Devlin's Light (50 page)

“In the beginning, yes.” She smiled. “But I’ve found so much more than that.”

“Such as …”

“I found myself.” India snuggled into his woolen jacket. “I found Corri. I found you, Nick. I’d have to leave far too much of myself here if I went back to Paloma.”

Nick kept silent, not trusting his voice.

“And besides, how could I leave Darla? The doctors said she needs weeks of rehabilitation. She would be there for me, Nick. I have to be here for her. How can I help her if I’m in Paloma?”

“That
would
be a problem.”

“Then there’s the matter of the lighthouse. I have to finish the renovations. For Darla. Just like Ry planned. I promised him that I would see it through. And just think how much faster she will recover if she knows that she has the opening of her little tea room to look forward to. How could I make that happen from Paloma?”

“Well, I suppose that would be difficult.”

“And Corri.” India’s eyes began to dance. “How can I be a proper mommy if we live three hours apart? There’s no question of taking her to Paloma—I simply couldn’t separate her from Aunt August.”

“No question, that simply wouldn’t do.”

“So it seems that the best thing for me … the best thing for everyone … would be for me to stay here. In Devlin’s Light. Like you said, Nick, I can always get a job.”

“Well, it’s tough to argue with that kind of logic.” Nick was trying hard to pretend that they were discussing something no more important than the weather, but they both knew the implications of her decision went far beyond anything that had been spoken aloud.

“As a matter of fact, I’ve already spoken to the county district attorney. I have an interview next Tuesday,” she continued. “It might be a nice change, you know?”

“What’s that?”

“The
pace
is slower. The number of violent crimes in the county is nowhere near what we had in Paloma. When I spoke with him—Jake Marshall, his name is—he said that it was unusual for anyone in his department to work past six o’clock at night. Fancy that, Nick.”

Nick smiled.

“I figure I could use the time at night to help Corri with her homework. Maybe even volunteer to coach her soccer team next year.”

“Sorry, that job is filled,” he told her. “I already signed up. We might have an opening for someone to run the snack bar, though.”

“Whatever.” She grinned. “I just want to be there every step of the way from now on.”

India sifted a handful of sand through her fingers and watched the light breeze carry the small grains away.

“Nick, you don’t think I’m copping out, do you?” Her brows knit together pensively.

“What, by not going back to Paloma, where you went from one nightmare to another?” He scowled, then realized what she meant. “You’ve more than paid your dues, babe. Whatever you felt you owed—to Lizzie, to whomever— you’ve paid it in spades. It’s time for you to come home and have a life, Indy.”

India stretched her legs out in front of her, making blue denim lines in the sand. She leaned back on her elbows, watching his face.

It was all too good to be true. All too perfect. India held on tightly to the well of joy that was building inside her, almost afraid that if she moved too suddenly, it would shatter and be lost.

Know where you belong, and with whom.

Oh, I do. I do.
She smiled to herself.

“Well, then.” Nick cleared his throat. “I think we should celebrate this momentous decision with dinner tomorrow night.”

“That would be fun.”

He leaned over and kissed her gently, fighting the urge to cover her body with his.

All in good time, he reminded himself.

“I suppose I should get back to the cabin. I have some things to take care of.” He lingered just briefly over her lips. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at eight o’clock.”

“Great.” She smiled.

He stood up and brushed the sand from the back of his pants, prepared to walk away.

“Oh, and Indy?”

“Hmmm?”

“Wear your blue satin dress.”

Chapter 31

The moon hung low over the bay to shed a glow over the water. Another unseasonably warm night, soft as April. A long limousine drove slowly up the drive leading to Nick’s cabin.

“Madam.” Nick offered his arm to India and assisted her from the back of the car. He winked at Randall, who stood alongside the handsome vehicle as the couple emerged. “Thank Mother for me.”

Randall winked back.

“Randall drove all the way to Devlin’s Light just to pick me up on Darien Road and drive me out here?” India frowned.

Nick grinned and took her elbow, leading her toward the front of the cabin. “Isn’t it a magnificent night?”

