The Amber Photograph

by Penelope J. Stokes

  "I don't think you need the distraction of two strangers in the house," Diedre was saying. "The Colonel invited us to come and stay with them, but I don't want to burden anyone."

  Twojoe dragged himself back to focus on the conversation. "I'm sure Vernon and Emmaline would enjoy your company," he managed. "He and your friend Carlene seem to be getting on like two cows in clover, and it's clear that Sam adores you just like he does your sister."

  She chuckled. "Carlene has never met a stranger. It seems she and the Colonel are cut from the same cloth."

  "Well then, the choice is pretty clear."

  "It's a very generous gesture," Diedre hedged. "And I'm tempted to accept, just for the sake of being close by. But two extra people and a dog can fill up a house in a hurry. Do you think they would have enough room?"

  Twojoe thought about what Vernon Houston called "Emmaline's summer house," with its six huge bedroom suites, multilevel decks overlooking the canal and mountains, and separate two-bedroom guest cottage adjacent to the pool. He chuckled to himself as he imagined the look on Diedre's face when she got her first glimpse of the place.

  "Might be a bit cramped," he said with a grave nod. "But I expect they'd be disappointed if you didn't accept."

  Diedre hadn't realized how hungry she was until she sat down at the kitchen table to a lunch of smoked salmon, cheese, fresh fruit, and sourdough bread. All the apprehensions associated with this trip had diminished her appetite, but the inviting presence of Meg and Twojoe Elkhorn and their friends—and their assurance that her sister would, indeed, be delighted with the unexpected reunion—caused that knot of tension in her stomach to relax. She ate ravenously.

  Earlier in the morning, before Twojoe and Meg had arrived, she had put off the Colonel's questions, claiming she'd rather wait until everyone got home so that she'd only have to recount the story once. The truth was, Diedre was uncertain how much she really wanted to reveal. At first she had intended to leave certain parts out—Mama's death and the mind-bending revelation that Daddy was not her real father. But they were all so warm and accepting that once she got into the account, she felt safe enough to tell it all.

  Everyone listened intently as she related events from her early years—the lifelong obsession with the sister she had never known; the recurrent dream in which she saw herself as a tiny child, spinning in the sunlight and laughing with an older girl.

  "Like the statue!" little Sam interjected, his face lighting up. "The statue of the Two Sisters! You both remembered it."

  "Yes, we both had the same memory, Sam." Diedre smiled at him. "Only I didn't know it was a real memory. I thought it was just a dream—until I saw the sculpture at Mr. Jorgensen's gallery."

  "And Sugarbear led you right to it," Sam went on, picking the dog up and setting her on his lap. "You're a real hero, Sugarbear."

  "Yes, she is," Meg agreed. "She is, however, a dog, and dogs should not be at the table. Please put her down."

  Reluctantly Sam obeyed, but sneaked a bit of smoked salmon to Sugarbear when he thought no one was looking.

  Diedre continued with her tale, explaining how she had been led to believe that her sister was dead, and didn't know otherwise until after Mama's funeral, when she discovered the letters and birth certificate in the cigar box.

  "Sugarbear found those, too!" Sam interrupted, but fell silent again when the Colonel gave him a hard look.

  "I'm so sorry to hear about your mother's death," Meg said quietly. "Amber doesn't talk much about her family, but I know she loved her mother a great deal. And I knew about you, of course—at least in sketchy terms. It seems she has a lot of pain associated with her thoughts of home."

  "I'm sure she does," Diedre agreed, fighting back the lump that rose in her throat. "My father—that is, her father—I guess he didn't feel like they could handle her anymore. He had her placed in a hospital—" She stopped suddenly and slanted a glance in Sam's direction. "Well, you know."

  A somberness settled over the table, and Diedre went on. "Anyway, when I found the birth certificate and realized that my father wasn't who I had always believed him to be, it explained a lot."

  She produced the browned photograph of her sister sitting on her father's lap in the big armchair. "You can see from the picture how much he adored her. He never felt that way about me."

