by Myra Johnson
“Two incredibly stupid, naïve kids.” She buried her face against his neck, weeping softly, knowing she’d leave behind a smear of beige powder, a streak of Keepsake Rose lipstick. She tilted her head to look up at him, her eyes brimming. “No one understands me the way you do. No one else knows the pain I live with.”
“Rennie, Rennie.” The sound of her name on his lips made her tremble. He brushed a strand of hair away from her damp cheek.
She snuggled deeper into his embrace. “I don’t want to go home alone tonight. Larry’s away on business, and that huge house will seem so cold and empty. Micah, seeing you has . . . it’s brought back so many memories, so many emotions I thought I’d long since put behind me.”
“Rennie, no . . . I can’t.” And yet she heard the hesitation in his voice.
“Please.”
He sighed, swallowed, ran nervous fingers up and down her spine. “Let me make some excuse to Tori, and then I’ll see you home. But I won’t stay. Do you understand?”
CHAPTER 19
Present Day
Just like I thought, I didn’t have to wait long for Renata Channing to return my call. I’d parked the VW in the shade of a sprawling oak in War Memorial Park, off I-630 near the Little Rock Zoo. Seemed like a calming place to hang out while I figured out my next move.
“Exactly who is this?” came her crisp greeting.
I sucked in a loud, shaky breath. I couldn’t exactly pop right out with, “This is your long-lost sister, Jennifer Susan Pearl,” now, could I? “Mrs. Channing, this is Julie Pearl Stiles. From the flea market in Caddo Pines.”
“You.” An exasperated groan slammed against my eardrum. “Why on earth would you be calling me? Even more appalling, why did you find it necessary to bother the employees at my foundation? Certainly my check didn’t bounce?” Her voice dripped Southern sophistication at its arrogant best.
No way would she make this easy. I got out of the car and leaned against the fender, welcoming the light breeze that lifted damp ringlets off my forehead. “Is there any chance we could meet somewhere? I have something important I need to tell you.”
A snort. “Did you forget to give me the laundering instructions for that relic of a tablecloth you sold me?”
I pushed away from the car and paced across the grass. “Hazel’s tablecloths are fine, handmade works of art.”
“Perhaps so, but when I unfolded it yesterday—in preparation for a hugely important dinner party, by the way—I must have sneezed at least fifty times from all the dust that flew.”
Okay, so Hazel’s expensive creations didn’t sell very fast, which meant a lot of shelf time. But I couldn’t let Ms. Moneybags get in the last word here. “Yeah, right. With all the servants you surely have at your beck and call, I just bet you were working your delicate little French-manicured fingers to the bone.”
Oh, great, if my grandpa heard me talking like this, he’d be all over my case.
My grandpa—right. Was I making a huge mistake? I mean, I had a really good life in Caddo Pines. Maybe it had all been a sham, but it was the only life I knew, and I loved it. Loved my grandpa with all my heart. Could I ever be happy as Jennifer Susan Pearl, especially having a sister as stuck up and ill-tempered as Renata Channing?
“I—I’m sorry. I had no right being so rude.” I hoped the stone-cold silence on the other end didn’t mean she’d hung up on me. “Mrs. Channing, are you there?”
Her breath caught. “I apologize as well. I’m not myself lately—so much on my mind. Now, if you’ll please tell me what you called about?”
On the way back to my car, I dodged a jogger and inhaled eau de mucho sweat. “Like I said, I’d prefer to talk to you in person. What I have to say is—well, it’s major.”
She gave a sardonic laugh. “All right, if you think it’s majorly important. But I’ll have to ask you to come to my home. My seamstress is here, and we’re in the middle of a dress fitting.”
Twenty minutes later I stood shifting my feet in the dressing area adjoining Renata’s elegant bedroom. A servant (housekeeper, lady’s maid, chief cook and bottle washer—whatever her actual title might be was out of my range of experience) had escorted me along about a half-dozen hallways, up winding staircases, through paneled doorways. I hoped she’d be available when it came time for me to leave. Otherwise I might be wandering the maze of rooms and corridors of this castle fortress till the day I died.
