The Amber Photograph

by Penelope J. Stokes

  "Which one?"

  He laughed as if she had just said something exceedingly funny, but Diedre couldn't see the humor. Weren't they surrounded by mountains on all sides? The student shrugged and shook his head. "When locals say, 'The mountain is out,' they're only referring to one." He pointed. "The big one. Mount Rainier."

  Diedre followed his gesture, and her breath caught in her throat. There it was in the distance—the massive, snowcapped peak of Mount Rainier, rising like a vision out of nowhere.

  "It's probably fifty or sixty miles away," he went on. "But even from this distance, it's pretty stupendous."

  It was a magnificent sight, huge and lonely, with its base hidden in mist and its high slopes lit by the morning sun. Nothing at all like the lush layers of green and purple and indigo that made up the Blue Ridge back in North Carolina. She wished she had her camera, but it was locked in the trunk of the Lexus three decks below. For a fraction of a second Diedre forgot her apprehension and let her soul fill with the beauty of this natural wonder.

  But it didn't last long. The ferry veered around a wooded point, and Mount Rainier vanished from sight. More quickly than she expected, the ferry dock at Bainbridge Island slid into view, and everyone scattered into the depths of the great iron monster that carried them.

  "We'd better get back to the car," Carlene said. "Come on; I think the elevator is this way."

  By the time they had driven off the ferry and found Route 305 heading through a place called Suquamish, Diedre's jitters had turned into major anxiety. Her mind had difficulty getting around the truth, but her nerves clearly understood the reality of the situation: for the first time in more than twenty years, Diedre McAlister was about to stand face to face with the sister she remembered only in her dreams.

  "It looks deserted," Carlene said. "Are you sure this is the right place?"

  "The sign on the fence said Elkhorn. We passed the llama pasture on Clear Creek Road, just like Mr. Jorgensen said. This has to be it."

  They sat for a moment, peering through the windshield at the log house that stood in a clearing surrounded by fir trees so tall they seemed to stretch to heaven itself. The main part of the house, rectangular in shape, had a narrow front porch and dormer windows peering from the second-story roof like curious eyes. On one side, a single-level addition stuck out like an afterthought.

  "Look at those logs," Diedre hedged, trying desperately to buy a little more time. "They have to be two feet in diameter."

  "There's a light on. Let's go knock."

  Diedre grabbed Carlene's arm and held her back. "I don't know. Maybe we should just—"

  "Just what? Just leave, after coming all this way? I don't think so." Carlene got out from behind the wheel and stood hanging on the open car door, glaring in at Diedre. "If you want to sit out here until you're fifty, that's fine with me. I'm going in." She slammed the door.

  "Oh, all right," Diedre muttered. She leaned over the seat and patted Sugarbear on the head. "You stay here, girl. We won't be long." Then with an exasperated sigh, she heaved herself out of the car and reluctantly followed Carlene up to the porch.

  "Hello? Is anyone home?" Carlene called. No answer. She peered through the frosted glass of the front door. "I can see light. It almost looks like you can see straight through the house to the back." She raised a hand to knock on the door, and it gave a little under the pressure. "It's open!"

  Diedre took a step back. "Carlene, you are not going in there."

  "Of course I am. Didn't you notice anything on the way here? We're in the country." She opened the door a little wider and stepped inside, calling, "Hello? Anybody home?" as she went.

  Trembling, Diedre followed. She could just imagine the headlines: LOCALS CAPTURE FEMALE TRESPASSERS: TAR AND FEATHERING AT ELEVEN.

  The front door opened into a small foyer, where a wide set of rough hewn steps went up on the left. Carlene had been right about the light: straight ahead of them, daylight streamed into the house, and when they had gone a bit farther, Diedre could see why. The foyer opened up into a sizable kitchen, dining room, and huge post-and-beam living room with a vaulted ceiling and stone fireplace. On the back side, away from the road, tall windows with a couple of doors opened onto a wide covered porch.

  The old house was impressive, but what stunned Diedre most was the view—a vista more magnificent than any she could possibly have imagined. They were sitting on a high bluff, and trees had been cut away to reveal a wide canal flanked on the other side by low rolling hills, and beyond that, a jagged mountain range that seemed to go on forever. It looked like photographs she had seen of the Norwegian fjords, a rugged landscape carved by glaciers a million years ago.

