The Amber Photograph

by Penelope J. Stokes

  What they needed was another source of income, something that couldn't be snatched out from under them at a moment's notice. Maybe Twojoe wouldn't feel it was charity if they took a loan from Vernon Houston . . .

  But Amber knew better. The Colonel might be a great fellow, but even if he did have so much money that writing out a check for a hundred thousand would be like giving up pocket change, Twojoe would never go for it. Vernon wasn't family. And although Meg and Twojoe had shirttail relatives scattered here and there throughout Kitsap County, nobody who was family had any money to speak of. Certainly not enough to float a loan large enough to bail them out of this situation.

  Her mind cast about for other possibilities while she put the finishing touches on a set of forest green stoneware—a large order, for one of Mr. Jorgensen's clients in Seattle. Jorgensen had called yesterday to check on the order and tell her that although he hadn't yet sold the Two Sisters piece, it was getting a good deal of attention and he would welcome the opportunity to display other sculptures when she had them ready. If they only had more time, Amber might be able to come up with enough money to hold the wolves at bay.

  But they didn't have time.

  Twojoe had begun talking about selling the llamas and looking for an accounting job in the city. He tried to keep a cheerful attitude, but Amber could see in his eyes that the prospect was destroying him. The corporate world was his worst nightmare come to life, and yet he was willing to give up everything he had worked for, everything he loved, for Amber and for Meg and for the farm.

  An idea crept into the corner of Amber's mind and lurked there until she began to pay attention to it. There was someone else who had money. A lot of money. Not as much as Vernon Houston, but enough.

  Daddy.

  No. It was impossible, unthinkable. Amber was not about to go crawling back to her father after all this time begging for help. He had betrayed her trust, turned his back on her, and she had made a life without him. A good life, though not a wealthy one. The very idea of contacting him now turned her stomach. And besides, she couldn't take the chance of letting him know where she was, of becoming vulnerable to him again.

  There had to be another way.

  Mama would help; Amber was sure of it. Maybe Mama could find a way to get money to her without Daddy finding out about it. She hated going to Mama, too, but not as much as she hated the idea of Twojoe giving up all his dreams for her.

  Amber glanced at her watch. It was just past 9 A.M.—that would make it noon in North Carolina. Her father would probably be at the office, or meeting with the city council, or having lunch with some of his cronies. The chances of his being at home this time of day were pretty slim. If she were going to do this, she ought to do it now, before she lost her nerve.

  On a square wooden post next to her sculpting table, Twojoe had installed an extension phone and a buzzer that ran from the house to the barn. They only had one telephone line, so she couldn't call the house with it, but if she received a call, someone could buzz her and she could pick up down here without having to stop in the middle of her work. She rarely used it unless a dealer called during the day.

  She put one hand on the receiver and stared at the telephone. It had once been white, but was now overlaid with a film of dried clay, splotches of different-colored glazes, and a fine coat of grit from the hay that sifted down from the loft. Cleaning it didn't help, so she had given up long ago.

  Just as she had given up on a lot of other things . . .

  Amber raised the receiver to her ear and listened for the dial tone. She racked her brain but couldn't remember the number. And before she had a chance to punch in the number for Information, her eyes lit on the sculpture she had taken in to show to Susan Quentin. The man in the armchair with the little girl on his lap. It sat on the shelf next to her sculpting table, side by side with the plaster cast of the Two Sisters. They could have been called Captivity and Liberty.

  Amber felt a strange sensation rise up from her midsection. "I'm taking back something that hasn't been mine for years," she had told Susan that day. "The power to control my own life."

  In a moment, with a single telephone call, all the progress she had made would be undone. It wouldn't simply be a step backward, but a long slide into the darkness, a surrender, a capitulation of every shred of mental and emotional health she had managed to gather over the years. It would be the most blatant kind of prostitution—an exchange of her life, her very self for money.

  But what other choice did she have?

  Father Susan had once told her that as long as there was life, there were choices. Options you never saw until it seemed as if every door had slammed and locked in your face. With God, she said, nothing was impossible.