And that’s what it seemed like—a fortress. A high brick wall surrounded the estate, with ten-foot wrought-iron gates and a guardhouse barring the driveway. I wondered what the poor man checking IDs did between visitors. Play computer solitaire like Katy Harcourt?
“Well, don’t just stand there.” Renata motioned me into the room. She stood on a low platform, arms extended at an awkward angle. “The chair in the corner—pull it closer and tell me what you came to say.”
“Stand still, por favor, Mrs. C. You don’t want trousers with uneven hems.” Even with a mouthful of straight pins, the kneeling seamstress spoke with a polite Hispanic lilt.
I didn’t feel right planting the seat of my faded jeans onto the fancy gold brocade chair Mrs. Channing had indicated. “That’s okay, ma’am. And anyway, I’d rather we spoke in private.”
“We are in my private suite—ouch! Isabel, be careful with those pins!”
“Sorry, Mrs. C.”
“How much more privacy do you need?”
The fine hairs on the back of my neck rose. She’d shown her seamstress about as much respect as she probably gave the family dog.
Oh, yeah. Renata Channing was deathly afraid of dogs. Maybe she kept people as pets instead.
Micah’s warning rang in my ears. This lady was definitely someone to be wary of.
Even so, she was my sister, and she believed I’d died. Look what the accident had done to Micah—turned him bitter and cynical, made him want nothing more than to wipe out every reminder of that horrible day. Maybe living (and acting) like queen of the world was how Renata dealt with her grief.
I felt a sudden compulsion to bring the seamstress into the conversation, to let her know she wasn’t invisible. “Hi—Isabel, is it?” I plopped down on the floor beside her. “I’m Julie Stiles, from Caddo Pines. Wow, did you make this outfit? It’s gorgeous!”
The thin, brown-haired woman looked at me in surprise. “Sí, muchas gracias—thank you.”
“Have you been working for Mrs. Channing very long?”
“Yes, many years.” She flicked a glance my way as she resumed her measurements and pinning.
I fingered the flowing black fabric of the wide-legged slacks. “Must be for a really special occasion.”
Above my head I heard an impatient sigh. “A vastly important dinner party, as I mentioned on the phone. Now, will you please let Isabel get on with her work? I have other things I need to attend to before this evening.”
With a sympathetic smile, I lightly touched Isabel’s arm. Her eyes spoke gratitude.
I pushed up from the floor. “Mrs. Channing, when I tell you the reason I came, it’s going to make your vastly important dinner plans seem like the most trivial event of your life.”
~~~
With Isabel excused to finish hemming the trousers, Renata finally granted me the private audience I’d requested. I chose my words with care, leading her as gently as I could to the news I was about to spring on her. I sketched the background—the newspaper clippings my grandfather had given me, the things I’d learned from Micah Hobart about Pearls Along the Lake and the boating accident.
But all the while I talked, she continually glanced at her watch, the polished toe of one beige pump tapping nonstop on the plush ivory carpeting. I could tell she wasn’t going to sit still for much longer. She pressed her eyes shut for a moment and then interrupted me with an upraised hand. “I can’t begin to fathom why you’ve taken such interest in my personal tragedy. I must say I am highly offended.”
“Okay, I’ll come to the point. Bu
t don’t say I didn’t warn you.” I sucked in a rattling breath before reaching into my crocheted shoulder bag and tugging out the monogrammed sailor cap. “Recognize this?”
Her face paled. She flinched as if I held a loaded pistol. “Where did you get that?”
“It was something my mother kept.” My voice softened. “I . . . I think it’s mine. I think I’m your sister. I think I’m Jenny.”
I watched a wild parade of emotions skitter across her face, just like I’d seen with Micah. Then, finally, rage won out.
“What is this, some sort of extortion attempt? The poor, downtrodden flea market clerk thinking she can worm her way into my generous heart and stake a claim on my bank account?” She rose, paced to the window, fingered the filmy curtains. “A few ancient newspaper clippings and a dirty old cap, and you think you can march in here and convince me my baby sister didn’t drown after all?”
My turn to rise in indignation. “The last thing I’d ever want is your money. And the very last thing I’d ever want is to be related to you. You’re the most obnoxious, conceited, self-centered person I’ve ever met.”
