Sandra Hill - [Jinx]

by Pearl Jinx

  “Me? I meant the bad luck with the cavern. What makes you think St. Jude’s doing something for me?”

  “Ya felt any thunderbolts lately?” The Cajun lady narrowed her eyes at Claire, as if she could read her mind. “Ya know what they say down on the bayou. Ya cain’t make the gumbo with an instant soup mix.”

  “Huh?”

  “It takes time, sweetie. Give ol’ Jude some workin’ room.”

  Claire took a sip from the icy glass. The lemonade was delicious, just the right mix of tart and sweet. “Well, to tell the truth, I do feel a bit like I’ve been hit with a Mack truck.”

  “The thunderbolt’ll do that to ya.”

  Abbie just smiled, going with the flow where her new best friend was concerned. Actually, Abbie was so grateful for the change in Mark that nothing else seemed to bother her.

  “I have to tell you, though, that the feeling’s not mutual,” Claire was quick to add. “Not that there’s anything wrong with that.”

  Tante Lulu waved a hand dismissively. “He’ll come around. St. Jude never fails. Why ya all dolled up, honey?”

  Claire blushed, something she was doing a lot lately. “Caleb and I are going out to dinner, to Mimi’s in Huntingdon.”

  “Oh, they have wonderful food there,” Abbie said.

  “And atmosphere?” Tante Lulu asked Abbie.

  “I’d describe it as upscale casual. There’s a side room with low lighting. And a small band plays some nights.”

  Tante Lulu clapped her hands together. “St. Jude at work already. I best get ta work on Caleb’s hope chest.”

  Tante Lulu was serious. Claire boggled at the prospect.

  “Now, why dontcha help us with the guest list?” Tante Lulu asked. “Read the list back fer us, Abbie.”

  “The Jinx staff . . . Caleb, Adam, John—”

  “And me,” Tante Lulu interjected.

  Good Lord, she considers herself a member of the Pearl Project team.

  “Claire, myself, Mark, Lily, even though Mark will have a fit,” Abbie continued. “Lily’s parents, Amos and Andy, Jonas and his kids, Mr. and Mrs. Peachey and all their children’s families, though I suspect Lizzie is the only one who’ll come, except for Jonas.”

  “Kin ya think of anyone else?” Tante Lulu inquired of Claire. “Oooh, oooh, oooh! I betcha if I invited Luc and Remy and Charmaine and their broods, they might come.”

  Claire shook her head in wonder. “Tell me again what we’re celebrating.”

  “Oh, lotsa things. Mark bein’ a hero and comin’ back alive from the war.”

  Abbie cringed at that topic, knowing Mark would not be pleased.

  “If Mark thinks he’s got a war injury, wait till he sees Remy. Whooee, that boy’s got more burn marks than a barbecued gator. Not that he ain’t still handsome.”

  Remy was the pilot who’d brought Tante Lulu here, Claire recalled.

  “Also, the reunion between Caleb and Jonas,” Tante Lulu went on. “Tee-John’s birthday. Moving the boulder. Family—we gotta celebrate family in hopes those stiff-necked Amish’ll drop that stupid shunning business.”

  “Amos and Andy’s birthdays are coming up next week,” Abbie pointed out.

  “Right. Thanks fer remindin’ me. I think I’ll buy me a pair of those underpants with the padding in the rear. I noticed Amos oglin’ my behind today. Mebbe I should give him sumpin ta drool over.”

  Claire and Abbie gawked at Tante Lulu.

  “What? A lady’s gotta keep herself up, even if she is up in years. I saw a T-shirt at the flea market today that said it all: ‘Over the Hill? What Hill?’”

  Some music started then, coming from the front of the house. It sounded like someone singing to a karaoke machine. She cocked her head in question.

  “Thass Tee-John and Lizzie. He’s helpin’ her put an act together fer American Idol. I wish René would come. He plays in a band sometimes, an’ he could give her tips on moves and such.”

  Claire and Abbie rolled their eyes at each other.

  “Maybe we could have some music at this event,” Abbie offered, getting into the spirit. “Lizzie could perform.”

