Blood of Amber: A Novel

By W. Bennett

Eighteen-year-old Tim Currie was less than half Amber Underhills age. While discovering ecstasy in the arms of a much-older woman, the young man unwittingly ran headlong into her dark and troubled past. Diagnosed as bipolar, Amber experienced severe mood swings and bouts of deep depression, both turning deadly whenever her own blood was added to the mix.

Amber had two obsessions in life: to become a prima ballerina and to find true love. Failed attempts at both carried dire consequences for young Tim. Using seduction and dance to first trap her young admirer, she then resolved to do whatever was necessary to hold on to him, even if it meant claiming him in death. Tim Currie would bear lifelong scaring because of Ambers warped perception of love and because of the grotesque method she used in trying to keep him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: May 5, 2017
• ISBN: 9781532020124

W. Bennett

Other works of fiction by the author: The Carriage House; Eleanor Savage; Absolution Denied; Sara’s Lullaby; Flight of a Boat Tail; Tales for the Yuletide. Mr. Bennett lives near Gananoque On.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

I didn’t notice her when she first walked into the restaurant; I was too occupied with my first coffee of the day and the business section of the Times.

Pardonne-moi, Monsieur. Am I speaking to Timothy Currie? she asked, her English heavily layered with a French accent.

"It’s Tim," I said, lowering my newspaper and momentarily studying the woman standing beside my table. "And you are…?"

Before answering, she asked, "May I sit with you, Tim?"

Quite slim and plainly dressed, her hair was short and mostly white, no makeup, slightly stooped shoulders, wire-rimmed glasses, her clothes plain but crisp and fresh. I guessed her to be probably fifty-five, maybe even sixty years of age.

Do I know you? I asked, while at the same time gesturing to the vacant chair across the table from me.

I assure you, Tim Currie, we never before have met.

Margery, the restaurant owner, hurried to the table with her trademark coffee pot in hand. Good morning, she greeted the woman. Coffee?

Oh, non merci. I am staying but for a moment.

Margery topped up my cup and hurried on to the next table.

And who are you, exactly? I asked, setting my newspaper aside.

My name is Rachel Bollard. I am here in Long Falls to assist ma mere.

By that, I presume, you’re referring to your mother?

Oui! That is so.

And your mother is…?

Amber Underhill.

At the very mention of that woman’s name every nerve in my body drew as taut as a violin string.

My message to you is this, she went on. Mere wishes to speak with you.

You mean to tell me, I struggled on, doing my best to maintain composure, that Amber Underhill is still alive, and is back here in Long Falls, and she’s staying up at the big house? Right now? As we speak?

Oui! And she desires to see you.

"Does she now! I said, rather bluntly, when I finally found my voice, but for the life of me I can’t imagine why. I vaguely remember the woman. I haven’t seen her in decades. Not since I was a kid."

"Ah yes, the woman smiled, but her memory of you is still quite fine. She has returned to this village for the purpose of meeting you. She wishes to speak of the past."

"And you say that she’s your mother?"

Oui.

I find that hard to believe.

How so, Tim Currie?

Because of your age. From your looks I would say that you are older than I am, and I’m now fifty-three. When I knew Amber Underhill she was in her later thirties, possibly even forty, and she never once mentioned having children.

I was born to Amber Underhill in France and placed in an orphanage, she said. Mere was not yet the age of twenty years when she gave to me life. My home is in France, and I will soon return there. I am here in American only to assist ma mere.

Trying to hide my uneasiness proved useless. The woman would have to be blind not to notice my discomfort. But how did you find me? How did you know where I was living? I asked.

Mere employed un detective in finding you. That detective also discovered moi—in France. Tim, she went on sorrowfully, "Mere is very aged now, and close to death. She wishes for you to visit with her before her time on earth c’est fini—ah, how you say in English—Finished! I do hope you will come and be with her?"

"But I can’t understand why she’d want to see me, above all people, I stumbled along, grasping for any excuse to reject the request. It was a long time ago. Yes, it’s true, when I was a kid I sometimes worked for your mother up at the big house, but that’s all. It’s not like I was a longtime friend or employee of hers. In fact, I find it odd that she even remembers my name."

"Ah, Rachel Bollard came back at me with a cynical little smile, but you did remember her name the moment I spoke it."

She had me there, but there was no way on earth that I wanted to see Amber Underhill again. Somehow I needed to wiggle out of this request without coming across as being coldhearted.

Well, I... I…

Tim, I know that you were quite young when you were Mere’s lover, Rachel Bollard said, and said it without the slightest show of embarrassment. She has told me of this. You were only the age of eighteen years, oui?

I was too stunned to answer.

On your face I see the memory of the event, she pushed on, and it is now shameful to you, is it not, Tim Currie?

