The Amber Photograph Page 3

He opened the door, and a wave of noise rolled toward her, indistinguishable voices that from this distance sounded like the chattering of geese on a riverbank. When the door closed again, silence washed over her like healing waters. Good old Uncle Jack. Always dependable. Always around when you needed him.

  Jackson Underwood wasn't her real uncle, but he had been a friend of the family since before Diedre was born. As Daddy's attorney, business associate, closest confidant, and sometime campaign manager, Jack had been present for every McAlister family celebration, fund-raiser, election banquet, and funeral for more than twenty-five years. He had three ex-wives but no children and had become Diedre's unofficial "bachelor uncle" so long ago that he might as well be kin. And he always treated her as if she were the most important person in his world.

  It was rumored around Heartspring that Jack Underwood was something of a womanizer. Diedre didn't know that for sure, but given his trim physique, quick wit, and charismatic personality, she wouldn't be surprised if women threw themselves at him. He had a way about him, a kind of effortless charm that made people instantly comfortable in his presence. Maybe it was that brilliant smile of his. He laughed readily, and although he had to be close to Daddy's age, he seemed ten years younger.

  Yes, she guessed, he would undoubtedly be considered quite a catch. But no one had caught him since his last divorce, which had been more than fifteen years ago.

  The library door opened, and Uncle Jack entered the room balancing two crystal punch cups and a small plate heaped with finger sandwiches and cake. "I thought you might be hungry." He sat in the chair opposite hers and extended the plate.

  Diedre waved the food away. "I couldn't eat. But thanks for the punch." She sipped at the pink liquid, a combination of lemonade and grape juice which tasted vaguely like the SweetTarts candy she used to love as a child.

  She looked at Jack and tried to consider him objectively, as if she hadn't known him all her life. He was handsome, she concluded with surprise. She had never really noticed that before—

  "Is something wrong?" He ran a hand through his hair. "You're staring."

  "No, I—" Diedre shrugged. "Sorry."

  "I know, this is all so difficult." He grinned and winked at her. "So very, very, terribly, terribly difficult."

  Jack's imitation of Ollie Ferrell wasn't as good as Daddy's, but Diedre chuckled nevertheless.

  He took her hand and squeezed it. "So, how are you doing, kiddo?"

  "All right, I guess." She let out a sigh. "For a while I was running on adrenaline, I think, but my supply is used up. I'm exhausted."

  "The funeral's tomorrow. Then things will get back to normal."

  Back to normal. The words echoed in her head like a foreign language, elusive sounds she should be able to understand but couldn't get her mind to comprehend. It had been so long since anything had seemed normal—with her mother's illness and then coming home to help with her care—that Diedre couldn't remember what that felt like. And now without Mama, she couldn't imagine life ever being normal again.

  A light knock sounded on the door, and it opened to reveal a long-legged, attractive blonde in the requisite black dress and pearls—but with significantly more makeup than the other Stepfords. "There you are." She sidled in Jack's direction, casting a desultory glance at Diedre. "Busy, Jack?"

  "Does it look like I'm busy?"

  The blonde arched one immaculately tweezed eyebrow. "It looks like you've cornered someone half your age. Really, Jack!"

  He set his punch on the table and took a step in the woman's direction. "This is Diedre McAlister," he said, speaking slowly and deliberately, as if to a very stupid child. "Mayor McAlister's daughter."

  A confused look came over the woman's face. "Oh. Sorry."

  Uncle Jack rolled his eyes. "Diedre, this is Pamela Langley, my new secretary."

  "Legal assistant," Pamela corrected with a vacant smile. She shook Diedre's outstretched hand with the tips of her manicured fingers. "A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Nice party." She turned her attention back to Jack and lowered her eyelids to half-mast. "Isn't it about time we were leaving?"

  Jack frowned and cut a glance in Diedre's direction. "Not now, Pamela—"

  Diedre waved a hand. "Never mind, Uncle Jack. Go on. I'm sure you've got work to do. It's all right."

  "You'll be OK?" he asked.

  "Of course. I need to get back to our guests, anyway."

