The Amber Room

FOUR

5:45 p.m.

Karol Borya cruised into his driveway and parked the Oldsmobile. At eighty-one, he was happy to still be driving. His eyesight was amazingly good, and his coordination, though slow, seemed adequate enough for the state to renew his license. He didn't drive much, or far. To the grocery store, occasionally to the mall, and over to Rachel's house at least twice a week. Today he'd ventured only four miles to the MARTA station, where he'd caught a train downtown to the courthouse for the name-change hearing.

He'd lived in northeast Fulton County nearly forty years, long before the explosion of Atlanta northward. The once forested hills of red clay, whose runoff had tracked into the nearby Chattahoochee River, were now covered in commercial development, high-end residential subdivisions, apartments, and roads. Millions lived and worked around him, Atlanta along the way having acquired the designations of metropolitan and "Olympic host."

He ambled out to the street and checked the curbside mailbox. The evening was unusually warm for May, good for his arthritic joints, which seemed to sense the approach of fall and downright hated winter. He walked back toward the house and noticed that the wooden eaves needed painting.

He sold his original acreage twenty-four years ago, garnering enough to pay cash for a new house. The subdivision then was one of the newer developments, the street now evolved into a pleasant nook under a canopy of quarter-century timber. His cherished wife, Maya, died two years after the house was completed. Cancer claimed her fast. Too fast. He hardly had time to say good-bye. Rachel was fourteen and brave, he was fifty-seven and scared to death. The prospect of growing old alone had frightened him. But Rachel had always stayed nearby. He was lucky to have such a good daughter. His only child.

He trudged into the house, and was there only a few minutes when the back door burst open and his two grandchildren rushed into the kitchen. They never knocked and he never locked the door. Brent was seven, Marla six. Both hugged him. Rachel followed them inside.

"Grandpa, Grandpa, where's Lucy?" Marla asked.

"Asleep in the den. Where else?" The stray had wandered into the backyard four years ago and never left.

The children bolted to the front of the house.

Rachel yanked open the refrigerator and found a pitcher of tea. "You got a little emotional in court."

"I know I say too much. But I thought of papa. I wish you knew him. He work the fields every day. A Tsarist. Loyal to end. Hated Communists." He paused. "I was thinking, I have no photo of him."

"But you have his name again."

"And for that I thank you, my darling. Did you learn where was Paul?"

"My clerk checked. He was tied up in probate court and couldn't make it."

"How is he doing?"

She sipped her tea. "Okay, I guess."

He studied his daughter. She was so much like her mother. Pearl white skin, frilly auburn hair, perceptive brown eyes that cast the prepossessing look of a woman in charge. And smart. Maybe too smart for her own good.

"How are you doing?" he asked.

"I get by. I always do."

"You sure, daughter?" He'd noticed changes lately. Some drifting, a bit more distance and fragility. A hesitancy toward life that he found disturbing.

"Don't worry about me, Daddy. I'll be fine."

"Still no suitors?" He knew of no men in the three years since the divorce.

"Like I have time. All I do is work and tend those two in there. Not to mention you."

He had to say it. "I worry about you."

"No need."

But she looked away while answering. Perhaps she wasn't quite so certain of herself. "Not good to be old alone."

She seemed to get the message. "You're not."

"I'm not speaking of me, and you know it."

She moved to the sink and rinsed her glass. He decided not to press and reached over and flicked on the counter television. The station was still set to CNN Headline News from the morning. He turned down the volume and felt he had to say, "Divorce is wrong."

She cut him one of her looks. "You going to start with the lecture?"

"Swallow that pride. You should try again."

"Paul doesn't want to."

His gaze held hers. "You both too proud. Think of my grandchildren."

"I did when I divorced. All we did was fight. You know that."

He shook his head. "Stubborn, like your mother." Or was she like him? Hard to tell.

Rachel dried her hands with the dish towel. "Paul will be by about seven to get the kids. He'll bring them home."

"Where you going?"

"Fund-raiser for the campaign. Going to be a tough summer, and I'm not looking forward to it."

He focused on the television and saw mountain ranges, steep inclines, and rocky crags. The sight was instantly familiar. A caption at the bottom left read STOD, GERMANY. He turned up the volume.

"--millionaire contractor Wayland McKoy thinks this area in central Germany may still harbor Nazi treasure. His expedition begins next week into the Harz Mountains of what was once East Germany. These sites have only recently become accessible, thanks to the fall of Communism and the reunification of East and West Germany." The image switched to a tight view of caves in forested inclines. "It's believed that in the final days of World War Two, Nazi loot was hastily stashed inside hundreds of tunnels crisscrossing these ancient mountains. Some were also used as ammunition dumps, which complicates the search, making the venture even more hazardous. In fact, more than two dozen people have lost their lives in this area since World War Two, trying to locate treasure."

Rachel came close and kissed him on the cheek. "I have to go."

He turned from the television. "Paul be here at seven?"

She nodded and headed for the door.

He immediately returned his attention to the television.