"I brought you a tree. I put the base on it, so it's all ready to go."
"I see that." Diedre shook her head. "Carlene, you are a wonderful, brilliant, thoughtful friend. An absolute genius. But I'm not even finished unpacking yet."
"All the more reason you should have a tree. You can't celebrate Christmas in a bare house. I've got lights and decorations in the car."
"Why does this not surprise me?" Diedre helped Carlene situate the tree in the corner next to the window, and they both sank onto the couch in front of the fire. Sugarbear jumped up between them and laid her head on Carlene's lap.
"This is so perfect," Carlene murmured as she leaned back against the sofa pillows and stroked the dog's ears. "Wish I had a fireplace, especially on an evening like this."
They sat in companionable silence for a few minutes, and then Carlene sat up straight. "Oh, I almost forgot. Your surprise!"
"Isn't the tree my surprise?"
"Oh, no, there's more—much more." Carlene shook her head vigorously, and Sugarbear jumped up and began running around the room, nosing in every corner to locate the source of that tinkling sound. "In my briefcase—I left it on the porch."
She got up and went to the door, returning with a bulging black leather case. "I ran into Cliff Rivers in town this afternoon—"
"My lawyer?"
Carlene nodded, and Sugarbear set off on round two of the hunt. "He came in the shop looking for you. Said he was going to call you tomorrow, but since I was on my way over—" She reached into the briefcase, pulled out a file folder, and extended it in Diedre's direction. "Here it is, pal—what you've been waiting for."
Diedre took the file and held it in her hands for a full minute, then slowly opened it. All the emotions of the past few months came flooding back—the pain of finding out the truth about her father, the internal struggles during counseling with Susan, the longing for some way to make sense of what had happened to her. Especially, that glorious moment during Amber's wedding when the way had opened up to her and the answer had become clear.
She felt Carlene's eyes on her as she stared at the cover page:
CHANEY HOUSE
A NOT-FOR-PROFIT MINISTRY OF
THE CECILIA CHANEY TRUST FUND
HEARTSPRING, NORTH CAROLINA
The dream was about to become a reality.
And what a dream it was—a six-million-dollar trust fund, established in Mama's maiden name, to provide refuge and support for women and children victimized by sexual or domestic abuse. A sanctuary. A place of safety and healing. A place of hope.
Cliff Rivers, the attorney who had probated Daddy's will, had done all the legal paperwork, but Chaney House was Diedre's brainchild. Once Cliff had established the trust fund, she had signed the big house in Heartspring over to the trust. It would be months yet before the revisions were completed and Chaney House would be ready for occupancy, but the work was underway.
"You did it, Diedre." Carlene shifted on the sofa and grinned. "It's really going to happen."
Diedre took a deep breath and began flipping through the pages of the Chaney House proposal. "This is going to be wonderful, Carlene. A refuge for abused women. Psychological counseling. Educational support. Prenatal care and hospital costs for residents who are pregnant. Relocation assistance. Most of all, security. Safety. A new beginning." She paused and shut the folder. "There's only one thing missing."
"What's that?"
"A director. Where on earth are we going to find someone to oversee Chaney House? It will take somebody pretty special—she'll need administrative experience, but she'll also have to know what it means to work with abused women. This job will take more than brains and ability—it will demand a lot of heart, too, and—"
Diedre stopped midsentence as she caught a glimpse of Carlene's expression. That round, elfin face had drawn up in an enormous grin. "Let me guess—you know just the person for the job."
Carlene nodded smugly. "I do. She came in the shop this morning." She reached into the front pocket of her briefcase and came up with a crumpled paper napkin. "We had lunch together. Here's her number."
Diedre took the napkin and scrutinized it. "Sandi Ricewood. Who is she?"
"A friend. A very good friend."
"If she's such a good friend, how come I've never met her?" Diedre chuckled.
"We got to know each other while you were away at Duke. She's just moved back to Asheville from Charlotte—worked for Rape Crisis Center for years, and loved it. But she always had a different kind of dream. A dream to—are you ready for this?—" Carlene leaned forward andlowered her voice dramatically. "To establish a series of sanctuary houses for abused women."
Diedre narrowed her eyes. "Tell me you didn't lure her back here from Charlotte on the promise of this job?"
"No, she came back on her own, I promise." Carlene got up and went to the fireplace, laying on another log and stirring up the embers with a brass-handled poker. "But you do have an interview with her. Tomorrow." When the fire was blazing satisfactorily, she settled down on the sofa again and stretched her feet toward the warmth. "And mark my words you will hire her."
"You sound pretty sure of yourself." Diedre shut the file folder and tapped it against Carlene's knee. "What makes this Sandi Ricewood so perfect?"
Carlene turned her full-moon face in Diedre's direction and grinned broadly. "She's just like me," she chuckled. "Only better."
