The Amber Room

SIXTEEN

Sunday, May 11, 8:35 a.m.

Rachel steered the car into her father's driveway. The mid-May morning sky was an inviting blue. The garage door was up, the Oldsmobile resting outside, dew sparkling on its maroon exterior. The sight was strange, since her father usually parked the car inside.

The house had changed little since her childhood. Red brick, white trim, charcoal shingled roof. The magnolia and dogwoods in front, planted twenty-five years ago when the family first moved in, now loomed tall and bushy along with hollies and junipers encircling the front and sides. The shutters were showing their age, and mildew was slowly advancing up the brick. The outside needed attention and she made a mental note to talk to her father about it.

She parked and the kids bolted out, running around to the back door.

She checked her father's car. Unlocked. She shook her head. He simply refused to lock anything. The morning Constitution lay in the driveway, and she walked down and retrieved it, then followed the concrete path around back. Marla and Brent were calling for Lucy in the backyard.

The kitchen door was also unlocked. The light over the sink was on. As careless as her father was about locks, he was downright neurotic about lights, burning one only when absolutely necessary. He would surely have switched it off last night before going to bed.

She called out, "Dad? You here? How many times do I have to tell you about leaving the door unlocked?"

The kids called for Lucy, then pushed through the swinging door toward the dining room and den.

"Daddy?" Her voice was louder.

Marla ran back into the kitchen. "Granddaddy's asleep on the floor."

"What do you mean?"

"He's asleep on the floor by the stairs."

She rushed from the kitchen to the foyer. The odd angle of her father's neck instantly told her he wasn't sleeping.

"Welcome to the High Museum of Art," the greeter said to each person passing through the wide glass doors. "Welcome. Welcome." People continued to file through the turnstile one at a time. Paul waited his turn in line.

"Morning, Mr. Cutler," the greeter said. "You didn't have to wait. Why didn't you come on up?"

"That wouldn't be fair, Mr. Braun."

"Membership on the board should have some privilege, shouldn't it?"

Paul smiled. "You would think. Is there a reporter here waiting for me? I was to meet him at ten."

"Yep. Fellow's been in the front gallery since I opened."

He headed off, his leather heels clicking against the shiny terrazzo. The four-story atrium was open all the way to the ceiling, semicircular pedestrian ramps girdled the towering walls on each floor, people milled up and down, and the rumble of muted conversations floated across the conditioned air.

He could think of no better way to spend a Sunday morning than at the museum. He'd never been much of a churchgoer. It wasn't that he didn't believe. It was just that admiring real human endeavor seemed more satisfying than pondering some omnipotent being. Rachel was the same way. He often wondered if their lackadaisical attitude toward religion affected Marla and Brent. Maybe the children needed exposure, he once argued. But Rachel had disagreed. Let them make up their own minds in their own time. She was staunchly antireligion.

Just one more of their debates.

He sauntered into the front gallery, its canvases a tantalizing sample of what awaited throughout the rest of the building. The reporter, a skinny, brisk-looking man with a scraggly beard and a camera bag slung over his right shoulder, stood in front of a large oil.

"Are you Gale Blazek?"

The young man turned and nodded.

"Paul Cutler." They shook hands, and he motioned to the painting. "Lovely, isn't it?"

"Del Sarto's last, I believe," the reporter said.

He nodded. "We were fortunate to talk a private collector into lending it to us for a while, along with several other nice canvases. They're on the second floor with the rest of the fourteenth- and eighteenth-century Italians."

"I'll make a point to see them before I leave."

He noticed the huge wall clock. 10:15 A.M. "Sorry I'm late. Why don't we wander around and you can ask your questions."

The man smiled and withdrew a microrecorder from the shoulder bag. They strolled across the expansive gallery.

"I'll just get right into it. How long have you been on the museum's board?" the reporter asked.

"Nine years now."

"You a collector?"

He grinned. "Hardly. Only some small oils and a few watercolors. Nothing substantial."

"I've been told your talents lie in organization. The administration speaks highly of you."

"I love my volunteer work. This place is special to me."

A noisy group of teenagers poured in from the mezzanine.

"Were you educated in the arts?"

