The Black Sheep's Baby. Kathleen Creighton

be there by tonight,” he told his passenger, sound asleep in the back seat. “Five more hours…”

      The fuel nozzle clicked off. He replaced it in its cradle, climbed back into his car and, after a moment’s indecision, pulled across the parking lot and up to the drive-through window of the fast-food place next door. He ordered a double cheeseburger and a jumbo coffee and a short time later was back on the interstate, heading east toward evening.

      In his rearview mirrors he could see, reaching toward him out of the west like menacing fingers, the dark purple clouds of the oncoming storm.

      Chapter 1

      It was the week before Christmas, and Lucy was sorting laundry.

      She acknowledged that fact with a sense of mild astonishment—and not-so-mild vexation, for Lucy Rosewood Brown Lanagan was not a person to whom the adjective “mild” could normally be applied. At least, not often or for long.

      “It’s too quiet to be Christmas!” she declared loudly, though more to herself than to her sister-in-law, Chris, who was sitting at the kitchen table thumbing through magazines, looking for recipes.

      “This looks good,” Chris said without looking up. “Walnut squares…”

      “Eric’s allergic to walnuts.”

      Lucy said it without thinking, an automatic response—which she realized a moment later when Chris looked up and eagerly asked, “Oh, is he going to be here for Christmas this year?”

      A familiar pain made Lucy’s voice uncharacteristically light when she replied with a shrug, “Haven’t heard from him.” And a moment later asked, “What about Caitlyn?”

      Chris’s eyes jerked away, shifting back to the magazines spread out on the table in front of her as she said in a tone as artificially cheery as Lucy’s, “She doesn’t know for sure. Says she’ll try her best to make it, at least for Christmas dinner.” And a poignant little silence fell between the two women, fraught with empathy and unvoiced yearnings.

      “It’s too quiet—” Lucy began again, just as, with faultless timing, a door banged sharply and loud thumping noises started up out on the back porch.

      Chris gave a gurgle of laughter. She and Lucy both looked toward the kitchen door as it burst open to admit their menfolk along with a gust of freezing wind. Lucy knew the smile in Chris’s shining eyes was only a reflection of her own, though it gave her as much embarrassment as satisfaction nowadays to admit, even after more than thirty years, that the sight of her husband’s face could still give her that seasick feeling under her ribs.

      “Getting colder,” the man himself announced as he ducked into the service room across the hall to wash up in the laundry tub. “That storm’s on its way. Be here before morning.”

      “Forecast said midnight.” Lucy’s brother Wood zigzagged over to give his wife a hello kiss, peeling off gloves and ski cap on the way. “Pack it up, darlin’. I want to get back to the city before this thing hits.”

      “Edward Earl,” Lucy said in a no-arguments voice—well aware that as his big sister she was the only person alive allowed to call him by his given name—“you’ve got plenty of time, you can stay and have some supper. I’ve got a roast in the oven and a Jell-O salad in the fridge, so you just go on in there and get washed up. Supper’ll be on the table in ten minutes.”

      “I’d do as she says, if I were you,” Mike said in a warning tone, grinning as he came into the kitchen, rolling down his shirtsleeves. He paused to give Lucy a peck on the cheek.

      “Smells good. What’ve you two been up to?”

      Though she wasn’t the demonstrative sort, she gave him an elbow in the ribs to let him know her heart was doing a happy little skip-hop at his nearness.

      “Looking up recipes. Everything all battened down out there?”

      “Everything that can be… More recipes?” Mike was looking sideways over Chris’s shoulder at the spread on the table. He cocked an eyebrow toward Lucy. “Who’re you cooking for, the third division?” In an aside to Wood he added, “We had leftovers from last Christmas dinner for Easter.” And then, probably because he knew very well how precarious Lucy’s mood had been lately, coming up on this particular holiday season, he wrapped his arms around her and murmured next to her ear, “Honey, there’s just gonna be the four of us. You don’t need to go to so much trouble.”

      “Five,” Chris said firmly, shuffling magazines into a stack as she stood up. And when nobody said anything for a second or two she lifted her head and looked her husband hard in the eyes. “Caitlyn’s coming. She said she would.”

      “She said she’d try.” Wood’s voice, too, was gentle.

      “She’ll be here.” Chris gathered up the pile of magazines and marched off to the parlor.

      Wood muttered what sounded like, “I hope so,” under his breath as he pulled out a chair and sat in it. And after a moment, “Sure does seem strange, doesn’t it? Not having a houseful of kids around for the holidays? Doesn’t seem like—”

      Lucy interrupted him with a swipe at his shoulder. “Edward Earl, take off your coat before you sit down at the table!”

      “Yes’m.” He rose obediently, not trying to hide a grin.

      “And hang it up, too—you know where it belongs.”

      “Just like old times…” he grumbled good-naturedly as he carried his chore clothes across the hall to the service room.

      “Old times…” Lucy muttered angrily, turning to the sink. It wasn’t that she was angry, really, just that she could feel a familiar heaviness creeping around her heart, thinking about the season…the quietness. She hated that heaviness; it made her feel old and scared, panicky and depressed, all at once. Old times. How I miss them… Mama, Daddy, Gwen. And the children. Where did the children go?

      Not to be put off, Wood was saying as he reclaimed his chair at the table, “Speaking of ‘old times,’ I was thinking about how it used to be, you know? When we were kids.” His wife came back in just then, and he craned to look up at her and reached for her hand. “You should have been here, Chris.” And then he laughed. “I’m surprised you weren’t, actually. Mom had this habit of inviting people. Anybody who didn’t have anyplace else to go, Mom made ’em welcome here at our house. But even without the strays, we always had a crowd—remember, Luce? Aunts, uncles, cousins—whatever became of all those cousins, anyway? Does anybody ever see them anymore?”

      “We mostly lost touch after Mama and Daddy died,” Lucy said without turning from the sink where she was washing green beans. “I get cards from some of them at Christmastime. You know, those letters everybody sends now that they’ve all got their own computers.”

      “What I can’t figure out,” said Wood, lacing his fingers together behind his head and gazing around the kitchen, “is where we used to put everybody. This room—this house—sure seems a lot smaller that it did when we were kids.”

      “Everything seems smaller than it did when we were kids,” Mike put in. He’d taken his usual place at the foot of the oval oak table and was indulging in a back-cracking stretch. “Something about perspective.” Everybody paused to look at him alertly in case he meant to go on, since it wasn’t Mike Lanagan’s way to do much talking at times like this. Mostly, Lucy’s husband liked to just watch and listen, like the reporter he’d been and still was, she knew, in his heart.

      “What we did, was,” she said when it had become apparent Mike had said all he was going to for the time being, answering Wood’s question even though she knew he hadn’t really expected an answer, “we put all the leaves in this table and the grown-ups squeezed in right here in the kitchen. The kids got to eat in the parlor. Dad would bring in two sawhorses and put planks on them, and Mom would put the oilcloth tablecloth from the kitchen table over that. The good linen tablecloth