Devlin's Light (26 page)

“Why would they show that today? The trial was over on Monday.”

“His attorney read a statement he made—get that spoon away from that cobbler, India Devlin—about why he had confessed to the crime.” August paused to point toward the coffeepot. “That coffee’s been sitting there since around seven this morning. Make a new pot and I’ll join you in a cup as soon as I finish this pie.”

“What did he say?” India asked, curious now.

“He said that he had to confess because the prosecutor had worked voodoo on him.”

India burst out laughing.

“He what?”

“He said you put some sort of spell on him and he had to tell the truth.” August looked up and grinned. “Oh. And the newspaper reporter referred to you as ‘Voodoo Devlin.’”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” India banged her cup on the counter. “Are you serious?”

“Umm-hmm.” August nodded. “Most unprofessional, I thought.”

“Oh, brother.” India groaned.

“Now, can his lawyer go back to the judge and ask that the case be tried again?”

“He would have to prove that I somehow did something illegal or underhanded, which of course I did not do.” India could almost hear the razzing she would get when she returned to her office. Suddenly she wished she had already put in for her leave.

“I’m thinking about taking a leave of absence.”

“So I heard.”

“Corri.”

“She is so happy. All she talks about is when Indy comes home to stay.” August flattened a mound of dough with the same wooden rolling pin that had been used by her mother. “Just make sure she understands that a leave is
temporary
, India. She has to understand that it doesn’t mean you’re coming home for good.”

“I know.” India nodded.

“Three months will seem like a much longer time to her than it will to you, so don’t lose sight of that.”

“Okay.”

“India, I don’t want that child hurt by one more leaving.”

“Neither do I.”

“She seems to have it in her head that you might stay.” “I told her it would only be like a long vacation for me. I’ll talk to her again.”

“Why?” August turned to her niece. “Why does it have to be only that? Why can’t you come home for good, India?”

“Maybe I can, Aunt August. Maybe that’s one of the things we’ll find out over the course of the next few months.”

August turned the crust into the pie plate and fit it close to the sides with sure fingers.

“Not that you’re not doing a wonderful job with Corri, Aunt August. I don’t for a second mean to imply that I think—”

“Please.” August held up one hand. “For heaven’s sake, India, I’m sixty-five years old. Too old to do a lot of things with her that need to be done. Darla has kindly lent a hand, and Nick is always there for us, but what if something happened to me, India? What would she do?”

“Aunt August, nothing is going to happen—”

“India, I’m not being negative, I’m simply being practical.”

“I thought about taking Corri to Paloma with me,” India said softly, waiting for a reaction.

“I was afraid you would, sooner or later.”

“I don’t think it’s the best thing for her.”

“You won’t get an argument from me.”

“I think she belongs in Devlin’s Light,” India told her. “I guess I just need to know if I belong here or not.”

“Well, I guess by the time your three months are up, we should have a pretty good idea, won’t we?” August dumped the apples into the crust with one swift motion.

“I guess.” India nodded and poured water into the coffee maker she and Ry had bought for August several Christmases back. “This thing is slow as molasses,” she noted, “and it’s making a funny noise.”

“Just needs cleaning. You can do it after dinner.”

“Is the entire clan gathering tomorrow?”

“Of course. Dan and Mabel Jane will be here by noon, as always, with their families.” August ran down the list of cousins and when they were expected to arrive. “Claire and Bonnie will be in around two. Dinner is set for four, as always, and dessert will be at seven.”

“Why so late?”

“Because Gordon and Evie were going to their grandson’s for dinner but they did want to stop by. Christine and Andrew were having guests, but they wanted to stop by. So I decided to have a dessert buffet this year. So that everyone could come for the memorial if they wanted to.”

“That’s a lovely idea.” India nodded, thinking it would extend the holiday, which would be nice for Corri. And good for her and Aunt August to be very busy on this first holiday without Ry.

“And I invited some other folks.” August waved her hand vaguely. “I left a message on Nick’s answering machine and told him he was welcome to stop by and join us.”