I’d sooner not talk about it, I finally answered, not able to look at her, struggling with my composure.

I understand, she went on, delicately. I know that Mere has hurt many people in her life. She has also told me of this. But she has hurt none more than herself. Now she seeks peace and forgiveness before meeting her God.

Does she now? I came back, bitterly, I realized a little too bitterly.

Oui! It is so.

For your information, Rachel Bollard, I don’t believe in souls, and gods, and all that crap. And you can pass that message along to your mother for me. And tell her to stop worrying about hell and damnation. When we die, that’s the end of it. Period! No more worries; no more bad memories; no more regrets; no more anything.

"Aah, she sighed with noticeable pain in her voice, I am sorry that you think in such ways, Tim Currie. And I will pray for you. But I did not come here to judge, only to leave Mere’s message. She wishes to explain to you her life. She wishes to help you understand the past. She believes it would give meaning to all that has passed between two troubled lovers."

"We weren’t lovers," I shot back, angrily, glancing around the restaurant to see if others could hear what was being said.

Following a moment of uncomfortable silence, the obvious suddenly dawned on me. When the woman mentioned that she would pray for me was when I noticed the small silver cross pinned on the collar of her blouse.

"Would you by chance be a nun?" I asked.

Oui! It is so.

"Look lady—ah, I mean Sister. I didn’t mean to insult you, but I have my own reasons for rejecting the idea of a god. When I was young, I went to church every Sunday, said grace before eating my evening meal, and knelt down beside my bed at night and said my prayers. Then, your mother and the Vietnam War came along and introduced me to the real world. Believe me when I say this; there was nothing spiritual or holy about either of them. But that’s all behind me now, and I wish to leave it there, okay? I prefer to let sleeping dogs lie."

Ah, but your dogs do not lie quiet, do they, Tim Currie?

She was reading me like a flashing neon sign. She was also quite correct: my dogs do not lie quiet.

And just suppose I did go to visit your mother, I said, what could we possibly talk about after all those years?

I cannot speak of your time with Mere. She has never explained fully the reason for wanting to seek you out. But Mere needs to empty her soul, and so must you, Tim Currie.

A deafening silence filled the restaurant. All around me customers chatted, coffee cups and saucers clicked and rattled, doors opened and closed, yet I was oblivious to it all. All that was on my mind was the memory of one terrifying night that I could not eradicate.

Tim Currie, she went on, breaking my concentration, while at the same time reaching across the table and taking my hand in hers, Mere is very sickly now and can no longer harm others. I hope you can find forgiveness in your heart? I hope that God will give you the strength to forgive yourself?

Sister, that’s asking the impossible, I said, pulling my hand free of hers, my tone of voice more bitter than I wished it to be.

Forgiving one who has hurt you is never easy, Sister Bollard went on, but I have always felt God’s reward when I forgive others.

"Then you’re a better man than I, Gunga Din."

Excusez-moi?

I waved it off.

Tim Currie, I recognize that you carry a heavy heart in your chest. Would it not be better to rid yourself of such a weight? Would peace not be better than amertume?

I didn’t ask for an interpretation of amertume. Perhaps I really didn’t want to know the intended meaning. Instead, I looked directly into the woman’s eyes, and said rather harshly, But what’s the use of going to see your mother? Talking won’t change the past. Talking will change nothing. What is done is done. It wouldn’t give me back my lost youth. It won’t erase the terrible memories I fight every day of my life to eradicate.

"Perhaps not, Tim. But would not inner peace be better than living with amertume—ah, excusez-moi"—she said, waving off the French. "I believe in English it is called, bitterness?"

In a flash I came back at her, and loudly enough to cause others in the restaurant to stare. You’ve never lived in my world, Sister. You spent your life in a cloistered environment. I never got married. I was never able to form a meaningful relationship. I never had children. I was never able to fully enjoy life. I never learned how to lo…

Love…? she filled in the blank for me. And this you blame also on Mere?

Not totally, I admitted, but a good part of it. The other half of it I blame on our useless government and a lousy war I was dragged into.

Vietnam…? she said.

The less said about that mess, the better.

Tim, you could not stop the war. What happens in wars is not the fault of soldiers. But the time passed between you and Mere should be talked about. Please, come and visit with her? Confront your past and let your soul find peace?

I laughed cynically. Peace! What in hell is peace? Where would one need to go to find peace in this sick world of ours?

Tim Currie, to ask such a question, then your soul is very troubled.

As she spoke I noticed something I never would have expected. Her eyes began watering. She truly believed in what she was saying. Was it possible for anyone to be that sincere? Was it possible for anyone to be that honest and caring? Without meaning to, and regretting it the moment the words slipped from my lips, I found myself saying, Okay.

"Okay what, Tim Currie?"

Okay, I’ll go and see her.

