"Your father and your Uncle Jack both claimed to love you. But neither of them was what he seemed to be."
Amber sighed. "Few of us are. Daddy was—probably still is—manipulative and controlling. The center of the universe. Everything had to be his way, and his almighty reputation had to be protected at all costs. And Uncle Jack did whatever Daddy asked him to do. As usual."
"How do you feel when you think about them?"
"Furious, mostly." Amber bit her lip and shrugged. "For a long time I tried not to think about the two of them at all—the emotions were too overwhelming, and I was afraid I wouldn't survive them. But now—"
"Now?" Susan prompted.
"Now the anger I've been suppressing all these years has surfaced again. I guess I knew it would, but this time it feels different. While I was doing this sculpture, I let it come out, as you advised me to do. I threw a few old pots against the barn wall. Then I started to work on this piece, night and day, until my eyes were so bleary I couldn't see straight and my shoulders were tied up in knots. And even though I exhausted myself doing it, I felt good afterward—really good. Like I was taking something of myself back."
A jolt of adrenaline shot through Susan's veins. They were getting close; she could feel it. "What were you taking back?"
For a minute or two Amber didn't answer. She seemed far away, as if she had momentarily slipped into another place, another time. Then she looked up, her face animated. "Something that hasn't been mine for years," she said. "The power to control my own life."
19
Murder of the Soul
Amber sat on the high bank above the Hood Canal and watched as the afternoon sun melted across the Olympic peaks and spilled rivulets of pink and purple and orange down the jagged slopes into the water below. If she lived here for the rest of her life, she would never tire of the ever-changing colors of the sunset. A lone eagle, silhouetted black against the sky, made a swooping pass at the water but came up with empty talons.
Empty. That's how Amber felt, too, and she couldn't explain it. When she had sat in Susan's office and talked about taking her life back, the very act of uttering the words had made her feel invincible. And now, a few hours later, her heart seemed drained and heavy. Even the beauty of the sunset couldn't offset the creeping darkness in her soul.
Eventually, she would have to tell Susan the truth—all of it. She dreaded the day and the pain it would bring, but her only other choice, she now knew, was to be forever bound by the fear and questions and condemnation that gnawed at her. She would never find out whether she could be forgiven, or whether she could forgive herself. As long as she kept even part of the truth about herself hidden, she would never be sure that anyone—even the God Susan talked about—could love her as she was. Unless she told, she would never truly be free.
But she had never told anyone. Not once. Not her therapist in Raleigh, not even Meg.
When the first star came out, Amber zipped up her jacket against the chill that permeated the evening air. A shudder coursed through her, and almost without thinking, she began to whisper the little chant that had been her ritual throughout childhood: "Star light, star bright, first star I see tonight, wish I may, wish I might..."
What did she wish?
She wished it had never happened. She wished she had been stronger. She wished . . . she wished . . .
She wished he would go away. She shut her eyes and huddled under the blankets, her heart thudding against her rib cage as the footsteps drew closer on the bare marble floors of the hallway. She knew what was coming, but she didn't dare make a sound. If she stayed still enough, wished hard enough, maybe—
The door creaked open, admitting a beam of bright light from the hall. She felt the light sizzle red against her closed eyelids, heard music drifting in from the big parlor on the other side of the house where Mama and Daddy and Uncle Jack and the rest of their friends were having a party. She hated this house; it was so huge and everything was so far away. Even if she had yelled at the top of her lungs, no one would have heard her.
But she didn't yell. She didn't even whimper. She just lay there waiting, wishing, praying, holding her breath. The door closed again, smothering her in inky darkness as the sickly sweet odor of liquor drew closer and closer. The star-wish didn't work. God didn't answer. Nobody came to save her.
It was her fault, he said, for growing up into such a beautiful young lady. So sweet and innocent, so pure and undefiled. So perfect, exactly like her mama. She was nearly thirteen, nearly a woman, he said. This is what women do when they're all grown up.
