For as long as I could remember, my family always described most colors in terms of jewels. My parents owned a jewelry store that had been established by my paternal grandparents in Echo Lake, Oregon, more than forty years ago. My grandfather taught my father how to make original jewelry, and most people who saw them said that he created beautiful pieces. My mother ran the business end of our store and was the main salesperson. Dad called her his personal CFO. I helped out from the day I could handle credit-card sales. Rings, necklaces, bracelets, earrings, and pendants found their way into almost any conversation at our dinner table. Nothing was just good in our world; it was as good as gold. Many things had a silver lining, and if something glittered, it glittered like diamonds.
Mom said my hair was truly opal because it was just as unique as the jewel. The color and the pattern of opals could change with the angle of view, and she claimed that the same was true for my hair.
“No one that I know has hair that changes color as subtly as yours does, Amber, especially in the sunlight.” She took a deep breath and shook her head softly. “I swear, sweetheart, sometimes when I’m looking for you and see you from behind, I’m not sure it’s you. Just as I am about to call out to you, your name gets caught in my mouth as if my tongue had second thoughts.”
Dad wasn’t as dramatic about it, but he didn’t disagree. Mom was often histrionic. She had a bit of a Southern drawl and was a beautiful platinum brown-haired woman who had once gone for a screen test at Screen Gems Studios in Wilmington, North Carolina, when she was still in high school because a young assistant producer had convinced her she could be the next Natalie Wood. She didn’t get hired, but it was her moment in the sun. Dad was proud of her head shots and kept four of them on his desk at home.
I wondered if the boy next door would notice how my hair color subtly changed when I sat up and then walked slowly off the porch and into the sunlight. No one but my parents had ever mentioned it, although people did compliment me on the richness of my hair. I kept my arms folded just below my breasts and walked with my head down like someone in very deep thought, someone who was oblivious to anything and everything going on around her. I was barefoot and wore an ankle-length light blue cotton skirt and a gold ankle bracelet with tiny rubies. I was taking every step pensively as if the weight of a major decision were wrapped over my shoulders like a shawl full of great and desperate concerns. I guess I was always in some pose or another because I lived so much in my imagination. Dad always said I lived in my own movie.
“You’re just like all you kids nowadays, always in one sort of performance or another,” he said. “I watch the girls walking home from school. You could see everyone is glancing around to see ‘Who is looking at me?’ Those girls with green, blue, and orange hair and rings in their noses drive me nuts.”
“Don’t knock the nose rings, Gregory Taylor. We sell them,” Mom told him.
“Whatever happened to the au naturel look, the Ingrid Bergman look?” Dad cried, throwing up his arms. He had an artist’s long, muscular fingers and arms that would have no trouble grabbing the golden ring on a merry-go-round. He was six feet two, slim, with what Mom called a Clark Gable mustache and jet-black hair with thin smoky gray strands leaking along his temples. He was rarely out in the sunlight during the summer to get a tan, but he had a natural dark complexion that brought out the jade blue in his eyes.
“Ingrid who?” I asked. I knew who she was. Both Mom and I just liked teasing him and suggesting that he was showing his age.
At that point, he would shake his head and either sit and pout or leave the room, and Mom and I would laugh like two conspirators. He wasn’t really that angry, but it was part of the game we all liked to play. Dad was always claiming to be outnumbered and outvoted in his own home, whether it was a discussion of new furniture, dishes, drapes, or even cars. That comment would bring smiles but inevitably remind us that four years after I was born, Mom had miscarried in her seventh month. I would have had a brother. They seemed to have given up after that.
It was great having my parents’ full attention, but I would have liked to have had a brother or a sister. I told myself I wouldn’t fight with either or be jealous or be anything like most of the girls I knew when it came to their siblings. Their stories made it sound as if their homes rocked with screams and wails about unfair treatment or one being favored over the other. I could only wail or complain about myself to myself. It was like living in an echo chamber.
From what I could tell, the boy next door probably was an only child, too. I was certainly not spying on him and his parents, but my bedroom window looked out over the hedges at his house, and I couldn’t help but see the goings-on. Days before, I was in my bedroom reading one of the books on my summer requirement list when I heard the truck arrive and saw the men begin to unload cartons. I had never really been in the house since the last people living there had left, but I recalled Dad saying they had left furniture.
Seeing new neighbors suddenly move in was a great surprise. My parents had never mentioned the neighboring house being sold or rented. No one had, in fact, and news like that in a community as small as ours usually made headlines. There were just too many busybodies to let a tidbit like that go unrevealed.
At first, I didn’t even see that the neighbors had a son. His parents appeared along with the truck and the men. I didn’t get that good a look at them, but the woman looked tall and very thin. She kept her opened left hand over the left side of her face, like someone who didn’t want to be recognized, and hurried into the house as if she were caught in a cold downpour of rain and hail. Her husband was about the same height, balding, and I thought a little chubby, with an agate-brown goatee and glasses with frames as thick as silver dollars that caught the sunlight. He walked more slowly, moving like someone in deep thought. I wondered when they had first come around to look at the house. It had to have been a very quick decision.
