The Amber Photograph Page 6

  It was a disaster. There were too many unwelcome memories, too much baggage. The first time Rick tried to touch her, it took her by surprise and she pulled away. He was gentle and understanding, but by the second time she knew she wasn't ready for anything physical. He was hurt and pouted for days. The third time, when she tried to explain, he flew into a rage, and although he never once struck her, the accusations he leveled at her left wounds she could not forget, no matter how hard she tried. In the end, he left her standing alone in the middle of the road while he roared away in a cloud of gravel dust.

  Maybe Meg was right—maybe Twojoe was different. But Amber was still the same.

  She couldn't take that chance again—she wouldn't. Despite the loneliness, it was better just to close her eyes, to push down the memories, to block out the insistent voice in her head that told her she would never be good enough.

  Sometimes blindness was safer than sight.

  10

  Sam Houston

  Twojoe forked hay into the central feeding trough and watched as the newest cria, Little Bit, came forward to investigate. Her mother, LlouEllen, leaned over Little Bit's head and pulled out a tuft of fresh hay. In the adjacent stall, Lloser, the disinterested stud, also came up to feed.

  Twojoe stepped back, admiring his handiwork. Llamas preferred open shelters to closed stables, and in general were congenial, sociable animals, but occasionally skirmishes broke out at feeding time. He had developed a system to deal with the problem, and it seemed to be working like a charm.

  The key was to have each llama separated for feeding, but still free to roam. To that end, Joe had devised a series of adjoining two-sided stalls that came together in the middle to form a central feed trough. From above, with the roof lifted off, the structure looked like an enormous Greek cross—all of its arms the same length—with a large circle in the center. From the ground, each unit was comprised of four pieshaped shelters with the feeding trough at the pointed end. The buildings provided shelter from the elements, open visibility, and separation at mealtimes.

  Methodically, Twojoe made his way around the north end of the pasture, distributing hay and talking to his llamas as he worked. As he often did in the company of these gentle beasts, he marveled at how different his life was now—not at all how he had envisioned his future when he left Kitsap County for Berkeley.

  No doubt his CPA friends back in California would have a good laugh at his expense if they could see him now, getting drenched in the incessant spring drizzle and kicking manure off his boots after he got too close to the dung pile. Most of them, he knew, had built lucrative accounting firms and were raking in money hand over fist. They wore Armani suits and Italian leather loafers and conducted power lunches to seduce millionaire clients. His idea of a nice wardrobe was a new pair of jeans and a couple of shirts from L.L.Bean; going out for dinner meant grubbing on his own beach at low tide for a harvest of oysters and clams.

  Twojoe had actually run into one of his old Berkeley classmates on the Bainbridge Island Ferry not long ago—a snobbish, dull-witted bore named Reginald Something the Fourth. How the man had ever ended up at a state university like Berkeley would forever remain a mystery; it was a good school, but pretty far below Reggie's gold-plated standards. Twojoe suspected that he hadn't been bright enough to get into the Ivy League on his own merits, and that his family, despite their aristocratic name, had not been influential enough or rich enough to buy his way in.

  But he was rich enough now. Twojoe had pulled his battered Dodge pickup onto the ferry right next to Reggie's silver twelve-cylinder Jaguar. They took the elevator to the upper deck, where Reggie ordered a double nonfat cappuccino while Twojoe had plain old coffee, and in the course of a thirty-minute crossing, Reggie had taken five important calls on his cell phone, dropped Bill Gates's name six times, and made sure Twojoe knew that he was meeting in Seattle with a major client, one of Microsoft's VPs.

  "And what are you doing these days, Joe?" Reggie had finally asked after he had run out of breath singing his own praises.

  Twojoe had paused for a moment, relishing the reaction he knew he'd get. "Raising llamas."

  "Ah, llamas?" Reggie had stammered. "Llamas. Right. How . . . interesting. I gather the CPA thing didn't work out for you." The rest remained unsaid, but the condescension in Reggie's voice left little to the imagination. An Indian, no matter how bright or ambitious, had no place among the high rollers of corporate accounting.

