“In Cormick Grayson s recent article, ‘The Desert as a Metaphor for Psychic Isolation,’ the author completely misses the point of the poems cited. Grayson appears totally oblivious to the fact that Twitchell is actually using the barren landscape as a symbol of the female’s rejection, of course, which fuels the lonely quests of the gunslingers and cowboys who populate Twitchell’s poetry. One can only speculate upon the sort of traumatic rejection Twitchell himself must have at some time received at the hands of a woman, but it is clear that it influenced all his work.
“The cowboys and gunmen described by S.U.T. are doomed to be forever proving their manhood with a gun, presumably because they can’t do it in any other way. One can only assume that Twitchell himself had a few problems with his own sexuality. I find it fascinating to speculate on why Mr. Grayson has chosen to overlook this aspect of Twitchell’s work.”
As Amber read the last lines of the article, Gray exploded out of his chair and stalked toward the window. He was seething with righteous indignation.
“The woman is obviously a repressed nitwit who can’t even read poetry properly,” he informed Amber grimly. “Of all the idiotic, ridiculous conclusions. Sexual metaphors in Twitchell? Hah! That’s absolute garbage.”
Amber kept her expression one of thoughtful speculation. “I don’t know about that, Gray. I can certainly see Ms Abercrombie s point about the references to iron. And now that I think about it, it’s possible to view several other things in his work as possible sexual metaphors.”
“That’s pure bull.” Gray swung around and paced back to his chair.
“Why?” Amber inquired innocently.
“Why? I’ll tell you why. Because Sherborne Ulysses Twitchell was such a lousy poet he couldn’t possibly have figured out how to use guns or anything else as sexual metaphors. I doubt if Twitchell even knew what the term ‘metaphor’ meant.”‘ He slouched back in his chair and dared Amber to contradict the conclusion.
“Hmmm. A very telling argument,” she was forced to agree. “Twitchell really was a terrible poet. No sense of rhyme, rhythm or meter. Not much ear for the language, either.”
“See what I mean?” Gray was triumphant now. He smiled with dangerous certainty. “Abercrombie will be sorry she ever set pen to paper. I’m going to write a rebuttal immediately.”
“What about the Symington report?”
“It can wait another day or two. Putting Honoria Tyler Abercrombie in her place is far more important.”
“I don’t see how you can complain about Ms Abercrombie’s views on metaphors in Twitchell’s work. After all, that last article you wrote claimed he was using the desert as a metaphor for loneliness. If he was capable of using one kind of metaphor, he was capable of using another,” Amber stated.
“Don’t be silly, Amber. I made all that up about Twitchell’s use of the desert as a metaphor for loneliness.
Amber’s eyes widened. “You did? Good heavens, Gray, in that case you really can’t complain about Ms Abercrombie’s inventing a few things about his work, either.”
“Oh, yes, I can,” he retorted bluntly. “I’m the authority on S. U. Twitchell. It’s my prerogative to make up anything I want about him. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let Honoria Tyler Abercrombie have the same privilege. I’m going to blast her off the printed page.”
“I’m sure she’ll be quite terrorized.”
“I don’t know,” Gray said thoughtfully. “I have a feeling the woman’s tough. Convincing her to give up and surrender might take some doing.”
“Is that what you want from Ms Abercrombie?” Amber asked curiously. “Surrender?”
Gray’s eyes narrowed. “Unequivocal capitulation. Nothing less will do.”
Amber was startled. “Good grief. I had no idea you were so serious about all this.”
“You still have a few things to learn about me, Amber,” he explained almost gently.
She paused reflectively before picking up the rest of the mail. She was thinking about the way he had quietly laid down the law on the subject of Roarke Kelley and the passionate way he had made love to her afterward. “I’m beginning to see that.”
9
The call from the used bookstore came the next day shortly after Gray had left for the rescheduled Harrison meeting. Amber was delighted with the shop owner’s report, and she dialed her sister’s number a minute after she’d assured the shopkeeper she would be picking up the book that afternoon.
“Amber, I was just going to call you,” Cynthia said as soon as she heard her sister’s voice. “I’ve been dying to know what happened between you and Roarke. Did he find you? Has he called?”
“It’s a short and uninteresting story, but if you want to drive over to Seattle with me this afternoon I’ll tell you the whole sordid tale.”
“Sounds good. I’ll leave Drake with Mrs. Benson. Why are we going to Seattle?”
“Because a bookstore over there has at last found a copy of a volume that may or may not have been authored by one Sherborne Ulysses Twitchell at the peak of his creative power.”
“Twitchell’s peaks were lower than some of the valleys of other poets,” Cynthia observed. “Did Gray order the book?”
“No, I did. It’s going to be a surprise for him. He doesn’t know anything about it.”
“You sound excited.”
“I am. Gray’s going to get a charge out of this. He’ll be all on fire to prove the authorship of the volume.”
“Amazing what it takes to set that man on fire. Pick me up in half an hour. I’ve got to run. Drake’s opening his mouth in a very threatening manner.” Cynthia hung up the phone just as Drake started squalling in the background about something that had offended his two-year-old sensibilities.
