The boy's face crumpled. "Why not?"
"Because—" Twojoe groped for the right words. He hated to disappoint Sam, especially after he had gone to so much trouble, but he doubted that Amber, as much as she loved the animals, would care to have Lloser as an unexpected member of the wedding party. "Because the church is going to be very crowded, and llamas don't like enclosed spaces."
Sam thought about this for a minute. "Oh."
"You wouldn't want him to be uncomfortable, would you?"
"I—I guess not."
Twojoe could tell that Sam was on the verge of tears and trying very hard to hide it. "Tell you what, Sam. After the wedding, tonight, we're going to have a party here, in the new barn. It's going to be much more fun than the wedding ceremony, with lots of food and a band and everything. Don't you think Lloser would enjoy that more than a stuffy old service in the church?"
"I guess so." He brightened a little. "Can he wear his tuxedo?"
"Absolutely. If we're going to have to wear ours, I guess he will, too." He patted the llama's long neck. "Sorry, old boy."
Sam reached over and unhooked the shirt front from Lloser's neck, then untied the rope that tethered the llama's halter to the fence. "I'll put it back on him in time for the party," he assured Twojoe solemnly. He got down from the fence, holding the makeshift tuxedo in one hand. "Let's not tell Amber and Meg about this," he said. "I want them to be surprised."
Twojoe stifled a laugh. "They'll be surprised, all right," he said as they started back toward the house. "Believe me, they'd never guess this one in a million years."
Diedre stood at the front of the church and watched as Meg made her way down the aisle to stand next to her. The strains of "Love Divine, All Loves Excelling" emanated from the pipe organ and reverberated through the rafters. All Saints' was a small church, very old, with leaded glass windows and exposed beams, and relatively unadorned except for the banks of candles entwined with flowers that now stood on either side of the altar.
She glanced over at Twojoe, so handsome in his tux, so proud and tall, with Vernon Houston at his side as best man. He craned his neck and shifted nervously, waiting for his bride to appear. Diedre knew without looking exactly the moment Amber stepped into view, because Twojoe's dark eyes went wide and soft, and he bit his lip to suppress the tears that instantly sparkled in his dark eyes.
The congregation rose to its feet and turned. Amber, resplendent in an off-white dress with tiny satin rosebuds around the neckline, lifted her head and slowly advanced to take Twojoe's outstretched hand.
She had never looked happier or more radiant. This love, Amber had confessed to Diedre, had given her a liberty she had never known before, a freedom to become the person she was created to be, to begin to let go of the past, to begin again.
Amber reached the altar, and together she and Twojoe moved forward. On the step above them, Susan Quentin stood with an open prayer book in her hands and an enormous smile on her face. "God of second chances," she prayed in a triumphant voice that echoed throughout the sanctuary, "we have come to worship you!"
The ceremony was brief and simple: the exchange of vows, a short homily about loving God and one another, the giving and receiving of rings. But there was one unorthodox addition to the traditional marriage vows. Before the final benediction, Susan faced the congregation and said, "All of us have made sacred vows in our lives—commitments to God, to our loved ones, to our calling. In honor of the holy promises Amber and Twojoe have taken in our presence today, let us join together to reaffirm our own commitments in a Litany of Covenant."
Diedre looked down at her program and, along with the rest of the congregation, joined in a vow to support and honor Amber and Twojoe's marriage, a vow to pursue truth and the knowledge of God, a vow to remain faithful to the people God had placed in their lives as family. But when she came to the closing sentence of the litany, her eyes began to water and a lump formed in her throat so that she could barely choke out the words.
"Give us courage and wisdom, O God, to work for justice, wholeness, and peace in our world. May our homes be a place of sanctuary, a rest for the weary, a refuge for all who need a touch of your healing grace. Amen."
Diedre was still staring down at the page when Susan pronounced Twojoe and Amber husband and wife. She missed the kiss, almost missed her cue to take Vernon Houston's arm and make her exit. Her mind was spinning, and something deep in her spirit said, "Yes!"
