The Amazon Quest (House of Winslow Book #25)

by Gilbert, Morris

  The week had passed and several more, so that now Emily had come once more to beard the lion.

  She began to speak, telling him it was not money, and she did not mind long hours, but she needed a challenge.

  “I think the dog show’s a challenge.”

  Emily stared at Sutton. “A challenge! Any high school sophomore could write that up.”

  “No, they couldn’t. It’s harder to write about dog shows than it is about ax murderers. Everybody wants to read about an ax murder. Who wants to read about a bunch of mangy mutts?”

  Emily could not help smiling at the editor’s opinion. “But I—”

  “You do a good job on the mutts, and the next time something bigger comes up, I may give you a chance. If you can’t write about mutts, you can’t write about anything. Now, be off. I’m busy.”

  “All right, Mr. Sutton,” Emily said, clenching her teeth. “And you’re going to get a story about mutts like you’ve never read in your whole life.”

  “Good. Close the door on your way out.”

  ****

  Cap’n Brown met Emily with a rush. He reared up on her as he had done a million times, and when she said, “Down, Cap’n,” he simply leaned forward and tried to lick her face. Nothing would break him of this habit. Upon the advice of a veterinarian, she had tried stepping on his paws, but the dog had merely howled so mournfully she could not stand it. Finally she shoved him aside and said, “If you don’t leave me alone, I’m not going to give you any supper.”

  Cap’n Brown heard “supper.” He had an amazing vocabulary, and any word connected with food was instantly recognized. He loosed a staccato symphony of short, happy barks and followed her into the house. When she went to the kitchen, she reached into the cabinet and pulled out a bag of dog biscuits. Taking several in her hand, she said, “Sit,” and when he held his nose up in the air, she balanced one of the biscuits on his nose. He quivered with ecstasy but did not move. “Eat!” she commanded. The biscuit disappeared, and Cap’n Brown’s tail thumped the floor. Emily fed him several more.

  Her mother, who was sitting across the room, said, “You’re going to fatten that dog too much. It’s bad for him.”

  “I know it is, but I can’t help it. When he looks at me with those mournful eyes, I think he’s starving to death.”

  “He’d look at you with mournful eyes if he’d just eaten a thirty-two-ounce T-bone steak,” Gail smiled. “Cap’n, you get out and go chase a squirrel.” She went over to open the screen door, and Cap’n marched out with his tail between his legs, the picture of rejection.

  Gail laughed. “If they gave awards for dog actors, Cap’n Brown would win. He’ll try anything to get sympathy. Look at him now. You’d think he was going to his own funeral.”

  “I know it. He’s just awful.”

  “How did it go at the office today?”

  “You would have been proud of me, Mom.” She picked an apple off of a dish and bit into it, then sat down on a high stool beside the kitchen counter. “I walked right in and demanded that Mr. Sutton give me a more important assignment.” She took another bite and mumbled around it. “You should have seen me. I stood right up to him and his crummy old cigar.”

  “Did he give you a better assignment?”

  “No, he didn’t. He said that anybody could write about exciting events, but it took a real writer to make a dog show interesting.”

  Gail laughed, turned, and opened the oven door. Taking two potholders, she pulled out a deep dish and set it on the cabinet. “I guess you showed him.”

  Emily sighed and chewed on the apple slowly. “I don’t know about that, but I’m going to write something about the dog show that’ll make him pay attention.”

  “What can you say about a dog show?”

  Emily nibbled at the apple for a time and then smiled. “I think I’ll talk about how ugly the dogs are.”

  “Emily, you can’t do that!”

  “Sure I can. Mr. Sutton thinks they’re ugly. He called them mutts.”

  “But the people who own the dogs will have your head on a platter.”

  “Well, they might, but Mr. Sutton will learn that I know how to stir people with my writing. Mom, let me help you with supper.”

  “No, you go on and lie down for a while. I know you’re tired.”

  “I’m not tired, but I do need to work on that story that’s giving me so much trouble.”

  “Oh, by the way, there were three letters for you in the mail. I put them out on the table in the hall.”

  “Thanks, Mom. I’ll do the dishes tonight.”

  Leaving the kitchen, Emily took another bite of the apple and stopped to pick up the letters. The first one was from her cousin Hannah Winslow, who was making quite a career for herself in New York City. Joshua, her brother, was there now, too, and the pair of them were enjoying New York tremendously. They both urged Emily to come and join them.

  The second letter she picked up was from a magazine, and she knew without opening it that it contained a rejection. She opened the envelope by splitting it with her fingernails and read the familiar words. “Thank you for sending us your work. We found it does not meet our needs at the present time. Please try us again.”

  Emily shook her head ruefully. She had not really counted on an acceptance, and suddenly she smiled. She had gotten one form letter like this that ended with the words, “Please try us again,” but the editor had carefully crossed that out. It had crushed her for a time, but her father had found the letter vastly amusing. He still teased her about that.

  She glanced down at the third letter, but suddenly a chill came over her.

  “I know this writing—it’s from James Parker.”

