“Especially,” Mike said dryly, “at Christmastime.”

Devon looked at him and made a faint “Humph” sound. “Believe it or not, I never even thought about that. I keep forgetting it’s Christmas.” She looked around, only then realizing that, comfortable and warm as the room-the whole house-was, she hadn’t seen any sign of holiday decorations. No Christmas tree or wrapped presents, no creche, no wreaths or garlands, not so much as a twinkling light or red velvet bow.

Mike had followed her gaze, and apparently her thoughts. “I know what you mean. We’ve been having the same problem around here. Been meaning to do it-the boxes of decorations are sitting upstairs in Lucy’s work room. Tree’s in a bucket on the back porch. Just haven’t gotten around to it. Lucy’s been in a mood this year…” He paused, then added softly, “She’s been missing the kids more than usual. Eric’s coming home was…like the answer to a prayer.”

Eric. Devon didn’t want to think about Eric, didn’t want to hear his name or remember those unsettling moments she’d just spent with him down in the barn. And yet, she knew she must if she was to regain-and maintain-the upper hand here, where she was so clearly out of her element.

“This is all so different than I imagined,” she said on an exhalation, strolling to the window and on the way trailing her fingers idly across an antique wind-up Victrola and a worn recliner draped with a brightly colored afghan.

Behind her, Mike’s voice sounded amused. “Considering how little you knew of my son, I’m sure it is.”

The desk, the computer monitor, were right in front of her. She touched the monitor, remembering things he’d said before. She said brightly, conversationally, “You said you’re a writer?”

“Journalist, actually. I write a nationally syndicated column-just twice a week, now. And once a month on a rotation for Newsweek.”

Devon turned to stare at him. “Wow. I’m sorry-I feel I should know who you are.” She smiled her regret, meaning it. “The truth is, I don’t have much time for reading newspapers and magazines-mostly what I read are legal briefs and court documents.”

“Ouch,” Mike said with a good-natured wince. “I hate to say it, but it sounds boring as hell.”

She smiled. “It can be. But not always.”

“Sounds as though you like what you do.” Again his eyes had turned probing.

“Yes, I do.” But she was never comfortable talking about herself, and steered the conversation firmly back to the subject she was most interested in. “So you’re a writer-sorry, journalist-and Lucy’s a farmer. That’s an unlikely combination, isn’t it? How did you two meet?”

“A long story. Part of the family folklore.”

Devon waited, but he said no more. She gave a dismissive shrug and said lightly, “I hope you’ll tell it to me some time.” But she was conscious of the same vague disappointment she’d felt, coming in from the cold and finding the kitchen empty. Plagued by unfamiliar and perplexing emotions, she fought down irritation and tried again. “Eric’s not an only child?”

“We have a daughter, four-no, almost five years older.” He picked up a framed photograph from the mantel and handed it to her. “Rose Ellen. She’s a biologist-works for the government. She and her husband are out of the country at the moment-in fact, most of the time these days.”

Devon recognized the pretty, wholesome-looking girl she’d seen in so many of the photos on the walls of Eric’s room. After a moment she nodded and handed it back. “A biologist-wow. And Eric’s a photographer.” She was on the verge of asking how such a thing had come about when Mike interrupted her.

“Photojournalist,” he corrected firmly.

Devon laughed. “He said exactly the same thing to me, you know-down in the barn.”

“It’s an important distinction.” Mike’s eyes were smiling. “As is writer versus journalist.”

“I’ll remember that.” For the first time, she felt some of her own awkwardness and tension ease. “I saw the photographs upstairs in his room,” she said, touching one or two of the frames on the mantelpiece before turning to a collection hanging on the wall next to the fireplace. “Did he take these as well?”

“No, not those.”

Alerted by something in his voice, Devon leaned over to peer at one photograph in particular, a dramatic picture of helicopters flying in formation over a jungle river at sunset. As beautiful as it was, there was something subtly menacing about it. “This looks familiar. Is it Vietnam?”

“It is.” Devon turned to look at him; for once he hadn’t moved up beside her, but stood a little way off, hands in his pockets. “Those are my dad’s. He was a photojournalist, too. A pretty famous one-Sean Lanagan. He was killed in a helicopter crash during the Tet Offensive. Which I realize you’ve probably never heard of.” He tilted his head toward the wall of photographs. “Those came from magazines, actually-some of them. Others I got from my mother. My personal collection, the ones he’d sent me from all over the world when I was a kid, were lost in a fire years ago.”

