“I think we both need to speak with our lawyers and see where this all stands.” She frowned.
“India, I hope you don’t take this personally, but I have an obligation to my company. If there is any recourse, I will have to pursue it.”
“I understand. I’m sure I’d do the same thing. I just feel so terrible about this.”
“I appreciate that.” He snapped the briefcase closed briskly. “I’m only sorry that we had to meet under such unpleasant circumstances.”
India walked him to the door and shook his hand when it was offered. He gave her a card, which she placed upon the table just inside the doorway.
“I’ll talk to you on Monday,” he told her as he walked across the porch and down the steps, pausing to look up the street to where Corri and Ollie were skating toward the corner. He waved as August pulled the Buick into the driveway.
Business couldn’t be too bad, India noted as he drove off in his brand-spanking-new Mercedes. But if he makes any more deals like the one he made with Maris, his next trip will be on a Raleigh ten-speed.
“Who was that slick-looking fellow?” August came into the kitchen through the back door and set a bag on the counter. “Someone from Paloma?”
“No, why would you think he was from Paloma?” India frowned, in search of a fresh cup of coffee to replace the one she had left in the laundry room.
“He just had city all over him.” August slid out of her winter coat. “Ad unguem factus homo. A man polished to the nail.”
India paused, then poured a second cup of coffee and handed it to her aunt, gesturing her toward the window seat.
“Aunt August, I think you’d better sit down for this one.”
It took a while, but by two o’clock that afternoon, India’s temper, initially suppressd by shock, was about ready to blow. How dare Maris even attempt to sell off Devlin land! How dare she involve this family in a fraudulent scheme! Was she really so stupid she could have believed that the truth would never see the light of day? Madder than she’d been in longer than she could remember, India decided to do what she always did when her cork was about to pop. She went running.
Dressed in a long-forgotten pair of sweatpants and heavy socks she found in the bottom drawer of her dresser, a turtleneck from her suitcase and one of Ry’s old sweatshirts, India rummaged in her closet until she found the old sneakers she’d been certain she had left there. How did any of us ever manage to run wearing nothing but plain old sneakers? India smiled as she tied the laces of the old white tennis shoes, envisioning the array of athletic shoes she had recently seen in a specialty store in the mall. Walking shoes. Running shoes. Cross-trainers. Tennis shoes. Basketball shoes. As she went through the motions of a too-brief warmup. she compared the old white canvas sneakers to the fancy, high-priced numbers sitting neatly on the floor of her closet back in Paloma. She could not in all honesty say that she missed them.
Corri and Ollie were in the attic playing dress-up with the old clothes set aside for just that purpose, and Aunt August was in the sitting room, cozy in her favorite chair nearest the fire when India set out. August had been totally unprepared for the news India had had to share that morning, but she was not shocked to learn that Maris had been involved with underhanded dealings.
“I cannot say that I’m surprised, India.” August’s chin set and her mouth was drawn into a tight, straight line. “There was something about Maris. … I do not mind telling you it near broke my heart when Ry brought her home. I never understood it even for a second. Except for Corri, there was nothing good to be said for that woman. And sometimes it was hard for me to believe that she was really that child’s mother, she was so indifferent to her. But that’s another matter. For her to involve the Devlin name in a dishonest scheme …”
August shook her head as she reached for the phone to call the family lawyer to alert him to this latest bit of news, pausing to add, “God forgive me for my lack of charity, India, but the woman only got what she deserved.”
A chill from the east blew through Devlin’s Light, and the sky, pale gray earlier that morning, had deepened to the color of gun metal, the clouds falling so low that they all but dropped into the bay. A snow sky, India thought as she headed out through the town in the hopes of running off her anger. The first mile was arduous; it had taken her that long to find her rhythm again. The second mile was better, and she slowed as she looked through the high black wrought-iron fencing that marked off the grounds of Captain Jonathan Devlin’s mansion. The property took up the whole block, but it was only a small portion of what had once been the holdings of the oldest of the three original Devlins. Long ago given to the town, and used by the local historical society for a variety of fundraisers, the house stood tall and white, black shuttered and handsome, built to prove to the captain’s in-laws, prominent Quakers from Philadelphia, that their beloved daughter Salem—short for “Jerusalem”—had married well. Which was all the consolation Jonathan could offer them, since Salem, by marrying a non-Quaker, had not been welcomed into the homes of her family.
