“I know,” he said. His voice was thin and husky, like a lost child’s.
“I’m doing this wrong.”
“No, you’re doing fine.”
“And all the time, I didn’t want to lose you,” I said. “That’s a great mystery to me. How could I want the man but not want what he was offering?”
Ray smiled. It was a smile that began slowly and widened at a stately pace; a smile of relief, an opening of something that had been locked away.
I cuddled the baby close—not from the cold, but from a sudden sense of exposure that had nothing to do with the weather. Sloane Renee nuzzled her little face against my neck. It felt wonderful. I said, “I care about you, Ray. Caring is something so much bigger than the both of us, and it’s got nothing to do with whether or not any two people should be together or be apart. It’s got to do with being human, or just being on this planet.”
“Amen to that.” Ray looked away at the mountains. “It feels like we should be jamming ourselves into some role our culture predicts, but we don’t fit.”
“No, we do not.”
“We’d have driven each other mad.”
“Yes,” I said. “And that would have been a terrible shame. So, Ray, can we be open about this, and let it grow in the wild, and not try to make it part of anything else? I mean, I want to marry and have children, but not with you. It—it just couldn’t work.”
His grin was happy now. “How right you are. But we can love each other.”
“And we do.”
He shot me a saucy look. “It’ll be hard to avoid … er …”
“Yeah, well, we can savor that part of the connection. The attraction part. And that will be a great challenge. When we get married—to other people—we’ll have to bow to each other when we see each other, instead of hug.”
“Bowing’s good.”
“This is a challenge, huh?”
He brandished his grin at the sky. “A big one. But I’d expect no less from you, Em.”
Later that day I wrote a similar confession to Jack. He was still in the Middle East, so I sent it in care of his mother, figuring that she would know what to do with it. It was a moot point anyway. Jack’s e-mails to me had dribbled down to one-liners, and I couldn’t remember the last time I’d written back about anything more personal than the weather.
That evening, I went for a long walk with Faye and told her I’d broken up with Jack. Sloane Renee slept in the jogger as we strolled along through the avenues district of Salt Lake City, crunching over the dry leaves that were falling as the city bedded down for the winter. I asked her how things were going with the FBO.
“Fine,” she said. “I got to fly a brief charter this morning, which felt really good. Thanks again for taking the baby.”
“Anytime. Or at least anytime I’m not at work or … I don’t know, out on a date, out kicking rocks across the desert. There are so many things to do in this life.”
“Thanks, Em.”
“How are you and Fritz getting along?” I asked. I gave the question just a little extra oomph.
Faye glanced sideways at me. “No way,” she said.
“Aw heck, I thought by now, with you guys working together and all …”
She began to laugh. “I’m not his type. And he’s not mine.”
“Drat. What’s he looking for? Another general’s daughter like his first wife? She was a straitjacket!”
Faye looked sideways at me again and wiggled her eyebrows. “Quite on the contrary.”
I stopped.
She stopped.
“No,” I said.
“Yes.” Her face split into a wide grin.
“Me?”
“Yes. Can’t you see it? It’s been obvious to me right from the beginning. He never wanted that with me. It was always you, but he respected the commitment you had to Jack.”
“Yeah, well, I’m still otherwise occupied. No, really!” I said, as Faye began to cackle lasciviously. “Listen, I’m just now learning how to live my own life! I don’t want a relationship right now!”
Faye was laughing so hard by now that she had to sit down on the edge of the nearest lawn. “I’m about to pee my pants,” she said.
“No, Faye, I’m serious,” I said, realizing to my delight that it was true. “This year I’ve learned something, a very simple thing: I like my life. Just being alive is pretty damned fine. I’d like to have a nice relationship with a man someday, and I’d like to raise a child, but … but … I’m tired of meeting everybody a hundred-fifty percent of the way.”
“Ooooh, Emmy’s got a boundary!” said Faye, flopping onto her back, really whooping it up with the laughter.
“Yeah. I’m me. I’m complete. I don’t have to convince anyone of anything. And I’d just like to leave it like that for a while, okay?”
Faye hitched her way up onto her elbows and smiled at me. “Fine. I’ll tell Fritz to hold off on that trip to Cancún he was threatening to ask you on. He’s got a charter to fly, and … you know … moonlit walks along the beach … .”
I reached down and walloped her with my hat. “I hate water, Faye! Didn’t you tell him that?”