He paused, then went on in a musing tone, still gazing at the photos. “Eric idolized his grandfather. Always wanted to be just like him.” Again his smile tilted crookedly. “Until recently, I think his biggest disappointment had been not having a war to go to.”

He said it lightly, but thanks to the nature of her profession, Devon’s emotional intensity radar was acute. Issues, she thought.

Moving abruptly away from the photo wall, she caught sight of a snapshot on the mantelpiece, similar to one she’d seen upstairs, of a laughing young man standing under a huge tree, one knee on an old-fashioned wood plank and rope swing, holding on to the ropes. “Oh, my God,” she cried, snatching it up, “please don’t tell me-this can’t be President Brown!”

Mike chuckled; it was the first time Devon could remember hearing anyone actually make such a sound. “Oh, that’s Rhett, all right. I suppose we should have something more dignified-an official presidential portrait, at least, but Lucy likes that one. She’s always thought Rhett is inclined to be a little too full of himself, and she wants to make sure he doesn’t forget where he came from.” Devon was staring at him, speechless. He laughed. “You didn’t know? Rhett Brown is Lucy’s brother.”

Realizing her mouth was open, she hurriedly closed it-and then her eyes as well. “I had no idea,” she said faintly, “Until I saw the picture upstairs.” And then, in a burst of candor brought on by chagrin, snapped, “I can’t believe this. Yesterday I thought your son was just some homeless unemployed bum my drug addict sister picked up on the street. Today I find out he’s the nephew of the former president of the United States.”

A husky voice, dry and amused, responded from the doorway, “The two aren’t necessarily mutually exclusive, are they?”

Devon jerked toward the voice.

“Hello, son,” Mike said mildly, “did you find your breakfast?”

“Not yet, but I will.” Eric let his eyes slide past Devon as he moved into the room. Okay, so he was deliberately-perhaps childishly-ignoring her. And yet, so acutely attuned to her he could hear her breathing, quick and shallow like his own. “Baby still asleep?”

“Your mother’s up there with her,” his dad said. “Haven’t heard a peep out of either one of ’em.” He ran a hand over his chin, looked from Eric to Devon and back again. “Uhh, guess I’ll go see what they’re up to…”

“I’ll go. She’s my kid.” Eric wanted to kick himself for the surliness in his voice.

He felt like even more of a jerk when his dad merely said, touching his arm as he moved past him, “You’d better get your breakfast first-you know your mother, she’s not going to want to see your face upstairs until you do. And,” he added with a chuckle on his way out the door, “you’d better change out of those pants before she sees ’em, too.”

“Some things never change,” Eric growled into the silence his father’s going left behind.

Devon laughed, a light but artificial sound. “Sounds like you might have a few issues with your father.”

He let himself look at her then, having had time to prepare himself for the shock that always came from seeing her, time to school his features so as not to let it show. Though…he felt the jolt a lot less this time. Maybe he was getting used to her. Beginning to see her as Devon, instead of Susan’s Ghost.

“What is this…issues?” he drawled as he studied her. “We don’t communicate. We’re father and son. So what else is new?” His voice was edgy because he was thinking that if the woman could look as beautiful as she did wearing his dad’s castoff bathrobe, somebody’s old chore coat and his high school sweatshirt, he sure would like to see what she looked like in her own clothes. What would they be, he wondered-gray flannel suits for the courtroom, maybe? Something softer, more feminine for the evenings. Royal-blue, or a deep forest-green, he thought, dressing her with his photographer’s eye.

“I don’t know,” Devon drawled back, mimicking his own tone as she touched the computer monitor that was sitting on his dad’s old desk, “your father seems like a pretty good communicator to me. I didn’t find him hard to talk to at all.”

Eric snorted. “Yeah, well, maybe that’s because you’re not his son.” He added under his breath as he turned away from her, “And you haven’t let him down as many times as I have.”

“What?”

He watched his fingers trail lightly over dusty piano keys, making no sound. “Nothing. Forget it.”

“I’m sorry,” she persisted, moving closer to him, “what do you mean, you ‘let him down’?”

He lifted an eyebrow at her and smiled without humor. “Take a guess.”

But he saw that she was frowning, and genuinely perplexed. He let out a long slow breath while he thought about whether to answer her or not. It wasn’t his problems-issues-with his family he wanted to talk about, and certainly not with her. What he needed to do was get her talking about her family, her issues. On the other hand, maybe one way to get her talking and remembering was to start the ball rolling himself.