The Amber Photograph

by Penelope J. Stokes

  "You mean the part where the reporter asked if we were engaged?"

  "Yeah. That part." He bit his lip and exhaled heavily. "That question just came out of the blue, and I didn't have the faintest idea how to handle it."

  "I thought you handled it just fine."

  "I didn't mean to put any pressure on you, or to assume anything. What I said about not being engaged yet just sort of popped out. I apologize if it hurt you or offended you."

  "I wasn't offended," Amber murmured. "To tell the truth, I was honored." She hadn't meant to say that—it came out spontaneously, but as soon as the words had been uttered, she realized that they were true.

  "Anyway," he went on, barreling ahead as if she hadn't spoken, "I just want you to know that I don't expect anything from you, and—"

  They had just turned into the long driveway that led up to the farmhouse, and he braked hard, stopping the truck so suddenly that Amber had to brace her hands against the dashboard to keep from hitting the windshield. She winced in pain.

  "Sorry." He raked a hand through his hair. "I wasn't thinking." He stared at her. "What did you say—a minute ago, before?"

  "I said, I wasn't offended," she repeated, smiling at him. "I said I was honored."

  "You mean—you might—if I—we could—," he stammered.

  "Maybe you would be better off letting Lloser do your talking for you." His ears turned a bright red, and she went on. "A lot of things have happened in a very short time, Twojoe—some things you don't know about yet. We'll need to talk about them eventually, but—" she pointed toward the house, where Meg stood on the front porch with one hand shading her eyes. "It'll probably have to wait."

  He raked his hair back and gazed at her, his eyes shining. "I've waited a long time, Amber. I can wait awhile longer."

  "I'm not making any promises, you understand," she warned. "But I do want to talk about it." She edged closer to him, and he rested his arm lightly around her shoulders. A rush of warmth went through her at his touch, and every nerve in her body seemed to relax. "There is one thing I should tell you now, though—"

  "What?"

  "The night of the fire—outside the barn. I vaguely remember someone kissing me. Was that you, or Lloser?"

  His hand tightened on her shoulder, and he grinned sheepishly. "It was me. But it wasn't a kiss. It was a resuscitation."

  "Ah." She chuckled. "Well that's good to know, because if it was a kiss, you're going to have to do better than that."

  Amber followed Twojoe's gaze as he peered through the windshield down the long gravel driveway. The porch was empty; Meg had gone back into the house.

  He turned to her and bent forward. "I'm a little out of practice. Maybe you should show me how it's done."

  Their lips touched—briefly, gently at first, then with fervor. Amber leaned into him, her mind spinning. So many things still lay unspoken between them, but she felt no fear, no agitation. Only safety and longing . . . and love.

  Meg settled Amber at the dining room table and sent Twojoe back to the store. He had forgotten to call her from the hospital, as he had promised—even forgotten, apparently, that he was supposed to pick anything up in the first place. When she asked him where the groceries were, he stared at her blankly as if she were speaking a foreign language.

  Something was going on, and although Meg didn't know what it was, she had her suspicions. Twojoe's countenance bore a dazed, wistful expression. His eyes tracked Amber's every move, and he seemed reluctant to leave her side, even for a few minutes. Amber didn't seem much more coherent.

  "Are you OK?" Meg asked as she placed the smaller of the two floral arrangements on the table as a centerpiece.

  "I'm fine." Amber reached out and touched the petals of a rose with a hand swathed in bandages. "I'm wonderful, in fact." She sighed deeply. "It's good to be home."

  "How's your head? Are you in pain?"

  Amber looked up. "Quit fussing, Meg. I'm all right." She got up from the table and followed Meg into the kitchen. "What can I do?"

  "Nothing. It's all done. When Twojoe gets back from the grocery store, I'll make the salad. Just sit."

  "I'm tired of sitting. I've been in bed for three solid days."

  "Yes, and you have a concussion. You're not to exert yourself—the doctor said so."

  "What do doctors know?" Amber wandered to the window and gazed dreamily out over the Hood Canal and Olympic Mountains. "It's so beautiful here."