God bless you, she smiled, taking a serviette from the dispenser and blotting her eyes.

What would be a good time for me to stop by?

Rachel Bollard thought for only a few seconds before saying, Come at three. She tires easy, and sleeps much.

With my commitment secured, she immediately got to her feet. I must return to her now. She takes much care. Without further adieu Sister Bollard exited the restaurant.

So there I sat, my coffee going cold, my precious New York Times of no further interest to me. However, regardless of what became of this dreaded meeting, I knew one thing with certainty; in no way was I prepared to be charitable and forgiving toward that woman. She had stolen away my youth, scarred my mind with indelible images, images that even today makes me feel as though I’m rotting from within.

PART ONE

CHAPTER ONE

My first encounter with Amber Underhill remains as vivid to me today as on that November afternoon in 1963 when I heard that President Kennedy had been shot. I will substantiate that statement by saying that it took place in my uncle’s store, at exactly ten minutes past eight, on a Saturday morning, May 22, 1971.

The fact that she was a stranger was probably the reason I noticed her straight away, that and the way she walked. She didn’t walk as much as she glided, a sort of a loping stride, as though struggling to keep her feet from coming in contact with the floor. Quite tall and shapeless to the point of being almost devoid of female features, her shiny black hair was pulled severely back and tied in a bun, a style I’m inclined to associate with old spinsters. With rather a longish neck, she walked with her spine as straight as a plumb-line, chin up, shoulders back, as though balancing a stack of books on her head.

Her flawless skin was the color of thin cream. The rosy glow of her cheeks suggested that she had walked a considerable distance. She wore neither makeup nor jewelry, and her long dress came down to within inches of her sturdy walking shoes. The light silky scarf she wore around her neck was looped at her throat, a style more European than North American. Her afghan reminded me of ponchos worn by Mexican outlaws in old black and white western movies.

As usual, I was working weekends at Uncle Rubin’s store, Currie’s Supermarket. I had been working for my uncle every Saturday and Sunday, and during my school holidays, since I had turned fourteen. My employment consisted of stocking shelves, sweeping floors, mopping up spills, assisting elderly folks to their cars with the heavy bags of groceries. My duties were predictable, boring as hell, but added nicely to my pocket money and education fund.

Because of the town’s elevation, and its distance inland from the sea, Long Falls was not always blessed with balmy late spring mornings. On that particular morning it happened to be exceptionally clear and cool for so late in the season. I was sorting and rearranging the leftover fruits and vegetables from the previous day sales when I looked up and saw her standing there. She would pick up a tomato, examine it, frown and then put it back in the bin. She went through the same routine with the lettuce and cucumbers.

May I help you? I asked, the ever-obliging employee that I was instructed to be.

The vegetables do not look all that fresh this morning, she said, rejecting them all with a wave of her hand. Will there be a fresh shipment in later today?

Actually, they’re already in, I said, but the truck was late this morning, so I’m running a bit behind. The fresh produce is still out back. But if you tell me what you’re looking for I’ll do my best to help you out?

That would be very good of you, she smiled. If you could find me a crisp head of lettuce, a cucumber, two small and not-overly-ripe tomatoes, a bunch of green onions and a stalk of celery, I would be very grateful?

No problem! I assured her, and hurried away.

When I returned with the vegetables, and handed them to her, she inspected my selections, looked pleased, thanked me warmly, placed them in her basket, and then turned her attention to the fruit stand. I went back to my work but couldn’t help glancing at her over my shoulder a time or two.

A little while later, and completely by coincidence, I happened to be sweeping up a flour spill near the checkout when I noticed the woman paying for her groceries. I took particular interest in her purchases; two bananas, two oranges, the vegetables I had selected for her earlier, a baguette, skimmed milk, two kinds of cheeses, a dozen eggs, a jar of mustard, but no meat. Undoubtedly a vegetarian.

***

Following the woman’s departure, I went over to the cashier, John Newman, and asked him if he knew who the woman was. John had been on the cash register at Currie’s before I was even born. He knew every regular customer by their first names.

My guess is she’s one of the Underhill girls, he said. At least she sure looks like one of them.

"You mean one of thee Underhills, from up at the big house?"

John Newman nodded affirmatively.

Which one? I asked.

I can’t really say. I’ve seen all of the Underhills at one time or the other, but I never did know their names. But in all honesty, I can’t actually remember ever seeing that particular one before. My guess is she’s one of the younger ones, or she might even be a child of one of the older Underhill children. Most of the original brood would be in their fifties or sixties by now. She looks younger than that though.

Just then a customer came in for a pack of cigarettes, which effectively ended my inquiry.

CHAPTER TWO

The town of Long Falls is located in the foothills of the Catskills, not far from a New York State Park, well off the beaten path, close to the Pennsylvania border. No one knows why the town ever came