She let the curtains fall into place and turned to glare at me. “And you are the most outspoken person I’ve ever encountered.” Then she seemed to rein in her thoughts before adding in a choked voice, “Except that you look—sound—so much like her, it’s uncanny.”
She couldn’t be talking about Jenny. She’d—I’d—been not quite three years old when the accident happened. Maybe our mother? Then it hit me—the woman who sparked that eerie sense of familiarity every time she visited the flea market. “You must mean Geneva Nelson.”
Her mouth puckered. She reached for a framed photograph on a side table and stared at it with a sad smile. “Everyone always said Jenny would undoubtedly grow up to look like my father’s sister, Aunt Geneva.”
I rose to peer over her shoulder at the five-by-seven color photo of a smiling couple, a ship railing behind them and the shimmering blue of a glacier wall in the background. The woman’s cheeks were ruddy from the cold. She had sparkling green eyes and a light brown cap of short, curly hair.
And she stood a good three inches taller than the man next to her.
I bent closer, that same sense of déjà vu stealing the air from my lungs.
“Aunt Geneva said so often how much you remind her of herself at a younger age, until I finally had to see for myself the day I stopped in at your flea market.” She shuddered, nearly dropping the photograph as she set it back on the table. “But I never thought, never dreamed in my wildest imagination . . .”
“It can’t all be coincidence. And please believe me when I say I don’t want anything from you.” I reached for her hand and pressed the little sailor cap into it. “I . . . I only hoped to bring you some peace.”
She clutched the cap with both hands and looked deeply into my eyes, her mouth working. “But how? How can this be?”
I explained my theory about the big yellow dog.
“Oh, the dog, that horrible dog!” She backed away, her face twisted. “He came at me in the water, barking, splashing, snapping his big teeth. He grabbed my shirt and pulled me under. If I hadn’t fought him off, he’d have drowned me.”
A tremor of conviction rushed through me. “Renata, he wasn’t trying to drown you. He was trying to save you—just like he saved me.”
~~~
A cloud of lavender-scented steam enveloped me as I settled into the huge marble tub in Renata’s guest suite. Pulsating jets swirled around me and massaged away the tension of the last life-changing twenty-four hours.
And I thought the La Quinta was luxurious!
Over the rumble of the Jacuzzi I heard someone tapping on the door. I reached for the shutoff. “Renata?”
“Sorry to disturb you.” I recognized the voice of the woman who’d announced my arrival earlier. The door opened a crack. “Mrs. C thought you might care for some refreshment while you bathe. May I come in?”
I sat up nervously. “Um, I’m not exactly decent.” This had to be a first—someone I hardly knew invading my bathroom privacy. Was this common practice for the rich?
I looked around for something to cover myself with. All I found within reach was an oversized teal-blue washcloth. The door inched open. The washcloth would have to do. I sank lower in the tub and spread the cloth over as much of me as I could cover, hiding the rest with my arms and thankful for the layer of sudsy white froth the Jacuzzi had whipped up.
The small, stiff-backed woman minced across the tile floor, an oblong silver tray balanced between her steady hands. “Mrs. C thought perhaps a soft drink would be to your liking. Would you prefer Coca-Cola or Dr Pepper, diet or regular, with or without caffeine?”
I noticed she carried every possible combination of the above on her tray. Plus a tall, clear tumbler filled with ice. She set the tray on an antique mahogany dresser with a marble top—a lot like one I’d seen pass through the Swap & Shop awhile back, one that sold for the hefty sum of $1,375. You don’t forget a figure like that when you’re calculating the commission. Somehow the dresser didn’t look right under a tray—even a silver one—of seventy-five-cent soft drinks.
“Miss?” The woman cast me an expectant look. She seemed a bit younger than Renata, equally sophisticated but in a more businesslike way. She looked stunning with her pale blond hair smoothed back in a French braid, the end tucked under at the nape.
“Um, Coke, please. Diet. No caffeine.” I didn’t need anything else boosting my adrenaline.
She turned her back, and I listened to the snap of a pop top and the fizz of liquid hitting ice. “That’s real nice of you, ma’am,” I said, “but I’m sure not used to this kind of service. And I don’t even know your name.”