  Amber had no idea what other options might present themselves, but in that moment she knew for certain that only one choice lay before her now: captivity or liberty.

  "All right, God, if you're out there," she muttered with clenched teeth. "I'm going to try to trust you on this—or at least to trust in Susan's trust. I choose liberty."

  Exhaling a deep breath, she replaced the receiver on the hook and turned back to her work.

  After he had finished the evening feeding, Twojoe sat on a ten-gallon bucket under the overhang of one of the llama shelters and gazed absently across Clear Creek Road to where the late afternoon sun reflected on the lush rolling hills beyond. Earlier this morning, he had spent an hour after breakfast on the back porch, just staring out over the Hood Canal and Olympic Mountains. He wasn't sure quite what he was doing—maybe getting his fill of the views that nurtured and sustained his soul. Chances were, he wouldn't be seeing much of them from here on out—except through the windshield of a car.

  Meg and Amber would have resisted him had they known, but he had gone ahead and put out some feelers for jobs in the city, calling in a few favors and placing calls to old acquaintances from Berkeley who now headed up CPA firms in Seattle. He even had two interviews lined up next week, but he would no doubt be competing against twenty-five-year- olds fresh out of graduate school and just starting their careers. Although part of him hoped that someone would take pity on a middle-aged man and give him a break, he had to admit that the idea of groveling for an entry-level position didn't do much for his pride.

  Pride. It had been one of Grandpa Joe's favorite words. Twojoe had grown up as a boy at the old man's knee, hearing stories of tribal honor and family dignity. And he had never once in his life thought of pride in negative terms. Ethnic sensibility compelled him to be proud of his heritage, his race, even his accomplishments. For a beleaguered minority, pride was synonymous with self-respect and courage, not vanity or arrogance.

  But Twojoe was beginning to wonder where the line was, that nearly invisible demarcation between strength of character and personal ego. Was he just being bullheaded not to take Vernon Houston up on his offer of help? Was it stubbornness rather than integrity that made him consider selling the farm—or worse, selling his soul to corporate America—rather than take what he condescendingly called charity?

  For the past few days, he and Meg and Amber had talked of nothing else. Clearly, neither of them wanted to give up this land and their home. Amber, especially, needed this place for the healing of her soul and the nurturing of her creativity. He had seen the look on her face and knew that, no matter what it cost him, he could not let this land go. Even if the price was everything he had to give.

  But when he had brought up the idea of taking a job in the city, her expression of worry and anxiety had changed to a look of near-despair. Pain—for him, for what such a decision would do to him. And he had dared to hope that maybe, in the deep recesses of her heart, there burned a spark of love. A spark that might, in time, be fanned to a flame.

  Still, Twojoe was sensible enough to know that whatever sacrifice he made could not be the motivation for Amber to love him. He didn't want her come to him out of obligation or pity or admiration or need or any of the other pathetic imitations t
hat sometimes masqueraded as love.

  And if he did this—if he transformed himself into something else for the sake of saving his land and his world and his chance at love—how would she feel about the person he would become? Twojoe couldn't imagine liking himself as a corporate accountant; how could a woman like Amber possibly love that man?

  It was all so complicated. Every option he could think of seemed to be at odds with what he really wanted out of life, with the man he believed himself to be. If he sold the place, he would be selling every dream he ever held dear. But he could keep the dream only by giving up his most cherished vision of who he was created to be.

  Twojoe shut his eyes, put a hand over his face, and sighed. The real issue, he supposed, had to do with what God was asking of him, but he didn't know the answer to that question, either. In the past he would pray and come away with at least a general sense of where God was leading—a gut feeling, an impression, a glimpse of possibility. But these days his prayers weren't being answered, not with any clarity he could discern, anyway.

  He felt a tickling sensation on his fingers and opened his eyes to find Llittle Bit nuzzling her whiskers against his hand. In spite of himself, he laughed and stroked her wooly neck. He would miss these wonderful creatures when they were gone.