  “An’ if my nephews come, they kin do their Village People act. They could teach y’all a bit about joie de vivre. That means ‘joy of life.’ Come ta think on it, they’d prob’ly come if they knew we was celebratin’ Tee-John’s birthday.”

  Claire would love to see Tante Lulu’s nephews and niece perform that kind of act. If they were anything like John, it would be a great show.

  “Back to you and Caleb,” Tante Lulu said. “I think ya should get a knock-his-eyeballs-out kinda dress fer the party. Make Caleb so hot he cain’t resist ya. Not that I’m recommendin’ hanky-panky, but sometimes St. Jude doesn’t mind a little help.” Then she went off on another tangent, something about the red dress and red high heels that Charmaine wore at her wedding. “Her last weddin’. Well, her first and her last, since she hitched up with Raoul twice. Lordy, Lordy, that gal’s been married so many times it’s a wonder she don’t get veil rash.”

  You had to love the Cajun lady, meddling and all. She had a finger in every pie and a heart as big as . . . well, the bayou. They could all take lessons in her zest for life.

  The end of the road . . .

  Caleb sat in the front room of Dat and Mam’s house, surrounded by his father and five other Amishmen. The meeting had been moved to late this afternoon, rather than the evening, so the farmers could get home to milk their cows.

  He felt as if he were twelve years old being called on the carpet for some mischief or other. And he wasn’t even the guilty party here.

  The room hadn’t changed in all that time. In fact, it probably hadn’t changed in the fifty years the Peacheys had occupied the property. It was spotlessly clean and contained only essential furniture, with no curtains on the windows or pictures on the walls, in compliance with Old Order Amish rules, as spelled out in the Ordnung. How many times had he had those rules recited to him? A lifetime ago.

  The Amish church was divided into districts, each of which had a bishop and a set number of deacons and preachers. There were Old Order Amish or Swartzentruber Amish, depending on how strict the rules.

  Because Jonas had a last-minute emergency with his business, Caleb sat alone on the stiff-backed sofa with a half circle of men facing him in folding chairs. Dat was closest to him. The elderly Bishop Lapp, better known as asshole—to him, at least—frowned a greeting. Deacon Abram Zook, the guy who wanted to hook up with Lizzie, nodded at him. “Abe,” he said. They used to go to Sunday-night singings together, not that their former friendship would count for anything. The other deacon, who introduced himself as Adam Hostetler, was new to this community; he was from “up Ohio way.” Preachers Ezra Troyer and Hosiah Knepp, fortysomethings, stern men he vaguely remembered, completed the group.

  He noticed that Knepp’s right hand was red and swollen.

  He narrowed his eyes to see better, and yep, there were two little dots on his hand. Fang marks.

  “I see you met Sparky,” he said to Knepp, smiling.

  “Huh?”

  “Sparky is the guard snake at the Spruce Creek Cavern. I’ll have to get him a special snakey treat for doing such a good job. Hmmm. I wonder if there’s such a thing as snake kibble.”

  Knepp bared his teeth at him in a sneer.

  “Let us pray,” Bishop Lapp began, ignoring the exchange between him and Knepp, and he droned on for at least ten minutes in German. Caleb had no idea if anyone understood what he was saying. He certainly didn’t.

  Bishop Lapp then flipped to a certain page in his dog-eared Bible and turned to him. Quoting from Romans, he said in English, “Be not conformed to this world, but be transformed by the renewing of your mind that ye may prove what is that good and acceptable and perfect will of God.”

  Caleb was confused. He didn’t mind showing deference for the prayer or for the Bible reading, but something else was going on here. He studied his father, who was
stony-faced and obviously bowing to the will of the bishop. What else was new?

  “Caleb Peachey, we urge you to drop down and make your kneeling confession. It is not too late to repent and come back to the People, despite all your sins.”

  He glared at his father, then turned back to the bishop. “I came here to discuss the damages at the Spruce Creek Cavern, not to confess or beg for forgiveness. So let’s cut to the chase, boys.”

  They all flinched at use of the term “boys.”

  So be it! He stood and handed his father a sheet of paper detailing the damages at the cavern.