May our homes be a place of sanctuary . . .
This was it. The guidance she had been waiting for. The confirmation she had sought. The catalyst that would bring healing and freedom not only to Diedre herself, but to countless others like her.
She had never before felt so totally shaken and so completely energized all at once. Now, at last, she understood what Amber meant when she talked about inspiration—an idea that comes fully formed, totally out of the blue—so unexpected and so perfect that you knew it had to have its source in someone wiser and bigger and more creative than yourself. Her heart swelled with joy, and a warm, inescapable light penetrated the last dark place inside her soul.
Diedre McAlister had found her calling.
45
The Moment of Truth
Angel's Rest, an enormous Victorian inn situated on the strait between Port Angeles and Vancouver Island, had to be the perfect setting for a honeymoon. The two-room suite had a balcony overlooking the water, a fourposter bed the size of Rhode Island, and a marble bathroom with a tub as big as a six-person spa. A small fire burned in the grate, more for atmosphere than to ward off the chill of the evening. The flames danced, casting a warm, flickering light over the scene.
"How did you ever find such a place, Twojoe?" Amber sighed when he led her into the room. "It's gorgeous."
"Not as gorgeous as you."
A red-vested porter brought their luggage in, then busied himself with opening the balcony door and turning down the bed while Twojoe fished in his wallet for an appropriate tip.
"I looked at several other places," he said when the porter finally left. "But most of them were bed-and-breakfasts, and I didn't think that would give us enough privacy." He walked with her onto the balcony and stood with his chest pressed to her back and both arms around her, looking out over the moonlight-spangled water. "One of them was run by a little old lady who kept going on about how nice it would be to have company. I couldn't get through to her that this was our honeymoon, and we probably wouldn't be doing much socializing." He laughed and kissed her on the nape of the neck. "This is our week, and I don't intend to share you with anyone."
His right hand came up to her throat and gently caressed the sensitive spot just under her ear. His touch was achingly tender and the pressure minimal, but a chill went up Amber's spine nevertheless. This wasn't Daddy, she reminded herself resolutely, and it wasn't Shiv Willis. It was Twojoe, the man she loved with all her soul. The man she had married. But no amount of logic could quell the shuddering of her heart, and despite her best intentions, she stiffened in his embrace.
Amber should have expected to be confronted with such apprehensions on their wedding night. Weeks ago, Susan had talked with her about the possibility that intimacy with Twojoe might raise some old memories and fears. But Amber had dismissed the idea. Their love, she told Susan firmly, was strong enough to overcome anything from the past.
Now she wasn't so sure.
She looked down at Twojoe's sinewy, brown arm, clasped around her waist. The watch on his wrist read 11:45. The reception had gone on for hours—for all she knew, it might still be in progress. She and Twojoe had made their escape after the cutting of the cake, but changing clothes, saying their good-byes, and making the drive to Port Angeles took time. Now it was nearly midnight, and she was exhausted from the events of the day.
"Tired?" she asked, forcing herself to lean back against him and hoping he wouldn't discern the quaver in her voice.
"Not a bit."
"Well, I am. How about if we c
hange clothes and relax a little?"
He kissed her again, took her hand, and led her back into the room, closing the door behind them. "Good idea. I'm starving. I didn't get much to eat at the reception. Where's that cake Emmaline sent along with us?"
"In a grocery bag next to the suitcases. I think she packed up some of the other food, too."
Amber retrieved a white negligee and her cosmetics kit from her bag and started for the bathroom. "I'll be out in a few minutes."
For just a moment he blocked her way, and as she eased around him, he fingered the satiny fabric of the gown. "Don't take too long. I can't wait to see how you look in that."
Amber closed the bathroom door and leaned against it, breathing hard. All her rationalizations failed her, and no matter how hard she tried to dismiss them, her mind kept bringing up unwelcome visions: How she had recoiled whenever Rick Knutson had gotten too close. How he had left her without a backward glance. And other images, too—memories of pain and terror and tears. Of fear in the darkness. Of footsteps drawing closer.
