"Honey, you ain't gonna give me your mama's car!"
"Nope. I'm going to sell it to you, if you want it. One dollar, and that's my final offer." She winked in Amber's direction. "Metallic champagne with matching leather interior. You'll look great in it, Vesta. Call it an installment on what I owe you."
Vesta fished a wrinkled dollar bill out of her pocket, pressed it into Diedre's hand, and smothered her with a hug. "You don't owe me nothin', baby," she said in choked voice.
"I owe you more than that," Diedre responded. "Much more."
Amber shifted on the bed and tucked her legs under her. "Does this mean we're taking the Camry back to Washington?"
Diedre nodded. "I hate to make that long drive back again, but I'll need a car when I get there, and we have to haul all this—" She gestured to the boxes scattered around the bedroom and grinned in Amber's direction. "Besides, I felt a little pretentious in the Lexus, and I prefer Midnight Blue to Metallic Champagne."
The telephone on the bedside table rang, and Diedre jumped, her heart thudding in her chest. "Should I answer it?"
Amber cut a glance at Vesta, who nodded. "Why not? If it's for Daddy, it has to be somebody who's been hiding under a rock or abducted by aliens. Tell them he's temporarily indisposed . . . for the next twenty years or so."
Diedre picked up the receiver and answered formally: "McAlister residence."
She strained to listen as the unfamiliar voice on the other end of the line spoke in subdued tones. Amber and Vesta went on talking about Washington, about Twojoe and Meg and the llamas and little Sam Houston, about how long it would take for Amber and Diedre to make the trip—
"H-hang on a second, will you?" Diedre put the receiver to her chest and fought for breath. She turned in Amber's direction. "I'm afraid we won't be going anywhere—at least not for a while."
"What?" Amber swung her legs over the side of the bed and stared at Diedre. "What are you talking about? Who's on the phone?"
"It's the warden at the prison. He called Elise Glass, who called Carlene's house. She told them we were here."
"Well, what does he want?"
"He wants us to go to the county morgue and claim the body. Daddy's dead."
42
A Sure and Certain Hope
A small cluster of black-clad mourners huddled beneath dripping umbrellas at the graveside: apart from Diedre, only Amber, Twojoe, Meg, Colonel Houston, Carlene, and Vesta Shelby. Susan Quentin, dressed in clerical garb, stood beside the local Presbyterian minister—a man Diedre had only seen once or twice in passing—and uttered the words, "Ashes to ashes, dust to dust..."
She didn't add the traditional line, "in the sure and certain hope of redemption," and Diedre silently blessed her for that moment of candor. The truth was, no one in this circle was very certain of anything.
Duncan McAlister's death certificate read: Cause of Death—Myocardial Infarction. He had suffered a massive heart attack and dropped dead on the floor of the prison laundry room. The warden and the prison physician had attempted to evade their questions, thinking to spare the feelings of the bereaved family, but in the end the truth came out: a group of prisoners, including his own cellmate, had assaulted him. "Gave him a taste of his own medicine," was the way the warden put it. Apparently it was a matter of honor among hardened convicts to punish child molesters. Even murderers and armed robbers, Diedre supposed, had their standards.
It might have been a twisted kind of poetic justice, but still, it was painful to think about. Amber couldn't talk about it, except to say that she wouldn't have wished it on anyone.
As Susan went on with the graveside service, Diedre let her eyes rest on each of the faces in turn. Amber looked stunned and disbelieving. Twojoe stood at her side, stoic and silent, his face an unexpressive mask. Meg bit her lip and gazed anxiously in Amber's direction. There was no mourning here. Only shock and emptiness and a grim kind of acceptance.
"Let us pray," Susan was saying. Diedre bowed her head, gripped Carlene's hand, and waited.
