The Black Sheep’s Baby

Chapter 14

H ow did I get here? Devon wondered as she silently crumbled cornbread into dust and nodded, smiling, at whatever it was Lucy had just said.

How had Devon O’Rourke, up-and-coming L.A. lawyer with a reputation for being both hard-headed and cold-hearted, wound up in a farmhouse in Iowa, eating potato soup on Christmas Eve with the family of her adversary? Who was he, anyway, this man who had invaded her being like an alien life force and now acted as though she didn’t exist?

It was her own fault that she’d walked into this mess unarmed and unprepared. She’d been so certain she had Eric Lanagan pegged, catalogued and pigeon-holed, only to find time and time again that she didn’t know him at all. What did she know about him now, other than the fact that he was eons older than his chronological age-probably what New Agers would call an “old soul”? The fact that he was both kind and ruthless, a man of character and deep principles-even if those principles didn’t always coincide with the law?

Those things alone would make him one of the most formidable opponents she’d ever faced. But what made her go cold and her stomach knot was the full and clear knowledge that she didn’t want him to be her adversary.

What do you want him to be, Devon?

A wave of longing surged through her, like the roar of a powerful wind, and she clamped down on it with all the strength of her formidable will.

Impossible, she told herself with the harshness of hard-headed, cold-hearted reality. Even if the phone call she’d overheard last night hadn’t been to a lover after all. Impossible.

Christmas Eve supper was finally over. It had seemed interminable to Eric, torn as he was between the anguish of knowing it would be the last one he’d ever enjoy here in his childhood home, and the desire to soak in and relish every moment, every detail, to imprint them forever in his memory. Torn, too, between an awareness of Devon that was a constant hum deep within him-a prickling just under his skin, and the knowledge that after tomorrow he’d never see her again.

After helping to clear the table, Eric relieved his mother of the baby and he and Mike retired to the parlor, leaving the women to dispose of the dishes and leftovers. While Eric introduced Emily to the wonder of Christmas tree lights, Mike carried in an armload of wood and set about building a fire. Other than his dad’s running commentary on the progress he was making, neither of them said much. There seemed to be even more than the usual awkwardness between them, an odd kind of constraint. Almost, Eric thought, as if he knows.

“Okay, I think that’s going pretty good,” Mike said. He rose and replaced the screen, then turned, dusting his hands. His smile as he came to join Eric beside the tree was tentative; regret tore at his heart. “What do you think? Should we make some popcorn to go with that eggnog your mom made?”

“I don’t know, Dad, I’m pretty full.”

“Yeah, okay. Maybe later.” His father stood beside him in silence, thumbs hooked in the back pockets of his jeans. After a moment he said, “Nice tree this year, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” said Eric, “it’s a nice one.”

Mike gave him a sideways look and cleared his throat. “Thanks for the book gift certificate, by the way. Came in yesterday’s e-mail-your mother’s, too. Forgot to mention it.”

Eric lifted a shoulder and watched the tree lights reflected in the baby’s eyes. “Yeah, well, I know you both always like books.”

Mike rubbed the back of his neck and smiled ruefully as he surveyed the pile of presents under the tree. “With so few of us, I never can quite figure out how we always wind up with so many presents. Of course, some of ’em are for tomorrow-for Wood and Chris and Caity. And there’re the ones Ellie and Quinn sent for everybody, too.” He glanced over at Eric. “Where’s the one you made for Devon? I don’t see it here.”

Eric brushed that aside with a quick shake of his head and muttered gruffly, “I’m going to give it to her later. I thought it might be kind of…” He coughed, knowing he couldn’t explain.

“I understand,” his dad said quietly.

Eric gave him a startled look, then a longer one. And he wondered if somehow his dad really did understand, though he couldn’t think how that could be.

He thought about how it would be if he could put his arms around his father and tell him…not so much that he loved him-he was sure both he and Mom already knew that-but how sorry he was that he’d been a rebellious, ungrateful pain-in-the-butt growing up. Tell him how much he appreciated the freedom he’d been given to leave and make his own way, and how deeply he regretted the years he’d stayed at a distance. Maybe try to explain that he’d kept that distance because he’d been afraid of the pull this place had on him-something he’d only just found out himself. He thought how it would be if he could tell his dad everything. About Devon, and why he had to leave again. Then, at least, he’d be able to say goodbye.

“Dad,” he began. But he could hear his mother’s voice in the hallway, now. He caught a breath and with an aching void where his heart should be, ducked his head and kissed his little girl’s head to hide the brightness in his eyes.

Everyone was trying so hard to be kind. Devon didn’t know how much more she’d be able to stand.

