Desire a Donovan. A.C. Arthur
Regan Donovan was across the room in seconds, her long arms wrapping around Lyra before she could do anything but smile.
Lyra stumbled back a step as Regan embraced her. “Hey, Regan. It’s good to see you, too.”
“Oh, my God! When I got your email I was ecstatic. You know we need to get together so we can catch up. We can’t do that here with everybody around, but I want to hear everything that’s happened in L.A. And I mean everything,” she said, her large expressive eyes indicating that she wanted to hear things Lyra couldn’t talk about around the rest of the Donovans.
“Let her go, Regan. The rest of us would like to say hello, too.” Savian, Regan Donovan’s older brother, pushed her aside.
“Hi, Savian,” Lyra said, welcoming a hug from the quiet and reserved Donovan cousin, who rarely ever smiled. But there was still a warmth and sincerity evident in his hazel eyes.
“Hey, kiddo. I see you survived it out there in la-la land.”
“I did.” She smiled, pulling away from him. “It wasn’t so bad,” she said biting her inner cheek to keep from blurting out how bad those years away had really been. It wasn’t anybody’s business she’d told herself. She’d left to pursue her goals to become a photographer. And in that regard, she’d done pretty damned well for herself. It was everything else that had fallen apart.
“Well, you look fabulous,” said Carolyn Donovan, a tall, slim woman with a warm chocolate complexion and hair that had a silvery glow. She was beautiful and looked elegant in her cream-colored linen slacks and pale pink blouse. Her hair was flawless as usual and just barely grazed her shoulders. Her eyes smiled as she reached out to hug Lyra.
“Aunt Carolyn, it’s good to see you.”
“Yes,” Carolyn said when she released Lyra from her grip, putting her hands on Lyra’s shoulders as she continued looking her up and down. “Just fabulous. The sun’s kissed your skin so you look even more Native American then you did when you were a little girl. And you’ve blossomed.”
Lyra didn’t know she could still blush, but the heat in her cheeks said she hadn’t grown out of that habit. The Donovans had always told her of her Native American heritage, to which Lyra simply smiled and nodded. She’d never known her father, and her mother, Paula Anderson, certainly wasn’t Native American. She was an African-American, and had grown up in the Lemon City area of Miami, which was known for its large community of Haitian immigrants. But that’s where Mama Nell, Lyra’s grandmother, had lived, so that’s where Paula grew up until she felt like she was old enough to make it on her own. But Lyra’s mother thought she was grown the minute she learned to talk, and at age thirteen Paula took to the streets because Mama Nell’s restrictions were too strict for her.
Lyra didn’t really grow up in one place in Miami, seeing as how Paula dragged her to whatever dirty couch or boarded-up row house she could find in her search for her next high or next john, whichever she was fiendin’ for at the time.
The brothers, Bruce and Reginald, had been standing near one of the windows in the airy room, but with all the commotion they turned to look at her. Reginald with his round face and dark eyes smiled a toothy grin, and she walked to him quickly, falling into his thick arms. “Hi, Uncle Reggie.”
“Hey, Peanut. Carolyn’s right, you’re prettier than you were when you left.”
Being the smallest of the Donovans’ children when they were growing up had earned Lyra the nickname Peanut. The cousins had come up with their own nicknames for her.
“Thanks,” she replied before letting her gaze settle on Bruce Donovan. Tall and broad-shouldered, his medium-brown complexion blended handsomely with the graying mustache and beard.
He reached for her and she walked easily into his embrace. Of all the Donovan men, Bruce held a special place in her heart. He’d been the only father she’d ever known, and there were nights when she’d lain awake in the pretty pink room she had upstairs and thanked God for blessing her with him.
“Hi,” she said in a whisper.
“Hi to you, too, little girl.” He hugged her tight, just as he had on the tarmac that day she left to go to L.A. Over the past ten years he and Janean had called and written to her regularly, sending pictures, asking if she needed anything. She’d needed them both terribly, but had refused to admit it.
“I missed you,” she admitted, with her cheek rubbing against the soft cotton of his dress shirt.
“Missed you, too. You stayed away too long and I don’t like that,” he chastised lightly.
Pulling away she looked up into those familiar warm eyes. There was always love and understanding there, no matter what she’d done, he always looked at her the same way. “I know. But I’m back now.”
With long fingers, Bruce tweaked her nose. “You bet you are. And you’re staying put this time.”
Lyra wasn’t too sure about that, but figured it was better to keep the thought to herself. Instead she just smiled.
“What are you all standing around for? Take a seat, we’re about to bless this food so we can—” Janean abruptly stopped, as her husband, Bruce, with his hands on Lyra’s shoulders, turned her around to face the door that led to the kitchen.
There she was, the woman who was responsible for all that Lyra was. She still wore her church clothes, a plum-colored silk dress that hung on her marvelously mature body as if it had been cut especially for her. Her dark brown hair was pulled back into a bun and her cherublike face bore just a light sheen of makeup. Even though she was ten years older, she was even more beautiful than Lyra had remembered.
“Hi, Ms. Janean,” she said, then cleared her throat because for a second she swore she sounded just like that ten-year-old girl Janean had seen at Easterntowne Elementary School.
Janean Donovan had no words, and that was saying something, since she had always been talkative and opinionated. But now she stood silent, her hands holding the handles of a pot with steam billowing upward. She took a step toward Lyra and Lyra took a step toward her. Sean stepped in and took the pot along with the potholders out of Janean’s hands. She wiped them on the stone-gray apron splattered with what looked like flour.
“My baby” was what she finally whispered, lifting her hands and clapping them against both Lyra’s cheeks. “My baby’s come home,” she repeated, her eyes clouding with tears.
Lyra’s heart pounded in her chest as her own eyes threatened to well up. “My pretty little girl all grown up.”
“I really missed you,” Lyra readily admitted, falling into Janean’s arms, resting her head on her shoulder in a familiar gesture. Lyra couldn’t even begin to remember how many times she’d cried on Janean’s shoulder, how many times Janean had whispered that everything would be all right, or how many times the woman and her family had actually made everything all right.
“I really missed you, too. Don’t you ever stay away that long again,” she told her.
“I won’t,” Lyra promised, realizing at that very moment how much this family really meant to her.
“Can we eat now? I’m starving. Minister Moore preached for a solid hour today and I’m still not sure what it was about,” Parker complained.
“That’s because you never pay attention,” Carolyn told her son as they moved around the table to take their seats. “You probably don’t even know the scripture he quoted from.”
“What matters is that I showed up in the first place,” Parker said in his own defense.
“It’d be good if you could get something out of showing up, son,” Uncle Reggie said, holding the chair for Carolyn and scooting her in before taking his own seat.
Regan laughed. “I’m surprised he showed up at all.”
“Right,” Savian added. “I wonder what