Amber By Night. Sharon Sala
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that woman could have been. To his knowledge, none of the females in Tulip were much prone to physical fitness to prolong their youthful appearances. They seemed more inclined to the old southern way of life of getting married while they were still in the bud. It was only after several years of wedded bliss and all the babies they intended to bear, that a goodly portion of them saw it as their just due to bloom to full figure. And to the ladies’ credit, none of the husbands Tyler knew seemed upset with the deal.
So, if he hadn’t imagined what he’d just seen, and he was pretty sure he hadn’t lost his instincts for the opposite sex, there was a new girl in town. But who in the world was she?
While Tyler was eliciting Raymond Earl’s aid, Amelia Beauchamp was hunkered down in the front seat of Raelene Stringer’s old car and praying for all she was worth as Raelene sped out of town.
The near-confrontation in the alley had been a close call, Amelia’s first since starting her charade. The fact that she’d almost been caught wasn’t nearly as frightening as who’d nearly caught her.
Tyler Savage, of all people! Her heart was still pounding as she finally straightened up in the seat and began putting on her makeup and fixing her hair. She yanked down the sun visor and then grimaced. You sissy, she thought, and then relaxed as her hands flew about a task that was now familiar. The fact that her heart was racing and her eyes were glitter bright was entirely due to that man. Tyler Dean Savage was Tulip’s resident rake. That he was also single and constantly on the make did nothing to help her equilibrium.
Amelia had had a thing for Tyler Savage for more years than she cared to remember. Unfortunately, Tyler wouldn’t have given Amelia the time of day. She glared at herself in the mirror and sighed. But Amber…that was another story. If only, she thought, she dared be one and the same.
The grandfather clock standing guard in the darkened hallway struck an accusing two o’clock, in the morning, that is—as Amelia Beauchamp crept back into the house where she lived, shut and locked the front door and then breathed a quiet sigh of relief.
Another night of secrets was behind her, and with only six hours of promised sleep beckoning her to her bed, she slipped quietly up the staircase and into her room, taking care not to step on the third step from the top. It squeaked.
The beautiful face staring back at her in the mirror over her dresser would have shocked her aunts. They would not have recognized their Amelia. She leaned forward, frowning at her reflection as she slipped dangling ruby earrings from her ears. With weariness in every movement, she brushed her rich, brown hair into a smooth, orderly fashion and coiled it into one long loose braid. Jabbing her finger into a jar of cold cream, she swiped the thick lotion roughly across her mouth and eyelids. Red lipstick and gold-flecked eye shadow came off on a handful of tissues which she then flushed down the toilet. There could be no lingering reminders of Amber in this house. This is where Amelia lived.
As she stepped out of her sweatsuit and stuffed it in the back of her closet, an owl hooted softly outside her bedroom window, the only witness to Amelia’s deceit. Grabbing a nightgown from a hook on the door, she slipped it on, savoring the familiarity of this fabric as opposed to the shiny red satin that she’d worn on the job.
No sooner had her head touched the pillow than her eyes closed. Aware that she sighed, it was the last thing she heard until morning when Aunt Wilhemina’s voice echoed loudly up the staircase.
“Ahmeelya! It’s past time to get up. You’ll be late for work.”
Amelia groaned and rolled out of bed. It was her own fault that she felt like hell, but if her plan worked, it would be worth it.
When she’d first come to live with her great-aunts, Wilhemina and Rosemary Beauchamp, she’d been a skinny, too-tall nine-year-old and they, the only living relatives that could be found after her missionary parents were killed in a Mexican earthquake.
Amelia had been used to living rather freely from country to country—from custom to custom. The culture shock she experienced when she came to live with two old-maid aunts was similar to the shock they received when she arrived. But the Beauchamps were nothing if not proper, and what was right was right. Kin was kin. Here she was. Stay she must. So they began to mold her into a smaller, younger replica of themselves and thus began the starching of Amelia Ann.
Yet in spite of their persistence, she managed to retain most of her own personality during elementary and secondary schools. She even managed to exhibit some independence during her college years in nearby Savannah. She’d kept a fairly normal social life during that time, which had even resulted in one serious suitor who’d lasted clear up to the time she introduced him to the aunts. After that, things were never the same between them.
Amelia supposed that he’d looked into the future, seen the responsibilities of not only a wife but two elderly females to look after, and bolted. She’d been mildly devastated at the time, but it had passed sooner than she would have liked. Her suitor had absconded with love, her trust in men and her virginity. It took the heart right out of her independence.
She was unaware that with the passing of time, she’d begun dressing like her aunts, acting like them and even had a future mapped out by them. And time had done her another rare favor. Her broken heart had completely healed and her trust in men in general was normal. The only thing that could never be returned was her virginity. In some small measure, she was glad. She would hate to die an old maid—and a virgin.
It was the realization of that same passing time that had prompted her secret rebellion. Amelia could see herself, twenty, thirty, even forty years down the road—in this same house—in the same town—wearing the same style of clothing—and alone. Always alone! She loved her aunts dearly, but she had no intention of ending up like them. She wanted adventure and excitement. She wanted to be able to get out of Tulip should the mood arise.
That’s why she needed the new car. On a librarian’s salary, such things were impossible. As far as the Beauchamp sisters were concerned, their old, blue Chrysler sufficed. Amelia had other ideas. She could not see the world in a 1970 Chrysler.
Aware that Aunt Witty would be shouting her name a second time if she did not hurry, she headed for the bathroom. In no time she was dressed, having chosen a sedate shirtwaist dress from her closet and ignoring the fact that beige was not her best color.
Last night’s face that she’d worn with secret delight, the one that had laughed and teased and dared to be different, was gone along with the flowing, chestnut mane of hair. In its place was staid propriety.
She brushed her hair a vigorous one hundred strokes then slid her fingers deftly through the nearly unmanageable length and soon had it wound into a thick brown crown. The only thing that adorned her face was a slathering of moisturizer and a hint of the palest, pink lipstick. She slid dark, owl-rimmed glasses over the bridge of her nose and sighed as she headed down the stairs. It was time for Miss Amelia to begin her day as librarian of Tulip, Georgia.
“Sit, girl,” Wilhemina ordered, as she laid a warmed plate at Amelia’s place and pushed a platter of fluffy biscuits in her direction.
With full intent of only having juice, Amelia pushed her plate aside. “No thanks, Aunt Witty. I’m not really hungry.”
Wilhemina Beauchamp raised an eyebrow. It was enough to persuade Amelia to reposition her plate and sit. As she reached for a biscuit, she grinned at Aunt Rosie who was dawdling over her second cup of coffee and staring blankly out of the drawing room window at the butterflies kissing the tops of the blue bachelor buttons in the garden below.
“Morning, Aunt Rosie,” she said, as she chewed.
Rosemary blinked at the intrusion into her daydreams and them smiled when she noticed her niece had come to breakfast.
Wilhemina gave Amelia’s dress and hair the once-over and then reprimanded her niece for bad manners. “Don’t talk with your mouth full,” she said.
“Do hush, Willy!” Rosemary muttered, patting her beloved niece on the arm as she pushed the jar of homemade peach conserve toward Amelia. “For once, let the girl eat in