"Gracious God—" The words hung on the chilled air for a moment before Susan's voice continued. "This group of family and friends gathered here today must, above all things, depend upon your grace. We have so many unanswered questions, and so many unresolved conflicts, and we can do nothing except commend to your wisdom and justice the soul of Duncan McAlister. We ask that you reach down into our hearts and heal our wounded places, that you would be with us and among us to comfort and strengthen us. There has been far too much loss among us in recent days, and we pray for your guidance through our grief, and your light for a new beginning . . . "
Diedre's heart clenched with longing and with pain. This was no formulaic prayer, no attempt to gloss over the horrible realities of Daddy's life and death. The honesty of Susan Quentin's prayer pierced to the depths of her soul, and she felt tears rise into her throat—not sorrow for her father's passing, but grief for her own losses, and a desperate desire that Susan's words might be true, that God really might be present with her to comfort and to heal.
"Give us courage to face the future," Susan continued, "and empower us to speak the truth, for only the truth will set us free. May we come to you with our brokenness, and may your Spirit lead us in finding new ways to redeem this moment and bring resurrection out of death. May you be for all of us—especially for Amber and Diedre—the mother who always embraces and nurtures, and the father who always loves and protects. In the name of the One who created us, redeemed us, and continues to sustain us. Amen."
Diedre lifted her head and looked at Amber. Two shiny tracks ran down her cheeks, but whether they were from rain or tears, she couldn't tell.
"It will take a couple of months for the will to get through the probate system," the lawyer said, "but as there are no other relatives involved, it should be a fairly straightforward process."
Diedre watched the thin, intense face of Clifton Rivers as he shuffled the papers in front of him. Rivers, an attorney who had attended law school with Elise Glass, had come highly recommended. He was a little stuffy and a bit obsessive, but extremely thorough and meticulous.
He unfolded the will and scrutinized it. "In accordance with Duncan McAlister's wishes, as expressed in this last will and testament, signed and notarized shortly after the death of Cecilia McAlister, the entire estate will pass to Diedre Chaney McAlister." He cast an anxious glance in Amber's direction. "Unless you intend to contest, Miss Chaney? You do have that right."
"No." Amber shook her head. "I won't contest it."
"She doesn't need to contest it," Diedre said. "Half of it will be hers anyway."
The lawyer nodded. "As you wish. It is yours to do with as you please." He handed a certified check to Diedre.
"What's this? I thought you said it would take a couple of months."
"That check represents the proceeds from your father's life insurance policy. Life insurance payments do not go through probate, nor are they subject to any inheritance taxes. Since your mother predeceased your father, you are the secondary beneficiary."
Diedre stared at the check. "Two million dollars, tax free?"
"The exposed tip of the iceberg," the attorney said. "The entire estate, including stocks, bonds, cash value of your father's IRA, and the estimated value of the house and personal property, comes to—" He flipped pages in his leather-covered notebook. "Just under ten million."
"Ten million dollars?"
"Actually, the precise figure is nine million, eight-hundred fifty-six thousand—"
Diedre held up a hand. "I get the idea."
"That's not counting the two million you hold in your hand. Also, you can sue the state prison system for negligence in your father's death."
Diedre sent a sidelong glance in Amber's direction. Amber was shaking her head and frowning slightly. "I don't think so."
"I believe you might have a good case," Rivers persisted. "I am not a litigator, but there is a gentleman in my firm who—"
"Abs
olutely not," Diedre said firmly. "I can safely say that we've both had our fill of the legal system for quite some time to come." She pushed an index card across the table. "We can be reached at this address and telephone number. When the will has cleared probate, let us know, and meanwhile we'll make some decisions about what we're going to do with the inheritance."
"Decisions? What's to decide? Travel around the world; buy the Biltmore Estate." The attorney, clearly attempting to inject a lighter note into the proceedings, forced out a barking kind of chuckle, as if completely unfamiliar with the sound. "With ten million dollars, you can have everything you ever wanted—"
He caught a glimpse of Diedre's expression and, properly chastened, clamped his mouth shut.
"Not everything," Diedre corrected. "All the money in the world can't buy back the past."
