A Different Blue

Chapter Thirty





In the end, I went to see Ethan Jacobsen, too. I was tired of secrets, tired of skeletons, tired of the not knowing. I was shaking out the cobwebs and tearing down the heavy drapes, letting the light shine in on a life that had been nothing but dark corners. It wasn't a long meeting nor a particularly pleasant one. Ethan Jacobsen was just a regular guy with a plump wife, a couple of cute blonde kids – Saylor and Sadie – and a spotty dog. My father looked nothing like his high school picture. His youthful scowl and his spiky blond hair had been replaced by a benign smile and a balding head. He had grown soft and middle aged. The only thing that time hadn't altered were his arresting blue eyes. He stared at me with those blue eyes, and I'm certain he noted I had them too. I'm sure he noted my black hair and olive skin and the resemblance I held to a girl he had once certainly cared for, at least for a while.

But he didn't deny me. He told me I was his father and that he would like to get to know me. He asked me about my life, my dreams, and my future with Wilson. I answered vaguely. He hadn't earned the right to confidences. But maybe someday. I promised I would be in touch. I wanted to get to know my sisters. Cedar City was only about three hours from Boulder City, and I was willing to drive. Family had taken on a whole new importance to me because I had a daughter who would someday want all the answers. And I would be able to give them to her. Every last detail.





I asked my grandmother once if it was worth it . . . the work she'd traded my grandfather for. I didn't want to hurt her, but I needed to understand. She rattled off a bunch of facts and interesting details.

“Well, in 1984, the Paiutes received 4,470 acres of land scattered throughout southwestern Utah and a $2.5 million fund from which we can draw interest for economic development and tribal services. Our health care is so much better, as well as our education opportunites. We have been able to build new houses, open and operate a couple of factories. But we have to continue to fight for water rights, to keep our land, to keep our people thriving. There is always work to be done.” She smiled brightly, but her hands shook, and she had trouble meeting my eyes. After a while she spoke again.

“The truth is, on a personal level, it wasn't really worth it, Blue. When it's all said and done there are so many worthy causes, so much work to be done, so much good to do, but if we sacrifice everything for a cause, we tend to become a spokesperson instead of a lover, an organizer instead of a wife, a mouthpiece instead of a mother. I gave everything else away in the name of a greater good, but look how many people I hurt. Look at the ripple effects of thinking my life's work was more important than the people in my life.”





“I've been thinking about that story, the one you told me when Melody was born,” Wilson himmed, his brow furrowed, his lips pursed. He had been practicing his cello in my tiny sitting room, the way he did every night, unless I was carving, in which case we filled the basement with sweet strings and sanding. The days of listening under the vent were long gone.

“The one you said sucked?” I murmured, wishing he would play another song. I was half-asleep in my recliner, the deep tones making me mellow and drowsy. It was like an elixir, and I was addicted to both the man and his music.

“Yes. That's the one. It was horrible. And to think you eschewed Ivanhoe. What was the hunter's name again?”

“Waupee. White Hawk.”

“That's right. White Hawk loved a star girl, they were happy together, but she decided to takes their child and float up into the sky, leaving him behind.”

“So why have you been thinking about it?” I yawned, concluding that he wasn't going to play anything else until he had worked through whatever was bothering him.

“I just realized that it's Jimmy's story.” Wilson plucked his strings absentmindedly, his luminous eyes unfocused, distracted by his thoughts. “Stella floated away and took his child. Even the name is similar.”

I hadn't thought of that. But Wilson was right. It was very like Jimmy's story. Except Jimmy didn't get a happy ending.

“But the star maiden came back to White Hawk, Wilson. I didn't ever finish the story. Her son missed his father, so the star maiden came back for him–”

“Did you know that Stella means star?” Wilson interrupted, as if he'd just stumbled over the realization.

“It does?”

“Yes. So we have a Hawk and a Star. And a Sapana.” Wilson counted each name on his fingers. “It's his story,” he marveled.

I shook my head, disagreeing. “Jimmy didn't ever get his family back. The star maiden's father turned his daughter and Waupee and their son into hawks so they could fly between heaven and earth and be together. But none of us ever got to be together.”

“But you came back to Jimmy, Blue. You and he were together.”

“I guess I did,” I agreed. “But Sapana isn't in that story, luv.” I smiled at him tenderly, using his own term of endearment. “She has a story all her own.”

Wilson laid down his cello and stood, leaning over the recliner until he hovered only inches above me, grey eyes on blue, his mouth on mine. He spoke against my lips.

“Of course she does . . . Savana Blue. And it's a story just waiting to be told.”

“A little blackbird, pushed from the nest?” I whispered, wrapping my arms around his neck.

“Or placed there. It's all in the way you tell the story.”





“Once upon a time there was a little bird who was placed in a nest. Wanted. Cherished. Unafraid, because she knew she was a hawk, a beautiful bird, worthy of awe, deserving of love . . .”



The End





Acknowledgments

Having grown up in Utah, I love to explore the history of the people of my home state. Shivwits Paiute Reservation is indeed located in the St. George area of Southern Utah. Larry Shivwa and Stella Hidalgo are fictional characters, as are all the characters in my story, but the plight of Paiute people is factual and historical.

The story of Waupee and the Star Maiden is an Arapaho story. The tale of Tabuts the Wise Wolf and the sticks is a story of the Paiute people. Like many of the Native legends and stories, these stories have great lessons and significance for all people.

A big thank you for all the research assistance I received on this book. Andy Espinoza, retired Sergeant of the Barstow P.D. provided invaluable information on procedure and even read parts of my manuscript to make sure I was realistic. Any mistakes I have made are my own. Paul Mangelson, seasoned patrolman, talked me through parts of the storyline and even gave me ideas for other novels. To the real Tiffa Snook, British Blogger extraordinare, thank you for your input on all things British! My heartfelt thanks to Steve Bankhead for spending an evening showing me his wonderful carvings and answering all my questions about tools and wood

and inspiration so that I could make Blue's talent come alive.

Enormous gratitude goes to Lorraine Wallace, my former high school teacher and friend who has provided wonderful editing and support on my last two novels. To my mom, thank you for always being my first reader, and for making my stories better. And finally to all my family, friends, bloggers, and readers out there, thank you for your love, friendship and support!!


About the Author


Amy Harmon knew at an early age that writing was something she wanted to do–and she divided her time between writing songs and stories as she grew. Having grown up in the middle of wheat fields without a television, with only her books and her siblings to entertain her, she developed a strong sense of what made a good story. Amy Harmon has been a motivational speaker, a grade school teacher, a junior high teacher, a home school mom, and a member of the Grammy Award winning Saints Unified Voices Choir, directed by Gladys Knight. She released a Christian Blues CD in 2007 called "What I Know"–also available on Amazon and wherever digital music is sold. Her first two books, "Running Barefoot" and "Slow Dance in Purgatory" are rich with humor, heart, and fast paced story telling.