The Black Sheep’s Baby

by Kathleen Creighton

  But while almost everything was the same, it felt different to him in all ways. What he couldn’t decide was whether that had to do with, as he’d suggested to Caitlyn last night, some sort of epiphany he’d experienced “out there” in the big cruel world, or whether he’d just grown up.

  One thing that was different was that today his reason for clearing out of the house had less to do with avoiding KP duty, and more to do with avoiding Devon. Developing feelings for the woman was a complication he hadn’t counted on. And while there wasn’t much he could do about that now, at least, he’d thought, if he didn’t have to see her, be around her, maybe he could keep a bad situation from getting worse.

  What he hadn’t realized was that he didn’t have to see her or be around her for that to happen. It happened anyway. It happened while he was working on her gift, or while he was looking at the snapshots he’d taken of her that day in the snow, and her red hair arresting as a single cardinal in all that white. It happened when he closed his eyes and memories invaded-sensory memories so keen he could feel her cool wet cheek against his skin, smell her hair, taste her mouth. See the confusion and accusation in her eyes.

  It happened. Like an avalanche. A natural disaster. It was going to cause him grave damage and immeasurable pain, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

  Immeasurable pain. That was the second thing that was different this Christmas. Coloring everything, underlying the excitement and childish anticipation and feverish preparations, was the dull ache of knowing this would be the last time he’d ever be a part of it. While it was true he’d been away for a good many years, that he’d missed a decade’s worth of these Christmases, the knowledge had always been in the back of his mind that he could come home any time he wanted to, that everything would still be here waiting for him-the warmth of this house, his parents, their love for him, all unchanged.

  But after tomorrow… Once he’d embarked on the course Caitlyn was mapping for him even now, he could never come back. For the next eighteen years, at least, until Emily was legally an adult, they would be fugitives. If he saw his parents or any of his family again it would be brief visits in another place…another land.

  That knowledge clutched at his insides like a cold hand. His heart, his throat, every part of him ached. But what could he do? Barring a miracle, it was the only choice he had.

  When Devon’s gift was finished and wrapped, Eric went down to the barn where he spent the rest of the day shoveling out stalls. He found no particular comfort in the solitude; it simply hurt too much to be around the people he loved.

  Lucy was worried. Not that she’d ever admit it, but she was beginning to be afraid something had gone drastically wrong with her plan. And whatever it was, it had happened literally overnight. Yesterday, when she and Mike had gotten back from town to find Eric and Devon just leaving the bunkhouse and the tension in the air so thick you could cut it with a knife, she’d been certain everything was proceeding nicely, just as she’d intended. Now this morning, the two were barely speaking to one another, Devon drooping around like somebody with a bad case of Holiday Blues, and Eric looking so grim and purposeful, spending all afternoon in the barn…

  Inwardly, Lucy shivered. It was Eric who worried her most. The way he was acting reminded her of that summer, the summer he’d graduated from high school, when he’d announced out of the clear blue sky that he wasn’t going to Iowa State in the fall. He’d left not long after that, and they’d barely seen him since.

  “I don’t think I can stand it if he leaves again,” Lucy told Mike on the way down to begin the evening chores. “We only just got him back, after so long… And then there’s Emily. I just hate to think of losing her, too.”

  “I’m afraid we won’t have much to say about that,” Mike said in the annoying way he had of saying out loud what Lucy already knew and didn’t want to admit. “And the way it looks, I don’t think Eric will, either.”

  Lucy sighed. “I wish I could hate Devon for trying to take Emily away from us-” she ignored Mike’s smile at her use of the pronoun “-but you can hardly blame her for wanting to help her parents. She’s a lovely girl, really-pretty and smart, and I think she’s got a good heart, too. Oh, I know she’s ‘city’ to the bone, but I don’t think she’s near as sophisticated as she pretends to be.” She turned her head to look at her husband, and the cold December wind whipped a strand of her hair across her face. She fingered it back behind her ear and anchored it under the edge of her ski cap. “Mike, I know she likes Eric-I’ve seen the way she looks at him when she thinks no one’s watching. And he likes her, too, in spite of everything. I know he does-a mother can tell. It would solve everything if they’d just…”

  Mike looked down at her, then away. “What?” she demanded; Lucy knew that look.