He put a hand around her throat and stroked her neck, his thumb putting a little extra pressure on the vein that throbbed right below her ear. "Never, never tell a soul," he whispered, just before he kissed her on the forehead and went back to the party. "This is our secret, remember. You know what happens to little girls who tell."
She knew. She believed him. And so she didn't cry out, not this time or any of the times before.
20
The Plan
Twojoe stepped onto the porch and let the screen door slam behind him. He had been working on the books since sunup, had gone over the figures a dozen times or more, and the result was always the same. They were in trouble.
He ran a hand through his hair. When he had peered in the mirror this morning, he had seen new streaks of gray at the temples. And it was getting long, down over his collar and past his ears. Maybe he should just let it grow, wear it in a thick braid down his back the way Grandpa Joe had done, weave a feather into it. It would save the price of haircuts.
Meg followed him onto the porch and handed him a mug of coffee. "Breakfast will be ready in a few minutes. Where's Amber?"
Twojoe shrugged. "In the barn, probably. She's been spending twelve hours a day in that studio. I hope she's about ready to sell some of that stuff."
Meg tilted her head to one side but said nothing.
Twojoe leaned back against the porch rail and looked at his sister. She wasn't a child any longer, but he still thought of her that way sometimes—as the bright, sunny little girl who always laughed and smiled and made everyone around her feel like laughing, too. She had the bluest eyes—Grandma Simi's eyes—and her face was flawless, except for the narrow white line that puckered her left eyebrow.
His eyes focused on the scar—a grim reminder of the time Bart Walker hit her in the face with a beer bottle. It was a good thing Bart was all the way across the country, or he would have to answer to Twojoe for that one. Any man who took out his anger on a woman deserved whatever he got in return.
Twojoe hadn't been around to protect his sister back then, but when he had returned to Kitsap County, he had promised himself that he would never let anything—or anyone—hurt her again. And now he was about to break that promise.
"Twojoe?" she said, gazing up at him with a guileless expression. "Is anything wrong?"
He ran his fingers through his hair and set his coffee mug on the railing. "I've been going over the books, Meg. It doesn't look good. We're in debt, and the truck needs a new transmission. Lloser isn't earning his keep. Taxes went up again, and we're already four months behind."
"Is it that bad?"
Twojoe frowned. "The influx of rich people building big houses on the canal has made the land more valuable, but that doesn't help us unless we sell the place. In the meantime, property taxes are going sky-high. We're being taxed at the same rate as the developers, even though we're not developing."
Meg thought about this for a minute. "We own this place outright. Couldn't we get a loan?"
"No one will give us a loan, Meg. We have too much debt, and our credit rating is, well, not good. Not unless we're willing to mortgage the property, and Grandpa Joe absolutely forbade that in his will."
"Yes, but Grandpa Joe didn't envision the kinds of difficulties we're up against now."
"Doesn't matter. The will is very clear on the issue."
"All right, then what about subdividi
ng and selling off a few acres, just enough to cover the taxes?"
"There's a land covenant in effect. We can't sell any of it in parcels less than ten acres. Besides, what the developers really want is this piece, right here." He pointed toward the porch floor. "The prime canal frontage. Our home. If we give up that, we might as well sell the whole thing and go live in some yuppie condo on Mercer Island."
His sister shook her head. "Impossible. They'd never let Lloser and Llittle Bit move in."
In spite of himself, Twojoe laughed. He could just see himself taking his llamas for walks around the cobbled streets of Seattle. Somehow he suspected Llittle Bit would get a lot of attention with her head hanging out a streetcar window.
Meg was silent for a minute. "Well, I've got a supply of new rugs ready for consignment, and Amber's just received orders from several of the shops in town, as well as a couple in Seattle. In a month or two the tourists will start coming, and people will need packers for trips into the mountains. Don't you think we can hang on until then?"
Twojoe shook his head. "I don't know, Meg. You and Amber are doing all you can, but I just don't think it's going to be enough."
"It's been enough so far. We've managed. We'll manage again."
"You've got more faith in me than I have."