“Felicia Beaufort. I’m Mrs. C’s personal assistant.” She handed me the glass but kept her gaze averted. “I’ll leave you to your bath now.” She hefted the tray and nudged the door open with the toe of her shoe.
The ice-cold glass was already turning frosty in my hand as I held it over the steaming tub. “Um, thank you, Felicia.” I hoped it was okay to use her first name. What was the protocol for situations like this?
She stopped in the doorway and gave me her profile, the tray balanced against her waist. “Miss . . . Stiles, I believe you said . . . I hope you’re as sincere as you make yourself out to be. Because if you’re here to swindle the Channings, I’ll make sure you live to regret it.”
She reached for the doorknob. “Oh, and Mrs. C asked me to tell you that dinner will be served at seven. Please dress appropriately.”
CHAPTER 20
Dress appropriately? I was still reeling from her previous warning. Talk about employee loyalty. I hoped she wasn’t packing anything more lethal than those high-gloss acrylic nails.
Across the room I glimpsed my reflection in a wall of mirrored tiles. The patterns in the gold-leaf swirls made my nose look like it was coming out of my left cheek—fitting for as mixed up as I felt.
“Okay, Julie Pearl, what are you really doing here?” Besides the obvious, of course. Soaking (literally) in the lap of luxury, preparing to hobnob with Little Rock elite at an elegant dinner party? What did I honestly hope to gain by proving myself to be the sister of rich and fashionable Renata Channing? Certainly not money. I wouldn’t take one red cent off that snobby woman if my life depended upon it.
I opened the drain, and my heart swirled round and round with the water whooshing out of the tub. I missed my grandpa so bad, it made my chest hurt. What had I done, leaving behind everything and everyone I held most dear? And for what—a soak in a Jacuzzi and an endless supply of the beverage of my choice served on a silver tray?
Once more, Micah’s warning ricocheted through my thoughts. What if by pushing for the truth I managed to ruin not only my own life but that of everyone I cared most about?
A plush white velour robe draped from a hook behind the bathroom door. Hoping it was there for guests, I wrapped myself in its softness
and wandered into the bedroom. I plopped onto the yellow tropical-print comforter atop the four-poster bed. On the nightstand a bonnet-top Seth Thomas chimed five o’clock.
Two hours until my dinner party debut. I wondered how Renata intended to introduce me.
Dress appropriately.
I doubted jeans fit the bill.
I should let Renata know I hadn’t exactly packed for such an occasion, but I was too afraid of getting lost if I went exploring the nether regions of this castle in search of another living, breathing human.
Where was Clifton the brave explorer when I needed him? Back in Caddo Pines—where else?
My glance fell on my shoulder bag, where I’d tossed it earlier at the foot of the bed. I dug through it for my cell phone, pressed the icon to bring up the last call received, then hit redial.
“Yes?”
“Hi, Renata, it’s me.”
“Jul—Jen—?” She made a squeaking sound in her throat.
I studied the ceiling. “It might be easier if we go with Julie for now.”
“I . . . suppose so. But why are you phoning me? I’m downstairs.”
“Wasn’t sure I could find my way. And anyway, I didn’t want to go traipsing through the house in a bathrobe.” I ran my fingers down the velvety-soft lapel and felt like Cinderella.
“Did Felicia talk to you about dinner?” She sounded almost childlike. “It would mean so much to me if you’d join us.”
“That’s why I’m calling. I’m, uh, a little unprepared for dressing up.”
She laughed knowingly, and I didn’t know whether I should feel insulted or grateful. “Isabel will be there shortly with a selection of clothing for you to try on. If anything needs altering, she’ll take care of it.”
~~~
I stared at myself in the full-length mirror on the closet door—a walk-in closet as spacious as my entire bedroom over the flea market. Isabel had outdone herself. In barely over an hour, she’d managed to tailor-fit me into a slinky red Vera Wang tank top over shimmering white capris. She tied a multi-colored geometric-print scarf around my hips and topped it with a gold chain belt. Shoes proved more challenging, as neither my sloppy brown huaraches nor my graying Keds with the frayed toes quite complemented the look we were going for.