He shook his head. "Not really. I earned a BA from Emory in political science and took a few graduate courses in art history. Then I found out what art historians make and went to law school." He left out the part about not getting accepted on the first try. Not from vanity--it was just that after thirteen years it really didn't matter any longer.

They skirted the edge of two women admiring a canvas of St. Mary Magdalene.

"How old are you?" the reporter asked.

"Forty-one."

"Married?"

"Divorced."

"Me, too. How you handling it?"

He shrugged. No need to make any comment on the record about that. "I get by."

Actually, divorce meant a sparse two-bedroom apartment and dinners eaten either alone or with business associates, except the two nights a week he ate with the kids. Socializing was confined to State Bar functions, which was the only reason he served on so many committees, something to occupy his spare time and the alternate weekends he didn't have the kids. Rachel was good about visitation. Any time, really. But he didn't want to interfere with her relationship with the children, and he understood the value of a schedule and the need for consistency.

"How about you describe yourself for me."

"Excuse me?"

"It's something I ask all the people I profile. They can do it far better than I could. Who better to know you than you?"

"When the administrator asked me to do this interview and show you around, I thought the piece was on the museum, not me."

"It is. For next Sunday's Constitution magazine section. But my editor wants some side boxes on key people. The personalities behind the exhibits."

"What about the curators?"

"The administrator says you're one of the real central figures around here. Somebody he can really count on."

He stopped. How could he describe himself? Five foot ten, brown hair, hazel eyes? The physique of somebody who runs three miles a day? No. "How about plain face on a plain body with a plain personality. Dependable. The kind of guy you'd want to be in a foxhole with."

"The kind of guy who makes sure your estate gets handled right after you're gone?"

He'd not said anything about being a probate lawyer. Obviously, the reporter had done some homework. "Something like that."

"You mentioned foxholes. Ever been in the military?"

"I came along after the draft. Post-Vietnam and all that."

"How long have you practiced law?"

"Since you know I'm a probate lawyer, I assume you also know how long I've practiced."

"Actually, I forgot to ask."

An honest answer. Fair enough. "I've been at Pridgen and Woodworth thirteen years now."

"Your partners speak highly of you. I talked to them Friday."

He raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. "Nobody mentioned anything about that."

"I asked them not to. At least until after today. I wanted our talk to be spontaneous."

More patrons filed in. The chamber was getting crowded and noisy. "Why don't we walk into the Edwards Gallery. Less folks. We have some excellent sculptures on display." He led the way across the mezzanine. Sunlight poured past the walkways through tall sheets of thick glass laced into a white porcelain edifice. A towering jewel-toned ink drawing graced the far north wall. The aroma of coffee and almonds drifted from an open cafe.

"Magnificent," the reporter said, looking around. "What did the New York Times call it? The best museum a city's built in a generation?"

"We were pleased with their enthusiasm. It helped stock the galleries. Donors immediately felt comfortable with us."

Ahead stood a polished red-granite monolith in the center of the atrium. He instinctively moved toward it, never passing without stopping for a moment. The reporter followed. A list of twenty-nine names was etched into stone. His eyes always gravitated to the center:

YANCY CUTLER

JUNE 4, 1936-OCTOBER 23, 1998

DEDICATED LAWYER

PATRON OF THE ARTS

FRIEND OF THE MUSEUM

MARLENE CUTLER

MAY 14, 1938-OCTOBER 23, 1998

DEVOTED WIFE

PATRON OF THE ARTS

FRIEND OF THE MUSEUM

"Your father was on the board, wasn't he?" the reporter asked.

"He served thirty years. Helped raise the money for this building. My mother was active, too."

He stood silent. Reverent, as always. It was the only memorial of his parents that existed. The airbus exploded far out to sea. Twenty-nine people dead. The entire museum board of directors, spouses, and several employees. No bodies found. No explanation for the cause other than a curt conclusion by Italian authorities that separatist terrorists had been responsible. The Italian Minister of Antiquities, on board, had been presumed the target. Yancy and Marlene Cutler were simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.

"They were good people," he said. "We all miss them."

He turned, leading the reporter into the Edwards Gallery. An assistant curator raced across the atrium.

"Mr. Cutler, please wait." The woman hurried over, a look of concern on her face. "A call just came for you. I'm sorry. Your ex-father-in-law has died."