“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.
“So, how am I?” she asked.
“You’re coming around.” Nick smiled and put the book down, lifting a hand to feel her forehead. “You’re not nearly as warm as you were this morning. How’s your throat?”
“It’s still sore,” she admitted.
“The headache?”
“Pretty much gone.” She shifted to sit up a little and made a face. “I hope I look better than I must smell at this point.”
“I’d say it’s pretty much a tos
s-up.” He grinned.
“Can I take a shower?”
“If you can stand up that long.”
She sat up all the way. It seemed to take all of her strength.
“Hmm. Maybe not,” he decided. “Are you hungry? How about some soup? I made some yesterday.”
“What kind?”
“What kind?” He scoffed. “What do you think my mother told me to make as soon as she found out you were sick?”
“Chicken soup?” she ventured.
“Of course. It’s the universal antidote. We have enough chicken soup to handle an epidemic. You game?”
“Sure.” Her voice was still faint, her throat still weak.
“Here.” He tossed her the remote control. “See if you can find anything to occupy yourself with while I heat up your soup.”
The news disoriented, the talk shows irritated. The music videos were tasteless and the shopping channels were all showing electronics. India turned off the TV and pulled herself all the way up to a sitting position for the first time in days. It was an effort to hold herself there until Nick came back with a tray of golden chicken noodle soup and lightly buttered toast. He placed it gently on her lap, then sat next to her while she tasted small spoonfuls of the warm, fragrant broth.
“This is wonderful stuff, Nick. Are you having some?”
“I had some for lunch,” he told her, “and am looking forward to something a little more substantial for dinner. Do you need help? Want me to hold the bowl?”
“No, I’m fine.” India put the spoon down and sighed. “You are too good to me, Nick, taking care of me like this.”
“Wouldn’t you do the same for me?”
“Of course,” she said without hesitation.
“I think that’s what it’s all about,” he said softly, tucking an errant strand of stringy blond hair behind her ear.
“I guess I really blew your wonderful New Year’s Eve surprise.” She bit her bottom lip. “And I never even told you how handsome you looked in your tuxedo.”
“You’ll have other opportunities. And there’s always next New Year’s Eve.” He traced small circles on the back of her left hand.
“It was such a totally lovely idea, having dinner here.”
“You didn’t last long enough to see the rest of it.”
“What else was there?” She frowned, trying to recall.
“You missed the string quartet.”
“You hired a string quartet?”
“Yup.”
“Oh, Nick, I feel terrible.” Her eyes pooled at the thought of all the trouble he had gone to, to make their first New Year’s Eve together a wonderful, memorable night.
“Don’t be silly, it’s not something you had control over. And besides, I plan to let you make it up to me.”
“How could I possibly do that?”
“Oh, I’m sure you’ll think of something.” He grinned. “Think along the lines of love slave.”
India laughed for what seemed to be the first time in weeks.
“I think I want to try that shower now.”
“Let me help you.” He offered her his hand. “And while you’re in the shower, I’ll find something for you to wear. Zoey and Georgia always have clothes here.”
India tried to remember something that might have felt better than washing her hair after three days in bed but could not. The steamy warmth of the shower revived and relaxed her, and she felt better than she had in days. Not well, but better, and she said so when she had dried herself off and slipped into the flannel boxers and fleecy pullover Nick brought to her.
“I’m delighted to hear that, but let’s not overdo it,” he told her. “You’re getting right back into bed.”
He led her by the hand back to the king-sized bed, where fresh sheets awaited and plump pillows beckoned. Hot tea with lemon steamed from a cup placed on the bedside table, and the phone had been moved to within easy reach.
“I thought you might like to call August and Corri,” he said as he helped her back into bed.
It was the last straw for weak and frazzled emotions. India burst into tears.
“What is it, India?” he asked, all concern and gentleness, which only made her cry all the harder. “What, sweetheart? Tell me what’s wrong.”
“You take care of me when I’m sick, nurse me around the clock. I look like a refugee and smell like a goat, but you feed me. You made me chicken soup, for God’s sake.” She cried into his shoulder.
“Whatever was I thinking?”
“You read to me when I was too sick to move. Gone with the Wind. My all-time favorite book.” She grabbed hold of the front of his shirt. “You put fresh sheets on the bed and worry about Corri worrying about me.”