While Meg and Diedre went to get new tires installed on the Camry, Amber and Twojoe sat in the porch glider and gazed out over the Blue Ridge. Susan Quentin and Vernon Houston had already flown back to Seattle, and Meg and Twojoe were booked on the last Delta flight out of Asheville, with connections in Atlanta. Amid all the chaos of her father's death and funeral, Amber had had little time alone with Twojoe, and she wanted to make the most of these few stolen moments.
"You were right—it is beautiful here," he sighed, stretching his long legs out in front of him.
"It's beautiful at home, too." She touched a hand to his arm.
"I wish you were flying back with me. I'd love to make the drive with you and Diedre, but I just can't—"
"I know, you can't spend too much time away from the llamas." Amber laughed. "How is Lloser, anyway?"
Twojoe grinned. "To tell the truth, he's getting a little out of hand. He takes all the credit for rescuing you from the fire, and now that he knows you're going to use him for a model for your next sculpture, he's demanding a private dressing room and a thirty percent raise in his feed allotment." He dropped his voice to a whisper. "He even wants a legal name change—he wants to be called Winner"
"Did you agree to his terms?"
"Not yet. We're still in negotiations."
"Sounds like he needs a good agent."
Twojoe put an arm around Amber's neck and pulled her close. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"
"Your side," she said and lifted her face for a kiss. "I'm always on your side."
When he released her, Amber leaned against his shoulder. "I want to show you something." She removed the gauze bandages from one hand and held it out to him, flexing her fingers, which were still covered with dark scabs. "Look. They don't crack when I move them." She unwrapped the other hand and set the gauze aside. "I think I can do without the bandages now, but they're still pretty ugly. I wonder if—"
"Nothing about you could ever be ugly." He captured her hands gently and pressed them to his lips.
"They'll always be scarred, but they're getting better all the time. I think I should be able to get back to work again soon."
Twojoe threw back his head and laughed. "What's the matter? Is half of twelve million dollars not enough for you?"
Amber poked him playfully in the ribs. "It's not about the money, and you know it. If I had all the money in the world, I'd still sculpt. It's therapy. It's my creative outlet. I love it." She kissed him on the nose. "So get used to it, buster. You've got yourself a woman with dirt under her nails."
He pulled back and looked into her eyes. "Do I?"
Amber felt her stomach quiver. "If you want me, you do."
Twojoe closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. "Amber, I—"
"Wait." She put her fingers to his lips. "Let me say something first."
"All right. Go ahead."
She exhaled heavily and tried to collect her thoughts. "You are the finest man I've ever met in my entire life, Twojoe. You're honest and sensitive and loving. You make me laugh. You accept me as I am. I feel safe with you—and you know I have a lot of reasons not to feel safe."
"You'll always be safe with me."
"I believe that. But I've spent a lot of years trying to find a way to re-appropriate the power that was taken from me when I was very young. I've had a hard time allowing myself to open up to love, and—"
"You're saying you won't marry me." His voice was distant, strained, and his jaw tightened.
"I'm saying I don't want you to ask me to marry you."
He averted his eyes and stared off over the multilayered peaks of the Blue Ridge. "All right. If that's what you want."
"Twojoe, please look at me." He turned his head back in her direction, and she felt a rush of love and tenderness welling up in her and flowing out toward him. "I need to make my own choices, to determine the course of my own life," she said. "I want to act, to be decisive, not simply to respond." She smiled at his look of confusion and put a hand to his cheek. It was the first time since the night of the barn fire that her fingers had felt the touch of his skin, and a tingle went up her arm. "I love you, Twojoe. I've loved you for a long time, even when I couldn't admit it to myself. I want to spend the rest of my life with you." She looked deep into his eyes. "Twojoe Elkhorn, will you marry me?"
"Huh?"
Amber laughed so hard that tears filled her eyes. "I said, will you marry me? There are only two possible responses: yes or no. Not 'huh?' It's not a difficult question."