  Twojoe and Meg exchanged a significant glance.

  "Is something wrong?"

  Meg stared at the picture, and Twojoe averted his eyes. "Amber created a sculpture similar to this, except with—" she hesitated for a moment until Twojoe nodded in her direction, "some subtle differences."

  "What kind of differences?"

  Meg bit her lip. "I think I'd rather leave that story for Amber to tell. Please, go on."

  Ruffled, Diedre gathered her thoughts and continued. "Once all this came out after Mama's funeral, I knew I had to find my sister and learn the truth. But I also needed some time to think about what was happening in my life, the confusion I was facing surrounding my identity." She looked around the table and forced a smile. "Everything happened so fast—losing Mama, discovering the reality about Daddy and—," she stumbled over the unfamiliar name— "and Amber. I suddenly had no idea who I was. That's one reason I drove here rather than flying—to give myself time and space to sort everything out."

  Meg reached across the table and laid a hand on Diedre's arm. "I can imagine how all this would make you feel—grief over your mother's death; excitement and anticipation, probably mixed with a fair amount of fear, at the realization that Amber was still alive. Not to mention anger at the man you had called your father, and anxiety over the possibility of finding out who your real father is. If there's anything we can do to help—"

  Diedre stared at Meg. How could she identify so succinctly what Diedre was feeling? Despite the fact that she had to be close to her sister's age, she looked so young and innocent. "Are you a counselor?" she blurted out.

  Meg laughed. "No. Why do you ask?"

  "Because you've nailed me so accurately. Twojoe said earlier that you and my sister met in . . . in Raleigh. I thought maybe—"

  "I have a good deal of experience with therapy—if that's what you're asking," Meg answered quietly. "I was a patient. Just like Amber."

  Diedre felt all the blood drain from her face. "I—I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry." But the truth was, she did want to pry. She wanted answers to a hundred questions, questions she wasn't sure she'd be able to ask once she was face to face with Sissy. Still, she couldn't expect Meg to—

  "Go ahead," Meg said, as if she'd read Diedre's mind. "What do you need to know?"

  Diedre exhaled heavily. "When I asked Daddy about all this, he told me she was—well, unbalanced, not right."

  "Is she crazy, you mean?"

  The blunt words shocked Diedre as if an icy hand had gripped her heart, but she nodded. The question hung in the air between them, and silence descended as Meg held Diedre's gaze. "Amber has endured a lot of pain in her life," Meg said at last. "Some of it I know; some I can only guess at. But I can tell you this: Amber Chaney is one of the most right people I know. You'll see for yourself, soon enough."

  The cold fingers of dread released in Diedre's chest, replaced by a warmth almost as comforting as Meg Elkhorn's compassionate touch.

  "I've waited twenty years," she whispered. "Nothing short of yesterday is soon enough for me."

  29

  Counting the Cost

  Drifting back from that nebulous place between wakefulness and slumber, Amber heard footsteps approaching the door of her hospital room. Probably the nurses coming to check on her—which they seemed to do every hour. It was hard getting a good night's sleep in a hospital. If she kept her eyes shut and pretended to be asleep, maybe they wouldn't disturb her.

  The door opened, and a crack of light streamed in from the hall. The bright beam settled across her closed eyelids, sending an impression of moving red shapes to her brain. Then the door swung shut again, and all was dark
and quiet.

  Good. The nurse or whoever it was had gone away, leaving her to the healing power of sleep. Her whole body cried out for rest, for relief from the fire that still burned in her arms and hands, for the blessed oblivion that came when darkness eased the pain at the base of her skull. She turned her face away from the door and let out a deep, relaxing sigh.

  Then she heard it: the sound of someone breathing. Her eyes snapped open, and she came fully awake. Although she didn't move, every nerve in her body jumped to attention. She strained her ears, but the pounding of her own heart was so loud she could hear nothing else. She could feel the blood pulsing in her temples, feel the rush of adrenaline surging through her veins.

