The sun came out, dappling the cobblestones of the square with mottled light. Music from the jazz trio mingled with the clacking of wheels and the clanging of a bell as a trolley pulled into the small covered station across the street. Diedre closed her eyes and raised her face to the warmth. A gentle breeze caressed her face. If she hadn't come all the way across the country on a mission that had failed so miserably, she might have considered this a perfect day.
She heard a chair scrape across the cobblestones and opened her eyes to see a flash of blue and purple as Carlene sat down beside her. On the table between them lay two thick sandwiches wrapped in plastic, two large Styrofoam cups brimming with a dark, fragrant coffee, and a waxy paper bag with "Grand Central Bakery" stamped on the outside.
"They've got the most marvelous selection of cookies in there," Carlene said, unwrapping one of the sandwiches. "And all the bread is fresh-baked—just get a whiff of that." She held the sandwich up to Diedre's nose.
The sandwich did, indeed, smell heavenly and looked even better. Thick slices of a crusty French roll with assorted cold cuts, two kinds of cheese, lettuce, and sprouts, all spread with a delicate garlic dressing.
Carlene bit into her sandwich with relish. "Nice music," she said in between bites. "This is a great place, isn't it?"
"Yes, it is," Diedre agreed. "Except—"
"Except that we haven't found what we came for."
"No, we haven't. And I don't know what to do next. Maybe we should just go home. I don't want to give up, but—"
Carlene wasn't listening. Her eyes were fixed on a point across the cobbled square, a bench next to a totem depicting a man riding the tail of a whale. "There he is again," she said.
"Who?" Diedre looked.
"That same guy, the one we saw the other day in the lobby at the Claremont. He was in the Pike Place Market yesterday, too, and on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant at the Waterfront. Do you think he's tailing us?"
"You've got to quit watching Law & Order," Diedre muttered. "Why would anyone follow us?" Still, a tingle ran up her back. The man in the dark suit did look a little familiar. He sat on the park bench like any tourist, his face turned in the direction of the jazz band. But he was wearing sunglasses; his eyes could be looking anywhere.
Carlene finished her sandwich and fished in the bag for a cookie. "Probably just a coincidence," she agreed. She was silent for a moment, then reached out and laid her hand over Diedre's. "Look, Diedre. I know this is painful for you—and discouraging. I can only imagine how I'd feel if I were in your position. And I'm not trying to make light of the situation, really I'm not."
"I know," Diedre sighed. "You've been wonderful, Carlene. I'd never have made it this far without you, either physically or emotionally. I'm so thankful you're in this with me."
"So what do you think we ought to do?"
"I don't know." Diedre sipped her coffee. "A few days ago, when I asked what you believed about God's guidance, you told me all I needed to do was follow my heart and be open to direction. I'm trying to do that, but I seem to keep hitting up against a brick wall. My heart tells me that I need to find my sister, and that if I do find her, all my questions—well, maybe not all my questions, but at least some of them—will be answered. I've even tried to pray, Carlene, honestly I have. But I don't seem to be getting much response."
"Maybe the response is to wait."
"How long can we wait? Every day we stay here, we're running up more bills than I can keep track of—and it's all going on your tab. I've been assuming that once I get home, I can come up with the money to pay you back, but even that I'm not sure about. If Daddy cut off my credit cards—"
"We'll face that problem when we get home." Carlene patted Diedre's arm. "Tell you what—let's go back and check out of the hotel. I know it's convenient to be so close to everything, but the Claremont is pretty expensive, and we can find something cheaper. That way we can stay a few more days."
"And what will that accomplish, when we don't have the faintest idea where to go next?" Diedre pulled a piece of turkey out of the remains of her sandwich and held it down to her side for Sugarbear. "Come on, girl, take it."
She looked down. The end of Sugarbear's leash was still wrapped around the leg of the table, but her collar lay empty on the cobblestones a few feet behind Diedre's chair.
Panicked, Diedre jumped up and looked around the square. The dog was nowhere in sight. "She slipped her collar. She's gone! Carlene, come on!"