  They had parted without another word, but as they drove off the ferry, Twojoe couldn't resist gunning his engine. He eyed the rearview mirror with satisfaction as the silver Jag behind him was enveloped in a cloud of black oil smoke.

  Now, recalling the contemptuous sneer on Reggie's face, Twojoe stabbed his pitchfork viciously into the pile of hay. Sure, money like that would be nice. It would be a relief not to have to scratch and scrape for every dime just to feed the livestock and pay the taxes and put Hamburger Helper on the table. But he had been around long enough to know that there wasn't enough money in the world to buy what really mattered.

  Belinda had taught him that. For her, everything had been about money. No matter how much they had, it was never enough to fill the bottomless spaces in her soul. She had always wanted more of everything—except him.

  For years Twojoe had tried to be the man Belinda wanted him to be. He had lived in the corporate world, played the game, given in to her lust for acquisition, and felt his spirit atrophy with every new demand. When he found her in bed with another man—an obscenely wealthy man, Twojoe's biggest client—it was almost a relief. He didn't contest the divorce; he simply walked away. From her. From the job. From a life that weighed him down like a cast-iron trench coat.

  No, financial stability wasn't worth selling your soul for. He'd had that carrot dangled in front of his nose often enough. If money were all that mattered, Twojoe would have already sold this place to the highest bidder.

  There was more to life than skimming a couple hundred thousand a year off the top of some Microsoft bigwig's fortune. He had what he wanted. Peace. Freedom. Serenity. A little corner of the most beautiful place in the world to call his own.

  Everything except someone to share it with. Everything except Amber Chaney.

  Twojoe tried to put the thought out of his mind. She had made it perfectly clear that she didn't want a relationship with him—at least not that kind of relationship. She loved him like a brother. He was family.

  Without revealing any details, Meg had let him know that Amber was dealing with some difficult personal issues right now, and that she wasn't in a position to consider a romantic relationship. But Twojoe suspected that his sister was being generous, trying to spare his feelings. Though Meg had implied that Amber might come around, given enough time, Twojoe's skin wasn't that thin. He knew that Amber might never grow to love him in the way he loved her. If she did, she did. He was patient. He could wait. If she didn't—well, he'd be a brother to her, if that's what she wanted. Either way, it didn't change his feelings about her.

  Twojoe wasn't some love-struck teenager or the hero of a romance novel, after all. With Belinda he had learned what a terrible mistake it was to give not just your heart but also your soul to another person. It had cost him too much—too many years of misery, too many nights of restless dreams and struggle and self-doubt.

  Twojoe believed in love, and he would continue to love Amber even if his love were never returned. But he also knew that he couldn't base his happiness and contentment on someone else—not even Amber Chaney.

  This was the path he had chosen, and he was grateful for it. With or without Amber, he still had the farm. He still had his llamas. He and Lloser could grow old together like two venerable gray-haired bachelors, watching the sunsets over the Olympic Mountains.

  When he had finished with the feeding and had refilled the common water trough, Twojoe walked the fence line and checked the pasture, making sure there were no hidden hazards that might endanger the curiou
s animals. Llamas were notorious for getting themselves into trouble—they would eat leftover baling twine, chew on lumber, entangle themselves in wire. They might be highly intelligent, intrepid explorers, but they weren't wise enough to leave things alone.

  "Hey, mister!" a reedy voice called.

  Twojoe looked up. The rain had stopped, and at the fence line on Clear Creek Road stood a tow-headed boy who looked to be five or six years old. He had jumped the ditch and was pressing his body up against the fence, straining to reach out and touch Llittle Bit, who had drawn near to investigate. Twojoe gave a wave and walked over.

  "These are llamas, right, mister?" The boy didn't look at him; he had his eyes fastened on Llittle Bit's velvety face.

  "Yep." Twojoe nodded. "That one's called Llittle Bit. She's the newest cria."

  "What's that?"

  "A cria is what we call a baby llama. She's five months old." He peered at the boy. "What's your name?"