Amber replaced her own receiver with a rueful smile. She had been around Drake frequently enough to know it didn’t take much to offend him. Cynthia had her hands full. Glancing down at the notepad in front of her, Amber reread the title she had jotted down a few minutes ago when she was talking to the shopkeeper. Cactus and Guns: A Collection of Western Ballads. The author was listed on the title page as Anonymous. Good old Anonymous, Amber thought with a grin. The poems in this collection must be so bad even Twitchell wouldn’t claim them.
“I don’t get it,” Cynthia said forty minutes later as Amber guided her compact onto the long floating bridge that crossed Lake Washington. “How did you find out about this book in the first place?”
“A couple of months ago Gray was working on an article for one of those little newsletters he writes for, Poets of the Southwest, I think, and he came across a reference to this book. Someone had quoted a short poem from it in one of the little poetry journals and had listed the author as anonymous. Gray said it sounded amazingly like a Twitchell poem.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah.” Amber laughed. “That bad. Ultimately he decided it couldn’t be Twitchell, but I wasn’t so sure so I put in a standing order at the bookstore for it. The owner promised to keep an eye out, and sure enough she called today.”
“How much is this little surprise going to set you back?”
Amber shrugged. “Not much. Ten dollars or so, I imagine. If I hadn’t shown some interest in it, I’d probably have gotten it for a quarter. Anything that looks or sounds like Twitchell isn’t likely to command a great sum. How’s Drake?”
“Hale and hearty. It’s a relief to get away from him for an afternoon, though. I love him dearly, but to tell you the truth, I’m looking forward to going back to work soon.”
“With any luck you’ll be able to go back to your old job at the bank.”
“Speaking of employers...”
“What about them?” Amber was through the tunnel at the end of the bridge and heading toward downtown Seattle.
“Are you going to be sticking with yours?”
Startled
by the question, Amber slanted her sister a quick glance. “What’s that supposed to mean? Of course I’m sticking with Gray. Why shouldn’t I?”
‘‘You’re his wife now. Doesn’t that make working for him a little awkward?”
“Not in the least. Nothing’s changed.”
Cynthia was unconvinced. “I don’t know. I can’t imagine working for Sam. I’m passionately in love with the man, and I’m afraid the emotional side of our relationship would be apt to interfere with the business side.”
“That’s not a problem for Gray and me,” Amber assured her with full confidence. “We’ve been working together successfully for over three months. Nothing’s changed since our marriage.”
“Nothing?”
“Nope. He was always one of the world’s more relaxed and lenient employers,” Amber said with a quick laugh.
“Yes, I know, but he’s also your husband now.”
“It doesn’t make any difference. Professionally he treats me the same as he always has. He respects me. Makes me feel like an equal in the business. It’s like a partnership.”
“But he’s still the senior partner,” Cynthia reminded her bluntly.
“Well, yes, I suppose so. But the fact hardly gets in our way. What are you driving at, Cyn?”
“I’m not sure,” her sister replied honestly. “I’m just trying to figure out how things work between you and Gray. When you first went to work for him, I was sure it would be just a temporary assignment. You’ve got to admit, your typing isn’t all that great.”
“Gray figured that out right away,” Amber confessed. “I’ve had a lot of experience putting together ad campaigns for motor oil and windshield wipers but very little practice typing. But I’m passable. I got two whole reports out for Gray before he realized I wasn’t the fastest typewriter jockey in the world. By then he’d decided I had other qualities.”
“You mean he loves you for your brain?”
For some reason Cynthia’s teasing question made Amber vaguely uneasy. “I mean he respects my business abilities and has a use for them in his consulting work.”
“Come to think of it, you were rather good with his clients the night of the party. They seemed to take to you and Gray made sure they all met you.”
“If advertising taught me nothing else, it taught me how to get along with difficult clients,” Amber agreed wryly. “What’s this all about, Cyn?”
“I told you. I’m curious. There’s something rather fascinating about your relationship with Gray. I can’t quite figure it out.”
Amber shrugged as she turned the car down Fourth Avenue. “There’s nothing to figure out. We’re friends, business associates who work well together and we’re also husband and wife.”
“And you’re content with your marriage,” Cynthia concluded.
Amber made a face. “What is it with that word that makes everyone look at me in such a strange way?”
Cynthia ignored her. “Tell me something, were you still content with your marriage after you saw Roarke?”
“Believe me, seeing Roarke again made me realize what a good decision I made when I accepted Gray’s proposal,” Amber said with great depth of feeling. “That bastard.”
“Roarke?”
“Of course, Roarke. I would hardly refer to Gray that way. Roarke was out to cause trouble. I think he just wanted to see if he could work the old Kelley charm again. I gather he has some spare time to kill before he’s ready to go back to racing. He thought he’d kill it with me.”
“I take it the effort wasn’t successful?”
Amber shook her head. “Not a bit. I told him to pack up and leave the vicinity. I never wanted to see him again.”
“You told him you were, uh, content with your marriage?”
“Damn right I did. And I meant it. I made sure he knew it.”
“Where did you meet him?”