  A shadow fell over him, and he looked up into the piercing gaze of the man who called himself William Shivers.

  "Thought I'd stop by once more and see if you changed your mind about selling," Shivers said without preamble. "Figured by now you might have seen the light."

  Twojoe stood up and faced him. Something in the man's countenance—a contemptuousness, a haughty certainty—made Twojoe dislike him intensely. "I don't know what light you're talking about, Mr. Shivers, but here's a little illumination for your benefit: I'm not selling. Not now, not ever." His voice held more conviction than his heart, but as he spoke the words, Twojoe felt a little courage and hope come to life within him.

  The man grinned—not a nice expression on him in the least. "My people really don't like to take no for an answer."

  "Sorry," Twojoe repeated. "That's the only answer I have to give them."

  Shivers scrutinized Twojoe for a minute. His hands clenched into fists, and his eyes narrowed. But then his grip relaxed, and he extended an outstretched hand in Twojoe's direction. "Well, you can't blame a guy for trying. Just doing my job. No hard feelings?"

  "Of course not." Twojoe shook hands with the man and breathed just a little easier.

  "So, what are you going to do?" Shivers asked, clapping Twojoe on the shoulder as if they were a couple of old cronies. "About this place, I mean. Not going to sell it to somebody else, I hope. Because if that's your intent, I can beat any offer you'll get."

  "I'm not going to sell it to anybody." Twojoe kept a wary eye on the man's face. "I've got some—some options."

  "Options. Right. Well, good luck to you. See you around." He rubbed Llittle Bit's ears and turned toward the gate.

  Halfway between the pasture and the big barn, Shiv ducked out of sight into a copse of trees and sat down on a fallen log. He had to think. Underwood wasn't going to like this, not a bit. And if Underwood wasn't happy, Shiv didn't get paid.

  To tell the truth, he hadn't expected Elkhorn to cave. The man had backbone, that much was sure. But he had to give it one last shot. Now it was time for Plan B—whatever that was.

  He pulled a cell phone from his pocket and punched in a speed-dial number. It rang twice, but before anyone answered, Shiv shut down the call. What was the use of calling just to say he hadn't succeeded? He'd take care of things, and then he'd let Underwood know the job was done.

  He crammed the phone back into his pocket and swore under his breath. The truth was, he didn't have the faintest idea how he was going to take care of it. There was no Plan B. But he'd better come up with one. Fast.

  If he only knew what kind of "options" Elkhorn had up his sleeve.

  The path back to the house and his car took him directly past the barn door. It was open, and he hung back for a moment, looking in. He could see someone sitting on a stool in front of a big table, but from this angle he couldn't tell who it was. Might be the wife. Might be the woman Underwood wanted lost.

  He took a couple of steps inside, then heard a telephone ringing and flattened himself against the wall into the shadows. The woman had dark hair, and she was bigger than Elkhorn's little blonde wife. It was the artist, the target, the one who called herself Amber.

  "Hello, Mr. Jorgensen," she said. "Meg told me you really liked it; I'm so glad." A pause. "You sold it? That's wonderful! How much?"

  Shiv heard a gasp. "Yes, Meg said you were interested in other pieces. I'm working on a couple of ideas right now. A commissioned sculpture? Of course I'd be interested! Tell me what you have in mind."

  She alternated listening and talking for a minute or two—something Shiv didn't understand in the least, about composition and castings and bronze. At last she went on: "I've never done anything of that magnitude before, Mr. Jorgensen, but I certainly think I could handle it." Then she dropped the receiver and scrambled to recover it. "Sorry, Mr. Jorgensen. Did you say ten thousand dollars in advance? And another ten at delivery?" She choked a little. "Yes, that would buy me plenty of time to work on it. I'll start right away. And I'll anticipate the check and the customer's sketch. Good-bye, Mr. Jorgensen—and thank you!"

  She hung up the phone and threw her hands into the air with a whoop. "Thank you, thank you, thank you!" she yelled into the rafters.