It had been said that Salem Devlin lacked a proper Quaker spirit, having become overly fond of the exotic fabrics and fine jewelry that her seafaring husband brought to her from foreign ports. India wondered if the portrait of Salem still hung over the fireplace in the grand front hall. In a pastel done by a leading artist of the day brought all the way from Philadelphia solely for the purpose, Salem appeared boldly elegant in a white lace shawl over bare shoulders, her pale pink satin dress scooping low to display a long neck and creamy skin. Delicate fingers, one sporting a ring of blood-red rubies, tucked a dogwood blossom behind one ear, while her wrist was encircled with a double strand of pearls held fast by a clasp of rubies. Salem had not been a classic beauty, but her eyes sparkled and teased, even across the centuries. Clearly, there had been nothing plain about the captain’s lady.
India made a promise to herself that, while she was on her leave, she would visit the mansion, walk the worn floors and maybe take the time to read Salem’s letters to her beloved Jonathan and the journal her ancestor had kept while her captain was at sea. As she turned toward the beach end of town, India noted the flurry of activity near the front door of the big house; cars were parked in the circular drive and several of the townspeople had gathered on the front porch. Members of one committee or another, meeting to discuss some project, she mused.
The wind blew colder on the open expanse of beach, whipping India’s hair around her face, into her mouth and her eyes. She slowed her pace but did not stop as she drew up the hood of the old sweatshirt around her head, tucking her hair under it as best she could. Her face burned with exertion and cold, and she resolved to begin running on a more regular schedule and to call the gym as soon as she got back to Paloma. She missed her sessions at the gym as much as she missed Gif, a crusty old soul who for years had appeared on the regular card at the Blue Horizon in Philadelphia and who now gave boxing lessons to youths he pulled off street corners in Paloma and tried to give them a place to work off their aggression. India had met him when he appeared as a character witness for a young man who was accused of beating up a schoolteacher in an alley on Paloma’s dark side. Gif had testified that the young man had been at the gym, boxing at the time of the attack, and had invited a skeptical India to check out his facilities. She did, and, having been goaded into getting into the ring for a quick lesson, India discovered a new love. Gif, with his totally flattened nose and four o’clock shadow twenty-four hours a day, was a wonderful teacher, and before long a stop at the gym had become a necessary diversion whenever India’s schedule permitted.
Unconsciously she slowed her pace, jabbing the air with her fists clenched from rage and cold, her body twisting with every punch thrown at an imaginary opponent.
Maris.
Just one shot, that’s all I want. Just one swing. Just one chance for one good shot at that LYING [punch], DECEITFUL [punch], SWINDLING [punch], NO GOOD [punch punch punch], THIEVING �
�
“Hey, India, slow down!” someone called from the top of the dune.
She turned to see Zoey Enright making her way across the hard-packed sand.
“Sheesh, I’d hate to be on the receiving end of those blows. Where’d you learn to throw a punch like that?” Zoey’s face was red as if she too had been too long in the afternoon cold.
“A gym in Paloma.” India grinned. “I’m terribly out of shape.”
“Looked just fine from where I stood.”
“Maybe boxing is like riding a bicycle.” India laughed. “Maybe you never forget how, once you’ve learned.”
“Looked like fun.” Zoey threw an unskilled punch into the air.
“It is. I was just thinking it was time to start taking lessons on a regular basis again. It’s great exercise.”
“Something I haven’t had in a while. After yesterday’s dinner, I thought perhaps a little fresh air and exercise should go back on the agenda. But I’m afraid I didn’t dress well enough and I’m chilled to the bone and craving some of the hot chocolate that I saw advertised at the little shop back there on the dock. Can I talk you into joining me?”