  His father gasped. “So much?” Then he passed the sheet around the half circle, ending with the bishop, who exclaimed, “This is outrageous. There vas not that much damitch done.”

  Caleb raised his eyebrows at the bishop’s inadvertent admission of involvement in the vandalism. “If anything, that’s a conservative estimate of damages. The police are aware of the crime, but not the perpetrators. However, in about one hour, they will know and you will find them on your doorstep, that I guarantee. Unless we come to some agreement, and soon.”

  “You alveese ver a vild one,” Bishop Lapp said. “Alveese grexing ’bout one thing or ’nother. Alveese pushing, pushing, pushing.”

  “It wonders me how ya could stay away so long, Caleb. Dontcha care ’bout yer heritich?” Abe asked, not unkindly.

  He tried to answer as politely as the question was asked. “I cherish memories of many good things about being Amish and being raised on this farm. But I can’t forget or accept the harsh manner in which me and Jonas were forced to leave without a dime in our pockets.”

  Bishop Lapp shook his head vehemently. “Youse were never forced to leave. You and Jonas chose ta go. Ya refused ta kneel before God and confess yer wrongdoings.”

  Caleb threw his hands up in disgust. “This is a wasted discussion. We’re never going to agree. Most of all, Dat, I’m disappointed in you. I came here expecting apologies and reparations. Instead, it’s the same old, same old.” He stood, about to leave.

  “That’s not the vay it is, son.” His father cast pleading eyes at him, begging for . . . what? “I am too old to change. I hafta follow the Ordnung. I hoped . . . I hoped you would find yer vay back.”

  “Impossible! And I’ll tell you something else, old man. You’re about to lose your daughter, too, unless you lighten up.”

  Any softening on his father’s part went out the window then. Dat exchanged a look with the bishop, then stared at him as if he was a stranger. Caleb pitied him. To be so much under the thumb of a misguided man of God . . . well, it was sad, really.

  “Ve vill settle,” Bishop Lapp said, “but I cannot apologize for what vas done. There is evil there in that cavern and in you, Caleb Peachey. I don’t know if you alveese were thataway, but fer sure and fer certain you are now.”

  His Dat at least had the grace to reproach the bishop for painting his son in such a drastic manner. “Bishop, you go too far. Caleb is not evil, and I cannot allow you ta say so.”

  “Hmpfh!” the bishop said. “Wait here till I get the money.”

  While he went out to his buggy, there was an uncomfortable silence in the room. Caleb’s heart ached, because truly this had to be good-bye to his father. His father’s tear-filled eyes indicated that he knew that, too. The bishop came back with a strongbox and began to count out twenty-two thousand dollars in hundreds, fifties, and twenties. A ridiculous pile of money, but he had expected as much, since most Amish didn’t believe in banks.

  When he went out to his Jeep, with a paper grocery bag filled with the money, he saw his mother and father standing on the back porch, just watching him. And that was that. So much for Claire’s Three Sisters theory. His vine had definitely left the building . . . uh, stalk.

  Something amazing occurred to him then. He was letting these criminals get away with their crime by not having them arrested. In a way, for a man who had adopted punishment and retaliation as a way of life in the military, this amounted to turning the other cheek. The anger that had fueled him for so many years seemed to have disappeared. What would he do now without that splinter up his butt to spur him on? He felt light as a feather and, at the same time, heavy as Atlas carrying the world. In other words, a mess.

  The only saving grace for him and his shattered nerves was the fact that he and Claire were going out to dinner tonight. He needed to be with her.

  It was a sign of how distressed he really was that, at that moment, he savored the idea that at least one person loved him.

  You want to spread my body with . . . what? . . .

  Claire loved him more and more by the minute.

  It was exhilarating and scary to know that she could care so deeply about a man she barely knew. Never in her twenty years of dating had she experienced such powerful emotions for another person, even those few that she’d immaturely thought she loved.

  Caleb would probably say it was just lust, but that’s because he feared she would expect something in return. She didn’t. Not yet. Maybe never.

