Authors: Lee Ann Sontheimer Murphy
Devlin chuckled as he released
her. “Go ahead.”
Gracie paused long enough to put
her hands on either side of his face. “I’m going.
I love you, Devlin.”
“Love you too, babe.”
She entered Thanksgiving Central,
the kitchen now teeming with activity.
Faith was putting together a classic green bean bake casserole and Amy
peeled a pile of potatoes.
Peggy Alloway
assigned Marcy and Gracie to doing dishes and the women worked in harmony,
chatting as they handled cooking chores with ease.
Her
brother’s wives, Cynthia and Tamara, worked too although neither said
little.
Both always carried themselves a
little aloof, proud to be the wives of the successful car dealers.
In Kansas City
Alloway Brothers Motors
did well enough and both women were area
natives.
Visiting the farm on holidays
was the closest either Tamara or Cynthia came to experiencing rural life.
The conversation soon turned to Devlin.
“So, Gracie, tell us about
Devlin,” Faith said. “How did you meet him?”
Remembering the first night she
saw Dev always made her smile.
“He’s
taking the same watercolor class as I am, on Monday nights,” she told her
sister. “I noticed him when he roared up on his motorcycle.”
And he looked like something straight
of hell
,
she recalled with an inner
laugh.
He’d scared
her
a
little but intrigued her more.
“He rides a motorcycle? Cool!”
Amy chimed in just as her grandmother said, “Oh, my goodness, I didn’t know he
rode a motorcycle.
You don’t get on it,
too do you?”
Laughter erupted out of her
mouth. “Yes, Mom, I do.
I was scared the
first couple of times, but I’m used to it now.
Devlin handles it well.”
Faith giggled. “I can’t imagine
my sweet little sister on the back of a motorcycle.
You’ve grown up, Gracie.”
You
wouldn’t believe how much, sister.
“I suppose I have,” she said.
“Is he ex-military?” Peggy asked.
“I noticed his jacket.”
With pride, Gracie nodded. “Dev
was a Marine and he served in Iraq back in 2003.”
“I’m surprised he didn’t stay in
the service,” Gracie’s mother said. “He seems like the type.”
“He got hurt,” Gracie said.
They’d never talked about why he didn’t
remain a Marine, but she’d always figured it might be his injuries. “He doesn’t
talk a lot about what happened over there.”
In her mind, she saw the painting he’d done of the little girl and
recalled his anguish.
Gracie wasn’t
sharing it with her family or anyone.
“He must’ve been in some heavy
fighting then,” Peggy said. “Your dad doesn’t talk much about Vietnam either.
And mine wouldn’t ever say much about World
War II.”
“Peter wrote an article for a scholarly journal about Iraq,” Faith said.
When Gracie narrowed her eyes, her sister
added, “I know it’s not the same as serving, sis, but it’s something.”
“Peter’s done well for himself,”
Mrs. Alloway said, loyal to her son-in-law. “There’s no denying it.”
Their talk shifted from Devlin
and Iraq to down home matters like the apple butter her mother just put up and
the school activities of the two teens.
Amy, in her first semester of college, announced she’d been dating
another student, a football player.
She
told about the season so far and Marcy, not to be outdone, shared her recent
experience as a homecoming queen attendant.
Although she listened and even
commented, Gracie’s mind focused on the outdoor events.
As the sounds of multiple shots resounded
through the house, the other women paid little attention, accustomed to the
noise from other Thanksgivings and shooting matches.
Gracie pictured Devlin and wished she could watch
him shoot.
When things reached a lull
and the others headed for a few minutes of relaxation in the living room, she
grabbed a sweater off the rack beside the back door and dashed outside.
Gracie slowed as she neared the
men.
She wanted to observe before she
revealed her presence, and the last thing she’d want to do would be to rattle
Devlin.
The broad base of an older tree
offered cover and she peered around it.
As she watched, the men shot in turn, even Peter who barely knew one end
of a rifle from the other.
When Devlin’s
turn came, he stepped up, his stance straight with military precision.
He handled the rifle – her dad’s old single
shot .22 – well and when the clay pigeon released, he followed its arc through
the air and fired.
The clay didn’t
shatter, but dropped to the ground with a single hole drilled through the
center.
She released the breath she’d been holding and
laughed softly.
Most of the others were
using one of the shotguns and the bright orange clays broke on impact.
Devlin’s feat was rare and she listened with
pride as the other guys made over his shot.
Satisfied Devlin wasn’t suffering any flashbacks or angst, Gracie headed
back toward the house with a smile.
In the kitchen, she treated herself to a cup
of coffee and joined the others.
After a
brief break, the women hit it again and by just after one o’clock, the
Thanksgiving feast was ready to bring to the table.
Marcy ran out to tell the men, and they
tramped inside to wash up.
Devlin paused and beckoned her
with his eyes, so Gracie slipped away from her current task to join him.
He opened his arms and she walked into them,
delighted when they closed around her.
She inhaled his wind-blown scent, pure Devlin tempered with a little gun
oil and fresh air.
“Missed you,” he said
in a soft voice.
“I missed you, too.”
His grin made her smile. “I saw
you sneak up to watch me shoot.”
“Yeah?”
“So did I impress you?”
“Totally, Devlin,” she said in
answer. “Is my family treating you all right?”