“With very little effort. I’ve already gone a few miles, and to tell you the truth, my hands and feet are numb. Hot chocolate sounds great.”
“Which way is fastest?” Zoey asked.
“Straight down the beach.” India pointed over her shoulder.
“Lead on, then.” Zoey fell in step with India and they headed back up the beach.
“Were you headed anyplace in particular?” India asked.
“No, just exploring. Every time I visit Nicky, I try to see a little more of the town.”
“For a small town, there’s actually a lot to see. Starting right here.” India pointed to an osprey that had sailed out of nowhere to hover over the choppy water before diving down and grabbing a fish with its talons and soaring off. “The osprey population had been in a decline around here, but the ban on DDT some years back appears to have resulted in a recovery. The birds are more plentiful now across southern New Jersey. They nest in high places, and the electric towers along the coast have become favorite nesting spots.”
“What’s that one?” Zoey pointed upward to their right to a large, light-colored bird whose wide wingspread showed off dark patches on the wings and tale.
“That’s a rough-legged hawk. Actually, it’s a light morph. I haven’t seen one of those in years.”
“What’s a, er, morph?”
“It’s a variation of coloration that occurs regularly, though less commonly than others. Like more people having dark hair than red. Rough-legged hawks are more commonly dark-feathered. But there are some that are light, like that one.”
“It’s beautiful.” Zoey watched it soar back along the edge of the bay on its way toward the marsh and the woods beyond.
“They’re not frequent visitors here in the late fall. You have good eyes. We should take you on our bird count this year.”
“I might be interested in going,” Zoey told her. “When is it?”
“Ry and I used to do it on Christmas Day. I don’t know when we’ll do it this year. Look, there’s Captain Pete’s.”
“Not a moment too soon.”
Zoey followed India into the dimly lit wooden structure that, in the summer months, served as bait shack and dockside cafe, as well as a place to rent small boats and crabbing nets. Now, in November, Pete sold newspapers, binoculars, duck decoys and hot drinks.
“Hey, Pete,” India called into the back room.
“Who’s that?”
“India Devlin.”
“Well, ‘bout time.” The old gent limped out, leaning on a thick wooden cane. He thumped India on the back with the palm of his hand. “Good to see you, girl. How’s Augustina?”
“She’s well. I’ll tell her you were asking for her.”
“Saw you on television a few months back.” He nodded as he walked to the counter. “Philadelphia station.”
“After the Thomas trial?”
“One of them.” Pete grunted and swung himself onto a stool. “Proud of you, we all were. Mighty proud.”
“Thank you, Pete.” India nodded appreciatively. “I was sorry to hear about your wife, Pete.”
“Appreciate it, India. Appreciate the card you sent.” Pete cleared his throat. “Well then. What brings you out to the docks on such a cold day?”
“I didn’t want my friend here to leave Devlin’s Light without having some of that remarkable hot chocolate of yours, Pete.” She grinned. “This is Zoey Enright, by the way.”
“Enright. You related to Nick?”
“He’s my brother.”
Another grunt from Pete as he rose to fill two tall Styrofoam cups with steaming dark brown liquid. On the top of each he smacked a dollop of whipped cream.
“Whoa, go easy on the whipped cream.” India laughed.
“You look like you could use a little extra there, girl. Both of you could, for that matter.” He passed the cups across the counter one at a time. India patted her pockets, then realized she had no money.
“Oops.” Her face reddened. “I don’t have my wallet.”
“I do.” Zoey reached into the deep pocket of her jacket.
“No, no.” Pete waved her away. “My treat. Been a quiet day. Glad you girls stopped by. Miss seeing those boys around here, I don’t mind saying it.”
“What boys would that be, Pete?” India asked, grabbing a napkin from the metal container on the counter’s edge and passing a few to Zoey.
“Ry and Nick. They spent some good days out here with me, the two of them did. Broke my heart when Ry died, just like I told Augustina. But I’m glad Nick stayed around. Boy like that belongs on the bay. Got it in his blood, just like Ry did.”