Amber pulled into a parking garage, paused to take the ticket from the automatic dispenser and started the car up the winding path to the next floor of parked cars. “At the mall.”
The mall? Good Lord. How odd.”
“What’s odd about it?” Amber asked in exasperation. She remembered the brief amusement that had lit Gray’s eyes when she’d told him the same thing. “Where was I supposed to meet him?”
“I don’t know,” Cynthia said, chuckling. “I guess I didn’t consider the problem. Poor Roarke. A man like that can’t be accustomed to having women arrange to meet him in busy shopping malls. So unromantic.”
“I didn’t want to meet him at all,” Amber said in a low tone as she parked the car. “He threatened to come out to the house if I didn’t.”
Cynthia grimaced, her voice reflecting total feminine understanding of the situation. “What a mess that would have been.”
“Yes.”
“Still, it would have been interesting to see how Gray would have handled such a scene. He’s so calm and placid and easygoing.”
Amber closed her mouth and opened her car door without saying a word.
“Amber?” Cynthia climbed out and stood frowning at her over the roof of the compact. There was dawning chagrin in her eyes. “What is it, Amber? Gray doesn’t know about Roarke, does he? You said you met Roarke at the mall.”
“I did.” Amber collected her bag and started purposefully toward the exit.
“But Gray found out? Amber, what happened?”
“Gray was waiting for me when I got home from the mall. His meeting was canceled.”
“What meeting? Oh, I see. He’d been at a meeting when you arranged to see Roarke. So he got back home ahead of you?”
“Yeah.”
“Well? Was that such a big deal? You just said you were at the mall doing a little shopping, didn’t you?”
Amber sighed, wishing she’d never gotten involved in the conversation. “Gray isn’t the sort of man you lie to or even try to finesse for that matter. He’s very astute.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Don’t sound so horrified. It was hardly a major event. I told him about Roarke and that I was perfectly capable of handling my past on my own.”
“How did he take it?”
“Quite calmly. How else would Gray take anything? Cynthia, he and I are friends. Friends respond in a calm, rational way to incidents such as Roarke’s appearance.
“Still...” Cynthia hesitated. “Didn’t he say anything, well, unfriendly or irrational at all about the situation?”
Amber was feeling pressured now. “No, he did not. He simply advised me not to see Roarke on my own again.”
“Advised you?” Cynthia’s voice sounded suspiciously weak.
“That’s right.”
Cynthia cleared her throat. “Wasn’t he at all firm on the subject?”
“I’ve had about enough of this ridiculous conversation,” Amber stated firmly. She didn’t want to think about those few moments during the interview with Gray when she’d sensed the steel that lay beneath the surface calm of the man. It had been an awkward little scene, but both she and Gray had put it behind them. Roarke Kelley had not been mentioned since. “I’ve told you the whole story. Let’s talk about something else.”
“What an amazing man,” Cynthia said. She sounded bewildered.
“Yes, he is, isn’t he?” Amber knew she sounded distinctly complacent. She smiled to herself and led the way out of the garage and down the street to the bookstore that had uncovered the precious copy of Cactus and Guns. Cynthia followed quickly.
Inside the store Amber introduced herself pleasantly. The bookstore owner, a rounded, beaming woman in her early fifties, produced the prized volume with a flourish.
“I don’t believe I’ve ever had a call for this particular book in my entire career in the business,” the shopkeeper said politely as she handed the huge, heavy, leather-b
ound volume to her customer.
Amber stared at the brass-trimmed corners and the tooled leather binding with a sense of mild shock. “Good heavens. I had no idea it would be so heavy.” The book was nearly a foot high and must have weighed several pounds.
“All handmade,” the shopkeeper assured her. “You don’t find leather bindings like that anymore.”
“No, you certainly don’t,” Cynthia agreed with a chuckle.
“It’s illustrated, you know,” the woman behind the counter went on encouragingly as she realized her client was still rather taken aback by the size of the book. “Take a look inside. Lovely little pen-and-ink sketches.”
Eagerly Amber turned the heavy pages. “Why so it is. Cynthia, if it turns out that Twitchell did the sketches as well as the poems, this will be an absolute gold mine. It will add a whole new dimension to Twitchell. Artist as well as poet.” She studied a small picture of a saloon on a busy Western street. The sense of perspective was slightly off, and the drawing was rather vague.
“Who’s going to be able to tell if he did the sketches?”
Amber grinned. “We’ll leave the authentication up to the world’s foremost Twitchell scholar. But since this drawing is almost as bad as the poetry, I don’t think there can be much doubt. Gray’s going to have a great time with this. Whole new realms of Twitchell studies will be opened. Listen to this:
And Billy rode for justice;
Yes, Billy rode for honor.
Billy rode for Texas,
Where he met up with Big Jack Bonner.
Oh, they’ll sing of Billy’s guts.
They’ll sing of Billy’s glory.
They’ll sing tall tales of Billy,
Till every cowboy knows his story.”
“What perfectly amazing poetry,” Cynthia said deadpan. “Who was Billy, or shouldn’t I ask?”
Between the Lines Page 14