  Someone was in the room with her.

  She heard one step. A pause. Another step. The inky blackness of the hospital room closed in upon her.

  No, no, NO! her mind screamed. But the steps drew closer, bringing with them a sickly sweet smell, something vaguely familiar. She had felt it before—this terror in the darkness. Heard the heavy, hesitating footsteps, smelled the same rancid, nauseating odor.

  The breathing was louder now, nearer, carrying a stench of liquor and stale tobacco. The presence hovered over her.

  Amber turned her head just in time to see the black outline of a hand above her. It clamped roughly over her mouth. She squinted, trying to make out the face, but all she could discern was a shadowed bulk and a slash of white against the blackness, white as the bandages that swathed her own hands.

  "I'm watching you," a slurred voice whispered in the darkness. "I know every move you make. What happened to you was an accident, you understand? You're going to leave this place, disappear so that no one will ever be able to find you—if you don't do it for yourself, I'm going to do it for you. And don't tell a soul. You got it?"

  Amber nodded.

  The huge hand slid down to her throat, and a powerful thumb clamped down on the vein that throbbed just below her right ear. "I found you once; I can find you again. Besides, I know where your friends live. The next time an accident happens, it might be one of them. You breathe a word of this to anyone and—" The fingers tightened around her neck. "You know what will happen, don't you?"

  She nodded again.

  "Good," the voice rasped. "We understand each other."

  The hand released her, and Amber lay trembling, her eyes clenched tighdy, until the footsteps retreated and the door closed softly behind them.

  Shiv slipped out the door and made his way down three flights of stairs into the chilly night. No one had seen him. Even in the dark room, he could tell the woman was terrified. She wouldn't talk, not in a million years.

  Underwood ought to pay him double for all the extra trouble this job had cost him. From now on, he'd stick to the simple stuff—bugging phones, snapping pictures of guys with their mistresses, calling in overdue loans. The money wasn't nearly as good, but the risks were easier to stomach. Breaking a few kneecaps wouldn't send him back to prison, and nobody in the loan shark business ever prosecuted, anyway. This business of going after a woman made him want to puke.

  When he reached his rental car, stowed away on the lower level of the deserted parking garage, he sank into the driver's seat, lit a cigarette with the car lighter, and pulled a flask from his pocket. He was almost finished. Just one more little detail to take care of, and he'd be home free.

  Amber tossed restlessly until the gray light of dawn crept through the blinds. When she came to, groggy and exhausted, the clock on the wall opposite her bed read 6:35.

  Her throat ached, and she was thirsty. The ice in the jug on the table had melted in the night, and the water was lukewarm, but she drank it anyway. It hurt terribly going down. She put a hand to her neck, and the memory came flooding back.

  It hadn't been a bad dream. Someone had been here, in her room in the middle of the night, threatening her.

  Gradually, like a picture coming into focus, she remembered everything she hadn't been able to recall yesterday. A man had been there, in the barn, pouring gasoline. He had struck her with the gas can and left her to die in the fire. But not before she had hit him in the head—

  Of course! The white patch she saw in the darkness—it was a bandage, over the cut she had inflicted with the fire extinguisher. Whoever had set the fire had come back. Not to finish her off, apparently—he could have done that last night—but to warn her to disappear, and never to say a word, or someone would get killed.

  There was something else, too, a vague, misplaced image that had to do with Twojoe hovering over her as she lay on the ground outside the barn. Something about... a kiss.

  The memory returned on a warm, gentle tide. Just before she had gone to the barn to sketch out her ideas for the new sculpture, she had felt something—a calming presence, freeing her, reassuring her. She and Twojoe were meant to be together. He would accept her. It would be all right. She could let herself trust him and . . . and love him.

  No, you can't, a voice inside her head objected. The man had not only threatened Amber, he had threatened the people she loved. Meg. Twojoe. Maybe even Sam. He knew where they lived. The next time an "accident" happened, someone would be dead.

