The Amber Photograph

by Penelope J. Stokes

  "We got special permission for Sam to come visit," the Colonel said in a whisper, "but we can only stay a few minutes. How you doing?"

  "I'm all right." She motioned for Sam to come sit beside her, and he clambered up onto the bed and set his bag down. "I don't seem to have any lasting effects from the concussion; it'll just take some time for the burns to heal."

  "Guess you won't be able to work for a while."

  "Probably not." Amber shook her head. "Besides, even if my hands were all right, I don't have a studio to go back to."

  Sam gazed at her with wide, blue eyes. "But you are going to be okay, aren't you, Amber?"

  "I'm going to be just fine. I'm coming home tomorrow."

  "That's good," Sam said with a grin. "'Cause we've got a BIG surprise for you."

  Amber shot a quizzical look at the Colonel, who raised his eyebrows. "Don't ask me; I'm not telling."

  "Well, then, I guess I'll just have to wait." Amber pointed toward the paper bag. "Does my surprise have anything to do with what's in there?"

  Sam nodded. "Kinda." He glanced at his grandfather. "I brought you something, Amber. It got a little messed up in the fire, but—" He pushed the paper bag in her direction.

  She held up her bandaged hands. "You'll have to open it for me, Sam. I don't have the use of my fingers right now."

  "Okay." He reached into the bag and came up with something blackened and charred, and laid it on the top of the blanket that covered Amber's lap. "I went in the barn and got it myself," he said proudly. "I know how much it means to you."

  Tears blurred Amber's eyes as she looked at it. It was the cast of the Two Sisters, irreparably mutilated by the fire.

  "You told me that long as you had this, you could make the statue again," Sam was saying excitedly. "And I knew you'd want to, 'cause—" He stopped suddenly, clapping a hand over his mouth.

  For a minute or two, she couldn't speak. Then she drew the boy into an enormous hug and held him there, blinking back the tears as she gazed over his head into the Colonel's seamed and weathered countenance. "Thank you," she whispered.

  "It was the best gift I could think of," Sam said, his voice muffled as he pressed his face against her. "I love you, Amber."

  "I love—," she choked out. "I love you, too."

  The Colonel shifted from one foot to the other and cleared his throat. "I think we'd better be going now."

  Sam gave Amber one last squeeze and climbed down from the bed.

  "Meg and Twojoe have invited us for dinner tomorrow, if you think you're up to it," the Colonel said as he held out a hand for Sam.

  "Of course. I'd be disappointed if you didn't come."

  "We'll see you tomorrow evening, then."

  When the door shut behind them, Amber just sat there staring at the plaster cast of the Two Sisters. Soot-covered and disfigured, it reminded her of grisly images she had seen in newsreels—a charred corpse, nearly unrecognizable as anything that ever held life or vitality or joy.

  Poor Sam. She could just see him in the barn, his angelic little face covered with sweat and grime, searching through the rubble and letting out a whoop of joy when he found the cast. He thought he was recovering something precious for her, but his gift only served to remind Amber of how much she had lost.

  Almost as quickly as it had appeared, the miracle had vanished. Gone were her studio, her plans, her kiln, the Two Sisters—even, for the time being, her hands. She had no idea how long it would be before she could mold clay or hold a sculpting knife. And what about the commission? She couldn't possibly complete it now. All their hopes and dreams had hinged upon that project. Without it, she couldn't buy a new kiln, reestablish a place to work, rebuild the barn. Without it, there wouldn't even be a barn—or a farm, for that matter. Or even a life.

  It all had come crashing down in one brief moment, dissolved to nothing in a flash of gasoline and fire.

  "Lord, I believe," she murmured through her tears, remembering the lines that Susan had quoted to her. "Help my unbelief."

  A knock on the door brought Amber to herself. She blotted her eyes with the bandages and swiped her hair back from her face. "Come in."

  The door opened a crack, and Vernon Houston's face reappeared. "Sam's waiting in the lobby. Can I have a minute alone with you?"

  "Sure."

  He entered the hospital room and sat down on the chair next to her bed, his long legs stretched out in front of him. "I reckon that's pretty much useless." He pointed to the ruined plaster cast.