  She stood immobile, and the bitterness that she had kept carefully locked away for so long escaped. This time it was worse, for the very sight of his writing brought back memories of the letters that the family had received while Jared was in the hospital—those lying, deceitful letters she had believed so implicitly.

  Her hands shook as she opened the envelope and took out a single sheet of paper. She stared at it, and then her lips pressed together, leaving a white line. She ground her teeth together and closed her eyes, struggling to control the fury that rose in her. She walked mechanically down the hall and went upstairs to her room and closed the door behind her.

  ****

  “What’s so great about this new camera you’re interested in, son?” Aaron asked. He picked up a piece of fried chicken and nibbled at it.

  “Why, Dad, it’s a Kodak. It’s the best camera in the world!”

  “What does it do besides take pictures?”

  Wes stared at his father. He could never be sure whether his father was serious or not. “Why, it takes better pictures.”

  “I don’t see how some of your pictures could be any better than the ones you’ve already made.”

  Wes stared at his father and then laughed. “Why did you want to get an Oldsmobile instead of a Ford?”

  “Because it’s a better car,” Gail said. “And I’m sure that Kodak camera you’re talking about would enable you to take better pictures.”

  “It ought to for the price they’re asking for it,” Aaron said.

  “Well, Dad, a man needs good tools. The competition’s pretty tough in the world of professional photography.”

  The entire family was proud of Wes, for he had won a number of contests. He had also received commissions to photograph weddings and other events, and his pictures of Richmond had been published in Travel America along with Emily’s article. Both Emily and her mother knew that Aaron would get the camera for Wes.

  Emily had spoken very little during the meal, and when Gail brought out the dessert, she said, “None for me, Mom.”

  Aaron looked at her. “What’s the matter? You love blackberry cobbler.”

  “I’m not very hungry, Dad.”

  Aaron then shot a glance at his wife. Both of them knew this young woman very well, and now they saw t
hat she was upset. “What is it, Emily? Some trouble at the paper? Did you lose your job?”

  “No, I didn’t lose my job.” She hesitated, then reached into the pocket of her skirt. “This letter came today.” She hesitated for a moment, then shook her head. “It’s from James Parker.”

  Instantly the other three Winslows stared at her as she opened it, pulled out the single sheet of paper, and read, “ ‘I have hesitated to write this letter, but I must. I’ve had a change come into my life and am now not the same man that you knew. I’m trying to build a new life for myself, and I would like to ask for your forgiveness. I know this will be difficult, and I will understand if you do not feel you can grant it. But I’m going to everyone that I hurt in the past. I know I hurt you more than anyone, so please forgive me if you can.’ ”

  Wes clamped his lips together, then shook his head. “He’s got a nerve after what he did!”

  Aaron was quiet for a moment, then looked over toward Gail. Something unseen passed between them, and he said, “I think we’ll have to forgive him.”

  Emily’s head snapped up. Her eyes seemed to blaze for a moment. “Forgive him! I’ll never forgive him! He killed my brother!” She got up and threw the letter on the table, turned, and ran out of the dining room.

  Wes got up to follow her, but his mother said, “Better leave her alone, Wes.”

  Wes was upset. “I can’t believe that . . . that thug would write!”

  “We all have to ask for forgiveness,” Aaron said. “I did.”

  “So did I,” Gail murmured. She reached over and took Wes’s hand. “You were saved when you were sixteen, Wes. Didn’t you have to ask God to forgive you?”

  “Sure I did, but—”

  “Well, it’s the same thing. I think we don’t have any choice. We’ll have to forgive him.”

  “That’s right. Unforgiveness will kill a man or a woman as surely as a bullet,” Aaron said. “I know it’s tough, son, but you don’t know his heart. God does. It seems he’s trying anyway.”

  Wes bowed his head and shrugged his shoulders. “I’ll try,” he said, “but it’s not going to be easy.”

  ****

  Emily opened her dresser drawer and took out the small box. She opened it and stared down at the gold pen and pencil. She had put them away after Parker left, and now as she stared at them, the memories came flooding back. She thought of the kisses she had given him and how she had fallen in love with him. There was no other way to put it. She knew that now. That was why she could not forgive him. What he had done to Jared was horrific, and lying to her family was terrible, but he had deliberately set out to deceive her. Long ago she had decided he had cared nothing for her, and now as she stared at the golden writing set with the words “To Emily” engraved on the side, her hands began to tremble. A thought came to her, and she picked out the pen and went over to her desk. With hands not entirely steady, she filled the reservoir with ink. Taking out a sheet of paper, she had to wait until she could control her writing. When she did, she wrote a short note and then laid the pen down and read it: I will never forgive you. You killed my brother as surely as if you’d shot him yourself. You came to this home, where we tried to show you love and acceptance, and you proved yourself to be a lying deceiver. I never want to see you again, and I don’t want any more letters from you. God is your judge, and He may forgive you—but I never will!

  Emily picked up an envelope, and on it she wrote “James Parker” and the address he had given in his letter. Her hand trembled. She was embarrassed by the shaky handwriting, and when she had better control of herself, she addressed it firmly. She stuffed her letter inside, licked the flap, sealed it, and put a stamp on it. She stood looking at it for a moment, then tossed it on the table.