“Did he call back and say he would?” India asked with all the nonchalance she could muster.

“I didn’t ask him to. India, get that phone for me, will you?”

One of the ladies from Aunt August’s card club, wanting 10 know what time the dessert buffet would be. With a chuckle, India turned the telephone over to her aunt and, pouring herself a cup of coffee, walked back outside and followed the lane to its end, where it met the beach.

It was beautiful on this cool November afternoon. India sunk back into her fisherman’s knit sweater and sat on the back of the overturned rowboat that sat on the beach. Ry’s boat. She wondered what to do with it, since she couldn’t drag it back to the house by herself.

On a whim, she rolled it on its side and slid it across the sand to a point where the bay was deepest, the bottom falling off about a foot offshore. Tucking the oars inside, she climbed in and pushed off, first on one side, then on the other, until the bottom of the small boat cleared. Her face into the wind, she rowed toward the end of the inlet. She had missed him terribly, she admitted, and wanted to see him. She would surprise him. She smiled to herself as she
rowed with a solid stroke to where the marsh began. Following the line of cattails and marsh grasses, she rowed quietly, stopping sometimes to let the current take her. It was such a clear day, so perfect, cloudless and sunny. It was wonderful to be here. The sounds of the marsh, the smell of the bay, the warmth of the sun filled her with a joy she had not experienced in years.

Still reveling, she floated around the tip of the inlet, fifty feet from Nick’s floating dock. Her heart leapt at the sound of the screen door slamming, and she looked up, seeking his form at the railing.

She had not been prepared for the woman who stood next to him on the deck. Tall and lean, with waves of black hair swirling in the wind around what even from a distance was clearly a perfect face. The woman’s light laughter rang out as Nick appeared and draped an arm over her shoulder in a clear and casual sign of affection. India sat down in her little boat, momentarily stunned, a hole the size of Nebraska opening in her chest.

Her heart pounding, India rowed as quietly as possible to the edge of the marsh, hoping that the tall grasses would hide her presence and permit her to flee unseen, back to the inlet, not quite certain that she was ready to know who the woman was or how she fit into his life.

Cranberry-Cherry Crisp

Topping:

1 cup flour

1 cup old-fashioned oats (not instant)

2/3 cup packed brown sugar

1/2 cup (1 stick) butter at room temperature

Mix flour, oats and brown sugar in bowl. Cut butter into pieces. Combine butter with the flour/oat mix, until the mixture resembles coarse meal.

Filling:

1 large jar cherry pie filling

1 bag fresh cranberries

2/3 cup sugar

1/2 tablespoon grated orange peel

Wash cranberries and sort through, discarding berries that are mushy or white. Put cranberries into a pot with just enough water to cover, add sugar and heat through till boiling, about 10 minutes. Drain berries, combine in a large bowl with the cherry pie mixture, grated orange peel and sugar.

Butter the bottom of a 13x9x2-inch glass baking dish. Pour fruit mixture into dish and crumble topping over fruit. Bake in a preheated 350° oven for 25-30 minutes, or until the fruit is bubbly and the topping has browned.

Chapter 16

Thanks giving at the Devlin homestead varied little from one year to the next. At some point or another during the day, all of the Devlin cousins made an appearance. If not for dinner, then for brunch or later in the evening for dessert. But sooner or later, they all arrived at August’s front door, where they would be welcomed with open arms.

As a child, India had passed through the crowded rooms with canapés and candies on serving plates, or silver trays of spice cookies and tiny fruit tarts, depending on the time of day. Corri, being the youngest in the house these days, had inherited those duties, and having cut her teeth on passing small plates of peppermints two years earlier and trays of scones at last year’s brunch, she was ready for full duty this year, much to her pride.

