“Then your sister Rose Ellen was born…” He paused, laughing softly, and for some reason Eric found himself laughing the same way. “Ah, man.” Mike shook his head. “I remember once, Ellie was only a couple of weeks old. I walked into the bedroom, and there was your mother, leaning over the crib, crying. Nearly scared me to death- I thought for sure something was wrong with the baby. But your mom shook her head and kept looking at Ellie, who it turned out was sound asleep and perfectly fine, and all she could say was, ‘She’s so beautiful-’” He broke off with a cough, and Eric, all too familiar with how it was with guys and emotions, turned away with an embarrassed laugh of his own.
“The thing is,” his father said after a moment, stopping him just before he could escape back into the kitchen, “there aren’t many emotions in this world more powerful than those of a mother. You’ve heard of maternal instincts? If Devon was feeling even a little bit of that, it is no wonder she ran.”
After her demoralizing morning, Devon hid out in the bathroom for as long as she could find excuses to do so. She showered and shampooed, conditioned and deep-cleansed, tweezed and clipped, brushed and flossed, blow- dried and styled anything and everything she could think of to which those activities could possibly be applied. Worse than the boredom was the full awareness that that was what she was doing-hiding out. And the worst of it was, she couldn’t really understand
But then, Devon O’Rourke did not ordinarily make a complete mess of things from the get-go, either.
She’d been over it a dozen times, and demoralizing as it was, it was still the only conclusion she could come to. She’d screwed up. Made one mistake after another. To begin with, she now realized, she should have just let the marshalls serve the court order and never gotten involved with these people at all. That was mistake number one.
Mistake number two:
Number three-and after that so many more she’d lost count-all had to do with Eric. Damn him. She’d started out underestimating him. She’d told herself she wouldn’t make that mistake again, but somehow he kept catching her off guard anyway. She didn’t understand him. And all her efforts to do so seemed to result in more confusion, more misunderstanding.
All right, so what in the hell was she supposed to do now? Devon was accustomed to taking action, making things happen, not
The north wind doth blow and we shall have snow,
And what will the robin do then, poor thing?
She’ll sit in the barn and keep herself warm,
And hide her head under her wing.
A shiver coursed through her, though the bathroom was warm and steamy as a tropical greenhouse. All right, so big deal, she’d forgotten that nursery rhyme-so what?
Damn you, Eric, she thought bitterly. Damn you.
It was hunger-and the delicious smells drifting up from the kitchen-that finally drove her downstairs. As before, she was vaguely disappointed to find the kitchen empty, though she did locate the source of at least one of the mouthwatering smells there. Cookies-dozens of them, spicy brown rounds with crackled tops-were spread out on trays on the kitchen table and covered with clean dish-towels. Though the smell made her almost dizzy, after a quick peek she let the dishtowel drop back over the cookies without tasting so much as a crumb; Devon rarely allowed herself to eat sweets.
While she’d been barricaded in the bathroom, it seemed, Christmas had arrived. The already cozy farmhouse kitchen had been transformed, as if by magic wand-or a battalion of elves, Devon thought wryly-into a department store window. A bright red-and-green tablecloth covered the oak table, and there were red cushions on all the chairs. A basket in the center of the table held pinecones decorated with cranberries and sprigs of evergreen. There was a wreath dangling against the glass part of the back door, and above each window, boughs of evergreen had been tied to the valance rods with red velvet bows. There were Christmasy towels and potholders on the counter, and Christmasy covers on the toaster and blender, and Christmasy knickknacks on the shelves above the microwave oven. Devon tried to tell herself it was ridiculously overdone; she wanted to believe it was tacky and gaudy and silly.
She tried, but she couldn’t.
What she really thought it was, was pretty.
And being there in the middle of it all made her feel much the same way the cookies did-dizzy with longing and at the same time doggedly proud of the willpower with which she had always denied herself such things.
There was Christmas music, too, she realized, drifting in from a stereo playing somewhere in the house. Bing Crosby had just started “I’m Dreaming Of A White Christmas,” when real voices joined in, picking it up on the next line. Men’s voices, singing in harmony.
Following the voices and the music, she crept down the hallway to the parlor. Yes, they were all there-Mike and Lucy, Eric and even the baby, asleep in her carrier seat-but instead of joining them right away, Devon paused in the shadows just outside the doorway to watch. Standing in the dark hallway and looking into that room, all aglow with Christmas cheer and family togetherness, she felt as if she were alone in a cold street, watching strangers through a lighted window. Watching something warm and real, but which she could neither feel nor touch. Something wonderful that she could never be a part of.
Across the room, Eric and Mike stood flanking a Christmas tree that towered almost to the high parlor ceiling. They were facing each other, each holding one end of a tangle of Christmas tree lights, though at the moment that was all they were doing-holding them-as they devoted their attention to the song they were singing with droll abandon. Though Eric’s was the stronger voice, he was doing the harmony, while Mike backed up Bing on the melody. Lucy, their appreciative audience, perched sideways on the recliner chair with her chin in her hands and the baby’s carrier at her feet, watching and smiling, but not singing. No one noticed Devon.
She didn’t mind. She was glad of the chance to study Eric’s family, she told herself, ruthlessly disregarding a persistent, mouthwatery hunger feeling that was centered much nearer her heart than her stomach. She told herself it was his whole family she needed to know more about, although after the first sweeping glance around the room, her eyes came back to Eric-just Eric.
She was struck by how alike they were, father and son-though she couldn’t have broken the resemblance down to specifics. Eric was a little taller than his father, and a lot thinner, and he did have his mother’s hawklike nose. And, she realized, her intensity, too-though it was possible that Mike’s quiet way was something that just came with age. Like wisdom.
Barely thirty herself, it was hard for Devon to imagine herself or anyone her age old, but she knew with complete certainty that, like his father, Eric would still be trim and attractive when he was in his sixties-and well beyond. She could see it in his bones, the strong features unsoftened by excess flesh, in the shape of his head, the breadth of his shoulders.
Oh yes, those big, long-fingered hands, so unexpectedly gentle when he’d touched her, this morning in the barn. Oddly, she could feel them still, on her face, her throat, the side of her neck. Feel her pulse throbbing against his thumb, and her body quivering inside, humming like a dynamo-some high-voltage power source.
And they’d scared her to death. They still did.
She shifted restlessly, that strange vibration inside her a tickle she couldn’t reach. And that movement was enough to give her away. Mike sang out, “Hey-Devon! Come on, join us.”
“White Christmas” had ended. Someone else was singing now; Devon had no idea who, or what. She moved into the room, pretending an ease she didn’t feel, avoiding Eric’s eyes though her senses hummed with awareness of him and her skin still shivered with that memory of his touch.