  She stared at it as if it were a venomous reptile and then left the house and walked for over two hours. When she returned she avoided her parents and Wes and went to bed, still shaken and still struggling to control the anger that the very name of James Parker stirred within her.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  At the End of the Rainbow

  Donald Sutton chewed on his cigar, staring at the news copy in front of him and at the enlarged photograph that accompanied it. He did not move for so long that Emily finally demanded, “Well, what do you think of my story?”

  Lifting his eyes, Sutton mouthed around his cigar, “What do I think of it? I think you’re crazy, Emily.”

  The silence seemed to thicken in the room, and the only movement for a few seconds was the upward curling smoke of Sutton’s cigar. Then Emily demanded, “What’s wrong with it?”

  “Everything! This is a family newspaper, Emily, not a trashy New York tabloid.” He slapped his meaty hand down on the photograph, exclaiming, “If I ran that picture, I’d have every preacher in town and almost every mother of a teenage daughter down here demanding my head in a basket!” Removing the cigar, Sutton shook his head. “You’ve been here long enough, Emily, to know this news isn’t fit to print!”

  The story was one Emily had covered on her own time. She had gone to the bathing beach on the Potomac along with Wes. She had written a story about a beauty contest being held there, and Wes had taken a great many photographs of the contestants. Emily had captured the essence of the show and written about the prizewinners and what it was like to be a bathing beauty queen. Wes had captured the young women in their tunic bathing suits, their caps over their long curls, and their long stockings—except for one contestant who had daringly rolled her stockings below the knee. Wes had captured the bare knees and clingy bathing suits, with thousands of spectators looking on, mouths open, as they applauded the girls. Emily had interviewed Miss Washington, who was declared the most beautiful girl in America, and had ended the article by saying, “The one-piece bathing suit will become orthodox wear for bathing beauties. Promoters of seaside resorts will start having their own contests, and the tabloid editors will have a field day.”

  Emily stared at Sutton, and her face was flushed with anger. “Are you trying to tell me that this story is indecent?”

  “I’m trying to tell you, Emily, that the preachers and the mamas will say it’s indecent. Why, we’d lose a thousand subscribers if I printed this story.”

  “Donald, I think you’re avoiding the times. This story is news. It’s what’s happening in America, and if you and the preachers and the mamas don’t like it, at least they ought to know what’s going on.”

  Sutton rose to his feet and came around to face Emily. “Emily, you’re young. You haven’t had to face irate subscribers. If you had, you’d know that this story won’t do. And the photographs! Why, it looks like one of the Hearst papers from New York.”

  “Well, at least people are reading the Hearst papers.”

  “No, they’re not! They’re looking at the pictures. We’re a newspaper, not scandal-mongering yellow journalism like those New York sheets!”

  Emily argued for the next ten minutes, getting angrier all the time. She had learned, for the most part, to keep her anger under control, but from time to time it did slip out. And now she finally shook her finger in Donald Sutton’s face, proclaiming, “If you don’t print this story and use these pictures, I quit!”

  Sutton had a temper of his own. “Fine! I think we’ll manage to struggle along without you! We did a pretty fair job for quite a few years without your help.”

  “Good!” Emily snapped. She turned and walked out, her head high, and marched right to her desk.

  Everyone had heard the conflict, for Sutton’s door had been open. Now as Emily left with all of her belongings in a paper sack, Max Carter, the assistant editor, came into Sutton’s office. He smiled, saying, “You made her pretty mad.”

  “She needed to be cut down.”

  “I don’t know, boss,” Max said. “She’s the best writer we’ve got.”

  “I know she is.” Sutton chewed on his cigar furiously, then took it out and dropped it in the brass cuspidor. Frustration was written across
his broad features, and he shrugged his beefy shoulders. “She’ll come back,” he declared. “She gets mad once in a while, but she always gets over it.”

  “I hope so. If she doesn’t, you’ll have to hire two more reporters to fill her shoes.”

  ****

  The house was strangely silent as Emily stepped inside, and she remembered that her parents had gone to visit friends in a neighboring town. Slowly she walked into her room and sat down on the bed. A state of depression had fallen on her, as it often did after she showed the tempestuous side of her nature. “Why did I have to lose my temper and fly off the handle?” she muttered, staring at the floor. “Donald Sutton has done nothing but try to help me since I’ve been on the paper, and now I’ve acted like an idiot!”

  Emily Winslow was an emotional young woman—too much so for her own good when she was challenged and yet knew she was right about something. She instantly recognized the dark cloud that had now settled over her. In the past when this sort of emotional outbreak happened to her, it had sometimes taken her days to get over it. Now she dreaded telling her parents and Wes what she had done, and the thought crossed her mind that, perhaps, she might go back and apologize to Mr. Sutton. She finally knelt beside her bed and began to pray. Her prayer was very simple. “Lord, forgive me for showing that side of me that you must hate. You’ve said that the wrath of man worketh not the righteousness of God, and I certainly didn’t show righteousness when I lost it with my boss. So, Lord, I ask you to forgive me. I’m ready to do anything you say. If you want me to go back and apologize, I’ll do it. . . .”