August had cooked and baked and bustled since six that morning. India performed what she called the “accessory tasks”—chopping celery, cutting bread rounds for canapés, peeling potatoes and carrots, making sure that there was always fresh coffee and hot water for tea, cleaning the counters and rinsing bowls—while August took center stage in preparing the turkeys that would grace the dining-room table and serve as the focal points of the buffet to serve however many would show up that day. They were age-old
rituals that, August liked to say, were being observed in countless homes all across the country in much the same way as in Devlin’s Light. It was what she liked to refer to as a “connecting cord,” one of those common threads that wound through the fabric of so many folks from different backgrounds and ethnic groups in cities and suburbs, farms and penthouses, from one coast to the other. It was part of what made Thanksgiving a uniquely American holiday, she had often reminded India, and part of the reason for celebration. Every year, while India worked side by side with her aunt, August would recite what India had come to think of as the “whos and the whats” of the Devlin clan.

“Now, look for Lil—she’s first cousin to your dad and me—to be the first to arrive, usually by eleven. She’ll have a basket of pumpkin muffins on her arm and one of her granddaughters in tow. The rest of her group will arrive later, but Lil likes to be first. Her kids will stay for brunch, but they’ll leave to take the grandkids to the in-laws for dinner. Then Lil’s sister, Rachel, will be next, with all her brood. Children and grandchildren. Rachel will bring the biggest already cooked, already sliced ham she can find, along with her homemade rolls and that cranberry relish of hers that won, oh, more blue ribbons than I can recall at the state fair several years running.”

India would be thinking about Aunt Lil’s fragrant pumpkin muffins and those puffy, golden brown rolls of Aunt Rachel’s, and her mouth would be watering from early in the morning until dinner.

“Then of course, Jenny Devlin will come after brunch with several bottles of her elderberry wine—the same elderberry wine that has, over the years, been responsible for more than one Devlin embarrassing him- or herself before the day is over.” August chuckled.

Jenny Devlin—who, like August, had never married— would take charge of the dinner table, keeping the diners moving around the buffet, making sure that a bowl or platter was refilled the very second it was emptied, keeping a steady supply of clean plates and utensils flowing from the kitchen. To accomplish this particular feat, she commandeered members of the younger generations to wash, dry and restock the dishes so that there was never a shortage.
Everyone helped out, everyone ate well and everyone left swearing that next year they wouldn’t eat quite so much.

And it had all gone exactly as August had predicted. The brunch group had barely departed when the first of the dinner crowd arrived. The pace had kept India on her feet and moving, and it had given her something to focus on besides the pain that had taken up residence under her ribs when the tall, raven-haired beauty had walked onto Nick’s deck as if she belonged there. It had stung more than India had thought possible.

India had barely recovered from the dinner shift when August announced that dessert would be forthcoming shortly, an event that would be marked by a seemingly endless parade of pies and cobblers as well as Jenny’s Lady Baltimore cake, a trifle prepared by one of Claire’s daughters and several cheesecakes by one of Mae’s, a cremè bruleé, which had seemed to appear from nowhere, and a very elegant-looking sacher torte. The doorbell rang constantly as those August had invited only for dessert began to crowd through the front hallway into the parlor.

Over the heads of August’s card-playing buddies India could see Darla enter the dining room, accompanied by Jack and Ollie, both of whom disappeared into the kitchen with Corri, only to emerge minutes later with small trays of chocolates that the girls passed to the guests, Jack following behind to snitch first one, then another of the homemade truffles brought by who knew whom. India hugged Darla in the doorway and pulled her into the kitchen for a breather.

“I am dead on my feet,” India told her, as she sank gratefully into a nearby chair, seeking a comfort that she knew would be only temporary. “And my aunt barely looks winded.”

“She’s a breed apart from the likes of us.” Darla laughed. “How many people have come through that door today?”

“I have no idea. All of Aunt August’s cousins and at some point during the day most of their families. Then she invited several people that she knew from town who had noplace to go today for dinner, her card club, various and sundry others, so that swelled the ranks. She thrives on all this, I swear she does.”

“Well, you’d best be taking notes, honey, because someday
all of this will be yours.” Darla waved her hand toward the dining room, and India groaned.

“I heard that, Darla Kerns,” August said, entering the kitchen with a silver pot from the ornate service that stood upon the sideboard. “And I’ll have you know that I’m not ready to throw in my apron just yet.”