“Yeah,” he replied. “They’re good
people, Gracie. I’m not used to being with anyone, but it’s been good.”
Unlike most men, Devlin remained a lone wolf,
and she realized how much effort it required for him to spend time with her
family.
Gracie searched his face for any
clues he’d had enough or suffered any negative reaction but saw nothing but a
quiet calm.
His quiet smile reassured
her and she nodded. “Go wash up.
I think
dinner’s all on the table.”
Her family circled the huge old
table, big enough to almost fill the room when both leaves were inserted.
The antique table once belonged to her
grandparents, maybe even her great-grandparents.
Everyone Gracie ever loved ate here at one
time or another so she delighted to have Devlin here.
They sat side by side and before anyone
filled their plates, the group joined hands and asked a blessing.
As the familiar words poured over her,
Gracie’s heart filled with happiness.
So
far, today was a perfect holiday with family, good food, no fights, and the man
she loved.
Everyone claimed the roast turkey
had to be the best they’d ever eaten and complimented the dressing.
Gracie ate more than she normally would, but
saved room for pie.
Devlin paced himself
and she kept an eye on him.
Since
recovering from food poisoning, he hadn’t eaten much at any one sitting, and
she didn’t want him to overdo it.
She
noticed he ate a little bit of everything, but in small portions, and he quit
after two plates.
Gracie didn’t
push.
Faith noticed and commented.
“Oh, you surely want more than
that, Devlin.
Part of Thanksgiving is
eating too much.”
“I would,” Devlin said, his tone
firm but quiet. “I’ve been sick, though, and I’d rather not push my luck.
Everything’s tasty, though.”
A lot of men would’ve teased
Gracie about giving him a bad case of food poisoning, but Devlin didn’t.
Instead he managed to evoke everyone’s
sympathy and spark a round of inquiries about his health.
Without giving specifics, Dev managed to
convey the idea he’d been very ill, but he was well on the road to
recovery.
In a few words, he sketched
out the care she’d given him until Gracie sounded like the reincarnation of
Florence Nightengale.
Somehow, too, he
convinced them how much he cared for their daughter, sister, and aunt.
By the time they finished up with a piece of
pie topped with real whipped cream, her family accepted Devlin as her
significant other.
Gracie noticed Devlin chose
pumpkin and enjoyed it with slow bites, savoring each one.
Afterward, he wore a stupefied expression
just like everyone else, a glazed look of being sated.
As Gracie helped clear the table, she noticed
Devlin paused to rub his belly and she made for him like a just shot arrow.
“Are you okay?”
He twisted his lips into a wry
grin. “Yeah, I’m fine. I probably ate too much but I’m not going to puke, babe,
so don’t fuss. I’m going to the living room to relax.”
“You look sleepy,” Gracie said.
“Yeah, I am.”
Her mother’s sixth sense must’ve
been working overtime because she appeared beside them, an empty platter in her
hands. “Devlin, if you want a nap, go upstairs to Gracie’s old room.
It’s the second one to the left.”
Devlin started to protest, but
Peggy Alloway shook her head. “Don’t be silly.
Anthony’s already asleep on our bed, and I think Peter headed up to
Faith’s old room.
Bill’s snoring on the
couch and I believe Chuck’s napping in the armchair.
Go on upstairs if you want.”
With his dark eyes heavy with
fatigue, he didn’t hesitate or protest.
“Thanks, Mrs. Alloway,” he said. “I appreciate it.”
“Oh, call me Peggy,” she said.
“Gracie, I need you in the kitchen.”
“Sure, mom,” she said. “I’ll be
there in a second.”
Gracie cupped Devlin’s cheek with
one hand. “I’ll come up to check on you when we’re done with the dishes,” she
promised. “Go get some sleep.
You do
look tired.”
“Love you, babe,” he said.
She watched him go then, called
by the clatter of dishes and the rattle of pans, Gracie joined the other women
in the kitchen.
They washed, dried, and
put away the clean items.
Her mother
parceled out leftovers for everyone.
When everything had been put to rights,
Gracie slipped upstairs and into her former bedroom.
The same floral print curtains hung at the
windows and the posters she’d hung during high school remained on the
walls.
Devlin stretched out across the
bed, shoes off, but without a cover, sound asleep.
His deep breathing echoed in the room, and
Gracie picked up an old quilt folded over the back of the room’s one chair to
cover him.
At her touch, he mumbled
something, but didn’t wake.
Although she
wouldn’t mind a nap of her own, Gracie stood at the window, open a few inches
and breathed in the soft country air and watched Devlin sleep.
God, she loved him so.
Chapter
Eleven
By the time the late afternoon
shadows slanted across the room in a way Gracie remembered well, Devlin
stirred.
He wiggled before he woke and
sat up, rubbing his face with both hands.
He stretched afterward with a cheerful groan and noticed Gracie.
“Hey, babe,” he said. “How
long’ve you been here?”
“A while,” she replied. “How’s
your stomach?”
He considered the question. “It’s
good.
What time is it?”
“Four-thirty, I think.”
“Shit,” Devlin said.
He groped for his shoes. “We have to go home before
long.
I’ve got to work tomorrow and
it’ll be a pisser.”
Gracie had forgotten and now, remembering, she
frowned.
“I wish you didn’t have to,
Devlin.”