“Ummm,” she agreed. “The best.”

“The best is yet to come,” he whispered in her ear and took her hand.

“Nick, what are you up to?”

He merely smiled and opened the back door, sweeping low with one hand in a courtly gesture, motioning for her to enter. A steady fire blazed in the fireplace, lending its warmth to the big room. Nearby stood a table for two, set with delicate, pure white bone china and tall white candles, proud in silver candleholders, all on a snowy white damask
cloth. A round crystal bowl held creamy white roses and fragrant white lilies, which filled the air with their scent. Above all, a hundred white and silver balloons—all pronouncing “Happy New Year!”—floated and bobbed toward the ceiling.

“Nick!” India clapped her hands in delight. “It’s wonderful! Magical!”

“Well, I thought perhaps we should try one more time to celebrate the new year together.”

In the kitchen, an aproned cook bustled.

“You’re looking so much better than you did the last time I saw you.” Mrs. Colson turned and smiled. “And you are just in time. Everything is ready.”

Mrs. Colson pointed to a silver tray upon which sat perfect pate surrounded by small melba crackers that looked homemade. A magnum of champagne, braced in ice, stood nearby in a silver cooler.

“You brought Mrs. Colson all the way down here again?” Indy whispered.

“How do you think I got Randall back with the limo?” He winked mischievously.

“You mean, Randall and Mrs. Colson …”

“He’s a confirmed bachelor, she’s an attractive widow. Who knows what could happen?”

With one hand, Nick swung India’s cape from her shoulders onto the arm of the sofa. With the other, he took her elbow and led her to the table.

“This is all so beautiful.” She looked into his eyes as he held the chair for her. “Nick …”

“Sit down, sweetheart.” His eyes glowed with love and anticipation as he poured the golden, bubbly liquid into the tall, fluted champagne glasses. He handed one to her, saying, “We have to drink a toast to the new year, India. Our first whole year together. But not our last.”

From somewhere outside, the sweet sound of music drifted through the windows, filling the room with enchantment.

“Violins?” she asked, wide-eyed.

“Left over from New Year’s Eve.” He grinned. “They wouldn’t leave till I let them play.”

India bit her bottom lip as she raised her glass to touch
the fragile rim to his, her throat constricting with emotion as she looked into the eyes of the man she had come to love so deeply.

“I love you, India Devlin. I want to live with you and be a part of your life, from now until always. I want to watch the sun rise over the bay with you every morning, and dance in the moonlight with you at night. I want to raise Corri with you. I want to play with our children on the beach and teach them how to count the birds on Christmas Day. What do you want, India?”

“All of those things,” she told him. “And you, Nick. I want you.”

“My mother always says that life is a journey. Will you share your journey with me, India?”

“Yes,” she whispered, mesmerized by his voice, by the vision he had shown her.

“Well then.” He raised her fingertips to his lips and kissed them, just before he slid a circle of gold, upon which sat a large sapphire the color of violets, onto her ring finger. “Let the journey begin.”

POCKET BOOKS
PROUDLY PRESENTS

WONDERFUL YOU

Mariah Stewart

Available
from
Pocket Books

The following is a preview of
Wonderful You.
…

A discordant sound from somewhere in the big and rambling house rattled the silence that wrapped around the sleeping child like a Band-Aid and shook her forcefully from her slumber. Pulling the covers up over her head to shield her from any stray Night Things that might be lurking about, she opened one eye to sneak a drowsy peek, just to make certain that nothing of questionable intent had, as yet, invaded the sanctuary of her room.

All appeared well.

A slow sigh of relief hissed from between her lips and she slowly inched the blanket away from her face. Drawing confidence from that small but brave act, she sat up quietly and leaned her back against the tall, carved wooden headboard, careful, for all her bravado, not to make the bed squeak and perhaps invite attention to herself. Not that
she
believed in Night Things. Her little sister did, but, of course, her sister was only eight, and
she
was already eleven.