  Meg started to ask what was up with Amber and Twojoe, but she thought better of it and clamped her mouth shut. Amber was her closest friend; when there was something to tell, she would let Meg in on it. In the meantime, if the two of them were finally beginning to discover each other, Meg didn't want to get in the way by meddling.

  She glanced at the clock—it was nearly five. If Twojoe didn't get back soon, they wouldn't have time to prepare Amber for Diedre's appearance.

  Amber's voice cut into Meg's thoughts. "What are we having for dinner?"

  "Salmon. The potatoes are already baking, and the fish will take about half an hour. I thought I'd make my famous garlic and cheese biscuits—I know you like them." She opened the refrigerator. "Do you want a snack? I've got grapes and cheese and crackers, if you need something to tide you over."

  Amber shook her head. " I don't want to spoil my appetite. Everything sounds wonderful, especially after hospital food." She walked around Meg and peered into the oven, where ten large potatoes coated with butter and rock salt were baking. "Good grief, Meg, it looks like you're cooking for an army."

  Meg hesitated, pretending to concentrate on her biscuit dough. "The Houstons are coming, and I invited Susan. And a couple of other . . . friends."

  "What friends?" Amber slit her eyes at Meg.

  "Just a couple of young women who are staying with the Colonel and Emmaline for a few days," Meg hedged. She heard the front door slam. "That must be Twojoe—thank goodness he's back!"

  She wiped her floury hands on her apron and, leaving Amber standing in the kitchen, made a run for the front door.

  Amber frowned at Meg's back as she watched her friend bolt for the door. Had they all been dropped into the twilight zone? Everybody looked the same, but no one was acting normally.

  She could hear Meg hissing at Twojoe in the hallway and caught snatches of their conversation: "Do you know what time it is? Everybody . . . in forty-five minutes, and we haven't had the chance to talk to Amber about..."

  Twojoe's voice came through a little clearer. "All right, all right. Calm down, will you? The grocery store was packed, and I had to wait in line forever—"

  Meg's tone went up several decibels: "If you'd remembered to go in the first place, you wouldn't have had to wait in line!"

  The two of them came back into the kitchen, Meg carrying the grocery bag and Twojoe jangling his keys nervously. "There's something we wanted to talk to you about before all our guests arrive," Twojoe said, not meeting her eyes. "But I don't quite know how to begin."

  Amber sank down at the dining room table and waited while all her earlier euphoria vanished like an early morning dream. Clearly, this wasn't something Twojoe wanted to tell her. Maybe the authorities had given up on finding the man who attacked her. Maybe the insurance company wasn't going to pay to have the barn repaired. Maybe they were going to lose the farm after all . . .

  "It's OK, Twojoe," she assured him with more confidence than she felt. "As long as—" She was going to say, As long as we're together, we can handle anything, but she stopped herself. Such a sentiment was premature at best, and she couldn't even be certain it was true, at least not until she heard what he had to say.

  Out of the corner of her eye, Amber watched as Meg finished the biscuit dough and put the salad together. All the while, Twojoe tried to get his momentum going, but he didn't seem to be getting anywhere. After she pulled out the potatoes and slid the salmon into the oven, Meg sat down next to Amber at the table and fiddled with the flower arrangement.

  "
Just tell me, all right?" Amber demanded after a minute or two. "What is going on?"

  Twojoe clenched his hands together. "I guess we'd better start at the beginning. We didn't want to tell you about this while you were in the hospital, Amber—we thought it would be easier for you to absorb once you were in familiar surroundings."

  Amber's heart constricted. "If it's bad news, I wish you'd spit it out and get it over with."

  "No," Twojoe answered slowly. "It's not bad news—it's good news, really. Kind of a gift. . . for all of us."

  Amber stared at him. If it really was good news, why was he having such a hard time getting it out? "In the hospital the other day, Sam let it slip that you had a big surprise waiting for me when I got home. Is that what you're talking about?"

  Meg cut a worried glance at the clock on the kitchen stove. It was quarter to six.

  "In a way." Twojoe nodded. "The morning after the fire, when Meg and I came home from the hospital, we found someone waiting for us—someone sent here by Andrew Jorgensen."