She chuckled softly. "No offense, big brother, but it's not faith in you. I think it's time you realized that Amber and I aren't children. We're all in this together, the three of us, and the financial responsibility falls on all of us. You're not carrying the burden alone."
Something tightened in Twojoe's throat. "Sometimes it feels that way." Meg got up and came over to stand beside Joe. She took his hand and held it, squeezing his fingers as she spoke. "We'll come up with a plan. Amber and I can get some things together to sell. Beyond that, we'll just have to trust God."
He put an arm around her shoulder. "I don't get it," he murmured. "You've been through so much hell in your life. How can you keep on believing when things look so rotten?"
"Maybe you have to go through hell to know what's important," Meg answered. "Maybe once you've been through hell, you know what heaven looks like." She turned and leaned on the porch rail, gazing out over the magnificent vista of Hood Canal and the Olympic peaks. "This is heaven, Twojoe. This is where we belong. This place is God's gift of grace and peace and healing—for me, for Amber, even for you. We're not going to lose it."
I wish I were as sure as you are, he thought. But he didn't say so.
Halfway through breakfast, Sam Houston appeared on the porch and peered in through the screen door. "Oh, you're still eating." He ducked his head. "I was coming to help Twojoe with the chores. I'll just wait out here."
"Don't be ridiculous." Meg motioned him inside and set a place for him. "How about some bacon and eggs, Sam? We've got plenty." She passed the platter in his direction, and he eyed it cautiously.
"No thanks, I've already had breakfast."
Meg smiled at him. He was such a well-mannered little boy, so courteous and polite. And intelligent, too. He was fascinated by the llamas, wanted to learn everything about them. He adored Twojoe, and apparently the feeling was mutual.
Meg had watched them together, the little tow-headed cowboy and her dark-skinned brother. Thick as thieves, the two of them.
"Go ahead, Sam," she urged. "I know a growing boy like you is always hungry."
He grinned up at her. "Well, maybe just a little." He piled his plate with the remaining scrambled eggs, slathered two pieces of toast with strawberry jam, and sandwiched three slices of bacon in between. "Grandma gives me bran flakes at home. She says it's good for me,but—" He screwed up his little face in an expression of disgust. "Yuck."
Out of the corner of her eye, Meg slanted a glance at Amber. She was looking down at her plate, biting her lower lip. She hadn't uttered a word since Sam arrived. After a minute or two she muttered, "I'd better get to work," filled a thermos of coffee, and headed out the door.
Twojoe frowned in Meg's direction as if to ask, What was that all about? Meg shrugged, but said nothing. Twojoe thought she was just being rude, but Meg suspected there was more to it than that. The expression on Amber's face whenever Sam came around was not one of disapproval, but of pain . . .
A light knock sounded on the screen door, and Twojoe looked up to see a man in a dark suit. "Excuse me," he said when Twojoe opened the door, "is this the Elkhorn place?"
"That's right." Twojoe went onto the porch and shut the screen behind him. "I'm Twojoe Elkhorn."
"Just the man I was looking for." The stranger pumped Twojoe's hand enthusiastically. "You got a few minutes?"
Twojoe glanced back inside the house, where Meg was clearing the table and Sam sat staring curiously at the stranger. "Yeah, just give me a second." He stuck his head back inside. "Sam, come on out here." Sam scrambled down from his chair and banged out the door, clutching his bacon and jelly sandwich in one hand. "How about if you go on down to the pasture and start feeding the stock? Get the small pitchfork and wheelbarrow from the barn. You can put out fresh hay and fill the watering trough. I'll be down there in a little while."
Obviously delighted to be trusted with such an important job, Sam gave Twojoe a one-handed hug around the waist, let out a whoop, and took off on a run. "Make sure you latch the gate behind you!" Twojoe called to his retreating back.
"Nice looking kid," the stranger commented, peering past Twojoe into the kitchen, where Meg was running soapy dishwater in the sink and wiping down the breakfast table.
Twojoe motioned to the Adirondack chairs on the porch. "Have a seat, Mr.—"
The man hesitated. "Shivers," he said. "William Shivers."