  Amber nodded. "I'm afraid so."

  "Couldn't convince him otherwise. Nothing coulda stopped him going into that barn to retrieve it for you. It coulda still been on fire, and he woulda gone in after that thing.''

  "It was very sweet."

  "He said you'd want it more'n anything else in there."

  "He was right." Amber smiled. "Your grandson is a wonderful boy, Colonel. I hope he keeps that sensitivity as he gets older."

  "Yeah, me, too. Wouldn't want him to grow up into a nasty old buzzard like his grandpa."

  "He could do worse."

  The Colonel flushed red under his tan and grinned sheepishly, then sobered and straightened in his chair. "I need to talk serious for a minute." Amber nodded, and he went on. "Seems to me like you and Twojoe and Meg are gonna have to do a little regrouping."

  "You mean because of my injuries?" She nodded. "I've been thinking about that. The commission for that big project was a godsend, but—"

  "But you don't think it's gonna happen."

  "I doubt it." Her throat felt tight, and she strove to keep her voice from breaking. "The barn has to be repaired; even if the insurance covers it, there's still the deductible to think about. And who knows how long it might take to get a settlement? I don't know, Colonel. We're back to square one, I'm afraid. Or maybe even farther back than that."

  "Not quite." He reached into his pocket. "I've got something for you—"

  "Colonel, we can't take that," she protested automatically.

  "Hang on there, missy. You don't even know what it is yet."

  "You're a very generous man, Colonel, but you know how Twojoe feels about charity."

  "This ain't charity." He handed it to her.

  Amber gasped. It was a check for ten thousand four hundred dollars, made out to Amber Chaney, from Andrew Jorgensen's business account drawn on a Seattle bank. "What is this?"

  "I thought you said that concussion hadn't done any major damage." Houston chuckled. "It's a check. The down payment on the sculpture, plus the money for the Two Sisters, minus Mr. Jorgenson's 20 percent. It came in the mail yesterday, and since Twojoe's tied up with stuff at the farm and won't get here until later this afternoon, he gave it to me to give to you. Jorgensen called to make sure it arrived OK and said that the fella who commissioned the sculpture ain't in no big hurry. Said he'd wait long as it takes."

  Amber peered at the seamed, weather-beaten face. The Colonel's eyes were bright with mirth. He was hiding something. She could sense it. A sudden thought struck her, and she shook the check in his face.

  "It was you, wasn't it?"

  He frowned. "What do you mean?"

  "You know perfectly well what I mean." She fixed him with her most intense stare. "You're the one who commissioned the statue. A little boy and a llama—I should have guessed before."

  "I'm gonna go get the doctor. He needs to take another look at your head." The Colonel got to his feet.

  "You stay right where you are, Vernon Houston. You did it, didn't you? And unless I miss my guess, you're the one who bought the Two Sisters, too."

  His eyes slid off to one side and he twirled his hat nervously in his hands.

  "Look at me, Colonel. And tell me the truth."

  He let out an explosive sigh and swung back in her direction. "Dang it all, woman! You're just like my Emmaline. Never could put anything past her, not in a whole lifetime of lovin' her."

  Amber sank back against the pillows. "You can't do this
, Colonel."

  "Why not?"

  "You know why not."

  He peered at her intently. "You and Twojoe are just alike, Amber. Stubborn as a brace of old mules. This is business. I want that statue of my boy and the llama. And I want you to sculpt it, no matter how long I have to wait for it. Yeah, I also bought the Two Sisters. Sam loved it, and I figured it might just help him get through the grief of losing his own sister. Every time he looked at it, he'd be reminded of what he said to you—that you never really lose somebody you love."

  "But, Colonel," she protested, "a ten-thousand-dollar advance? And another ten when the project is completed? How am I supposed to see that as anything but a handout?"

  He set his hat on the floor and leaned over, taking both her bandaged hands gently in his. "It's about time you took a hard look at yourself, Amber Chaney. You're an artist. A good one. In time, maybe a great one. Twenty thousand is chicken feed for a fine sculpture. Once your name gets known, it'll double in value."