  "Another commission—or a sale? That's wonderful!" Amber's mind latched onto the idea with enthusiasm. "My hands will heal before long, and as soon as we get my studio up and running again, I can get back to work. The Colonel's statue has to come first, of course—I assume he told you about that—but I can—"

  "Hold on, Amber!" Twojoe protested. "It wasn't another buyer." He turned toward Meg. "Help me out here."

  "I wouldn't dream of interfering," she muttered. "Not while you're on such a roll." She got up and went to the china cabinet. "Keep going. I have to set the table."

  Twojoe sent a murderous glance in his sister's direction, then turned back to Amber. "Anyway—"

  But before he could say another word, Amber heard the front door burst open. Sam Houston careened into the dining room with a small, blonde dog close on his heels. He threw himself at Amber and gave her an enormous hug. "I'm so glad you're home, Amber!" he panted. "I've been waiting and waiting. I brought you your surprise."

  Amber reached down and gingerly picked up the little dog, who snuggled into her lap and gave her a wet kiss on the cheek. "This is my surprise? She's wonderful!"

  "No, no!" Sam protested. "Shut your eyes."

  Amber obeyed and felt a small hand on her arm, just above the bandages, as Sam helped her to her feet and steered her in the direction of the living room. "Keep them closed," he ordered. "A few more steps. Now, your surprise is right in front of you."

  "Amber, wait—" Twojoe's voice came from behind her. "They're early. I wanted to tell you first—"

  But Sam was saying, "Open your eyes, Amber."

  Amber opened them, blinked, and tried to take in what she saw. In the living room were four people—the Colonel and Emmaline, sitting on the sofa, and two women in their mid to late twenties, standing by the fireplace. One was large and vivacious, with a pixie haircut and rosy cheeks, wearing a flowing pants outfit of bright aqua. The other, much smaller, had dark, curly hair and brown eyes that pierced into her own. She stared at Amber for a moment, then gave a tentative smile, revealing a dimple at the corner of her mouth.

  The breath went out of Amber as if she had been kicked in the stomach. She felt her knees buckle, and she sank into a chair.

  She had no doubt who she was looking at. It could have been herself, fifteen years ago. It could have been Mama, two decades before that.

  But it wasn't. It was Diedre. Not a baby anymore, not the tiny child she had spun with under the trees. She was a grown woman now—and by the looks of her, a grown woman on the verge of breaking into tears.

  "Perhaps I shouldn't have come," she said in a voice shaking with emotion. "I—I hoped—" The tears overflowed, and she began to sob. "Oh, Sissy—"

  Sissy. The name she hadn't heard in more than twenty years pierced Amber's heart like a flaming arrow. Finding her legs, she rose from the chair and walked unsteadily across the room. She put her bandaged hands to Diedre's face and began wiping away the tears. "No, you shouldn't have come," she whispered. "I should have come to you—a long, long time ago."

  Then she put her arms around Diedre's shoulders, drew her close, and held her.

  33

  Too Many Questions

  Diedre breathed a sigh of relief when Twojoe shut the door behind the Colonel, Emmaline, and Sam.

  Even though it had only been three days since she and Carlene had arrived—the day Vernon Houston had held a shotgun on them in Twojoe's living room—Diedre had become increasingly attached to the Elkhorn family and their friends. The Colonel doted on both her and Carlene; little Sam was a wonderful, sensitive, loving child; and Emmaline was an earth mother who embraced everyone who came within reach. Meg and Twojoe could have been her own big sister and brother, the way they had treated her. Still, despite her growing love for all of them, Diedre had shifted restlessly in her chair throughout dinner, wishing they would all just disappear.

  She needed to talk with her sister. And there was much she couldn't— or wouldn't—say during dinner with everyone present. She had simply listened as everyone had discussed the fire, speculating on who could have done such a thing, and why.

  Twojoe was clearly in love with Amber. He had sat next to her all evening with his arm across the back of her chair, gazing at her as if he couldn't take his eyes off her. Amber could have been watching a tennis match, the way her attention bounced between his face and Diedre's. Whenever she looked at Diedre, an expression passed over her countenance that seemed to be a mixture of love and pain. Diedre forced herself to focus on the love and tried to rationalize the pain, but she couldn't help feeling as if her presence made Amber edgy.