  As if he had suddenly remembered his manners, the boy stood up straight and looked Twojoe in the eye. He had a clear, guileless expression and a turned-up nose covered with freckles. "I'm Sam Houston. I'm from Texas," he drawled. "I'm visiting my grandpa. He lives down the road—" He pointed back toward Ahlswede Lane, where a row of million-dollar homes stood guard over Hood Canal.

  Twojoe regarded the child and suppressed a grin. He had heard rumors that some Fort Worth oil baron had built a vacation home in Kitsap County; but from what he remembered of his American history, he had expected the president of the Republic of Texas to be a little bigger. "Well, it's nice to meet you, Sam." He rubbed his hand across the front of his jeans and extended it over the fence to the boy. "My name is Twojoe Elkhorn."

  "You're an Injun, aren't you?" Sam blurted out. "Oh, sorry. I mean, uh, Native American."

  "It's okay." Twojoe shook the boy's hand solemnly. "I'm half Suquamish. Would you like to see the llamas?"

  Sam held back. "Do they bite?"

  "Not if you don't bite them first. They're very gentle."

  "All right, then."

  With Twojoe's help, the boy scrambled over the fence and dropped into the pasture. He approached Llittle Bit quietly, with respect, and stroked her on the neck, murmuring to her.

  "You're good with animals, Sam."

  "Grandpa's got horses at his ranch in Texas. I've been around 'em since I was a little boy."

  He turned, then took two quick steps backward, stumbled, and fell bottom first onto the ground. Lloser had ambled over to pay his respects, and the huge animal towered over Sam, gazing down at him with limpid eyes.

  "This is Lloser," Twojoe said with a laugh as he helped the boy up and brushed manure off his jeans. "He's our best and strongest packer."

  "What's a packer? And why is his name Lloser?"

  Twojoe paused, wondering how he could delicately explain the problem of a stud llama who wasn't interested in the ladies. "He was supposed to be the Big Daddy for the herd and father a whole lot of strong sons," he began. "But he, ah . . . well, he—"

  "Shoots blanks, huh?" Sam nodded knowingly. "Yeah, that happened to one of Grandpa's stallions once. Paid ten thousand for a stud who turned out to be a dud."

  Twojoe took off his hat and scratched his head in wonder. Apparently this child knew a great deal about the mysteries and misfortunes of breeding stock.

  "You said he was a packer?" Sam took a step closer to Lloser. He had to reach very high to stroke the big llama's side, but he stood his ground.

  Twojoe pointed through the trees, to where the Olympic Mountains were visible beyond Hood Canal. "See those mountains? That's called the Olympic Wilderness. People go in there to explore and do mountain climbing and camp, but there aren't any roads. They use llamas to carry their gear. Llamas have soft feet, so they don't tear up the terrain like horses or mules do. They're very surefooted, easygoing. And they can forage for their own food, so you don't have to haul in feed for them. They can carry a hundred pounds or more. We rent them as pack animals for folks going into the mountains."

  "Can you ride them, too?"

  Twojoe shook his head. "No. But they're versatile, useful animals. We shear them for their wool, the way you do sheep—my sister spins the wool and weaves rugs and blankets out of it. They can even serve as guards for other livestock, like sheep and cattle. They're extremely intelligent, and they make great pets. You can even take them out for walks."

  "You mean I could get one of these and keep it, like a dog? Cool."

  Twojoe raised a warning finger. "Not one. You have to have at least two. Llamas are extremely social animals, and they don't do well alone."

  "I like this one," Sam declared, tangling his fingers in Loser's thick, tan wool. "He's very nice. I think he's a winner, not a loser."

  "Apparently you're a winner in his book, too."

  "You know what else I think?" Sam went on in a serious tone, as if he were a very wise old man instead of a six-year-old boy. "I think you're doing a very good thing here, raising llamas to carry people's burdens and keep them warm."

  Twojoe grinned. "Say, I was just about to go up to the barn and do some stuff. Want to come along?"

  Sam squinted at the cloud-covered sky like an old-timer assessing the remaining hours of the day. "Thanks, mister, but I better get home. My grandma's probably wondering where I am." He climbed back over the fence and set off toward Ahlswede Lane.