Diedre let her hands linger in the warm, soapy water and stared out the kitchen window. Here, on the back side of the house, the land sloped up sharply into woods. Between two trees, she could see a crescent moon tilt from the clouds to pour a wash of yellow light and dark blue shadow across the snowy ground.
Behind her, in the living room, a Christmas CD played softly on the stereo, and in counterpoint to the music, Diedre could hear the gentle tinkling of Carlene's sleigh-bell earrings as she strung lights and hung decorations on the tree. She smiled to herself.
"Hey, what about that hot chocolate?" Carlene called through the doorway.
Diedre laughed. "Kind of demanding, aren't you? You just had leftover meat loaf and leftover chicken casserole and leftover vegetable soup."
"And it was all great—my compliments to Chef Hodgepodge," Carlene yelled back. "But I can't decorate a tree without hot chocolate. It's against the law."
"It's coming." Diedre drained the sink, dried her hands, and retrieved two steaming mugs from the microwave. When she rounded the doorway, she stopped and stared.
The tree in the corner, transformed with tiny, white lights and silver garland and sparkling spun-glass icicles, illuminated the room with an ethereal light. Carlene, in her red velour and faux ermine, stood beside it holding Sugarbear, who was decked out in a pair of velvet reindeer antlers.
"Come look." Carlene parked Sugarbear on the floor and motioned to Diedre. "Your first Christmas tree in your new home."
Diedre set the mugs of chocolate on the coffee table and went to stand beside her friend. "It's beautiful."
"Look closer."
Diedre looked. On one branch, a little red birdhouse with WALL DRUG in block letters on the green roof. Above it and to one side, a diminutive corn-husk angel without a face. A small plastic version of the Jolly Green Giant.
And on the top, just below the angel, a miniature clay sculpture of a llama wearing a top hat and a tuxedo.
Diedre began to laugh. "Where on earth did that come from? As if I didn't know . . . "
"Amber sent it as a surprise. She wanted to be here with you—in spirit, if not in body." Carlene put an arm around Diedre and squeezed her shoulder. "Look outside. It's snowing again."
Diedre's gaze went to the window, where the tree cast a soft, golden light beyond the glass. Onto every tree and bush and blade of grass, the flakes sifted down—gently, soundlessly. At the edges of her consciousness, she heard the quiet strains of the familiar carol:
"How silently, how silently, the wondrous gift is given ..."
Diedre smiled, and the snow continued to descend. Like a blessing. A sacrament. A benediction.
Epilogue
CHANEY HOUSE
HEARTSPRING, NORTH CAROLINA
SPRING 1998
Diedre paused on the wide stone porch of the house where she had grown up and let her eyes roam over the familiar vistas of the Blue Ridge. A fresh spring breeze blew in from the mountains—a wind that swept away the old confusing memories, a breath that brought a resurrection of spirit after the long waiting time in the tomb.
Close at her side, Vesta Shelby stood with one arm linked through hers. Behind them, Carlene talked in animated tones with Sandi Ricewood, administrator of Chaney House.
"I declares, baby," Vesta was saying, "whoever come up with this idea of retirement must be some lazy kind of so-and-so. Took 'bout two weeks 'til I'd seen every blessed murder that Jessica Fletcher ever solved. I nearbout turned into a vegetable, just sittin' around on my hind parts."
Diedre squeezed Vesta's hand and smiled. "So you like working here at Chaney House?"
"Like it? Hon, I feel like I got one foot in heaven already. Look down there. What do you see?"
Diedre's eyes swept across the vast expanse of yard, hidden from the isolated road by a high hedge and security gates. From one of the branches of the big oak tree hung a swing, and under the watchful eyes of their mothers, three small children gathered around it, taking turns pushing each other. "I see children playing."
Vesta shook her head. "Not me. I see hope." She pointed toward a young woman in blue jeans and a purple jacket. "See that gal? Name's Kathleen. Come to us straight outta the hospital—her second husband beat her near to death when she caught him doing horrible, unforgivable things to her little girl. The poor baby, Crystal—that's her on the swing—wouldn't speak a single word the whole first month she was here. Now look at her."
Diedre watched as the child squealed playfully, tussling with her friends over possession of the swing. A normal, happy little girl, unconcerned with anything except who would get the next turn. There was no sign of the dark pain she carried, or the fear. For the moment, she was safe.
"Every day, I look around me," Vesta went on, turning to gaze into Diedre's eyes, "and what I see is people gettin' a second chance at life. And not just them, neither." She waved a hand toward the residents, and a light came on in her eyes. "I'm gettin' a second chance, too—maybe what I'm doin' here can make up for all them years I missed with my CeCe."
A pretty teenage girl with long blonde hair left the cluster of women on the lawn and came toward the porch. "That there's Anna Louise," Vesta whispered. "She's fourteen. Social Services sent her to us when her uncle—"
She paused as Anna Louise approached. "How you doin', baby?"