  She was still doing a, little victory dance when Shiv slipped out the door and made for his car.

  A ten-thousand dollar advance. So that was the "option" Elkhorn was talking about. Some kind of art stuff this Amber woman was working on. From the information he had been given about Elkhorn's financial situation, that amount wouldn't nearly cover all the debts, but it would take care of the taxes and allow them some breathing room, some time to get their act together. And if the woman was any good, there would likely be more where that came from.

  But not if Shiv could prevent it.

  Plan B was already formulating itself in his mind. It would work. He was sure of it.

  He slipped into the car and started the engine. It was nearly dark, and just as he turned his lights on, he caught a glimpse of Elkhorn coming up the path toward the house. He lowered the window and gave a friendly little wave.

  Elkhorn came over to the car, frowning a little. "I figured you'd be gone by now."

  "I'm heading out. Just couldn't help watching the sunset over the water." Shiv laughed. "Beautiful place you've got here. Well, good night—and good luck."

  He swung the car around and eased onto the long gravel driveway that led to the main road. The property was shielded on three sides by trees—big ones, close together. He could park at that vacant cabin up the road and walk in without anybody ever seeing him.

  Once he turned onto Clear Creek Road, he flipped open his cell phone again.

  "Mr. Underwood? Just wanted to let you know you got nothin' to worry about. One more day. Two at the most."

  24

  Occidental Discovery

  PIONEER SQUARE

  SEATTLE, WASHINGTON

  "You've been behind the camera this whole trip," Carlene said as she herded Diedre into position. "This may be the last time we ever get to Seattle, and I want at least one picture with you in it. Now, smile!"

  Diedre lifted a hand and waved as Carlene snapped the shutter on the camera. She felt a tug on the leash and looked down to see Sugarbear lapping water from a moss-covered fountain in the square.

  Carlene chuckled. "I could use something to drink, too, although I'm not sure I'd want what's coming out of that fountain." She motioned toward a small open-air cafe. "Let's sit for a while and get a sandwich and some coffee."

  Diedre was only too happy to comply; she felt as if they had been walking for weeks. She sank gratefully into a wrought-iron chair and waited with Sugarbear while C
arlene went inside to order.

  The place, she learned from her visitor's map, was called Occidental Park, in the center of Pioneer Square. Under other circumstances, Diedre would have been delighted with it—and everything else about Seattle. Occidental Street was a kind of pedestrian park, paved with cobblestones and surrounded by shade trees. Several totem poles and statues watched over the perimeter of the square—most notably, the tourist guide said, the "welcoming spirit of Kwakiutl." In the pergola across the way, a small jazz trio was performing for donations from passersby.

  Welcoming spirit, Diedre mused. In many ways Seattle had been welcoming. Although the past few days had been overcast, it had only rained significantly one morning—the day they had spent in the Department of Records, trying to find some lead to the whereabouts of Diedre's sister. Every search for "McAlister" proved to be futile, and although they knew she had probably changed her name, they had very little to go on. They left the department without a single scrap of useful information.

  This was a fool's errand. They weren't going to find Sissy—not this week, not ever. Diedre would never know what became of her big sister, or who her real father was. She would just have to adjust to the frustration of living with the unknown.

  Disappointed and discouraged, Diedre had been ready to pack the car and go home three days ago. But Carlene had insisted that they take advantage of the opportunity, and so they had armed themselves with maps and brochures, cameras, and trolley passes and set out to see a few of the sights.

  It was only the second week in May, and the summer tourists had not yet descended upon Seattle, but even so the city was a noisy, bustling, active place. Yesterday Carlene and Diedre had taken in the Pike Place Market, with its enthusiastic vendors throwing fish high into the air, and the Waterfront, where they had a fabulous dinner of fresh salmon and Dabob Bay oysters on a pier overlooking the Sound. This morning they had spent three hours in the Elliott Bay Bookstore and cruising some of the art shops in Pioneer Square, and Carlene had come away with a host of ideas for things she wanted to do with Mountain Arts once they got back home again.