a
time
in his life. Maybe every once in a while, he thinks back to that time.”

“And it just conveniently happens to be around Mother’s birthday?” Zoey took the bowl of Brussels sprouts from India’s hands and placed them on the table.

“Now, this is your childhood friend whose mother worked for your mother?” India placed the oyster, corn-bread and sausage stuffing on the table near Corri, who had developed a real fondness for this old Devlin family special.

“Oh, Maureen was far more than an employee to me,” Delia said, looking at the table to see if anything was missing. Satisfied that the appropriate dishes had made their way into the dining room, she nodded to August and the two women seated themselves at their respective ends of the table. “She was like that sister I never had. She ran my house, ran my life, so that I could work those first very important years while I was struggling to make my literary mark. Ben was like a second son to me. I loved that boy, I willingly admit it. I hated to see his grandfather take him after Maureen died, but he was his only living relative. He had every right to want to raise his grandson.”

“And you just lost track of him after that?” August asked.

“I wrote to him several times over the years, but I never got an answer. I think maybe it hurt him too much to think back to those days when we were all together, when his mother was still alive,” Nick said.

“I think you might be right, dear. It was terribly hard for Ben.” Delia nodded. “I know he wasn’t happy with his grandfather. I’ve always thought that someday our paths would cross his again, though.”

“Maybe someday they will,” Georgia said, then turned to Zoey and frowned. “Why are you putting food on my plate?”

“Because you haven’t put anything there yourself,” her sister snapped.

“I did so.” Georgia speared an extra Brussels sprout and plopped it onto Zoey’s plate.

“Two Brussels sprouts. One very small, very thin piece of goose. A tablespoon of stuffing. Six—make that seven— very tiny carrots.” Zoey proceeded with a roll call of the contents of Georgia’s plate.

“Zoey, may I remind you that I have a mother, and that she is, in fact, in this room? You might note that she is not giving me grief.”

“Georgia, you are so thin you look like an afterthought,” Zoey defended herself.

“Zoey, I dance for a living. It’s sort of like doing aerobics all day long.”

“That’s why you need to eat. You need energy.” Zoey spooned a heap of dressing onto Georgia’s plate.

Georgia heaped it back onto Zoey’s. “I am not dancing today. I don’t need—”

“Girls, that’s enough. Zoey, leave your sister alone. Georgia, Zoey’s merely concerned about you, as we all are. It’s obvious that over the past several months you’ve lost weight that you clearly can’t afford to lose. And we’ll discuss that later.” Delia adeptly shelved the topic of her youngest child’s weight.

“This is a very handsome room, Miss Devlin,” Georgia ventured after a few moments of studied silence. “I feel like I’m sitting in a colonial museum.”

August leaned over to pat Georgia’s hand. “Thank you, dear. I feel that way myself some days. It’s almost overwhelming to think how many generations of Devlins called this house home. Now, this room is the original keeping room—circa 1720, possibly a little earlier—which accounts for a fireplace of those proportions.” She pointed to the opposite side of the spacious room.

“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.”