  Amber shook her head. "Pardon me for asking, Colonel, but since when are you an expert?" The words came out harsh, and she instantly regretted them. "I'm sorry," she murmured. "You're only trying to help. I shouldn't have said that."

  He stared at her for a minute, then let out a great booming laugh. "I own three Remingtons, Amber. And a Picasso—a small one. A Grant Wood and a couple of Andrew Wyeths. It's a mistake to underestimate me just 'cause I got a little dirt under my fingernails. I know a bit about art." He paused and grinned widely at her. "And yeah, maybe I am trying to help—trying to help a new artist get her feet under her. What the blazes is so awful about that?"

  She lowered her eyes. "Nothing."

  "Tell you what, Amber, I'll make a deal with you. You keep the ten thousand as an advance on the project. Get the barn fixed, replace your kiln, whatever else you need to do. When you're able to work again, you do the sculpture, and I'll pay the other ten thousand. All through Jorgensen's gallery, minus his commission, nice and businesslike. In ten years, if your sculpture isn't worth forty thousand, you can pay me back the twenty thousand at 5 percent interest."

  "And what about the Two Sisters?"

  "I only paid three thousand for it. I'm keeping it. But you can borrow it to make a new cast."

  Amber closed her eyes for a brief moment. "Thank you," she whispered.

  "You're mighty welcome," Houston answered, then gazed at her oddly. "Something tells me you weren't talking to me."

  "No, I wasn't," Amber chuckled. "But thank you, too. I never knew angels came dressed in jeans and cowboy boots."

  The Colonel shook his head. "I don't reckon the Good Lord needs help from an old fool like me," he muttered. "And don't go thinking this is some kind of philanthropy. It's selfishness, pure and simple. I'm gonna be known as the brilliant fella who bought his very first Chaney before her name became a household word."

  He gathered up his hat, kissed her on the forehead, and headed for the door. "See you tomorrow. And take care of them hands. You're gonna need 'em."

  "Colonel?" Amber called after him. "If I ever do get really famous—"

  He turned. "You will, mark my words."

  "Then you can expect me to charge you a whole lot more than twenty thousand for the next one."

  Vernon Houston tipped his hat and winked. "I'll count on it, little lady. And it'll be my pleasure to pay every last dime."

  32

  Homecoming

  "You sure you don't want to go to the hospital with me to pick her up?" Twojoe said to Meg's back as she stood at the drainboard pouring her special marinade onto the salmon fillets.

  "No, you go on." She turned and smiled at him. "I've got a lot of preparations ahead of me if everybody's coming to dinner at six." She covered the salmon and slid the dish into the refrigerator. "Besides, it'll be good for you and Amber to have a little time to yourselves."

  Twojoe leaned against the counter and frowned at his sister. "A little time to ourselves? What does that mean?"

  Meg shrugged. "I don't know. Maybe you two have some things to discuss—" She grinned and tilted her head. "Unless you're planning to let Lloser do the talking for you." She dissolved into fits of laughter and doubled over, wiping her streaming eyes on her apron.

  "Very funny."

  "Where's your sense of humor, big brother?" Meg straightened up, trying in vain to put on a serious expression. "You're going to ruin this whole evening if you don't take that look off your face. This is a celebration, for heaven's sake!" She peered into his eyes. "You're not worried about Amber's reaction to Diedre, are you?"

  "I don't know. Maybe we should have told her right away—you know, given her a chance to get used to the idea instead of just springing it on her."

  "We're not exactly springing it on her," Meg countered. "We'll sit down and talk to her before dinner, before Diedre and Carlene and the Houstons show up, just like we planned. She's had a lot to deal with, Twojoe—the attack and the fire and the concussion and all. Give her a chance to get home and relax a little." She went back to the marinade. "What time is it?"

  Twojoe craned his neck to look at the clock on the stove. "A little after two."

  "Then you'd better get going. The doctor said he'd be there at three to sign the release."

  "All right." Twojoe picked up his keys from the kitchen table. "We should be back by four." He started for the front door, only to turn around and come back to the kitchen when he heard Meg calling his name. "What now?"

  "Stop by the grocery on your way home, will you? I don't have enough Romaine lettuce for the salad."