The truth of what she was saying finally registered on him, and his eyes widened. "You want to get married? You and me? The two of us?"
"Of course I do, you big dolt. And yes, I do think it would be preferable if it were just the two of us. I tend to be a little rigid on the monogamy issue. Yes or no?"
"Yes!" he shouted. He jumped up and lifted her off her feet, swinging her around in an enormous hug. "Yes! Yes! YES!"
"Twojoe, put me down," she gasped. "I'm getting dizzy."
"Sorry." He set her on her feet again, then drew her close in a lingering kiss. "I told you I'd wait forever for you," he murmured into her hair. "Thanks for not taking me up on the offer."
43
Holy Saturday
KITSAP COUNTY, WASHINGTON
MARCH 1996
Diedre sat at her desk and stared through the rain-streaked window at the shrouded mountains and the gray waters of Hood Canal. She could hardly believe she had been here nine months—in this snug little cabin half a mile down the road from Amber and Twojoe and Meg.
It was a small place, only one bedroom, but it had a nice big living room with a fireplace and was surrounded by woods and faced out over the water. It couldn't have been more perfect.
For years the owner, like Twojoe, had been badgered to sell, but he had resisted, and for much the same reason. When Twojoe had contacted him, offering to rent the empty cabin, he had jumped at the chance. With a little fixing up, it had become an ideal situation for Diedre—close enough to be part of the family, far enough away to give her some privacy.
She took out her journal and rummaged in the desk drawer, looking for a pen. But instead, her hand closed over a stiff, white card, and she pulled it from the drawer and held it to the light.
* * *
With great joy and eternal gratitude to God,
Amber Chaney
and
Joseph Elkhorn II
request the honor of your presence
as they respond to Gods calling
and celebrate their vows of lifelong love
Saturday, April 20,1996
4:00 P.M.
All Saints' Episeopal Church
Viking Junction, Washington
Buffet and Barn Dance to follow at the Elkhorn Farm
6:30 P.M.
* * *
Diedre smiled at the invitation and ran her fingers over the raised lettering. In just a little over three weeks, Amber and Twojoe would be married. The barn had been restored—razed to the ground and rebuilt, actually, with a wonderful new studio for Amber. Her hands, although scarred, had completely healed, the sculpture of Sam and Lloser was finis
hed, and she had commissions that would keep her busy for at least the rest of this year.
Everything seemed to be working out. Everyone seemed to be moving on with their lives. Everyone except Diedre.
She had certainly made progress in her therapy—she couldn't deny that. She had come to grips with the recurring anger at her father and her frustration that he had died before ever acknowledging his culpability. She had finally quit blaming God for what had happened and accepted the inevitability of evil in the world. She had even been able to embrace her faith again—not the blind trust of her childhood, but a deeper, more reality-based, more thoughtful faith. She just hadn't been able to get over that last hurdle—that invisible, unnamed barrier that stood between her and a sense of her own worth. In Susan's words, she hadn't yet crossed the great divide between victim and survivor. She hadn't found her own place of rest and acceptance and peace.
Diedre opened the journal and, following Susan's suggestions, began to try to write about what she was feeling. But the words wouldn't come. Nothing would come. She had been spinning her wheels for weeks now, bogged down in an emotional quagmire all the way up to her psychological axles.
Something is missing, she wrote. Something I can't seem to get my mind around. I've spent hours with Susan, and even more hours writing in this blasted journal, and although part of me thinks I'm coming to grips with what has happened, there's still an enormous hole in my heart. I keep coming back to a phrase Susan used in her prayer at Daddy's funeral, something about "finding new ways to redeem this moment," but I'm not at all sure what that means. I feel as if I'm waiting for something, waiting in the darkness . . .
Diedre laid the journal entry down in front of Susan Quentin and flopped into the leather chair across from her desk. "I'm stuck," she sighed.
"Stuck?" Susan gave her a curious look. "Why do you say that?"
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