  Diedre stood to see them out, but before they could make their exit, a large, familiar figure blocked the doorway of the library.

  "Carlene!" Diedre reached out a hand toward her best friend. "Come in!"

  Carlene Donovan shouldered past Pamela Langley and Jack and drew Diedre into an exuberant hug. "Sorry it took me so long. I got here as soon as I could."

  Diedre held onto her for a minute or two, then stepped back to look at her. She was decked out in a flowing tunic and pants of peacock blue and actual miniature peacock feathers dangled at her earlobes. With her round face, pixie haircut, and bright silk outfit, she provided a striking contrast to—and relief from—the thin, blonde, black-clad Pamela.

  "I'm so glad to see you!" Diedre said, gripping both of Carlene's hands. "You weren't there when I called; I wasn't sure you'd get the message."

  "I got it, all right. I came as fast as I could."

  The legal assistant raked cold eyes up and down Carlene's ample form, making no attempt to camouflage her blatant assessment—and obvious disapproval. If she had spoken aloud, her opinion could not have been more clear: a woman of size and substance, especially one who had the audacity to wear bright colors and carry herself with confidence—had no right to exist in the svelte Miss Langley's world. "Can we leave now?" she whined in Jack's direction without taking her measuring gaze off Carlene.

  He cleared his throat. "You go on without me."

  The woman's face took on a pinched expression, as if she had just caught a whiff of something distasteful. "If you insist." She straightened his tie and pushed a cocktail napkin into the pocket of his suit coat. "I'm not going back to the office. Here's my new cell phone number. Call me later."

  Jack hustled her out the door and turned back toward Diedre. "Sorry." He lifted his shoulders in a shrug, then offered his hand to Carlene. "I don't believe we've met. I'm Jack Underwood."

  "This is Carlene Donovan, my best friend from Asheville," Diedre said. "Carlene, this is my Uncle Jack."

  "Your uncle?"

  "In name only, I'm sorry to say," Jack responded smoothly. "I'm Diedre's father's attorney, and an old friend of the family. You'll be here for a few days, Miss Donovan?"

  Carlene nodded. "At least for the funeral."

  "Then I'll look forward to seeing you again." He leaned over and kissed Diedre on the forehead. "Bye, honey. I'm going to talk to your dad for a few minutes, and then take off. I'll see you tomorrow."

  Diedre watched him go. When she turned back, Carlene was lounging in the leather library chair, shaking all over with laughter.

  "What's so funny?"

  "Your dashing Uncle Jack and his anorexic model. What a pair."

  "They're not a pair, Carlene. She's his secretary."

  "Right. And I'm Cindy Crawford."

  "You think they're together? I don't believe it."

  "Believe what you like." Carlene chuckled. "But they are a couple—of some kind, anyway. And from what I just saw, they probably deserve each other."

  "That's not a very nice thing to say about my Uncle Jack. He's a very compassionate and generous man."

  "If I were a woman anywhere within thirty years of him, I'd watch out." Carlene insisted. "Easy on the eyes, hard on the heart."

  5

  Daddy's Girl

  Diedre lay in the dark and listened. The house was silent. The last of the mourners had drifted back to their respective homes, leaving the refrigerator and freezer stuffed with enough food to feed a small army for the next month and a half. Carlene had returned to Asheville. Vesta had finall
y gone to bed, and Daddy was no doubt sequestered in his study.

  The events of the past few days swirled in her mind. Everything was moving too fast, and with all the chaos—the ambulance, the funeral home, the service and interment, the constant reminders of Mama's absence—Diedre had almost forgotten her birthday gift.

  She sat up in bed and turned on the light. The wooden cigar box lay in the drawer of her bedside table. She pulled it out and opened the lid. With one glimpse of the faded, browned photograph of her long-dead sister, images of the Spinning Dream filled her mind, and a sense of loss and loneliness overwhelmed her. She was twenty-five years old, yet she felt like an orphan, a tiny child abandoned and terrified in a threatening and uncertain world.

  Her eyes burned with unshed tears, mocking her, tormenting her with the promise of release. But when she tried to let herself cry, no tears would come. She missed her mama. She wanted her daddy. She longed for the sister she had never known.