"I'll get us some coffee. Sugar or cream?"
"Just black, thanks."
Twojoe went back into the kitchen. "What does he want?" Meg asked in a whisper.
"I have no idea, but I'll let you know when I find out."
"Okay. I'm going down to the barn. I'll finish these later." Meg gestured at the sink full of dishes.
When Meg was gone, Twojoe went out onto the porch with the coffee. He settled himself in the chair opposite the stranger, handing him a mug. "What can I do for you, Mr., ah, Shivers?"
The man's name certainly fit. With those broad shoulders and meaty hands, he put Twojoe in mind of guys with names like Scarpetti or Mangione or Capone. He had olive skin and dark eyes, and wore a black T-shirt under a gray silk suit, impeccably cut—the kind of suit even Reggie the Snob, the Microsoft Golden Boy, would find acceptable. His tasseled leather loafers were damp from the dew.
"I'll get right to the point," William Shivers began with a smile. "I represent, well, certain parties, let's call 'em, who might be able to help you with your current financial setbacks."
Twojoe bristled. "What do you know about my finances?"
Shivers took a drink of his coffee, grimaced, and set the cup down. "You folks out here sure like it strong, don't you?" He raised both hands, palm up, in a gesture of conciliation. "Some things are a matter of public record, you know. Back taxes, land appraisals, that sort of thing."
"Are you some kind of lawyer? A loan shark? What?"
Shivers laughed. "Lawyer? Not a chance. And I'm sure not here to offer you a loan. You could call me—" He paused. "A kind of broker. A go-between."
Twojoe glared at him but said nothing.
"Here's the deal," Shivers continued as if they were carrying on a friendly business discussion. "My people have authorized me to offer you half again the appraised value of your property here, cash. You get foreclosed on, my people will get it anyway. You're going to lose this place eventually, so you might as well take the money and run." He lifted one eyebrow and grinned. "It's a good offer, Elkhorn. The best you're likely to see. Take it, and be thankful. You'll be a rich man."
"And what if I don't care about the money?"
"Everybody cares about money. Especially when they don't have it. Especially when—"
"Look, Mr. Shivers,
" Twojoe interrupted. "In the past few years I've had every realty company on both sides of the Sound after me to sell my land. I said no then, and I'm saying no now. This place has been in my family for generations, and that's where it's going to stay." He rose to his feet and stood towering over the stranger. "Give my regrets to your people, whoever they are. And now if you'll excuse me, I've got work to do."
"That's your last word?"
"The very last."
Shivers got to his feet and went to the porch rail, looking out at the canal and the rugged mountains beyond. "You're making a mistake," he said quietly. "A big mistake."
Twojoe watched as the man retreated down the porch steps, his muscular shoulders straining against the silk jacket. At the small of his back, right at the waisdine, Twojoe could make out an irregular bulge. The blood drained from his head, and he felt a twisting knot form in the pit of his stomach. And he wondered, for the first time in his life, if the price of holding onto this land and this life might be more than he'd be willing to pay.
"It's gone?" Amber stared at Meg, incredulous. "My Two Sisters sculpture? It's gone?"
"Well, don't say it like that," Meg protested. "It's not like it was stolen, for heaven's sake. Mr. Jorgensen was quite taken with it. He thinks it will bring a very good price in his gallery."
"Tell me again what happened."
"I told you three times already," Meg sighed. "He came in to pick up that consignment of stoneware he ordered. Usually his gofer Robbie comes out, but Mr. Jorgensen was in Bremerton scouting some of the smaller shops, and he decided just to swing by here and see if his order was ready. I knew you were finished with it, so I brought him in here while I packed it up for him."
"And where was I when all this was happening?"
"At the church, I think. Talking to Susan."
"And so he saw the sculpture—"
"Yes, he saw it on the shelf. He couldn't take his eyes off it. Said it would bring several hundred dollars, he was certain. Maybe as much as a thousand—minus his 20 percent."
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