A sinking sensation washed over her as she frantically scanned the park for any sign of the little dog. Mama was dead. Daddy wasn't her father. Vesta was a thousand miles away. She had been unsuccessful in the search for Sissy. And now Sugarbear—faithful, loving Sugarbear—had disappeared. Diedre couldn't bear the thought of losing her, too.
Murmuring a frantic plea for divine help under her breath, Diedre took off running with Carlene at her heels.
Fifteen minutes later, Diedre had made the circuit of the two blocks around Occidental Park, looking into every alleyway and behind every dumpster, and was back where she started. Carlene had gone down the hill to First Street to scan the area around Elliott Bay Books.
Diedre sat down on the pergola steps, exhausted and alarmed. In fifteen minutes Sugarbear could have gone anywhere. She could be down at the wharf chasing sea gulls, or up on Capitol Hill in the middle of traffic. For all Diedre knew, she could be on a ferry halfway across the Sound by now.
A minute or two later, Carlene came huffing up. "No luck," she panted. "Where could she have gone?"
"I don't know." Trembling, still holding the empty leash, Diedre put her face in her hands and began to cry.
A gentle hand touched her shoulder. "Excuse me?"
Diedre looked up into the clear, hazel eyes of a stout middle-aged woman with hair graying around the temples.
"Were you looking for a dog—a little one, blonde, about so high?"
"Yes!" Diedre grabbed the woman by the hand. "Have you seen her?"
"She crossed the trolley tracks and went the other way on Occidental, down toward Jackson Street. About five minutes ago, I think."
Infused with fresh adrenaline, Diedre jumped to her feet, thanked the woman profusely, and headed in the direction the woman had indicated. She could hear Carlene straggling along behind, gasping, "Go on . . . I'll . . . catch up."
The other end of Occidental Street, away from the park, proved to be a wide, shaded walking boulevard with lush trees in the center and buildings of dark red brick on either side. Like the square, it was paved with cobblestones, and the uneven terrain made running difficult. Diedre peered down the length of the street, calling, "Here, Sugarbear. Come on, girl."
As she slowed a bit to catch her breath, Carlene caught up and fell into step beside her. "I can't lose her," Diedre said miserably. "I just can't."
"We'll find her; let's keep looking."
Just as Diedre was peering into a dark crevice behind a set of low brick stairs, the door above her opened and a man stepped out onto the stoop. He was tall and thin, with salt-and-pepper hair and a neatly groomed gray beard, and wore immaculately pressed khaki slacks, a starched denim shirt, and a tan and blue necktie. At his side stood a massive golden retriever. "Is this who you're searching for?"
In his arms he held a small bundle of blonde fur.
Once Diedre had determined that Sugarbear was all right, none the worse for her little adventure, all the adrenaline drained out of her and she felt as if she could no longer stand up.
"Please come in," the man said, opening the door and motioning them inside. "You look as if you need to sit down."
"I was just so worried," Diedre murmured. "Sugarbear, how could you?"
The man laid a hand on the golden's broad head. "Meet Casey. He's the bad influence, I'm afraid. He sneaked out a while ago—a bad habit, although he usually doesn't go very far—and your little Sugarbear followed him down here." He ushered Diedre and Carlene through several large rooms int
o a small parlor and invited them to sit. "Don't be too hard on her, now; I think she's in love with my handsome guy."
Diedre sank into a cushioned chair. "Thank you so much for rescuing her. We're just visiting, and she doesn't know her way around. I was afraid—"
"I know. They're like family, aren't they?" The man came over beside Diedre and fondled Sugarbear's ears. "Allow me to introduce myself. I'm Andrew Jorgensen. This is my home, and out there—," he motioned to the rooms they had passed through on their way to the parlor, "is my gallery."
Diedre had been so upset over Sugarbear's disappearance that she hadn't noticed much of her surroundings. Now she saw she was in a tastefully decorated sitting room with an exquisite marble fireplace as its centerpiece. The lamp on the table at her elbow had to be a Tiffany, and she was pretty certain that every piece in the room was authentic; not a reproduction in sight.