A sudden, nameless
thud
from the front of the
house sent her scurrying back under the sheltering wing of her blankets, where she huddled in the cavelike warmth for a long moment, holding her breath to quiet herself as she strained to acclimate her ears to the sounds the house made at night.

Cautiously she slid to the edge of the bed until her head and shoulders hung over the side.

From somewhere in the night she heard voices.

She forced herself to remain there, suspended between the floor and the side of the bed, between fear and curiosity.

Curiosity, as always, won out.

Easing herself onto her feet without making a sound, she picked careful steps across the thickly carpeted floor, her feet making hollow wells in the deep blue wool pile. A deliberate finger pushed aside the bedroom door and she peered into the hallway, hoping neither to startle nor be startled. A glance up the long corridor to her right assured her that the door to her sister’s room was closed over. Employing great stealth, she crept into the hall, her destination the balcony that overlooked the dimly lit grand foyer below, from which the faint sound of muffled voices could be heard.

Someone was downstairs with her mother.

She paused at her brother’s bedroom door, briefly considering whether to wake him. Her brother always treated her like a baby, even though he was only three and a half years older than she was. If she woke him up, he would think it was because she was afraid. Taking a deep breath, she crept past his door and continued alone down the hall.

Once at the railing she lowered herself onto the floor—oh, so quietly—and leaned slightly into the space between the balusters, seeking the best view of the scene below.

Her mother, wrapped in her dark green chenille bathrobe, stood facing a white-haired man in a dark-colored overcoat. Between them stood the boy, who was facing her mother, and it was to him that she spoke, her low voice but a whisper in the night. The girl wished she could hear what was being said.

No one looked happy, least of all the boy.

As her mother spoke, she brushed the hair back from his face with both hands, but he appeared not to be looking at her, but rather at the floor of black-and-white-checkered marble. The man never spoke at all.

Finally the boy nodded, just the tiniest tilt of his head, and as her mother turned toward the study, the grandfather clock chimed a rude and sudden four bells. Trying to follow the drama and caught up in it, the girl leaned a bit too far to the left and banged her forehead upon the wooden railing. The soft
bump
echoed, floating downward like carelessly tossed confetti through the darkness to the foyer below. The man and the boy both looked upward with eyes that seemed to tell the same story from vastly different points of view. The eyes of the boy burned dark and fierce, while the eyes of the old man held little else but sorrow. Both of them, she would someday realize, had appeared equally lost.

Her mother returned with the boy’s jacket and held it open to him, helping him to ease arms heavy with reluctance into the sleeves. She hugged him then, holding him only long enough not to cause him embarrassment. The boy was almost as tall as her mother, and the girl wondered why she hadn’t noticed before.

She froze at the sound approaching from behind, a soft footfall on the plump carpet. Light fingers touched her shoulder to reassure. Without turning around, she knew that her brother, too, had felt,
rather than heard, the disturbance. Together they watched, in silence, as the drama below played out.

Finally, her brother pointed at the old man in the foyer and whispered,
“That’s
his grandfather. He’s taking him back.”

The girl bit her lip. As if she didn’t know who the man in the dark raincoat was. “He doesn’t want to go, Nicky. He wants to stay here. Can’t we do something?”

“Mom said Ben belonged with his grandfather, Zoey. It’s what his mother wanted.”

“I wish she hadn’t died, Nicky. I wish everything could be just the way it was.” The girl’s bottom lip began to quiver in earnest. Her hero was leaving, and there was nothing she could do about it.

A nod from her mother seemed to imply a hesitant consent, and the man opened the front door. Before the girl could so much as blink, the man and the boy had disappeared. Her mother stood alone in the open doorway, wrapping her arms around herself against the chill of the night air, and there she had remained long after the sound of tires crunching on stone had ceased.

A sense of overwhelming sadness drifted to the second floor and the girl leaned back upon her haunches to ponder it all. The boy—who, unlike her brother, had never treated her like a baby, and had never been too busy to teach her how to climb trees and throw a fast ball and catch frogs down near the pond—had vanished into the night, and there was, about all, a dense air of finality she did not comprehend.