“Oh, I thought maybe for the right man—”
“You tell him I’m on my own brand of R and R for the near future, okay?”
“Okay, okay. Does that mean maybe in the springtime?”
I reached out a hand to help her up. “I’m not even going to think about such things right now.”
She straightened up and brushed herself off. “I’m impressed, Em. And I’m happy for you. And for me. I was afraid you wouldn’t need me as much if you got something nice going with him.”
I gave her an elbow in the ribs. “Yeah, well, you’re safe for a while, anyway. Like maybe until you’re ninety, and you’re so senile you can’t remember who I am.”
“That’ll never happen, I’ll need you sitting beside me on the front porch of the nursing home, helping me whistle at the young fellows passing by.”
“Hard to whistle with no teeth,” I said.
“We’ll think of something.”
“Uh-huh,” I agreed. “Want me to take a turn pushing the baby?”
“Always,” she replied.
“Always,” I echoed, and we headed down the sidewalk in the evening light.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A great many people gave liberally of their time and expertise to help me prepare this story. Principal among these was Pennsylvania State Geologist and mystery reader Jay B. Parrish, who spent two years campaigning for an Em Hansen novel set in Pennsylvania, and then took me into the field, fed me Whoopie Pies, opened the Pennsylvania Geologic Survey to the ravages of my free-ranging curiosity, and read a draft of this book for technical accuracy. At the PGS, Robert C. Smith II tutored me regarding Pennsylvanian mines, and James R. Shaulis introduced me to the marvels of the Big Savage Tunnel.
I offer a special nod of appreciation to Maureen Bottrell, Geologist/Forensic Examiner, Federal Bureau of Investigation, for showing me the FBI’s forensic labs from A to Z, including the most marvelous Duct Tape Archive and Geologic Reference Collection.
I am as always deeply appreciative of the continued support and enthusiasm of Kelley Ragland and Deborah Schneider.
Others who provided key pieces of this puzzle were Jonathan G. Price, Nevada State Geologist and member of the Cosmos Club; Elizabeth Price, chemist; Karl Kauffman, chemical engineer, FMC Corporation, Baltimore; Les Brooks, Professor of Chemistry, Sonoma State University; E. Dorinda Shelley and Walter B. Shelley, dermatologists; Anna Kay Behrensmeyer, Paleoecologist, Museum of Natural History, Smithsonian Institution; Bill Kayser, consulting armature builder; Thure Cerling of the University of Utah, who taught me about stable isotopes; Robert B. Kayser, Spur Ranch Company; and the entire Pennsylvania Geologic Survey, who gleefully brainstormed means of demise during their 2003 staff retreat, namely (in the order they appear on their Web site) Jay B. Parrish, Samuel W. Berkheiser Jr., Lynn M. Goodling
, Elizabeth C. Lyon, Richard C. Keen, Lewis L. Butts Jr., Christine E. Miles, Caron E. O’Neil, Anne B. Lutz, Kristen L. Reinertsen, Jaime Kostelnik, Kristin J. H. Warner, Cheryl L. Cozart, Karen L. Andrachick, Janice Hayden, Joseph E. Kunz, Lynn J. Levino, Michael E. Moore, John H. Barnes, Thomas G. Whitfield, Stuart O. Reese, John G. Kuchinski, Sharon E. Garner, Jody R. Zipperer, Gary M. Fleeger, Thomas A. McElroy, Jon D. Inners, Gale C. Blackmer, Helen L. Delano, Clifford H. Dodge, William E. Kochanov, James R. Shaulis, Viktoras W. Skema, Robert C. Smith II, Leslie T. Chubb, Antonette K. Markowski, Rodger T. Faill, Leonard J. Lentz, John C. Neubaum, John A. Harper, Christopher D. Laughrey, Joseph E. Tedeski, Kristin M. Carter, and Lajos J. Balogh.
The art community was marvelously supportive of this effort. I wish in particular to thank Sarah Boehme, curator, Whitney Gallery of Western Art; Ross Merrill, Chief of Conservation; Sarah Fisher, Head of Painting Conservation; Michael Skalka, Conservation Administrator, Conservation Division; and Deborah Ziska and Mary Jane McKinven, publicists, of the National Gallery of Art; George Gurney, William Truettner, and Quentin Rankin of the American Art Museum, Smithsonian Institution; Peter Hassrick, former Director of the Buffalo Bill Historical Center and former curator of the Whitney Gallery of Western Art; Gary Brown, computer whiz; the faculty and staff of the Department of Geography, South-west Texas State University, especially David Butler; Walter Whippo, kinetic engineer, lifelong pal, and painter of flying fruit; and last but in no way least, Paul Rest, bon vivant, art raconteur, and Man with a Rolodex.