“Clearly, I’ve been out of line.” He ran his fingers through his hair and glanced toward the ceiling. “Can you ever forgive me?”
“You hired a string quartet to serenade me on New Year’s Eve,” she sobbed.
“I should be punished.” He hung his head, pretending to appear contrite. “Would you like to beat me?”
She laughed in spite of herself and pulled him closer.
“You are so right,” she told him, wiping the tears from her face with the back of her hand. “How can I not fall in love with you, Nick, when you are so right.”
“What have you got against falling in love with me?” He stroked the back of her head.
“If I fall in love with you I’ll close the door on ever going back to Paloma.”
“Explain to me why this might be a bad thing, when all the people you love—the people who love you—the places you love, are all in Devlin’s Light.”
“It used to make sense to me,” she said. “It really used to make sense to me. Now I don’t even remember why. My work there was— is —important to me.”
“The work will always be important to you, Indy, and it should be. You do a great job, you do what needs to be done. But you can do it anywhere you choose. You can have your cake and eat it too, as the saying goes. You don’t have to go back to Paloma to fight bad guys. We have bad guys of our own down here. Come home and fight them, Indy.”
“I think I have to give serious consideration to doing just that.” She sighed. “It all seemed so easy before. There was so much going on in Paloma, so little going on here. Now I’m not so sure just how much that matters.”
He gently eased her back onto the pillows, a twinkle in his eye. “It must have been the love potion I slipped into the chicken soup.”
“Enright, you’re the last man in the world who would need to resort to potions when it comes to getting women.” She traced his jawline with the back of her hand.
“I don’t want ‘women,’” he told her. “I never wanted ‘women.’ I never wanted more than one woman in my life, and I knew if I waited long enough, I’d find her. And I have. The only woman I ever really wanted, the only one I can’t do without, is you. I love you to distraction, India Devlin, and once you’re all better, we’ll discuss what I propose we do about that.”
He kissed her forehead, then frowned. “But in the meantime, you’re still warmer than you should be, and your eyes are getting a little bit of a sleepy glaze on them again. Why don’t you call Corri and August now so you can talk to them while you’re still lucid, then we’ll watch a movie till you fall asleep.”
“Okay.” She reached for the phone and dialed the number. She was tired all of a sudden. “Aunt August? Hi, it’s me. A little better, yes.”
Nick opened the curtains behind the bed and let in the light from a stark gray morning.
“What time is it?” India stretched.
“Time for breakfast, if you’re feeling up to it.”
“I am. I’m almost hungry today.”
“That’s a good sign. How ‘bout scrambled eggs and some toast made with homemade bread?”
“That’s what I smelled.” She smiled.
“I think there’s some obscure law that says that on cold, snowy days in early Januar
y, it is mandatory to have a fire burning and homemade bread in the oven.”
“It’s snowing?”
“Like a blizzard. Are you strong enough to come into the other room to eat?”
“Yes. Let me just wash my face, then I’ll be in.”
She felt stronger, her legs less wobbly, and her head was not so foggy. She splashed water on her face and brushed her teeth with toothpaste on her finger. Feeling almost human, she followed the fresh-bread scent through the house.
Breakfast was set up in front of the fireplace, in which blazed a healthy log or two to warm and cheer the big room. Music floated from several speakers to seep through the silence and wrap around the room like a turban. It was cozy and intimate, and she knew in her bones that she would never want to be anywhere else, with anyone else.
“Come look out the window.” Nick stood with his back to the room. “The snow is incredible. The bay has simply disappeared into a white blur.”
India came up behind him and slipped her arms around his waist. He felt good and solid, wonderful and strong. He felt like no one else ever had, or ever would.
“Nick?” she said, her voice still raspy.
“Yes, Indy?”
“I love you, Nick.” She rested her head against his back and rocked slightly.
“Are you sure it isn’t the fever come back?”
“No fever. I’m feeling much better. I’m feeling well enough to know,” she said. “And what I know is that I’ve never loved anyone else. I never will. I never want to be without you, Nick.”
“That is one thing you will never have to worry about.” He turned to her and took her in his arms. “I’ll never be farther away than you want me to be.”
They rocked slightly together in front of the big window.
“So, what was it that put you over the edge?” he asked, a trace of merriment in his voice. “It was the chicken soup, right?”
“It’s everything,” she said simply, “everything you did to show me that you cared. It’s everything you do and everything you are.”
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