  But Mama was dead, and Daddy was locked up with a private grief she could not share. She clutched the photograph to her chest and held it there, but it brought little comfort.

  All her life, Diedre had longed to be close to her father. She was, at heart, a Daddy's girl—or at least she wanted to be. And she couldn't deny that he loved her. He had always doted on her, protected her. But something was missing, something she couldn't quite grasp.

  She fingered the amber-toned photograph. No wonder she hadn't recognized the man in the picture right away. He was smiling. Laughing. Maybe even tickling the little girl on his lap. But it wasn't just any little girl. It was Sissy. Her big sister. And the two of them together looked like the perfect portrait of father and daughter.

  This was what she had missed all her life, without any words to express it. The abandonment. The joy. The freedom of loving and being loved without reservation. Diedre had never seen that look on her father's face. With her, there had always been a split second of hesitation, the tiniest fraction of holding back.

  At last long-overdue tears welled up in Diedre's eyes and ran down her cheeks. She cried for a long time—sometimes sobbing like a child, sometimes weeping silently. Sugarbear jumped onto the bed and lay beside her, whimpering softly.

  Things are not what they seem to be.

  Mama's words came back to her, an echo in her mind, and as Diedre considered the photograph, she wondered what Mama had meant. Was it possible that Daddy had once been open and loving, a true father? Had the loss of his firstborn child driven him inward, so that he could not give himself completely to loving his younger daughter? Was it too much of a risk for him, such wholehearted love?

  With the death of Mama a fresh wound in her heart, Diedre could almost understand such reticence. Loving deeply opened you to being deeply hurt. And although time, she was told, would ease the immediacy of the pain, it would never erase the scars completely. They stayed forever—reminders, warnings, of what could happen when you gave your heart away.

  Mama was gone. Sissy was gone. But Daddy was still here. He was all she had left. Perhaps, deep down, there was still a spark—even a small glimmer—of the Daddy who smiled back at her from this old photograph. Some tender place that could dare to reveal itself now that they only had each other. Maybe they could find a way to be a family.

  Diedre couldn't bring back her mother or her sister. But she had to take the chance that she might be able to bring back her father.

  What did she have to lose?

  Tomorrow, she thought as she set the cigar box aside and settled down to sleep. I'll talk to him tomorrow.

  6

  Sugarbear's Treasure

  Diedre awoke to a snuffling sound and a movement on the bed. The illuminated numbers on the clock said 6:55. Outside the window, night was beginning to give way to gray dawn.

  "Settle down, you beast," she muttered, reaching a hand to rub Sugarbear's head. "It's too early. Go back to sleep."

  The snuffling continued.

  She sat up and peered through the half-light at Sugarbear, who was pawing and rooting her nose at something. Diedre flipped on the bedside lamp. "Sugarbear, no!"

  She had gone to sleep with the cigar box next to her on the bed. Now the dog had her snout in the box and was pushing it toward the edge of the mattress. In the instant before it fell, Diedre grabbed it.

  "What on earth is the matter with you?" she reprimanded. "Look what you've done—slimy nose prints all over my sister's picture." She wiped the photograph on the blanket, held it to the light, and scrutinized it again. Her sister, looking remarkably like herself in her own baby pictures. Her father, much younger, so loving and attentive that it made Diedre's heart squeeze with unwelcome envy.

  She had to stop torturing herself like this. Just put it back in the box and go to sleep, she thought. Then her eye fixed on something she hadn't seen before. "What in the world—?"

  Sugarbear positioned her furry little face over the box and looked. Beneath the picture, a rectangle of cardboard lay in the cigar box—just about the same size and color of the box itself. Sugarbear's investigation had pushed the cardboard down in one corner. Now Diedre lifted it up and saw that it made a neat little false bottom to the box. And underneath lay a folded paper and a couple of envelopes.

  With trembling fingers she unfolded the sheet of heavy-stock paper. At the top, in elaborately scrolled letters, it said:

  State of NorthCarolina

  Certificate of Live Birth

  Diedre's eyes scanned the document

  Child's name: Diedre Chaney McAlister

  Gender: Female

  DOB: April 3, 1970

  It was her birth certificate. But why would there be a copy, and why would Mama keep it in this box, hidden away?