The girl stopped to receive a hug and a kiss on the cheek from Vesta. "Doing good, Vesta. Except for a little morning sickness, real good." She pushed her hair out of her eyes and sent a brief, embarrassed smile in Diedre's direction. "Thanks," she said, ducking her head. "I'd be on the street if it wasn't for this place." She pushed past them and went into the house.
Diedre watched her go and stood in silence for a moment staring out over miles of mountains.
"How 'bout you, sweetie?" Vesta asked softly, reaching to take her hand. "You doin' all right?"
"I miss Amber," Diedre admitted, "but yes, I'm doing fine." She almost said, I've finished my counseling and found my peace, but something stopped her. For her, as for all these women, healing was an ongoing process, not a one-time event. At this moment, she felt more complete and whole than she ever thought possible. But she also realized that there would be other moments—loose ends to tie up, emotional leftovers to contain. Still, she had hope, and a faith that had been put through the fire and come out stronger on the other side.
They had just turned to go into the house when a commotion on the lawn caught their attention. Little Crystal stood tugging at her mother's hands, squealing, "Twirl me around, Mommy!"
Diedre stopped in her tracks. She pressed close to Vesta, and as she stood there watching, tears began streaming silently down her cheeks.
"Whirl me faster, Mommy. Faster!"
Faster they went, until Crystal's little feet lifted from the ground. She began to giggle, her hair streaming in the wind, her childish voice rising with exhilaration. "We're flying, Mommy. We're flying like birds in the sky!"
Her mother laughed, too. "Yes we are, honey."
"Don't let go!" the little girl yelled.
"I won't," her mother shouted back. "I won't let go!"
They went on circling until both of them were dizzy, then collapsed in a giddy heap on the grass. The mother drew her tiny daughter into a fierce embrace and held her there, panting.
A face materialized in Diedre's mind, so real she almost believed she could reach out and touch it. Amber's face. Her sister. Her mother. Two thousand miles away, and yet as close as her own heartbeat. She could almost read the expression in those eyes, almost hear the words that echoed in her soul: I'll/ never let go. No matter how far apart we are, I'll never let go of you again.
Diedre blinked back the tears, then gazed once more toward the laughing child on the grassy lawn. "Keep flying, little one," she whispered. "Glide on the current of your Maker's breath. Fly into freedom, and into grace. Fly, fly, and never look down."
And like a bird on a mended wing, her own heart soared, propelled by a hand she felt but could not see.
Acknowledgments
Many people have contributed their knowledge, expertise, and personal life experiences to the creation of this book.
Special appreciation goes first to the cast of extraordinary women who have shared their stories of pain and healing with me. Their honesty, anger, power, and faith have enlightened me and sensitized me both to the presence of evil in the world and God's ability to bring blessing out of brokenness. Thank you. I love and honor you all.
I also owe a debt of gratitude to the following people who aided immeasurably in my research for this novel:
Catherine, John, and Andrew Ahl, of Poulsbo, Washington, who welcomed me into their home on Hood Canal, squired me all over Kitsap County, and gave me a wealth of ideas for the portions of this novel set in Washington State
Sandi Rice, of OUR VOICE in Asheville, North Carolina, who provided invaluable information and inspiration, and whose friendship I value immensely
Nora Robillard, whose tireless research into the law made my work infinitely easier
Rev. Dr. Gary Gundersen of the Interfaith Health Project, who reminded me that buried seeds of faith will sprout again
Rev. Dr. Marie Fortune, founder of the Center for the Prevention of Sexual and Domestic Violence in Seattle, whose workshop on "Faith, Justice, and Healing" helped shape my perspectives and give me renewed hope for the future
A Word from the Author
The Amber Photograph has been a difficult and challenging novel to write. Readers have asked if this novel is autobiographical, if this is my story.
It is not my story.
It is, however, the story of countless real-life women who have faced the terror and shame of violence and abuse, and who continue to deal with the aftereffects of that abuse on a daily basis. Diedre and Amber are fictional characters, but as any good writer will tell you, fiction must be grounded in reality. And the reality of what these two characters experienced is all too familiar—in our homes, in our churches, and in society at large.
Silence, as Amber discovered, protects only the perpetrator. If you or someone you love has been sexually abused, battered, or otherwise violated, please call the number listed below. Experienced counselors are on hand twenty-four hours a day to provide confidential hot line help free of charge.
RAINN
(Rape, Abuse, and Incest National Network)
635-B Pennsylvania Avenue SE
Washington, DC 20003
1-800-656-HOPE
A portion of this book's proceeds will be donated to
<
br /> OUR VOICE
(Victim Outreach, Intervention, Counseling, and Education)
Asheville, North Carolina
and
Center for the Prevention of Sexual and Domestic Violence
Seattle, Washington.
The Amber Photograph Page 32