After the movers began to bring things into the house, the boy suddenly appeared, as if he had been pouting in the backseat like someone who had been forced to come along. I didn’t get that good a look at him, either. He had his head down and also walked quickly, but my first thought was that he was probably a spoiled only child, pouting, angry about having to leave his school and friends. Of course, he could have an older sister who was either at a college summer session or perhaps studying abroad.
I watched on and off as the move-in continued, the men carrying in clothing and some small appliances. It didn’t take them very long. I waited to see more of the neighbors. No one emerged, and I didn’t see the boy again until this day. As a matter of fact, I didn’t see any of them. It was as if they had been swallowed up by the house. The moving men came out and drove off only an hour or so later. Immediately, it grew as quiet as it had been. None of the windows was opened, and no lights were turned on. One might think they had gone in the front door and out the back, never to be seen or heard from again.
Right now, I knelt down on my bright green lawn pretending to look for a four-leaf clover, but out of the corner of my eye, I was watching to see whether he would move away from the hedges or continue to spy on me. He never changed expression or turned his head away for an instant. Finally, I stood up abruptly and, with my heart racing, said, “Can I help you?”
I remained far enough away that I could quickly retreat to my house and lock the door behind me if need be.
He smiled. “What did you have in mind?” he replied.
“I’m not the one peeping,” I said. “Maybe I should say gawking.”
“Maybe you’re not at this moment, but I’ve seen you looking for minutes at a time in my direction out your bedroom window between the curtains.”
“That’s different,” I said, smothering my embarrassment. I had thought I was inconspicuous about my curiosity. And when had he seen me? I never caught sight of him or any of them looking out a window toward our house.
“And that’s different because?”
“I w
as just . . . interested in who was to be our new neighbors. Who wouldn’t be?”
“And I’m just curious about you. Who wouldn’t be once he saw how pretty you are?” he asked.
I felt myself blush. Dad always said I didn’t blush red so much as a cross between the translucent golden yellow of a bangle and a touch of a pink coral bead. Mom said he was color-blind for a jeweler and that I had more of a classic deep red ruby tint in my cheeks when I blushed. Both agreed that I normally had a light pink Akoya pearl complexion with a face that was truly a cameo because of my perfect diminutive features, especially my slightly almond-shaped eyes and soft Cupid’s bow lips, all of which I had inherited from Mom.
“Well, you don’t have to spy on me through the hedges,” I said in a less belligerent tone. “You could have just come by to say hello and introduce yourself properly.”
Although my parents and their friends always lavished great compliments on me, I was never sure of myself when it came to responding to one. A simple “Thank you” seemed to be too little. Not saying anything seemed to be arrogant, as if I was thinking my beauty was obvious, or I was too stuck up to respond. And pretending to be surprised and falsely modest always came off as phony, at least when I saw other girls and even boys doing that. I didn’t deny to myself that I was attractive. I just didn’t know whether I should rejoice in my blessings or be concerned about the responsibilities they brought along with them.
I know none of my girlfriends at school would understand how being attractive brought responsibilities, but I always felt obligated to make sure that I didn’t flaunt myself or take anything anyone said for granted. I also felt I had to be careful about whom I showed any interest in, even looked at twice. People, especially older men, were always telling me I would be a heartbreaker. To me, that didn’t sound very nice. I envisioned a trail of men with shattered emotions threatening to commit suicide everywhere I went.
“You’re absolutely right,” the new boy said. He stepped between the hedges and approached. I was right about his height. He was at least five feet ten, if not eleven. With the palms of both hands and his fingers stiffly extended, he brushed back his hair. Uneven strands still fell over his forehead and his eyes. His hair was almost as long as mine and certainly looked as thick and as rich. He had perfectly shaped facial features like those of Greek and Roman statues. I thought he had a remarkable complexion, not a blemish, not a dark spot or anything to spoil the softness and smoothness. For a moment, I wondered if he wore makeup. He wasn’t heavily built, but he looked athletic, like a swimmer or a tennis player.
“I apologize for, as you say, gawking at you. I didn’t intend to make you feel uncomfortable. Although,” he added with an impish smile, “you didn’t quite look uncomfortable. Matter of fact, you looked like you were enjoying it.”
Before I could respond, he performed a dramatic stage bow and added, “I’m Brayden Matthews.” He extended his hand awkwardly, as if he wasn’t sure it was something he should do.
“Amber Taylor. And I wasn’t enjoying it. I was uncomfortable seeing someone staring at me like that. Actually, I tried to ignore you.”
He kept holding his hand out.
“I’m glad you couldn’t,” he said.
I offered my hand. He closed his fingers around it very gently, watching his fingers fold around mine as if he was amazed that his could bend or he was afraid that he might break mine. Then he smiled like someone who had felt something very satisfying, as if shaking someone’s hand was a significant accomplishment. He tightened his grip a little and didn’t let go.
“Can I have my hand back?”
“So soon?” he replied. He let go and then looked up at our house. “Your house is one of the older houses on the street, right? Not that it looks rundown or anything. Matter of fact, it looks quite well cared for.”