  He shook his head, grinning. “Nothing.” The smile faded. “Except that it might not be that simple, Luce.”

  “Why not?” As far as Lucy was concerned, it certainly should be. That was the whole crux of her plan, actually; when two people were perfect for one another and didn’t know it yet, all they ought to need was a push in the right direction.

  Mike’s head was up, his face, so familiar and beautiful to her, golden in the last light of the rapidly sinking sun. “I just think there may be more to Devon than there appears to be. I told you that first day she reminded me of Chris, remember?” He paused to take a deep breath. “Well, she still does. More and more, in fact.”

  “Chris… Chris? Oh, Mike. You mean, you think-” She broke it off with a shake of her head, and walked a few steps in silence, thinking about all that might mean. Then she said, “Well. And look what happened to Chris-she met my brother, and he saved her life. Maybe Eric is meant to be Devon’s-”

  “Lucy,” Mike said in a warning tone, “that’s not for you to decide. If it’s meant to happen, it will. Don’t you try and manipulate Providence.”

  “That sounds like something Gwen would say.”

  “Yes, and think how often she was right.”

  Lucy tried her best to follow her husband’s advice and stay out of Providence’s way. Since Christmas Eve’s activities were governed pretty much by tradition, that wasn’t as hard as she’d thought it would be.

  Potato soup for Christmas Eve supper had been the tradition in Lucy’s family as far back as she could remember, though she couldn’t have said whether it had actually begun then, during her childhood, with her own parents, or whether it went back farther than that. Gwen had said she thought it might have had something to do with the Great Depression, which certainly made sense to Lucy. She thought it a sensible tradition, and saw no reason to change it. The wholesome, everyday meal made a nice change from rich holiday food, and a simple preamble-rather like taking a deep breath-before the huge feast they’d all be consuming tomorrow.

  It was Christmas Eve, and everything was just as she had hoped for, longed for. Prayed for. Here they were, she and Mike, sitting down to the traditional supper with their family gathered around-half of it, anyway-with a precious grandbaby dozing in her lap and Eric home at last. And this year’s batch of soup was especially good, if she did say so herself-just the right amount of pepper, perfect balance of potatoes, celery and onions-and the cornbread, Gwen’s special recipe, was delicious, as always. So, why didn’t it feel like a joyous occasion? Why didn’t it feel like Christmas?

  How could it, Lucy thought in exasperation, with Eric staring moodily into his soup and not saying a word to anyone, and Devon sitting so still and straight, her face pale as death, composed and beautiful as a statue of some ancient goddess. And yes, Mike was right, now that he’d mentioned it, she did remind Lucy of Chris, sitting right here at this same table that day so many years ago when Earl had brought her to visit for the first time…lovely Chris, with her desperate secrets and buried pain.

  “Eric,” Lucy said brightly, determined to lighten his mood, at least, “have you talked to Caitlyn since you’ve been back?” Eric cleared his
throat, but before he could answer, Lucy turned to Devon to explain, “Caitlyn is Eric’s cousin-my brother Earl’s daughter. They were such good friends, growing up-the closest of all the cousins in age- Caitlyn’s just a year younger. I hope you’ll have a chance to meet her tomorrow. The last I talked to Chris-her mother-she still wasn’t sure she was going to be able to get away. Caitlyn’s a social worker in Kansas City, you know. Christmas is their busiest season…”

  “She’s coming,” Eric said.

  “Really? When did you talk to her? Did she say for sure?”

  Eric shifted and once again cleared his throat. “I talked to her last night. She said she’d be here.”

  “Oh,” Lucy breathed, “I’m so glad.” Then she frowned. “Last night? When? I didn’t hear-”

  “It was late. You and Dad were already in bed.”