“I’ll tell him you said so, Pete.” Zoey nodded, acknowledging the compliment to her brother.
Pete turned on his cane and walked toward the back of the cluttered shop. “Don’t seem right without a young Devlin in town. You think about that, India, hear?”
“Wow. What a character he is! Handsome, in a rough sort of way, but all he needs is an eyepatch and he’d fit every child’s idea of the perfect pirate.” Zoey giggled once they had gone back outside and closed the door. “Tell me a shark gave him that limp.”
India laughed. “I’d be lying if I did. He took a bad fall coming out of Roslyn’s—that’s the local tavern—a few years ago and hurt his back. The doctors said he needs surgery, but he doesn’t want to hear it. Personally, I think he likes the limp and the cane.”
“India, how many years have you done the bird thing on Christmas?” Zoey leaned back against one of the thick round pilings and opened the lid of her hot chocolate to allow it to cool.
“Since I was a child, why?”
“I don’t know. I was just wondering.” She shrugged. “Seems like a shame to stop something you’ve always done.”
“It was always sort of Ry’s thing.” India sat on an overturned boat that was huddled up against the building in much the same manner as the gulls huddled together out on the jetty.
“Well, if you decide to go this year, count me in.”
“Oh, then you’ll be here for Christmas?”
“That would be my guess. We always spend the holidays together. Mother insists on it. She doesn’t care who or how many guests we bring, but we have to be together. Usually we are at Mother’s, but this year I have the feeling that Nicky is planning on staying in Devlin’s Light.” Her dark blue eyes danced.
“Oh?” India sipped at her chocolate and ignored the fact that it was still just slightly too hot.
A sharp, clean wind blew in off the bay, and Zoey openly shivered.
“Want to walk to my car? It’s only a block or two that way.” Zoey pointed toward town.
“That sounds very good.” India eased herself from her seat on the boat’s bottom. “I think I’ve had all the fresh air I can take for one day.”
“Indi
a, it may be none of my business, but …” Zoey appeared to be debating with herself momentarily. “Well, Nicky is very special. Not just because he’s my brother, but because he’s, well, he’s just Nicky. I like you a lot, India. You’re smart and fun and great company… everything that Nicky said you were.”
“Nick said those things about me?” India’s head shot up. “That I was smart and fun and good company?”
“Along with a list too long to repeat.” Zoey sighed and rolled her eyes. “The thing is, if you hurt him, I will track you down.” It appeared that perhaps Zoey was only half kidding.
“I wouldn’t hurt Nick. And he is special. More special than any man I’ve ever known,” India admitted.
“He misses your brother so much. Ry was one of the two best friends Nicky ever had. And he lost them both.” They had reached Zoey’s car. She stood in the street and searched in her pockets for the keys.
“What happened to the other one?”
“We don’t know where he is. He disappeared from our lives a long time ago.” Zoey opened both doors and the two freezing women slid gratefully into the car.
“Who was he?”
“Ben Pierce. His mother worked for our mother. Maureen was Mom’s right hand. She was in charge of Mom’s life, and so of ours.” Zoey turned the key and started the engine. A blast of cold air blew out the heating vents, and she turned off the heater. “After our dad left, Mother worked in a doctor’s office during the day and started writing at night. She did very well in a relatively very short period of time. She had started out writing a detective series—”
“Harve Shellcroft.” India smiled.
“Yes! You’ve read the Harves?”
“Every one of them.”
“I personally like the Penny Jackson series better, but Harve is a classic.” Zoey turned the heater back on to see if the temperature had warmed up.
“Anyway, old Harve was such an instant hit, her publisher wanted more, the sooner the better. Now, Mother was smart enough to know that if two Harves were good, four Harves were better, but there were only so many hours in the day. So as soon as she started to make serious money, she hired someone—Maureen—to do all those things that kept her from writing. Drive us kids around. Food shop. Cook. Take us shopping. And Mother just stayed home and wrote.”
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