She tried to shake off the bitter recollections, to replace them with the image of Twojoe's tender smile and adoring eyes. "Focus," she muttered under her breath. "What happened before had nothing to do with love, or even with sex. It was violence, power, domination. This is love. This is God's gift."
Amber pulled off the slacks and sweater she had worn for traveling. She brushed her teeth, ran a comb through her curls, and slipped into the silky, white negligee. It wasn't revealing, as negligees went, but still she felt vulnerable, exposed. The mirror showed a reflection that looked to her like a little girl trying to play grown-up. Maybe she should have just opted for her flannels.
Well, she had stalled long enough. Her husband was waiting, and no matter how understanding and compassionate he was, he probably wouldn't be pleased if she spent all night in the bathroom. Gathering together the tattered remnants of her courage, she opened the door.
Twojoe sat on the sofa dressed in navy, satin pajamas so new they still had creases in them from the folds. His bare feet were propped on the coffee table and in one hand he held a plate piled high with smoked salmon, chicken wings, and chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting. He was just about to bite into a chicken wing when he caught sight of her. His eyes widened, and the wing hung in midair between the plate and his mouth, completely forgotten. "You," he said in a low, breathless voice, "are absolutely beautiful."
Amber sat down beside him. "I'm not. I feel stupid." She grimaced at him, then looked down at the silky gown. "This isn't me, Twojoe. I'm flannel pajamas, not satin negligees. I feel like a phony."
He dropped the chicken wing onto the plate, set it down on the table, and turned to face her. "I don't care if you're dressed in a feed sack," he said firmly. "You are, and always will be, beautiful to me."
"I'm a middle-aged woman with a whole lot of baggage," she corrected. "Are you sure you want me?"
"I'm sure." He cut a glance over to their suitcases and grinned. "And I don't see that much baggage."
Amber cuffed him playfully on the shoulder and felt herself relax a little. "You know what I mean."
The grin faded. "I know. Do we need to talk about this?" His dark eyes caught her gaze and held it. "You do realize how much I love you."
"Yes," she whispered around the lump in her throat. "And I love you. I'm just a little—"
"Scared?" he finished.
Amber nodded. "It's ridiculous, Twojoe. I'm not a teenager. I'm a grown woman."
"A grown woman who has had to face some terrible realities." He reached out a callused hand and touched her cheek. "What do you need from me, darling?"
"Patience."
Twojoe smiled. "Given how long I've waited for you, I think I can do that. What else?"
"I—I need to know you won't leave me if—"
He laid his fingers across her lips. "This afternoon, I took a vow before God to love you and stand beside you as long as we both live. Grandpa Joe taught me that an Elkhorn man keeps his word. And just so you'll be sure, I'll remind you, every day for the next hundred years or so. I'm not going anywhere."
Amber stared at him, and to her horror she felt tears begin to well up in her eyes. This wasn't the way she had imagined it, wasn't the way it was supposed to be. She ought to come to him willingly, joyfully . . .
Twojoe reached out and brushed a tear from her cheek with his thumb, then captured her hands in his and held them. "Listen to me," he said softly. "When I asked you to marry me, I knew this might be difficult for you."
"You didn't ask me." She gulped hard and tried to smile. "I asked you."
"So you did." He gave a little chuckle. "Well then, when I said yes, I knew what I was getting into. Amber, I would never knowingly cause you harm."
"I know that—," she began, but he silenced her with a look.
"This is kind of hard for me, so let me finish. I would never deliberately hurt you, but it's possible, even likely, that I might inadvertently do or say something that brings up disturbing or painful memories. If you feel the least bit uncomfortable with anything that happens between us, all you have to do is tell me. Be honest. We'll stop right then and there and talk about it."
Amber felt her lower lip begin to tremble. "Are you sure? You won't be upset with me?"
Twojoe's eyes softened, and she felt as if he could see clear down to the bottom of her soul. "We've got all the time in the world, sweetheart. We have a whole lifetime together."