There was more food-popcorn and eggnog and those spicy molasses cookies-more reminiscences, and more schmaltzy Christmas music on the stereo. Lucy again begged “the young people” to sing, and this time-out of guilt, perhaps?-Devon allowed herself to be talked into joining Mike and Eric in singing “Silent Night.” She sang the melody, since it was the only part she knew, joining her unspectacular soprano with Mike’s pleasant baritone. As before, after the first few notes, Eric slipped into the harmony. Lucy sat sideways in the recliner and rocked Emily and beamed at them all, while her eyes grew shiny with happy tears.

After that, they opened gifts, taking their time about it, exclaiming, laughing…sometimes crying-over each and every one. Lucy’s gift to Mike was a set of videos on the Vietnam War. Mike’s gift to her was tickets for a February Valentine’s cruise to Hawaii, which Lucy loudly protested, though everyone in the room could see that she was surprised and deeply touched. Their daughter Rose Ellen and her husband had sent a videocam attachment for Mike’s computer. “We got us one, too,” they’d written on the card, “so we can see each other when we e-mail.”

Mike and Lucy gave Eric a huge boxful of darkroom supplies. “You can take them with you,” Lucy hastened to assure him, looking anxiously into her son’s face “You don’t have to use them here.”

Eric leaned awkwardly across the space between them to hug her and murmur, “Thanks, Mom.” Devon felt a lump in her throat.

In addition to gift certificates from an on-line bookstore, Eric gave each of his parents a framed photograph of himself holding Emily, small enough to sit on a desktop or dresser, or to join the collection on the mantelpiece. When she unwrapped hers, Lucy wiped away tears and blew her nose, and Devon, watching and doggedly smiling, felt her face would crack.

Lucy scolded as she accepted the small flat box wrapped in candy cane paper from Devon, but her face lit with a smile when she lifted the tissue paper and saw the scarf inside. “Oh, Devon, it’s beautiful,” she cried as she held the square of richly colored silk to her cheek. Then her eyes began to sparkle. “Great minds think alike,” she murmured, handing Devon a small flat box decorated with Santa Clauses.

Inside, Devon found a scarf in a lovely shade of green, with an all-over print featuring tiny snowmen. “So you’ll remember the Christmas you spent with us,” Lucy said in her brisk, blunt way. Devon’s eyes stung as she tied the scarf around her neck. Lucy put hers on, too, though it clashed gloriously with the poinsettia print on her sweater.

Mike gave Devon a pair of fur-lined leather gloves, because, he said, “The first thing Lucy noticed about you was that you didn’t have any.” He seemed pleased with the electronic pocket planner she gave him.

Devon was relieved that there was no gift for her from Eric, since she hadn’t anything for him, either. But at the same time, when all the gifts had been distributed and opened-including way too many for Emily-she felt a kind of void, a sense of disappointment.

She thought of the mistletoe, and Mike sweeping Lucy into a classic Rhett Butler embrace. She thought of her vision of this same parlor filled with warmth and laughter and love, and of all those things embodied in a pair of arms wrapping themselves around her from behind…a whisper, sweet as music in her ear.

I have to talk to him, she thought-and remembered she’d had the very same thought at the beginning, that morning after she’d first met Eric. She’d told herself then that she needed to learn more about the man who was her clients’ adversary-get to know him. Now-what was it?-four days later, he seemed more of a mystery to her than ever.

She almost wished they could go back to the way things had been then-even the open hostility of those first moments. Those had been honest, straightforward emotions, at least. Then had come confusion-the confrontation in the barn, Eric’s terrible accusations, and finally, what had seemed like the beginnings of a grudging acceptance of her. And later, that first evening with his family in the parlor…Eric stringing tree lights with his father, sitting so close to Devon on the couch, challenging her, teasing, taunting her.

So much had happened since then. So much had changed. But what did I do, Devon wondered, to make him so distant? What did I do to make him hate me?

I have to talk to him about this, she thought. She had to. But when? Tomorrow was Christmas; there would be company-Eric’s cousin and her parents. It would almost have to be tonight.

She lingered, nervous with both resolve and dread, helping Lucy pick up wrapping paper and ribbon and tidy up the parlor, thinking she would catch Eric after his parents had gone to bed. But he excused himself, said good-night and went upstairs while Devon was carrying the popcorn and eggnog dishes and leftovers to the kitchen.

Later, she promised herself, dizzy and twanging with unspent tension. I’ll talk to him tonight…later.