  "Can you believe that?" Carlene whispered. "It's incredible."

  Diedre opened her mouth to answer, but before a sound could come out, she heard a noise behind them, a definitive click.

  Then a voice spoke—a low, angry drawl. "I wouldn't make any sudden moves if I was you. Now turn around—nice and slow."

  Diedre turned, her heart pumping madly, and what she saw made her feel as if she had suddenly been transported into a grade-B western.

  A double-barreled shotgun was pointed directly at her head. And holding it, with his finger on both triggers, stood a man as tall as a tree with a hide like old leather. A shock of white hair fell across his brow as he motioned toward the sofa with his head. "Sit down, both of you," he commanded. "Sam, call 911 and tell 'em to send the sheriff."

  A movement at the big man's side drew Diedre's attention. It was a small boy, no more than six or seven, with wide blue eyes and shaggy blond hair. He was staring at her, transfixed.

  "Sam, now!" the man repeated.

  "Grandpa, no. Look at her. She looks just like Amber!"

  Between the excited interruptions of the little boy and the information provided by the grandfather, Diedre had finally begun to get the gist of things. At least the old man had put the gun down and wasn't threatening to shoot their heads off. She and Carlene had introduced themselves, apologized for coming into the house uninvited, and retrieved Sugarbear from the car. Sam was now sitting on the hearth rug with her, obviously enthralled. He had taken off one boot and made a ball from his sock, and the two of them were playing a rambunctious game of fetch.

  Yes, they were in the right place, Houston said. This was the Elkhorn property, and Amber Chaney did live here. Joseph Elkhorn, whom little Sam called Twojoe, was not here at the moment, nor were his sister Meg or Amber. Something about a fire and an injury and going to the hospital in the middle of the night.

  "Twojoe oughta be home real soon," the grandfather, who had introduced himself as Colonel Vernon Houston, repeated. "With the fire and all, I figured we'd better keep an eye on the place. Whoever done it might still be lurking around."

  Did he actually think this fire—it destroyed part of the barn, Diedre gathered—was deliberately set? "Surely you don't think the fire was the work of an arsonist?"

  "Can't rightly see how it could be otherwise," Vernon Houston drawled. "Don't know much in the way of details yet, though. Reckon Twojoe'll call when he's got some news on Amber."

  Diedre stared at him. "Wait a minute. Amber was the one hurt in the fire?" She felt her face go clammy, and Carlene, on the couch beside her, gripped her hand and gave her a worried glance.

  Houston eyed her warily. "What did you say your connection with Amber was, Miss McAlister?"

  Diedre hesitated. She hadn't said anything, not really. Just that she had come to see Amber, and that it was personal. There was no point in telling everybody her business, after all.

  Sam, however, heard his grandfather's question and stopped his game with Sugarbear. He stood up and limped over to stand in front of her with one foot bare and the other encased in a cowboy boot. "I told you, Grandpa," he said quietly, without ever taking his gaze off Diedre's face. "She's the one in the statue. The sister." He tilted his head curiously. "She missed you," he whispered. "She got really sad without yo
u."

  "I was sad without her, too, Sam."

  "I know. I told her so."

  A lump formed in Diedre's throat, and she reached out to take the boy's hand. "What else did you tell her?"

  He smiled. "I told her you never really let go of somebody you love."

  28

  Family Matters

  Amber's eyes slit open to see the wavering, indistinct shape of a tall, dark man looming above her. A warning bell went off in her mind somewhere, and she shrank away from him. Then her vision cleared. It was Twojoe, with Meg at his side gripping his arm. Twojoe was filthy, his face smudged with black, his eyes rimmed in red. Meg looked exhausted—and worried.

  "Where am I?" The words sounded strange in her ears, the utterings of a strangled frog. Her throat ached, and when she swallowed, it felt like liquid fire going down. She looked at her hands, both of which were swathed in bandages.

  Twojoe blinked. "You're in the hospital. You have a concussion and some burns, and you took in some smoke. But the doctor says you'll be all right, thank God."