He opened his arms, and she leaned into him. Gently, ever so slowly, he bent forward and kissed her, a kiss that tasted of smoked salmon and chocolate. She pressed closer to him and then, as their embrace deepened in intensity, Amber forgot about the menu, forgot about the past,forgot about her fears. Her senses filled instead with an awareness of his closeness, his warmth, his passion, his selfless devotion.
All her life she had waited to be held like this. To be loved. To be safe. To be cherished. It had taken more than forty years, but in that moment, in the sweetness of that kiss, Amber Chaney found trust, and the joy and freedom that could only come with choosing to surrender.
46
Sanctuary
ASHEVILLE, NORTH CAROLINA
DECEMBER 1996
Diedre sat at her desk in one corner of the living room, lost in thought as thick, wet snowflakes sifted past the glass and gathered on the little, blue spruce tree beyond her window. She'd rather be outside, capturing the wonder of the first snowfall on film, but it would be dark soon, and she had promised to pick out some photos and make reprints for Amber. If they were going to get there in time for Christmas, they really should go in the mail first thing tomorrow morning.
Diedre forced her attention back to the desk and gazed at the photographs spread out before her. It was so hard to decide which ones to choose. There were, of course, the obligatory formal portraits of the wedding party, but she much preferred the casual, spontaneous shots. Colonel Houston with Sam hefted on his shoulders. Sam and Lloser standing next to the life-size bronze sculpture of the two of them. Amber and Twojoe dancing together at their reception in the barn. Emmaline beaming over the three-tiered cake like a proud mama. And—her favorite by far—Lloser in his starched tuxedo shirt and bow tie.
An enlargement of the huge llama in formal attire hung on display in Andrew Jorgensen's Seattle gallery, and, according to Andrew, never failed to draw a chuckle from prospective customers. He had suggested that they produce a limited edition of signed and numbered prints; he had already received a dozen requests for the picture. The copy Diedre had sent to Carlene in Asheville was now prominently situated in the front window of Mountain Arts, along with the Tackyville photo series.
Sugarbear roused herself from her bed near the fire, came to the window, and put her paws up on the sill, pushing her nose against the glass. Diedre's eyes wandered to the window again, and with a sigh and a smile, she slid the photos into a manila envelope and gave herself up to the nostalgia of the moment.
Diedre McAlister had come home.
Well, almost. She looked around the room, where a few unpacked boxes sat stacked against the bare walls. She had signed the closing papers for this snug two-bedroom house two weeks before, and she wasn't quite moved in yet.
It was a simple, sturdy place—a one-story Arts and Crafts bungalow of brick and stone. Everything Diedre wanted in a house—a few spacious rooms, breathtaking long-range views, and a fireplace that now crackled and popped and emanated the homey scent of wood smoke throughout the house.
The telephone rang, jarring her out of her reverie.
"Hey, it's me," Carlene's voice said. "You busy?"
"Well, hi, Carlene. Not really. I should be, but I just can't seem to concentrate."
"OK if I drop by? I've got a little Christmas surprise for you."
"Absolutely. I was hoping you'd call. I'll have hot chocolate made by the time you get here, and if you're OK with leftovers, we can probably put together some dinner."
No sooner had she hung up the phone than the doorbell rang. Diedre opened the front door to see Carlene standing on the covered front porch, her head and shoulders coated thick with snowflakes. With one hand she balanced a five-foot Christmas tree. "Is that hot chocolate ready yet?"
Diedre began to laugh. "How did you—?"
Carlene held out her free hand and displayed a small cell phone. "Well, are you going to leave a girl stranded out here in the snow all night?"
"Come on in." Diedre stood to one side as Carlene struggled through the door with the tree, shedding her coat one sleeve at a time. Swathed in a bright red velour pants outfit trimmed with fake ermine, she looked for all the world like an enormous Christmas elf. Dangling from her earlobes were small gold sleigh bells, and when she moved, she made a jingling sound that reminded Diedre of one of Sugarbear's furry toys.
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