Eric sat on the edge of his bed and stared down at the large flat Christmas-wrapped package in his hands. It wasn’t particularly pretty paper, now he really looked at it, kind of a muddy gold with sprays of evergreens and pinecones on it. But it had been that or Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer-the only pieces of wrapping paper left that were big enough to accommodate a 16 x 20 inch picture frame. What he was wondering now was why he’d bothered.

For the better part of two days, as he worked to put together the collage, searching through piles of photo albums, picking out scenes from his own childhood and his mother’s and copying them on his dad’s computer, he’d thought a lot about what he was doing, and why…daring to fantasize about what Devon might say when he gave it to her. These are memories…memories of childhood, he’d say to her. Since you don’t have any of your own, I wanted to give you some of mine…

And she would say…what? What was he hoping for? Some kind of breakthrough? That Devon would take one look at the photographs and remember that her parents were monsters who’d molested and abused her and driven her sister out of their house and into a life of hell on the streets? Was he hoping for a miracle?

What had made him think he could bring about in a few days what could take trained therapists months or even years to accomplish? Or never.

Ah well, the collage had been a stupid idea, but he’d worked on the damn thing for two days, and if he didn’t give it to Devon now, Dad-Mom, too, since it was a safe bet there weren’t any secrets between those two-was going to wonder why. Devon was in her room now-he’d heard her door close a while ago-and his mom and dad were in theirs, and Emily asleep in there with them, in his old bassinet that his mom had hauled down from the attic. Tomorrow, Caitlyn and her folks would be here, and tomorrow night… Hell, who knew where he’d be tomorrow night?

It looked like, if he was ever going to give the collage to Devon, it would have to be now. He took a breath and stood up. Shifted the package under one arm and strode the three long paces to the door. Opened it-and froze in his tracks.

His heart catapulted through several layers of chest wall to lodge somewhere in his throat. “Devon-” he croaked. She was there in the doorway, almost nose-to-nose with him, one hand upraised to knock on his door.

“Hi.” It was a whisper, hushed and hoarse. Her face was almost luminous in the dim hallway, her eyes lost in shadows. “I’m sorry-I didn’t mean to startle you. Were you-?” She made a vague traveling gesture with her hand.

“No-no! In fact-” he hefted the package “-I was just-” Remembering where he was, he backed awkwardly out of the doorway and motioned her in. He closed the door as quietly as possible, then turned and looked at her and felt a strange and fleeting sense of unreality.

It struck him how out of place she looked-ludicrously so-standing there in his boyhood room with its faded denim curtains and horse-head lamp, his battered desk and worn paperback books. Slim and tall, elegant in black slacks and a sleeveless turtleneck shell-and on her even the green snowman scarf his mother had given her tonight seemed elegant-she made him think of the world she’d come from-a world of BMW’s and valet parking, of Gucci shoes and Rolex watches and restaurants where famous people dined. A complicated woman, he thought-and as contradictory as the picture she presented now.

Looking at him the way she did now, with her chin up and her eyes green fire, she was all self-assurance, fearless and unyielding, beautiful yet untouchable-always in control, always in command. Yet, he’d seen her fearful. He’d touched her and felt her yield, at least to him. He’d felt her tremble on the brink of losing all control.

He knew that, if she were to turn just a bit, lower her head, just a little, he would see, below the sophisticated upswept hairdo she wore, caressed by a few errant tendrils of fiery red hair, the slender white column of a neck as fragile, as vulnerable as a child’s.

“I was just on my way to see you,” he said, and lifted the package, not thrusting it at her, just drawing her attention. “I wanted to give you this.”

Her eyes flinched. She raised both hands in a small gesture of dismay, then clasped them together in front of her. “I didn’t get you anything.”

His smile dismissed that. “I never thought you would. Here-just as well open it.” He nudged the package toward her.

“Oh, Eric…” She closed her eyes, then reluctantly took it from him. “Oh, God-” and she gave a light, unhappy laugh “-it feels like a picture frame. What did you do, blow up one of those horrible pictures you took of me floundering in the snow like a beached whale?”

He nodded toward the present. “Go ahead. Open it.”

Devon’s heart fluttered against her ribs. Her chest felt tight, and the laugh she tried didn’t do a thing to relieve it. She took a breath, summoned strength, then began to tear away the wrapping paper. As the pieces fluttered to the floor, she felt herself go still and cold. Her heart no longer pounded; she couldn’t feel it beating at all.

From a distance she heard Eric say, “It’s in there-the one you’re worried about. That’s it…right…there.”