  "Romaine. Got it." He turned to go.

  "And a bottle of that Vidalia onion dressing."

  "OK."

  "The one with the purple label."

  "Purple label?" he repeated.

  "Yes, purple. Don't get the one with the green label—it's too strong."

  "Anything else?" he asked through gritted teeth.

  "We could use some vanilla ice cream to go with the cake."

  Twojoe rolled his eyes. "Should I make a list?"

  "Maybe you should just call me before you leave the hospital to double-check."

  "I'm leaving now." He bolted for the door.

  "Call me!" she yelled to his retreating back.

  "I'll call, I'll call," he muttered. He shut the front door behind him and stood on the porch for a minute, enjoying the silence, then heaved a long-suffering sigh. Sometimes he felt exactly like a husband, and he didn't even have a wife yet.

  Amber had only been in the hospital for three days, but it might as well have been three months—or three years. Everything seemed different. Even though she was perfectly capable of walking on her own two legs, Twojoe had insisted on taking her down to the front entrance of the building in a wheelchair, holding two huge flower arrangements on her lap. He even made her wait while he retrieved his truck from the parking garage.

  She barely recognized the pickup when it arrived; apparently just for this occasion, Twojoe had washed it and cleaned out the interior. The poor old beat-up Dodge looked naked and vulnerable, with all its scars and rust spots uncovered for the whole world to see. Inside, the familiar rich scents of hay and llama feed and manure were overpowered by the pungent odor of Armor All, and the slick shine simply emphasized the cracks and gouges on the dashboard.

  Amber's mind flashed back to her childhood, when at the age of five she had been forced to attend her grandmother's funeral. Gramma Chaney, a sweet-faced, wise old woman, had the most wonderful skin—soft and puckered, like old flannel. Amber could still remember stroking Gramma's face and marveling at the wrinkles that fanned out from her cheeks all the way to her ears. But at the funeral home, someone had taken the liberty of making a few improvements and had plastered that dear face with makeup—bright pink rouge, blue eye shadow, and garish red lipstick. She had taken one glance and started howling, protesting that this wasn't her Gramma, and had to be carried out kicking and screaming.

  Amber felt th
e same way about the modifications Twojoe had made to his truck, about being pushed in a wheelchair, about not being allowed to walk to the parking garage with him. Why did people insist upon changing things, upon acting differently toward her, when all she wanted was for her life to hurry up and get back to normal?

  "Old gal looks pretty good, doesn't she?" he asked, patting the oily dashboard with pride.

  And Amber forced a smile and said yes, even though she didn't mean it.

  It took exactly six and a half minutes for the two of them to exhaust all possible topics of conversation, including her health, his health, Sam's kitten, and the weather. Amber raised a question or two about the fire and what it might cost to repair the barn, but Twojoe didn't seem to want to talk about that. They rode in silence for a while.

  He was acting so odd, and Amber was pretty sure she knew why. The television interview. Undoubtedly he was feeling self-conscious about what he'd said on camera about her not being his fiancée—not yet, anyway. Well, they might as well get it out of the way so they could go back to being . . . whatever they were. Friends, at the very least. Very good friends.

  Amber opened her mouth to speak and a strange tingling sensation filled her stomach, the fluttering of an unexpected anxiety. She wasn't accustomed to feeling uncomfortable in Twojoe's presence, and she didn't like the sensation very much. Summoning all her willpower, she said, "In case you're wondering, I did see the interview on television, Twojoe."

  He inhaled sharply and gripped the steering wheel so hard that his knuckles went white, but he kept his eyes focused on the road beyond the cracked windshield. "Yeah, well about that—," he began.

  Amber laid a bandaged hand on his arm. "I thought you did a wonderful job," she said quietly. "You seemed so strong and in control. I was very proud of you."

  His head snapped around. "You were?"

  "Of course I was. And I nearly fell out of the hospital bed when Lloser tried to steal the microphone and slimed that reporter."

  Twojoe began to chuckle, and as Amber's laughter mingled with his, the cold wall of formality between them dissolved. At last he turned and looked at her. "About the other part of that interview, Amber—"