My understanding of efforts to preserve the open spaces of Pennsylvania were greatly helped by Kerri Steck, Lancaster County Information Technology; and June Mengel, Director of Farmland Preservation, Lancaster County, Pennsylvania.
None of this work would have been possible without the enlightened generosity of the American taxpayer and private patrons who support the Smithsonian Institution, the National Gallery of Art, the Whitney Gallery of Western Art, the Pennsylvania Geologic Survey, and the other fine museums and institutions that protect, conserve, and interpret our irreplaceable wealth in American artworks and natural history.
Two artists in particular taught me about art: my grandmother, Dorothy Warren Andrews, and my dear old dad, Richard Lloyd Andrews.
Thanks to Tanya Gjerman, for caring about this book.
The reading list and references cited for this episode of the Em Hansen forensic geology mysteries includes the following volumes, in alphabetical order:
Art Restoration: A Guide to the Care and Preservation of Works of Art, by Francis Kelley.
Artist Beware: The Hazards in Working with All Art and Craft Materials—and the Precautions Every Artist and Photographer Should Take, by Michael McCann.
The Artist’s Health and Safety Guide, by Monona Rossol.
Artists’ Pigments, by F. W. Weber.
Artists’ Pigments: A Handbook of Their History and Use, volume 1, edited by Robert L. Feller, especially “Chrome Yellow and Other Chrome Pigments,” by Hermann Kühn and Mary Curran.
Artists’ Pigments: A Handbook of Their History and Use, volume 2, edited by Ashok Roy, especially “Chapter 2, Ultramarine Blue, Natural and Artificial,” by Joyce Plesters; and “Chapter 3, Lead White,” by Rutehrford J. Gettens, Hermann Kühn, and W. T. Chase.
Artists’ Pigments: A Handbook of Their History and Use, volume 3, edited by Elisabeth West Fitzhugh, especially “Chapter 5, Gamboge,” by John Winter and “Chapter 7, Prussian Blue,” by Barbara H. Berrie.
The Brandywine Tradition, by Henry C. Pitz.
Color and Meaning: Art, Science, and Symbolism, by John Gage.
Color: A Natural History of the Palette, by Victoria Finlay.
Colors: The Story of Dyes and Pigments, by François Delamare and Bernard Guineau.
Conquering the Appalachians: Building the Western Maryland and Caroline, Clinchfield & Ohio Railroads through the Appalachian Mountains, by Mary Hattan Bogart.
Conservation of Paintings, by David Bomford.
Dana’s Manual of Mineralogy, Eighteenth Edition, by Cornelius S. Hurlbut.
Fisher’s Contact Dermatitis, by Robert L. Rietschel and Joseph F. Fowler, Jr.
Frederic Remington, by Peter Hassrick.
Frederic Remington: The Color of Night, Nancy K. Anderson, curator, with contributions by William C. Sharpe and Alexander Nemerov, including “Appendix: Notes on Conservation,” by Ross Merrill, Thomas J. Branchick, Perry Huston, Norman E. Muller, Robert G. Proctor, Jr., and Jill Whitten.
Gamblin Color Book, by Robert Gamblin and Martha Bergman-Gamblin.
The Geology of Pennsylvania, edited by Charles H. Shultz.
George Catlin and His Indian Gallery, edited by George Gurney and Therese Thau Heyman.
Girl With a Pearl Earring, by Tracy Chevalier.
The History of Chromite Mining in Pennsylvania and Maryland, Information Circular 14, Pennsylvania Geologic Survey, by Nancy Pearre and Allen Heyl.
Letters and Notes on the Manners, Customs, and Conditions of North American Indians, Volume II, by George Catlin.
Living Colors: The Definitive Guide to Color Palettes Through the Ages, by Margaret Welch and Augustine Hope.
The Materials and Techniques of Painting, by Kurt Wehlte.
The Mineral Pigments of Pennsylvania, Report Number 4, the Topographic and Geologic Survey of Pennsylvania, by Benjamin L. Miller.
My Life and Love for the Land, by Amos H. Funk.
Nature’s Building Blocks: an A-Z Guide to the Elements, by John Emsley.