  They’d just finished a delicious meal. She’d had Veal Oscar with lump crab, hollandaise, and asparagus. He’d had a ravioli sampler that included lobster, gorgonzola, prosciutto, and wild mushrooms covered lightly with tomato-basil sauce. They’d shared a heart-of-palm salad for appetizer and vanilla crème brûlée for dessert. Now they were sipping at the remainder of their wine as they listened to a two-piece band play instrumental eighties music.

  “You look really nice tonight,” Caleb said against her ear. He’d pulled his chair from opposite her to her side so they could watch the band together. His arm was around the back of her chair.

  “You like this?” She glanced down at the green-and-white floral halter sundress she wore.

  “I like the whole package, honey. Your hair . . .” He tugged one of the loose strands that framed her face, strands she’d deliberately loosened from the twist on the top of her head and curled into spirals. “Your makeup.” He ran a thumb across her closed lips, and she hoped that the new tube of “Coral Madness” she’d bought was as long-lasting and kiss-proof as promised. “And yeah, I really like your dress—and that intriguing knot.” He pretended to loosen the knot at her nape. “You smell like . . . um, let me see, lilies of the valley, right?”

  She nodded. “Jessica McClintock.”

  “Who?”

  “It’s the name of the perfume.”

  “Ah. Nice.”

  “I don’t think I’ve ever met a man who recognized the scent of a particular flower.”

  “My mother planted lilies of the valley in a circle around an oak tree in the front yard. It was her favorite. I could also probably recognize lilacs, roses, marigolds, irises, and a few others she planted, like honeysuckle—I saw it by the river at your house.”

  She could tell that he immediately regretted mentioning his mother. When Caleb had returned to the B & B this afternoon with twenty-two thousand dollars in loose bills in a grocery bag, of all things, he’d been grim-faced and tight-mouthed. He’d explained to his team members the gist of his deal with the Amish leaders and predicted there would be no more trouble from them, at least of the physical type. She sensed that he’d been deeply hurt by something regarding his family, though, and her heart went out to him.

  “What happened today . . . with your family?”

  His eyes went suddenly bleak, and he shook his head. “I’d rather talk about you. Tell me about yourself, about your wild days.”

  “My mother was a drug addict, as I told you before, and I never knew who my father was,” she started.

  He squeezed her shoulder. “Go on.”

  “I’d been in the foster care system even before my mother died when I was eight. An overdose.”

  “That’s how old Jonas’s Fanny is,” Caleb pointed out, and she knew he was trying to picture his sweet niece in a similar situation and could not. “Why weren’t you adopted?”

  “I couldn’t be while my moth
er was alive. She kept going on and off the wagon, refusing to give up rights. Then afterward, I guess I became a problem child. Unadoptable.”

  “How much of a problem could an eight-year-old be?”

  “You’d be surprised. And I was an even bigger handful once I hit puberty and mistakenly believed I could earn love with sex. Over the course of eight years, till I was sixteen, I was in twelve different foster homes, some horrendous, some not so bad. After I counted thirty, I lost track of the number of boys I was with.”

  “That’s horrible, Claire. More than horrible. It’s outrageous that the system in this country allows that.”

  “Hey, my experience wasn’t that bad compared to other kids I met. At least I was never sexually abused by my caregivers.”

  He shook his head sadly.

  “I’m not looking for pity,” she said. “I believe everything in life happens for a reason. My mother’s death and my foster care made me stronger. And I found help when I was sixteen. So everything turned out all right.”

  He studied her for several long moments. “Does that mean I can’t tease you about your wild days?”

  “Tease all you want, but those horny teenage boys didn’t know zippo about sex. And know this, I haven’t been promiscuous in a long, long time. If you want the truth, one night of making love with you was better than anything I ever had then, or since.”

  “You sure know how to make a guy feel good, baby.”

  “It’s the truth. Don’t go getting all scared, though. I’m not expecting anything in return.”

  “Why do you always add that disclaimer?”

  “Because I know you’re skittish about commitment.”

  He started to argue with her, then stopped himself. “I’ve had a lot of sex, too, Claire, and last night wasn’t the same old, same old for me, either. And yeah, it scares me how special it was.”

  They were both silent then, mulling the words they’d exchanged, listening to the band.

  Claire broke the silence when she said, “I like the way you look tonight, too, Caleb.”