  "There was a fire?" Amber tried to sit up, but her head spun, and she sank back down on the pillow.

  "Don't you remember? The barn was on fire. Lloser sounded the alarm."

  "I can't—I don't—" Amber shook her head, a movement that made the throbbing at the base of her skull worse. "The barn burned?" she repeated.

  "Part of it. It's salvageable, with some work. But let's not worry about that right now. What's important is getting you well." Twojoe reached to take her hand, then drew back, his eyes fixed on the bandages.

  Amber knew there was some reason she should be concerned about the barn burning, but she couldn't quite locate it. Something about a job she had to do, about saving the farm, about her future with Twojoe. Did she have a future with Twojoe? She couldn't remember. Everything was all mixed up. She vaguely recalled feeling something about him—last night or last week or—when was it? What was it? And she had a nebulous image of him looking down on her from above, kissing her. Had he done that? Had she imagined it? Or maybe it was the llama, standing over her. She couldn't make her mind put it all together. It was like fragments of a dream that should have meant something important, if she could just get it back . . .

  "We're going to go now. You need to rest. We'll be back later." He leaned over her and carefully pressed his lips to her forehead. Meg came and stroked her hair back from her eyes, murmuring something Amber couldn't hear. She closed her eyes, and the darkness rolled over her, pressing her into oblivion.

  Twojoe didn't speak during the entire drive back to the farm. His heart lay in his chest like a lump of lead. He ought to be relieved; the doctor, after all, had assured them that Amber would heal just fine, although the concussion might cause her some disorientation for a while. Still, he couldn't stop the selfish feelings that assailed him. Twenty-four hours ago, they had been celebrating the miracle. Amber had had work. They had all had hope. And from the way she had looked at him in the candlelight at the restaurant, he had dared to let himself believe that she might be opening up to the idea of loving him. Now everything was gone, burned to ashes. Couldn't God, just once, give him a break? Meg sat in the passenger seat of the truck, staring out the window. He suspected his sister was praying—for Amber, and probably for him. Meg always knew what he was thinking, but her instincts were balanced with an innate discretion that kept her from prying into his soul at a time like this. She loved him enough to allow him his privacy, and she had enough discernment to know when to keep her insights to herself. It was a gift for which Twojoe was deeply grateful.

  Not until they turned off Clear Creek Road into the long gravel drive that led up to the farmhouse did Meg speak. She laid a hand gently on his arm, looked into his eyes, and said, "It'll work out, Twojoe."

  That was all. But her confidence and trust were enough to bolster his flagging faith.

  She had introduced herself as Diedre Chaney McAlister. Twojoe couldn't keep from staring at her—she was a younger version of Amber, with the same dark hair and eyes, the same chin, even the same dimple on the left side of her mouth when she smiled. He had no doubt that the girl was telling the truth, that she was indeed the sister Amber had not seen for more than twenty years. As soon as he had laid eyes on her, he had known.

  Twojoe and Meg had come home from the hospital to find a champagne-colored Lexus in the driveway and Sam and Vernon entertaining two young women and a small dog in the living room of the farmhouse. Twojoe had excused himself to take a quick shower, and when he returned, Meg was talking with the two of them as if they were long-lost friends.

  The Colonel was obviously taken with both girls, but especially with Diedre's exuberant friend Carlene. He laughed uproariously at her stories of driving the Tackyville Highway and collecting hideous memorabilia along the way. At the moment the two of them were speculating about how many tacky places they could find in Texas to add to the list.

  Little Sam apparently regarded Diedre as his own personal discovery. He sat at her feet with the dog in his lap, gazing adoringly at her and insisting that he knew right away that Diedre and Amber were sisters. "I was just about to tell Diedre how Amber saved my life when I fell through the trapdoor in the barn," Sam told Twojoe excitedly. "And then I was gonna take her down to the pasture to meet Lloser and Llittle Bit."

  "Maybe that should wait for just a while," Meg intervened. "Why don't you come out to the kitchen with me, Sam, and help me put together some lunch for all of us?"

  "Do I have to?"

  Meg smiled. "I think so."

  "But that's women's work!" The boy puffed out his chest to demonstrate his manliness.