Oh, it was there, all right-funny that she’d focused on it first, even without his finger pointing it out to her-unmistakably Devon, even in all those layers that made her look like a pregnant penguin, with her hair shining like a beacon in all that snow. But not big, not blown up-oh no. Tiny. And not alone. There were others, so many others, some large and some small, square, oblong, round and oval, and except for hers, they were all of children. A little girl on a swing, pigtails flying, a plump little boy romping with puppies, children swimming in a pond, sleek as otters, children playing in mud, blowing bubbles in a bathtub, finger painting, making snowmen, eating watermelon, blowing out birthday candles, dressed up in costumes for Halloween, mugging for the camera with crossed eyes and stuck-out tongues, children in their Sunday best, grinning to show off missing teeth. There was even one of Emily, asleep with one hand curled against her cheek like flower petals.

“What is this?” Her voice was bumpy.

“They’re memories,” he said. “I thought, since you don’t have any of your childhood…” He let it trail away.

She stared at him for a long, silent moment. His arms were folded on his chest, and his face was set-fierce and hawklike. Defensive, she thought. Defiant.

“Why?” she said in a tight, trembling voice. “Why did you do this? Because you wanted to give me your childhood? No-I’ll tell you why. It’s because you want me to remember mine. That’s it, isn’t it Eric? You want me to remember my childhood, but not a childhood like this-”she turned the picture frame and thrust it toward him “-all happy and sunshiny and bright. Oh, no. What you want is for me to remember a nightmare. That my parents were evil monsters-”

“Devon-” He reached toward her.

She jerked away from him just as his fingers were closing on her arm. Her hands lost their grip, and the picture frame, with its collage of happy childhood memories, slipped from them and fell to the floor with a cracking, tinkling crash.

There was a gasp, a muffled oath; and for several heartbeats, deafening silence. Then Devon dropped to her knees, and her hands darted here and there in quick, jerky forays, snatching up shards of broken glass. She was saying, over and over in a horrified whisper, “Oh, God-I’m so sorry- I didn’t mean to do that-I’m sorry…”

Eric had frozen, partly in shock, partly in dread, all senses primed, ears cocked for the first sounds from down the hall-a door opening, his mom’s voice raised in question and alarm. When that failed to come, he didn’t question the miracle, just let himself breathe again as he sank to one knee beside Devon.

He didn’t know what to do first, reach for her, rescue the broken frame, or pull those unsteady hands away from the perils of broken glass. He didn’t know what to do, period. He’d never been in such turmoil. He’d never been more profoundly shaken, his heart pounding and his mouth dry, clammy with adrenaline.

But at the same time his emotions had never been calmer or more certain. In his heart, in his guts, in the deepest part of himself, he knew he wanted to hold and soothe her, that somehow he had to comfort and protect her. Seeing Devon like this, with her customary self-confidence shattered, the veneer of her composure and sophistication revealed for the sham it was…the intensity of his feelings for her all but overwhelmed him. Simple compassion, even protective tenderness couldn’t account for this. This was something much more powerful, something primitive, possessive, life-changing.

His heart knew it, his gut knew it, but his head, his logical mind, caught somewhere between the turmoil and the certainty, refused to call it by name. His head, his reason, still insisted on telling him all the reasons it was impossible.

“Devon-” he said, reaching for her as he had before.

And again when he touched her she jerked, but toward him this time, not away. Magnified by a film of tears, her eyes locked with his, and this time the question was a plea. “Why are you doing this?”

His hand, instead of closing gently around her arm, dropped to his knee. He tried to smile. “Definitely not to hurt you.”

“Oh, no?” Her voice was a thin, raspy whisper, as if she wanted to shout at him but was as conscious as he was of other ears just down the hall. “What, then?” She went back to grabbing up pieces of broken glass, her movements uncoordinated as she flung angry words at him over her shoulder. “I know what you want. You want me to tell you you’re right, that the lies Susan told you are true. That our parents-” She gasped and jerked her hand back. Clutching it with the other, she began to swear in a low and furious whimper.

He reached for her, swearing himself; he’d caught a glimpse of telltale crimson, though she tried to shield it from him with her body. “Let me see. How bad is it?” She was on her feet, now, and so was he. “Come on, Devon-dammit-”

She twisted out of his grasp, stubbornly determined to evade him. Just as stubbornly he caught her by the arms and turned her to him. Her eyes blazed at him, more golden now than green. “Leave me alone. It’s just a cut, for God’s sake.” She whispered it, desperate rather than angry. “I just need some tissue-” Her eyes darted past him in futile search.

He captured her hands in both of his and held them up so he could see the damage. A thin rivulet of blood spiraled down her left index finger in a candy cane design. His head spun; his heart thundered. “You need a bandage on that,” he said thickly, surprised at how calm he sounded. “Some antiseptic. There’s some in the bathroom.”