"I'm Diedre—Diedre McAlister," she stammered. "This is my friend Carlene Donovan. And of course you've met Sugarbear."
"If you'll excuse me for a moment, I was just making tea. You'll join me, of course?"
"That's very generous of you, but we don't want to take up any more of your time, Mr. Jorgensen." Diedre began rummaging in her pockets for Sugarbear's collar and leash.
"Nonsense. Just stay put. It won't take a moment."
"This is some place," Carlene said when he was gone. "I wish I had some of these pieces for Mountain Arts." She got up and began wandering toward the doorway.
Diedre remained in the chair with Sugarbear firmly on her lap. She craned her neck to see what Carlene was doing. "Don't go snooping."
"I'm not snooping. This is an art gallery; he said so. I just want to take a look around."
The golden retriever, Casey, came to stand beside Diedre and laid his long nose over the arm of the chair, gazing at her with liquid brown eyes. "You're a sweet boy," she said, stroking his silky head. "Thanks for taking care of my baby." Casey licked her hand and nuzzled at Sugarbear, who quivered all over.
Carlene's voice drifted in from the next room. "Diedre, come here a minute. You've got to see this."
"Carlene, I don't think we should—"
"Come in here—now."
Diedre set Sugarbear on the floor next to Casey. "Be good," she commanded. "You've had all the trouble you're allowed for one day." She went into the next room and found Carlene staring at a display of small table top sculptures on glass shelves.
"What do you make of this?"
Diedre drew closer and looked. At the center of the display, crafted in oatmeal-colored clay and rendered with breathtaking detail, sat a likeness of a teenage girl clasping hands with a very young child. The little girl's feet were just about to lift off from the ground in flight, and her face bore an expression of absolute ecstasy.
Diedre felt all the blood rush out of her head, and she clutched at Carlene's arm for support. Her eyes blurred with tears, so that she could barely make out the writing on the tag: Two Sisters. Original by local artist. SOLD.
"It's magnificent, isn't it?"
Diedre turned to see Andrew Jorgensen hovering behind them.
"This is the very first piece of hers, to my knowledge, to come on the market, to be displayed and sold," Jorgensen explained. "She's a local artist. A fine eye, don't you think?" He grinned. "I rather like to think of myself as the one who discovered her."
"I have to have it," Diedre blurted out.
"Oh, I'm sorry, that's quite impossible. As you can see, it's already sold. A gentleman saw it in the shop just yesterday and purchased it on the spot. But he had other business to attend to and said he'd be coming in next week to pick it up. Quite a tidy sum for a small sculpture, I might add." His brow furrowed into a frown when he saw Diedre's expression. "I have a number of other pieces by that same artist—stoneware, mostly. Vases and such."
She shook her head.
"Let's have tea, shall we?" Jorgensen directed them back toward the sitting room.
Diedre's head was beginning to clear, and the tea helped. She nibbled on a sugar cookie and tried to catch her breath. Carlene sat next to her on the sofa, her eyes fixed on Diedre's face, saying nothing.
At last Diedre found her voice. "About that artist—I need her name and address."
Andrew Jorgensen busied himself with rearranging the tea tray. "I'm sorry, Miss McAlister, but that's quite impossible. I can't give out the home addresses of the artists whose work I carry. I have a responsibility to protect their privacy. You and your friend seem like nice young women, and Casey here is a very good judge of character—" He paused, stroking the golden retriever under the chin. "But it's a firm policy of mine, and of every other reputable dealer in town, not to disseminate such personal information. Just yesterday a man came into my shop asking questions about this very same artist—"
Carlene jerked to attention. "A big muscular guy, in a dark suit and T-shirt?"
Jorgensen stared at her. "Exactly. Do you know him?"
"I think he's been following us."
"Following you? A most reprehensible-looking fellow. I did not, as you might expect, entrust him with any pertinent information whatsoever."
"That's a relief."