  "Not so," she countered, raising a warning finger in his direction. "Many of the great chefs of the world are men. And besides, in this house we don't have women's work and men's work."

  "You do so," Sam argued. "Twojoe takes care of the llamas, and you do the cooking."

  "That's because he likes working with the llamas, and I like to cook. And if you had ever tasted his cooking, you'd realize that it was a very sensible arrangement."

  Twojoe reached down and lifted Sam up until his boots dangled in midair. "We'll go see the llamas later, sport," he said. "Right now you need to give me a chance to talk to Diedre, all right?"

  "Okay. I guess." Dragging his feet, Sam followed Meg toward the kitchen, giving Diedre a soulful glance over his shoulder as he went.

  "He's a great kid," Diedre said as Twojoe turned his attention back to her.

  "Yes, he is. He's become a member of the family, and we're crazy about him. Vernon and Emmaline, too. They're good people."

  "So I gather." Diedre's smile faded, and a shadow filled her eyes. "The Colonel told us what happened last night. Is Sis—ah, my sister—going to be all right?"

  "She received second-degree burns on her hands and arms, some lung irritation from smoke inhalation, and a fairly serious concussion. It could have been a lot worse. She'll need to be in the hospital for another day or two, and according to the doctor, she may have a little residual disorientation, but she'll be just fine."

  "That's a relief."

  Diedre cocked her head and regarded him with a curious expression, as if she were evaluating him. Twojoe felt a slow flush creep up his neck. "Is something wrong?"

  "No." She paused. "It's just—well, forgive me for saying so, but you seem very articulate for a—a farmer."

  He burst out laughing and shook his head. "That's exactly the kind of thing Amber might have said. You are more like your sister than you realize."

  "I trust that's a compliment."

  "It is. It certainly is." For a split second Twojoe drifted, distracted by his thoughts of Amber and a wave of longing for the intimacy he might never have with her. Then he recovered himself and continued. "To answer your question, in my former life I was a CPA from Berkeley. The corporate world didn't agree with me. When our mother died, I came home to settle the estate and decided to stay."

  I
f Diedre McAlister caught a glimpse of his feelings for Amber, she didn't reveal it in her expression. She said, simply, "It seems that my sister has found a good life here, with a loving family to support her."

  "Your sister is an extremely talented artist and a wonderful woman." Twojoe looked away, in case his own face might give him away. "She and Meg have been close friends for a long time, ever since—" He stopped abrupdy, uncomfortable with where the sentence was leading him.

  "Ever since the hospital?" Diedre gazed at him intently. "Yes, I'm aware of that—well, not the details, but I know she spent a long time there." She closed her eyes for a moment. "I guess I have a lot of questions."

  "I'm sure Amber will, too," Twojoe responded gently. "And in case you're wondering, I don't think you have anything to worry about in coming here to find her. She'll be thrilled. Do you want me to take you to the hospital to see her?"

  Diedre shook her head. "Thanks for the encouragement, but I don't think that would be a wise idea. My coming here is bound to be something of a shock to her, even if she is glad to see me. It might be better all the way around if I waited until she's released and is feeling better. If you can give me a recommendation of a place nearby that allows pets, Carlene and I will take Sugarbear and check into a hotel for a few days."

  "There's the Viking Motel out on the highway, but you'd be welcome to stay here with us," Twojoe offered. "It's not much—"

  She interrupted him with a wave of her hand. "It's beautiful—especially the view."

  "The house was built by my ancestors a hundred years ago, and added onto here and there over the years. It could do with a little maintenance, I suppose, but—" Joe clamped his mouth shut. Diedre McAlister might be Amber's long-lost sister, but she was a virtual stranger to them. And Elkhorns didn't burden strangers with their financial difficulties.

  Suddenly the truth closed in on Twojoe like a suffocating blanket. They had been counting on Amber's new sculpture to get them out of the hole. He hadn't had a chance yet to assess all the fire damage, but he was pretty sure there wasn't much left of her studio except a pile of ashes. Amber's hands were badly burned. Her workspace was gone, her kiln in ruins. She couldn't possibly finish the project in time. He wasn't sure that even someone who appreciated her work enough to commission a large project like this would wait forever, especially with a ten-thousand dollar advance in limbo.