  Well, what did she expect? It had been more than twenty years, and if she was honest, Diedre herself had to admit to a little anxiety of her own. But there were too many questions yet unanswered. She was not about to let a little nervousness get in the way of the reunion for which she had waited so long.

  Once the Houstons were gone, Meg excused herself to clean up the kitchen. The priest, whom Amber jokingly called "Father Susan," joined her. Twojoe made an excuse about checking on the llamas, and Carlene retrieved her jacket and Sugarbear's leash and took the dog for a walk.

  The moment she had longed for had finally come. But when Diedre finally faced her sister, the two of them alone in the living room, reticence overtook her and she found herself tongue-tied.

  She bit her lip and stared at the hooked rug on the hardwood floor. "Ah, if you need to rest, I'll understand. This can wait—"

  "This has waited long enough."

  Diedre looked up at her sister's serious face, surrounded by dark hair and punctuated by those large, brown eyes—a face so like her mother's, years ago before the cancer took its toll. So like her own would be in another fifteen years. "Sis—ah, Amber—," she began, struggling over the name. "Sorry. It'll take me a while to get used to calling you that."

  "It's all right. You were so young—I don't suppose you ever knew that Amber was my middle name."

  Diedre shook her head. "No. I didn't know. But I understood immediately why you had taken Mama's maiden name as your own."

  Amber let out a sigh. "I still miss her. It's so odd, thinking that someone you love is still alive after they're gone. It was breast cancer, you said?"

  "Yes. We all thought she had beaten the cancer, but when it came back, she refused further treatment. She took drugs for the pain and died peacefully. Her last gift to me was what brought me to you." Diedre closed her eyes for a moment and fought against the emotions that assailed her. "I thought you were dead, Amber. If I'd known you were alive, I would have found you sooner."

  "I expect Daddy wanted you to think I was dead."

  Diedre raised her head and stared at Amber, startled by the anger and raw pain that filled her sister's face. Then Amber's expression cleared, and she waved a bandaged hand. "Please, go on. Tell me the whole story, from the start."

  "From the time I was very young—four or five years old," Diedre began
, "I couldn't get you out of my mind. I had this recurring vision—I called it the Spinning Dream—" She paused and smiled. "The dream that was re-created in your sculpture of the Two Sisters. Until I saw the statue, I didn't know it was an actual memory, not just something my imagination had conjured up. But it always seemed so real. And whenever I would try to get anyone to talk about you, Mama would dissolve into tears, and Daddy would shut me up."

  "That figures," Amber muttered.

  Diedre shot her a puzzled glance and continued. "Anyway, on my twenty-fifth birthday, Mama gave me this." She reached into her bag and drew out the battered cigar box. "I'm pretty sure she knew she was dying and couldn't bear to go into the next world with all this on her conscience."

  She retrieved the old photograph from the box and extended it in Amber's direction. Amber reached for it, but with her bandaged hands she couldn't grip it properly, and it slid to the floor. Both of them leaned forward to grab it, and their arms touched. Diedre felt a gentle shock, like static electricity, flow through her veins.

  She sat back, breathless. "This picture raised a lot of questions for me. It's so obvious how much Daddy adored you. Although he provided for me and tried to love me, he was never able to—"

  She stopped suddenly as one side of Amber's mouth turned up in an odd twist. "Is something wrong?"

  "No. I just—" The bandaged hand that held the picture shook a little. "I want to hear the rest."

  "All right." Diedre cast around for her train of thought. "As I was saying, Daddy never loved me like that—" She pointed at the photograph. "And I never knew why. I assumed, when I thought about it, that losing you was so painful and difficult that he simply never recovered enough to be able to be vulnerable again. But then I found these, hidden in the bottom of the box—" She held up the birth certificate and letters.

  "In the letters of yours that Mama saved, you implied you knew the real circumstances of my birth. Even apart from that, I would have come to find you anyway, once I knew you were alive. But since nobody else could tell me, I knew you were also my only hope for finding out the truth. When I realized that Daddy wasn't—" She hesitated. "Wasn't my real father—"