  "Sam!" Twojoe called. The boy turned. "Why aren't you in school?"

  "Teacher's strike," Sam yelled back. "I'll be here two weeks at least, maybe more. Is it all right if I come back and visit the llamas again?"

  Twojoe waved. "Any time."

  "Thanks. See ya."

  An unexpected stab of loss knifed through Twojoe as he watched the diminutive Sam Houston head down the road, kicking rocks with his little boots—a sense of something missing, even though he loved his life.

  Sam was right. It was a good thing Twojoe was doing here—carrying burdens and keeping people warm. But who, he wondered, would do the same for him?

  11

  The Sculpture

  "So, what's next? New York, Paris, or Rome?"

  Amber raised her head at the sound of Meg's voice. "What do you mean?" She didn't turn around, nor did she cover her sculpture-in-progress the way she had when Twojoe had appeared unexpectedly. Somehow she didn't feel quite as vulnerable or exposed when Meg looked at her unfinished work; Meg had already seen the rough places in Amber's life.

  Most of them, anyway.

  Meg pulled up a stool and sat down next to Amber. "Look at this," she said, pointing toward the small sculpture of the two figures. "The forms, the expressions. It's fabulous." She cuffed Amber playfully on the shoulder. "You're getting so good! Next thing we know, some art critic will discover you, and you'll be leaving us to hop a private jet for your first showing in the Big Apple." She grinned. "Remember us when you're rich and famous, okay? Your old friends the llama farmers and weavers of wool."

  Amber let out a self-deprecating chuckle. "Don't hold your breath. I doubt I'll be going anywhere any time soon."

  "Then you have no idea how talented you are," Meg countered. "This is a wonderful piece, Amber. It's so . . . so real. Where did the inspiration for this come from?" Meg asked. "I want to know all about it. Weavers don't often think about shape and form and dimension. I may not be an artist myself, but I love hearing about the creative processes."

  "What do you mean, you're no artist?" Amber tried to divert the conversation, to quiet the churning in her stomach. She didn't want to talk about the sculpture, didn't want to confront the memories that had been eating at her ever since she had begun to work on this piece. "You weave the most beautiful rugs and wall hangings I've ever seen. Everybody says so."

  Meg shrugged and carelessly pushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. She was only two years younger than Amber—closing in on forty—but she still looked like a college kid. She was small and slim, with a perfect heart-shaped face, high cheekbones, and the kin
d of lithe, athletic figure that seemed more at home in denim than in sequins. Clearly she favored the Norwegian side of the family—fair skin and blonde hair that arranged itself in disheveled layers without much more than a quick blow-drying. The kind of face and body Amber might have envied, if Meg hadn't been so completely oblivious to her own attractiveness.

  "I really do think it's time for you to quit doing stoneware settings and vases for the tourists and start concentrating on your sculpture," Meg persisted. "This is amazing, Amber—trust me, it's really good. Now, come on, tell me more."

  Amber hedged again. "There's not much to tell. It was just—I don't know—an image I had in my mind."

  Not just an image. The image. The one that had haunted her dreams. The one captured in a faded photograph hidden in the bottom drawer of her dresser. The one she had tried to suppress, to rationalize. The image that would never let her rest.

  "It's perfect," Meg said. "It has a dreamlike quality about it. The little one on the left seems filled with joy and totally at peace, trusting that the other one won't let go, won't let her fall." Amber felt a lurch in her gut, and she wheeled around to look at Meg. For a full minute she searched her friend's familiar countenance—those bright blue eyes, the crinkly laugh lines that shot upward from the corners of her mouth. Meg's expression held nothing but openness and candor. No sign that she was fishing for information. No indication that she knew she had struck a nerve.

  Amber turned back to the sculpture, and all at once a fury rose up in her—a rage born of powerlessness. Meg's words reverberated in her mind: totally at peace, trusting that the other one won't let go, won't let her fall. But she had let go, hadn't she?

  She snatched up a sculpting knife, and with one swift motion severed the soft clay connection between the two figures. The smaller figure fell sideways onto the table like a discarded rag doll with its hands cut off at the wrists, holding out empty arms.