She tugged on her hands, trying again to pull away from him. “No-your parents-they’ll hear. Please. Just give me something to wrap it in. A handkerchief-anything.”

There was a plastic jar of baby wipe cloths on his nightstand, just out of reach. Afraid to let go of her, afraid she’d bolt if he did, he led her closer to the bed and holding her hands in one of his, reached to pluck several of the cloths from the jar. He wadded them around her bleeding finger, then folded it in and enfolded her hands in his. Held them close to him, close to his chest, close to his rapidly beating heart.

He didn’t know how to help her. Leave me alone, she’d begged him. He couldn’t do that, not until he’d given up all hope of ever getting from her what he so desperately needed. There was too much at stake-a little girl’s future, not to mention his own. But she knew that-most of it.

What he hadn’t anticipated, and what was complicating his life more than he’d thought possible, was that Devon’s future had come to matter to him, too. She mattered. And he honestly didn’t know whether forcing her to remember a nightmare past was going to help or hurt her in the long run. He thought it ought to help-like opening up a wound to allow it to heal. But what did he know about it, really? Sometimes, he knew, doctors might choose to leave a bullet or piece of shrapnel in someone because removing it would cause more damage than leaving it alone.

He didn’t want to hurt her, or leave her alone-that much he knew. He wanted what he couldn’t have. He wanted a miracle.

“Devon,” he whispered, “I never wanted to hurt you.”

“But you’re willing to,” she said, staring at their clasped hands, “to keep Emily.”

He flinched inside but didn’t try to evade the truth. “Yes.” With eyes closed he bowed his head; his exhalation flowed like a caress over her fingers. “At first, believe me, it was just that simple. But it’s not anymore. It’s complicated. These past few days, Devon, I’ve come-dammit, I-”

She gave a cry, and her uninjured hand jerked from his grasp to press against his lips. Breathless and distraught, shaking her head rapidly, she whimpered, “No, no, no-” like a child denying the inevitable. “Don’t you say it. You can’t have feelings for me. You can’t. I can’t have feelings for you-”

“But you do,” he said quietly. It wasn’t a question.

She couldn’t deny it, any more than he could. She didn’t try. He felt her go still, still as death. Her mouth seemed to blur. The vulnerability of it tore at his heart.

Then his mouth was soft on hers…she whimpered, and he felt her lips quiver. The kiss grew urgent, hungry, and she was sobbing, the salt-sweet taste of her tears on his tongue. Her hands clutched at his shoulders, crept up the back of his neck. Her fingers burrowed into his hair. She gasped-or did he? He folded her close and held her hard against him, fearing his pounding heart would unbalance them both.

“I want you to make love to me,” she whispered with her lips close to his ear. And she went on before he could answer. “I know it’s insane. I know it’s wrong. But I think I’ll go crazy if we don’t, just once.”

He nodded. “I agree with everything you said. And it terrifies me.” He gave a small, shaken laugh.

“I know. Me, too.”

I never thought I could feel this way, Devon thought. That nothing else matters so much, that there is nothing more important than making love with this man, here and now. No matter the consequences. No matter the cost. The rest of my life will just have to work itself out somehow.

She drew back from him, but only a little. She held his face between her hands, and even the wad of baby wipe cloths on her finger failed to distract her as she said earnestly, breathless with resolve, “It’s just this once…just for tonight. It has to be…”

“I know.”

She felt a shock pass through his body, like a small seismic quake, and he held her harder against him. Yes, this terrifies me, too, she thought.

“It’s all right if you don’t have a condom.” She whispered it, but her voice quivered with nervousness. “I think I can trust you. I know you can trust me. And I am on the pill.”

He pulled back a little to look at her, his whiskey eyes warm and wry, half wary, half amused. “Will you think badly of me if I tell you I have one?”

“Why would I think badly of you? For being prepared-”

“I don’t know, maybe you’d think I’m some sort of playboy-”

She laughed, and it felt warm and good deep down in her belly. “Eric, you’re the last man I’d mistake for a playboy.”

He laughed, too, a delicious quivering against her stomach. “I’m not sure whether that’s a compliment or not.”

“It is,” she said, and added dryly, “Trust me.” She lifted her face to him and he kissed her again, long and deeply this time. Exploring…inviting…promising. By the time he lifted his head again she was dizzy with longing, drunk with desire.

“Devon,” he said in a thickened voice, “you’re not going to change your mind again, are you?”

“No,” she whispered, “are you?”

He lowered his mouth to hers. And that was his only answer.