  Panic overwhelmed Amber so that she could barely breathe. She had no choice but to do what he demanded: tell no one, and disappear from this place as fast as she could.

  She had to run, to hide. She had to get away. She could still hear his footsteps in the dark, feel his hand around her throat, smell the liquor on his breath. It all seemed so sickeningly, eerily familiar. And his words: You know what will happen if you tell. . .

  But why? Why would anyone want to hurt her?

  Unbidden, an answer rose to the surface of her mind: Because you've grown up into such a beautiful young lady . . . sweet and innocent, pure and undefiled. Just like your mama. This is what women do when they're all grown up . . .

  Amber shook her head to rid herself of the intrusive memory. She was getting confused. The situations were similar, but—but her reaction was the same. Fear. Abject terror. Silence.

  The truth descended upon her in a rush. When she was a girl, she had no other choice but to submit. A child couldn't fight back. But now she was an adult, and something had happened, was happening, deep within her soul.

  She didn't have to give in. She could have faith. She could speak the truth and trust God for the outcome.

  She was no longer powerless.

  Even as the idea formed in Amber's mind, the knot in her stomach released. Her mind cleared, and the fear began to dissipate, replaced by a white-hot flame of rage. If this was how righteous anger felt, Amber liked the sensation. Her soul swelled with it, and resolution rose up on the crest of the wave.

  "No," she muttered under her breath. "Not this time. I'm through with being intimidated." Then, louder, exultantly, although her seared throat burned with the effort, she shouted to the empty room, "I WILL NOT GIVE IN!"

  The door flew open, and a white-clad nurse stood in the doorway, framed by the opening and backlit by the bright lights from the corridor. "Are you all right? I thought I heard yelling."

  Amber laughed out loud. "I'm fine. Really."

  The nurse stood back to admit a petite figure in dark gray slacks and a black clerical shirt.

  "For somebody who's been through hell and back," Father Susan said dryly, "you don't look so bad."

  Susan entered the room and regarded Amber Chaney with a measuring gaze. Was it just two nights ago they had celebrated Amber's success, what Meg called "the miracle commission"? At the restaurant, they had all been relaxed and happy, confident that God had answered their prayers and—at least for the time being—given them a reprieve from the worries that had plagued them.

  And now this. The fire. Amber in the hospital with burns and a concussion. Her studio in ruins. The commission, in Twojoe's opinion, a hopeless impossibility.

  Susan closed her eyes and sent up a brief prayer for wisdom. What on earth was she going to say to this woma
n whose tender faith was already dangling by a thread? That God has a purpose in everything? That struggles make you stronger? Cold comfort to someone whose future has already gone up in flames.

  She pulled a chair over next to the bed and sat down, eying Amber warily. The woman didn't appear to be disturbed or depressed or worried. Given her physical condition, she actually seemed in good spirits. A simple case of denial, perhaps?

  "How did you get in here?" Amber pointed toward the clock. "It's not even eight."

  Susan grinned. "This collar is like a skeleton key—it'll get you in almost anywhere. Even hospital regulations defer to the authority of the clergy."

  "Well, your timing is perfect. I assume Meg called you?"

  "Twojoe, actually. I would have come last night, but I had a vestry meeting and didn't get the message until after ten. I phoned the hospital, and they said you were on drugs and sleeping comfortably, so I decided to wait until this morning."

  "I wouldn't exactly say I slept comfortably." Amber pressed a button on the side of the bed and raised the head until she was sitting upright. "I was about to call you anyway. There are some things I need to talk to you about."

  "All right." Susan settled back in the chair and waited.

  "I had a visitor last night," Amber began. "Or maybe early this morning—I'm not sure of the time."

  Susan listened as Amber related the events from last night and worked backward, telling about the intruder and his threats, about the fire in the barn and how Amber clubbed him with the fire extinguisher.

  "And you're certain it was the same man?"