“It’s the oldest on the street,” I said as modestly as I could. My father was always bragging about it. “It’s been in our family for a little more than eighty-five years,” I said. “Of course, there have been many renovations, but the first fireplace still stands just the way it was. The floors are the same, as are the window casings. My father treats it more like a historical site.”
“I bet. There was a time when things were built to last,” he said.
“Really? How old are you, ninety, a hundred?”
He softly laughed, flashed me an amused look, and then gazed at my house again, concentrating, I thought, on my bedroom windows. “I bet you can see the lake from your window.” He turned to look at his own roof. “Your house looks to be about ten feet taller than ours.”
“Yes, I can,” I said. “At least the bay. This time of the year, the trees are so full they block out most of it.”
The lake was only a little more than a half-mile from our street, but it was a privately owned lake, anyway. Because our homes weren’t lake homes, we weren’t shareholders in the Echo Lake Corporation. Most everyone who didn’t belong thought the people who did were snobby about their property and their rights, but I thought these people were simply jealous. It was true that no one without lake rights could swim, row, or fish there. You had to be invited by a member, but what would be the point of having a private lake and expensive lakeside property otherwise? We had been invited from time to time. Most recently, the Mallens invited us for a picnic on the lake. George Mallen was president of the Echo Lake bank, and Dad always gave him good deals on the jewelry that he bought for his wife and two older daughters, both married and living in Portland.
“So I guess you’ve lived here all your life,” he said.
“Yes, that’s a safe conclusion to make.”
He laughed again. I could see that he really enjoyed talking to me. It was like sparring with words.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“Oh, somewhere out there,” he replied, waving his right hand over his shoulder. “We’ve lived in so many different places that the U.S. Postal Service has declared us undesirables. They’re still trying to deliver mail sent to us ten years ago.”
“Very funny, but you had to be born somewhere, right?”
“I think it was on a jet crossing the Indian Ocean,” he replied. “Luckily, we were in first class. I’m a sea baby, or more of an air baby. Yes, that’s it. I’m from the international air above the Taj Mahal.”
“Sure. Your parents are Americans, aren’t they?” I asked, not so sure.
“Yes.”
“Then you’re an American.”
“Very constitutional of you.” He looked at my window again. “My bedroom faces yours, you know. Yours is about six inches higher but diametrically opposite.”
“Thanks for the warning, now that I know you’re a Peeping Tom.”
He laughed.
“I wasn’t peeping, really, as much as I was wondering if you would see me.”
“I’d have to be either blind or terribly oblivious.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re not either.”
“Why was it so important to test me about that?”
He looked stymied for an answer. “I’m sorry. You’re right. It was juvenile and not the best way to make a new friend.” He looked afraid that I would end the conversation or continue to take him to task.
“Apology accepted,” I said.
“Whew.” He wiped his forehead. I couldn’t help but smile at his exaggerated action.
“Okay, we don’t know where you’re from, but what made your parents decide to move here of all places?”
“Why? Is it that bad here? You make it sound like the last stop on the train or the edge of the world.”
“No, it’s far from bad here. I just wondered. We don’t get that many new families these days.”
“I think my father put a map on the wall, blindfolded himself, and threw a dart. It hit Echo Lake, Oregon.”
“You’re kidding, right?”
He nodded and smiled. “It’s what he tells people. My father has a dry sense of humor.”
> “Brayden,” we heard. It was a woman’s voice, but she sounded very far-off. “Bray . . . den.” In fact, it seemed she was calling from inside a tunnel, and she sounded a little desperate, almost in a panic.
His smile evaporated. “Gotta go,” he said. “It’s been nice talking to you, and I apologize again for being a Gawking Tom.”
“I’ll settle for Peeping Tom. Who’s calling you?”
“My mother. We’re still moving in. Lots to do. Help with unpacking, setting things up, rearranging and cleaning up the furniture that was there, and organizing the kitchen,” he listed quickly. He leaned toward me to whisper, “My dad’s not too handy around the house.” He pointed to his temple. “Intellectual type, you know. Thinks a screwdriver is only a glass of orange juice and vodka.”
“I’m sure he’s not that bad. What does he do?”
“He’s a member of a brain trust. Meets with other geniuses to discuss and solve world economic problems. All quite hush-hush, top-secret stuff, so secret that he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”
“What?”
He laughed again. “I wasn’t kidding about our living in many places. Often we go on family trips to foreign countries and around the country, when he’s going to be away for a prolonged time, that is.”
“Do you have any brothers or sisters?”
“None that I know of,” he replied with a sly smile. “You’re an only child, too, I take it, and your parents own a jewelry store on Main Street, a jewelry store that has been in your family for decades.”
“You did some homework?”
“I’ve scouted the neighborhood. A few interesting people live on this block, especially that elderly lady who hangs her clothes on a line at the side of her house, visible to anyone walking in the street.”
“Mrs. Carden. What about her? What makes her so interesting? Many people like to hang out their clothes in the fresh air. Mrs. Carden’s not unique.”
Mrs. Carden was an eighty-something retired grade-school teacher who had lived for ten years as a widow and never had any children of her own. She would smile and nod at me when I walked by, but I didn’t think I had spoken a dozen words to her in the past five years. I was curious about why someone new would find her interesting.