"Forget about him!" Diedre blurted out, more suddenly than she had intended. She turned a pleading gaze in Jorgensen's direction. "Can you at least give me her name—the artist who created that sculpture?"
"Of course. Her name is Chaney. Amber Chaney."
Diedre's eyes stung, and her face went cold and clammy. Carlene was gripping her hand so tightly that she couldn't feel her fingers. "Chaney. Of course."
Andrew Jorgensen stared at her with an expression of concern. "Are you quite all right, Miss McAlister?"
"It makes sense," Diedre murmured, half to herself and half to Carlene.
"If I were going to change my name, I'd pick something that connected me to someone I loved." She shook her head. "I should have thought of it. I should have known that—"
"Excuse me," Andrew Jorgensen interrupted. "Not that it's any of my business, but would someone care to fill me in on what's going on here?"
Diedre swiped aside a tear that had streaked down her cheek. "Amber Chaney is my sister."
"We've come to Seattle looking for her," Carlene added. "It's—well, a little complicated. Diedre hasn't seen her sister in over twenty years."
"Then how do you know—?"
Carlene left the room and came back in a minute bearing the Two Sisters sculpture. She pushed the tea tray to one side and set the statue down on the coffee table. "Look at Diedre's face, and then look at the face of the older girl."
Andrew looked. "My stars," he breathed at last. "I believe there is a resemblance."
"Chaney was our mother's maiden name." Diedre dug in her bag and came up with her driver's license. "It's my middle name, as you can see."
"Yes, but—"
"My sister disappeared from my life when I was very small—three or four years old, maybe. And that statue is a representation of the only memory I have of her." Diedre turned toward Carlene. "It wasn't just a dream. It really happened. She's alive. She's here. And she remembers."
Andrew warmed up the tea, and the young woman named Diedre McAlister told him the whole story—about what she called the Spinning Dream, the discovery that her sister was still alive, the letters and postcard, the trip to Seattle to try to find her. All during her narrative, his eyes darted back and forth from the Two Sisters to the young woman's face. This was turning into quite an adventure—a mystery, dropped square into his lap.
By the time Diedre was finished, he was wiping his eyes with a paper napkin. "And so," she concluded, "I've come to see her, to try to reconnect with her. To get some answers. Will you help us?"
"Of course, of course."
"What can you tell us about her?" the friend, Carlene, asked.
"Well, she's a very promising artist. She lives on a farm out in Kitsap County, across the Sound. With a couple of friends—a brother a
nd sister. She has a good life, I think. Although she does seem to be a rather quiet person—almost sad. Rather withdrawn and self-protective. I can't say I know her well."
"So you don't really know how she might respond to the idea of seeing me," Diedre said.
"There's only one way of finding out." Andrew excused himself, went to his office, and came back with a Rolodex card. "Here's her address and telephone number." He watched while Diedre copied the information onto a napkin. "Shall we call her?"
The young woman cast a panicked look at her friend. "I—uh—"
Carlene jumped in. "I think it might be better to do this in person, don't you, Diedre?"
Diedre agreed, and Andrew stifled a rush of disappointment. He did so hate to be left out of things. But he gathered himself together and determined to be gracious. "I probably should call her for permission, but in this case—well, what a wonderful surprise it will be for her—I'll give you directions. It's a bit complicated, getting there, so let me explain it a bit. You have a car, is that right? Then take the ferry to Bainbridge Island, and—"
Diedre barely heard Andrew Jorgensen's instructions, but Carlene was writing everything down and nodding as if she understood, so she didn't concern herself with the details. All she could think about was the fact that her sister was alive, and little more than an hour away from where they sat this very minute.
Her eyes lingered on the statue, tracing the fluid lines of windblown hair and clasped hands and little feet about to take off from the ground. Objectively speaking, it was a beautiful piece, but Diedre couldn't be certain of her objectivity. She looked at the faces and saw . . .
Home. Belonging.
"First thing tomorrow morning," Carlene was saying as she stood and accepted Andrew Jorgensen's business card. "And yes, we'll let you know how it turns out."
The Amber Photograph Page 16