Painting Materials: A Short Encyclopaedia, by Rutherford J. Gettens and George L. Stout.
Pennsylvania Dutch Cooking: A Mennonite Community Cookbook, by Mary Emma Showalter.
Preliminary Report on the Chromite Occurrence at the Wood Mine, Pennsylvania, Progress Report 153, Pennsylvania Geologic Survey, by Davis M. Lapham.
The Remington Studio, Buffalo Bill Historical Center, by Peter H. Hassrick.
Soil Survey of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, by Boyd H. Custer.
Treasures from Our West, the Buffalo Bill Historical Center.
Whitney Gallery of Western Art, by Sarah E. Boehme.
Zinc and Lead Occurrences in Pennsylvania, Mineral Resource Report Number 72, Pennsylvania Geologic Survey, by Robert C. Smith, II.
Finally, and with love and admiration, I wish to acknowledge that this work would not have been possible without the patient support and interest of my beloved husband, Damon F. Brown, and our delightful son, Duncan.
ALSO BY SARAH ANDREWS
Killer Dust
Fault Line
An Eye for Gold
Bone Hunter
Only Flesh and Bones
Mother Nature
A Fall in Denver
Tensleep
AUTHOR’S NOTE (A PENTIMENTO)
I am interested in art for the same reasons I am interested in geology, and in fact the art came first. My dad was an artist, as was his mother before him. Tutelage began even before I could hold a crayon, because the creative process was right there in front of me, happening on a grand scale.
My grandmother, Dorothy Warren Andrews, studied art at Yale and with Howard Pyle at the Brandywine School. She was an excellent portraitist and could draw splendidly. When she married, she set aside her oils, and did not pick them up again until she was widowed. She was an aesthete who arranged all objects around her harmoniously. She and her sister lived in New York City during the spring and fall, kept a cottage in the Bahamas for the coldest winter months, and, during long summers at the family farm in Maine, painted trays, sewed, braided and hooked rugs, and kept the aging woodwork in perfect nick. She was also a wonderful cook who brought beauty to the science of baking deep-dish blueberry pies.
I recall one moment with her that is worth telling a thousand times. I was perhaps eleven or twelve, and visiting her at the farm. We sat in the kitchen at opposite ends of the old wooden table at which three additional generations of our ancestors had sat. A peaceful afternoon
light played through the room, and the air was pervaded with the scent of applesauce and the patient tick-tock of the old regulator clock. I was drawing a picture of a lovely young female with a beautiful dress, and my grandmother, who dressed better than about any woman I knew, looked right past that and saw that I had drawn the hands way too small.
“Sally,” she said, getting me to look up. I did. Keeping her face completely empty of any judgment or criticism, she raised one of her fine, artistic hands and placed it against her face, putting the heel against her chin and showing me that the fingertips reached clear to her hairline. I had her lesson at a glance and got at it with both ends of my pencil, starting with the eraser. And loved her even more deeply.
Dad—Richard Lloyd Andrews—painted in oils, and he sometimes let me watch as he paced up and back in front of his big wooden easel. He was a big man, six-foot-five in his stocking feet, handsome with his dark hair, blue eyes, and lantern jaw, and given to a mischievous, dramatic air, so the show of watching him enthralled in his creative process was exactly that—theater. He worked his jaw muscles as he paced, and occasionally picked up a small mirror and stood across the room from his painting to squint at it from another perspective. He studied at Black Mountain College (he is one of its few graduates) with Josef Albers, and after his stint as a sergeant in the U.S. Army Air Corps during the Second World War (during which he paid visits to such artists as Georges Braque), he studied with Hans Hoffman at the Art Student’s League.
I was Dad’s sidekick. He often took me with him into New York, where I took pride in walking beside him down the sidewalks—he had the great, rhythmic stride of a dancer, and wore a great coat, Stetson, and tartan necktie, and smoked a pipe upside down in the rain—as we systematically hit the art shows he had marked in his copy of The New Yorker as we rode in on the New York Central Railroad. He always carried a clipboard, fat drawing pencils, and later calligraphic pens, and he’d put the magazine on the clipboard and fish drawing and writing instruments out of his inside coat pocket as needed, sometimes placing those instruments inside the cardboard case his pipe cleaners came in. As we made the rounds of the galleries and museums, he’d tell me stories about the artists, many of whom he knew from school, and when I saw the movie Pollack many years later, it was old home week.
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