  The original was in Diedre's own desk, along with a passport she'd never had a chance to use, a copy of the life insurance policy Daddy had taken out on her when she was six months old, and the telephone numbers of Daddy's insurance agents and stockbrokers.

  Then she looked more closely.

  Mother's name: Cecilia A. McAlister

  Father's name: Unknown

  The document blurred in front of her eyes. Diedre blinked. Unknown?

  Mama's words echoed in her mind: Things are not what they seem to be . . .

  Diedre knew she ought to slow down, to think through this situation logically. There had to be some rational explanation. But the accelerator on her brain seemed to be stuck; her mind lurched ahead, leaving reason idling at the caution light.

  Like a slide show on fast-forward, images began to click into place in her mind: Daddy's faltering attempts to demonstrate his affection. His reserve with her, compared to the love and joy that emanated from the picture of him with Sissy. He had provided for Diedre, lavished her with material gifts, taught her discipline, nearly smothered her with his insistent overprotectiveness. But he couldn't give Diedre the kind of love and warmth he had given her sister, because—

  Because he was not her father.

  Her breath came in shallow gasps, as if she were drowning. Was it possible that Daddy was not her daddy? That Mama had cheated on him, and Diedre was the fruit of that infidelity?

  No wonder she felt like an orphan. If she was not who she believed herself to be—not Diedre McAlister, daughter of Duncan and Cecilia McAlister—then who was she?

  And what else had they kept from her?

  Diedre laid the birth certificate aside and reached into the cigar box gingerly, as if it contained a mousetrap, or something alive that might bite. She lifted out the envelopes and looked at them—letters, addressed not to "Mr. and Mrs. Duncan McAlister," or even to "Mrs. Duncan McAlister," but to "Cecilia McAlister"—her mother alone, as if she were a single woman.

  Were these letters from her birth father, a man her mother loved? The envelopes bore no address, just the name. And they were folded oddly, as if they had been inserted into a second envelope. Her mind raced, jumped to conclusions. A go-between, perhaps. Someone who would keep her mot
her's dark secret. Maybe even Vesta.

  Diedre's hand shook as she stared at the letters, reason grappling with emotion for supremacy. She wanted to know. She didn't want to know. But she had to know. She straightened the blanket around her legs and propped a pillow against the headboard of the bed. Mama had given her these documents for a reason.

  Was this the truth she wanted Diedre to find? Had Mama been looking for forgiveness, a way to expiate her sins before she met her Maker? The image of Mama with someone else assaulted Diedre's senses, bringing with it a wave of nausea and a chilling sweat. She shivered and pushed the thought away.

  Gathering all the nerve she possessed, she opened the first letter and began to read. But if she thought she had met her quota of bombshells for one morning, Diedre realized from the first sentence that there were land mines she hadn't even begun to uncover.

  November 1914

  Dear Mama,

  I'm sending this letter through Vesta so you'll be sure to get it. Forgive me, but I don't trust Daddy not to bum it or keep it for his own purposes.

  I'm sorry for the upheaval I caused by coming home again. I didn't mean to hurt anyone, least of all you. At least I got to see little Diedre, and that was almost worth the price I've paid. She is a beautiful child. She can't possibly understand all this, can she?

  I'm sure you must be hurting, and probably feeling guilty, too. But, as my doctor keeps telling me, you have to let it go and learn to forgive yourself. Please try—for my sake, and your own.

  By the time she finished reading, Diedre was shaking all over. The letter wasn't signed, but it had to be from her sister—the one she had longed for, dreamed about all these years. And apparently she knew all about the circumstances of her little sister's birth! It seemed impossible. Yet here it was, in black and white.

  Mama was right. This wasn't the truth she expected to find. And it was almost too much to take. Diedre's father was not her father. Her mother had been unfaithful to him and had borne a child out of that adulterous affair. Her sister had known all about it—and, if the letter was any indication, had not condemned her mother for what she had done.