  “Oh. Well, then.” Lucy subsided, but she was definitely losing faith in Providence.

  On the one hand there was Eric, whose mood, far from being cheered by the prospect of a visit with his favorite cousin, now seemed blacker than ever. And on the other, well, what in the world had come over Devon? All of a sudden her pale-as-marble cheeks had warmed to a lovely shade of pink, and after not so much as glancing his way all evening long, now she was gazing at Eric with her eyes all aglow like Christmas stars.

  Chapter 14

  H ow did I get here? Devon wondered as she silently crumbled cornbread into dust and nodded, smiling, at whatever it was Lucy had just said.

  How had Devon O’Rourke, up-and-coming L.A. lawyer with a reputation for being both hard-headed and cold-hearted, wound up in a farmhouse in Iowa, eating potato soup on Christmas Eve with the family of her adversary? Who was he, anyway, this man who had invaded her being like an alien life force and now acted as though she didn’t exist?

  It was her own fault that she’d walked into this mess unarmed and unprepared. She’d been so certain she had Eric Lanagan pegged, catalogued and pigeon-holed, only to find time and time again that she didn’t know him at all. What did she know about him now, other than the fact that he was eons older than his chronological age-probably what New Agers would call an “old soul”? The fact that he was both kind and ruthless, a man of character and deep principles-even if those principles didn’t always coincide with the law?

  Those things alone would make him one of the most formidable opponents she’d ever faced. But what made her go cold and her stomach knot was the full and clear knowledge that she didn’t want him to be her adversary.

  What do you want him to be, Devon?

  A wave of longing surged through her, like the roar of a powerful wind, and she clamped down on it with all the strength of her formidable will.

  Impossible, she told herself with the harshness of hard-headed, cold-hearted reality. Even if the phone call she’d overheard last night hadn’t been to a lover after all. Impossible.

  Christmas Eve supper was finally over. It had seemed interminable to Eric, torn as he was between the anguish of knowing it would be the last one he’d ever enjoy here in his childhood home, and the desire to soak in and relish every moment, every detail, to imprint them forever in his memory. Torn, too, between an awareness of Devon that was a constant hum deep within him-a prickling just under his skin, and the knowledge that after tomorrow he’d never see her again.

  After helping to clear the table, Eric relieved his mother of the baby and he and Mike retired to the parlor, leaving the women to dispose of the dishes and leftovers. While Eric introduced Emily to the wonder of Christmas tree lights, Mike carried in an armload of wood and set about building a fire. Other than his dad’s running commentary on the progress he was making, neither of them said much. There seemed to be even more than the usual awkwardness between them, an odd kind of constraint. Almost, Eric thought, as if he knows.

  “Okay, I think that’s going pretty good,” Mike said. He rose and replaced the screen, then turned, dusting his hands. His smile as he came to join Eric beside the tree was tentative; regret tore at his heart. “What do you think? Should we make some popcorn to go with that eggnog your mom made?”

  “I don’t know, Dad, I’m pretty full.”

  “Yeah, okay. Maybe later.” His father stood beside him in silence, thumbs hooked in the back pockets of his jeans. After a moment he said, “Nice tree this year, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah,” said Eric, “it’s a nice one.”

  Mike gave him a sideways look and cleared his throat. “Thanks for the book gift certificate, by the way. Came in yesterday’s e-mail-your mother’s, too. Forgot to mention it.”

  Eric lifted a shoulder and watched the tree lights reflected in the baby’s eyes. “Yeah, well, I know you both always like books.”

  Mike rubbed the back of his neck and smiled ruefully as he surveyed the pile of presents under the tree. “With so few of us, I never can quite figure out how we always wind up with so many presents. Of course, some of ’em are for tomorrow-for Wood and Chris and Caity. And there’re the ones Ellie and Quinn sent for everybody, too.” He glanced over at Eric. “Where’s the one you made for Devon? I don’t see it here.”

  Eric brushed that aside with a quick shake of his head and muttered gruffly, “I’m going to give it to her later. I thought it might be kind of…” He coughed, knowing he couldn’t explain.

