Chapter 6
A s if the gods understood that Devon, a Californian born and bred, was in no way equipped to deal with such things as blizzards, the storm seemed to let up a little as she fought her way back to the house. The wind dropped; instead of the feral wail and shriek she’d almost grown accustomed to, a lovely whispering silence fell. Snow still swirled, but not in an impenetrable curtain. It lent an almost Christmas-card quality to the farmhouse huddled on the crown of the hill beneath the stark bare branches of trees.
Christmas was no big deal to Devon. She personally didn’t go in for a lot of the sentimental trappings, but she wasn’t one of those people who got mopey and depressed during the holidays, either. Her shopping had been done weeks ago with a minimum of fuss, all her purchases gift-wrapped at the store where she’d bought them and now stacked neatly on the bed in her seldom-used guest room. She never bothered with a tree, since she was so rarely home to appreciate it. On Christmas Eve, as always, she would have dinner with her parents at their home in Canoga Park. As for the day itself, she was currently “between relationships” so there would be no leisurely Christmas morning cuddle with mugs of eggnog in front of a gas log fire. Devon planned to catch up on some paperwork, and later perhaps drop in on one or more of the holiday parties to which she’d been invited. Or, maybe she’d skip them all and go to a movie. The advantage of being single, she thought, was that she could do pretty much anything she pleased. Which was the way she liked it.
As she approached the house, two medium-sized dogs-they’d sounded much larger in the dark last night-came romping out to meet her. Not being accustomed to dogs-or animals of any kind-and remembering the ferocious- sounding welcome they’d given her upon her arrival, Devon froze in her tracks. Holding her hands and arms close to her chest and trying to look as stumplike as possible, she ventured in a quavering voice, “Hello, doggy. Nice doggy…?” However, no doubt smelling familiar clothing, they greeted her like a returning prodigal, with wriggling and giddy joy.
“
Shedding her muddy boots and snow-crusted parka in the service room, as instructed, she went into the kitchen. Her cheeks and fingers were tingling, her nose running; she felt exhilarated for having survived all Mother Nature could throw at her. And something else-a curious sense of…almost of expectation…of the warmth and light and welcome that awaited her there. Odd-when she’d never felt like that coming into her own home, or even her parents’ home when she was a child. Had she?
Such a simple, basic thing. A feeling of home, of welcome and security. Why couldn’t she remember even that?
As it turned out, the kitchen was empty. But it smelled of coffee and bacon and maple syrup, and there were two places set at the oval oak table. More dishes, washed and stacked in a drainer in the sink, suggested Mike and Lucy had already eaten.
Never a big breakfast eater at the best of times, and with a stomach full of knots left over from that confrontation with Eric in the barn, Devon poured herself a cup of coffee which she sipped standing at the counter, frowning at nothing while she digested unaccustomed feelings of disappointment and loneliness.
“Crazy,” she muttered to herself, not even sure what she meant by it. Only silence answered her.
No, not quite silence. She became aware all at once of a sound, one that had been there all along, but one so familiar, so much a part of her customary habitat, it hadn’t registered. The faint and distant clickety-clack of computer keys.
Carrying her coffee, she wandered down a dim hallway toward the front of the house, head cocked and ears pricked like a hunter alert to the snap of a twig or the rustle of leaves. On one side of the house a formal living room stood dark and, Devon suspected, seldom used. Across from it an open doorway spilled warmth and light and busy noises into the hallway murk.
Devon announced herself with a polite “Knock knock” as she stepped into what was obviously these people’s real “living room,” and a welcoming clutter of books and family photographs, afghans and worn but comfortable furniture.
“Come on in.” Mike was peering intently at a computer monitor that was sitting on an old wooden desk placed endwise to a window through which Devon could see snowflakes swirling amongst bare black branches. A moment later the keyboard clatter ceased and he turned from the screen, peeling off a pair of dark-rimmed glasses as he rose with a welcoming smile.
“Oh, please,” she said, holding up a hand, palm outward, “don’t stop. I’m sorry-I’m interrupting you.” But she couldn’t keep curiosity out of her voice, and, she was sure, her face. The desk was piled high with papers and books, and a low table under the window held a sophisticated combination printer-scanner-fax machine. Granted, Devon hadn’t much firsthand knowledge, but it seemed to her a little much for a farmhouse in the middle of Iowa.
“No problem,” Mike cheerfully assured her. “I was just killing time. Deadline’s still a ways off. Did you find breakfast? I think Lucy left it in the oven to keep warm.”
“What? Oh-yes, thanks…” She waved her coffee cup and offered an apologetic smile. “Actually, though, coffee’s all I want right now. I had some toast earlier, so I wasn’t really hungry. Maybe later?”
“That’s fine.” There was a pause, and then, with a cautious smile, he asked, “Eric still shoveling manure in the barn?”
Devon murmured an affirmative and managed to avoid his eyes by taking a sip of coffee, but not before she’d caught the compassionate twinkle in his eyes.
“Where’s Lucy?” she asked as she turned away to begin a casual exploration of the room.
“Take a guess.” He pointed at the ceiling as he joined Devon in front of an old upright piano topped with a collection of framed photographs she was looking at without really seeing. “First thing Lucy did this morning after chores was unearth the bassinet and her rocking chair. She’s taking to this grandmother business in a big way.”
Devon would never be mistaken for a sentimentalist. She gave him a quick glance, and her mouth opened to tell him the truth in her customary blunt and forthright manner. But something-an unexpected constriction-suddenly made it impossible, and instead she swallowed the words with an audible sound she tried to hide in a gulp of coffee.
Mike wasn’t fooled. “What?” he prompted gently.
Devon shrugged, keeping a shoulder turned to him, avoiding his eyes. “Nothing-I was just…”
“I take it she isn’t.” It was matter-of-fact. And not a question.
She gave him another quick, hard look; then, letting go of a breath, nodded. “He admitted it to me just now- down in the barn.” Oddly, right now she felt no sense of victory.
After several long seconds of silence, Mike murmured on an exhalation of regret, “Well, Lucy will be disappointed.”
Devon felt an alien bump of empathy. Startled, even a little frightened by it, she moved on to the fireplace, where still more photographs crowded the mantelpiece and a fire sputtered and crackled with a merry eccentricity that could only be real wood.
“You don’t seem surprised,” she remarked, holding her hands toward the fire even though they weren’t cold, watching them so she wouldn’t have to look at the gallery of photographs arrayed before her. She couldn’t have said why; normally she liked photographs. Moreover, these were Eric’s family. She wanted to know more about him, didn’t she? And here they all were, his entire family spread out in front of her, all those friendly eyes and wholesome smiles. Nice people…good people.
Mike had come beside her again. “Oh, I was pretty sure Eric wasn’t Emily’s biological father.”
Devon tilted her head and fixed him with a look of honest curiosity. She was a lawyer; she hadn’t missed the
