book, Indy,” Corri said earnestly as she scanned the bookshelves. “This is a very good good-night book. It’s called Good Night Moon and it’s…”
Corri stopped halfway between the bookshelves and the bed, watching horrified as Indy, who’d been plumping her pillows, found the prize Corri’d hidden and was drawing it out from under the pillow.
“Corri, what is this?”
Corri started to cry soundlessly, as India held up the long green tank top with the number 14 on the front.
“I didn’t steal it, Indy, not really,” she sobbed.
“Sweetie, was this Ry’s?” India asked gently.
Corri nodded. “But you can have it back if you want it.”
“No, no, Corri, I’m sure that Ry would have wanted you to have it.” India choked back the lump in her throat and opened her arms to the trembling child. “I’m sure there are lots of things that were Ry’s that he would have wanted you to have. And one of these days, we’ll go through some of his things and see what else you might like. But you don’t have to cry, Corri. You were Ry’s little girl, and he loved you.”
“Indy, he wasn’t my real daddy,” she whispered, “I was only adopted.”
“Sweetie, adopted is never ‘only’. When he adopted you, he became your daddy, officially. For real.” India’s fingers traced the letters spelling out Devlin , which marked the shirt as Ry’s. “Do you sleep with this every night?”
Corri’s little hands closed around the green shirt and gathered it to her chest. “Umm-hmm. Ry used to wear it when he played basketball at school sometimes.”
“Well, I think he would have been happy to know that you keep it close to you.” India pulled the blanket and top sheet down and coaxed Corri, still clutching the green shirt, into bed.
Halfway through the book, India looked up to see that Corri was sound asleep with the shirt under her cheek, the fingers of one hand entangled in its folds, the other arm draped around the large stuffed Tigger Indy herself had given Corri last Christmas. Quietly, India returned the book to its place on the shelf and turned out the light. In the shadow of the hall light, she straightened the blankets and leaned over to kiss the top of the sleeping child’s head. Corri’s hair was soft and silky, and she smelled like Johnson’s Baby Shampoo and bubble bath.
Stepping across the hall, Indy paused at the doorway to Ry’s room. Illuminated by the streetlight outside the window that faced the very front of the house, it was clear that the room had changed little since Ry had moved in when he was thirteen. The art was different—gone was the poster of Farrah Fawcett that every male growing up in the seventies had hung on his wall—but the furniture was the same old maple set that had been in this room for God only knew how many years. She turned on the lamp shaped like a pirate’s ship and sat on the edge of the double bed, her hands folded in her lap.
A slight breeze from an open side window carried the pungent, salty scent of the bay and moved the curtain slightly aside. India rose and drew the curtain back to look out upon the view of the water her brother had loved so dearly. Out at the edge of the inlet Devlin’s Light made a tall dark shadow across the bay. Before she left to return to Paloma, she would visit the lighthouse. She had to. It was part of her, and the longer she postponed the trip, the more difficult it would be. For her own sake—and for Ry’s—she had to go there, to stand where he had last stood on this earth. It wasn’t just a matter of sentimentality, she reminded herself. She could not investigate his death without visiting the scene of the crime.
Maybe tomorrow, she thought, maybe while Corri was in school she would go.
She smoothed over the bedspread where she had sat and rose to leave, leaning over to turn off the lamp. As she did so, her toes banged on something under the bed. She reached down with one hand and touched a cardboard
Corri stopped halfway between the bookshelves and the bed, watching horrified as Indy, who’d been plumping her pillows, found the prize Corri’d hidden and was drawing it out from under the pillow.
“Corri, what is this?”
Corri started to cry soundlessly, as India held up the long green tank top with the number 14 on the front.
“I didn’t steal it, Indy, not really,” she sobbed.
“Sweetie, was this Ry’s?” India asked gently.
Corri nodded. “But you can have it back if you want it.”
“No, no, Corri, I’m sure that Ry would have wanted you to have it.” India choked back the lump in her throat and opened her arms to the trembling child. “I’m sure there are lots of things that were Ry’s that he would have wanted you to have. And one of these days, we’ll go through some of his things and see what else you might like. But you don’t have to cry, Corri. You were Ry’s little girl, and he loved you.”
“Indy, he wasn’t my real daddy,” she whispered, “I was only adopted.”
“Sweetie, adopted is never ‘only’. When he adopted you, he became your daddy, officially. For real.” India’s fingers traced the letters spelling out Devlin , which marked the shirt as Ry’s. “Do you sleep with this every night?”
Corri’s little hands closed around the green shirt and gathered it to her chest. “Umm-hmm. Ry used to wear it when he played basketball at school sometimes.”
“Well, I think he would have been happy to know that you keep it close to you.” India pulled the blanket and top sheet down and coaxed Corri, still clutching the green shirt, into bed.
Halfway through the book, India looked up to see that Corri was sound asleep with the shirt under her cheek, the fingers of one hand entangled in its folds, the other arm draped around the large stuffed Tigger Indy herself had given Corri last Christmas. Quietly, India returned the book to its place on the shelf and turned out the light. In the shadow of the hall light, she straightened the blankets and leaned over to kiss the top of the sleeping child’s head. Corri’s hair was soft and silky, and she smelled like Johnson’s Baby Shampoo and bubble bath.
Stepping across the hall, Indy paused at the doorway to Ry’s room. Illuminated by the streetlight outside the window that faced the very front of the house, it was clear that the room had changed little since Ry had moved in when he was thirteen. The art was different—gone was the poster of Farrah Fawcett that every male growing up in the seventies had hung on his wall—but the furniture was the same old maple set that had been in this room for God only knew how many years. She turned on the lamp shaped like a pirate’s ship and sat on the edge of the double bed, her hands folded in her lap.
A slight breeze from an open side window carried the pungent, salty scent of the bay and moved the curtain slightly aside. India rose and drew the curtain back to look out upon the view of the water her brother had loved so dearly. Out at the edge of the inlet Devlin’s Light made a tall dark shadow across the bay. Before she left to return to Paloma, she would visit the lighthouse. She had to. It was part of her, and the longer she postponed the trip, the more difficult it would be. For her own sake—and for Ry’s—she had to go there, to stand where he had last stood on this earth. It wasn’t just a matter of sentimentality, she reminded herself. She could not investigate his death without visiting the scene of the crime.
Maybe tomorrow, she thought, maybe while Corri was in school she would go.
She smoothed over the bedspread where she had sat and rose to leave, leaning over to turn off the lamp. As she did so, her toes banged on something under the bed. She reached down with one hand and touched a cardboard
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