  “I understand,” his dad said quietly.

  Eric gave him a startled look, then a longer one. And he wondered if somehow his dad really did understand, though he couldn’t think how that could be.

  He thought about how it would be if he could put his arms around his father and tell him…not so much that he loved him-he was sure both he and Mom already knew that-but how sorry he was that he’d been a rebellious, ungrateful pain-in-the-butt growing up. Tell him how much he appreciated the freedom he’d been given to leave and make his own way, and how deeply he regretted the years he’d stayed at a distance. Maybe try to explain that he’d kept that distance because he’d been afraid of the pull this place had on him-something he’d only just found out himself. He thought how it would be if he could tell his dad everything. About Devon, and why he had to leave again. Then, at least, he’d be able to say goodbye.

  “Dad,” he began. But he could hear his mother’s voice in the hallway, now. He caught a breath and with an aching void where his heart should be, ducked his head and kissed his little girl’s head to hide the brightness in his eyes.

  Everyone was trying so hard to be kind. Devon didn’t know how much more she’d be able to stand.

  There was more food-popcorn and eggnog and those spicy molasses cookies-more reminiscences, and more schmaltzy Christmas music on the stereo. Lucy again begged “the young people” to sing, and this time-out of guilt, perhaps?-Devon allowed herself to be talked into joining Mike and Eric in singing “Silent Night.” She sang the melody, since it was the only part she knew, joining her unspectacular soprano with Mike’s pleasant baritone. As before, after the first few notes, Eric slipped into the harmony. Lucy sat sideways in the recliner and rocked Emily and beamed at them all, while her eyes grew shiny with happy tears.

  After that, they opened gifts, taking their time about it, exclaiming, laughing…sometimes crying-over each and every one. Lucy’s gift to Mike was a set of videos on the Vietnam War. Mike’s gift to her was tickets for a February Valentine’s cruise to Hawaii, which Lucy loudly protested, though everyone in the room could see that she was surprised and deeply touched. Their daughter Rose Ellen and her husband had sent a videocam attachment for Mike’s computer. “We got us one, too,” they’d written on the card, “so we can see each other when we e-mail.”

  Mike and Lucy gave Eric a huge boxful of darkroom supplies. “You can take them with you,” Lucy hastened to assure him, looking anxiously into her son’s face “You don’t have to use them here.”

  Eric leaned awkwardly across the space between them to hug her and murmur, “Thanks, Mom.” Devon felt a lump in her throat.

 
In addition to gift certificates from an on-line bookstore, Eric gave each of his parents a framed photograph of himself holding Emily, small enough to sit on a desktop or dresser, or to join the collection on the mantelpiece. When she unwrapped hers, Lucy wiped away tears and blew her nose, and Devon, watching and doggedly smiling, felt her face would crack.

  Lucy scolded as she accepted the small flat box wrapped in candy cane paper from Devon, but her face lit with a smile when she lifted the tissue paper and saw the scarf inside. “Oh, Devon, it’s beautiful,” she cried as she held the square of richly colored silk to her cheek. Then her eyes began to sparkle. “Great minds think alike,” she murmured, handing Devon a small flat box decorated with Santa Clauses.

  Inside, Devon found a scarf in a lovely shade of green, with an all-over print featuring tiny snowmen. “So you’ll remember the Christmas you spent with us,” Lucy said in her brisk, blunt way. Devon’s eyes stung as she tied the scarf around her neck. Lucy put hers on, too, though it clashed gloriously with the poinsettia print on her sweater.

  Mike gave Devon a pair of fur-lined leather gloves, because, he said, “The first thing Lucy noticed about you was that you didn’t have any.” He seemed pleased with the electronic pocket planner she gave him.

  Devon was relieved that there was no gift for her from Eric, since she hadn’t anything for him, either. But at the same time, when all the gifts had been distributed and opened-including way too many for Emily-she felt a kind of void, a sense of disappointment.