by Myra Johnson
Which was . . . what, exactly? I’d been expecting Isabel to show up with something along the lines of a sequined evening gown or a chic little black cocktail dress. Instead, I looked like I was headed out for a night of disco dancing.
We finally pried my 9Bs into a pair of Renata’s 8½ AA white leather sandals. Then another lady showed up—Yvette was the only name she gave me, an amazingly gorgeous woman with perfect skin the color of milk chocolate and reddish-brown hair tied back in a fat ponytail of beaded dreadlocks. She did my hair and makeup, and by the time she finished taming my spirals into some semblance of style, I didn’t recognize myself.
The prim Felicia Beaufort, now clad in a gray pantsuit, returned for me promptly at 6:50. “My goodness,” she murmured with a raised brow. “You do clean up nicely.”
Index finger on my chin, I grinned and faked a curtsy. “Why, thankee, ma’am. And yer lookin’ as purty as a speckled pup in a red wagon, yerself.”
If looks could kill, I’d have been six feet under in less time than it took Sneezy to polish off a bowl of tuna-mackerel surprise.
Felicia’s appraising glance found its way to my left wrist. She gave a scornful sniff. “I suggest you remove your cute little toy. It doesn’t quite complement Vera Wang.”
I slapped my right hand over my Snow White watch and glared at Ms. Felicia Beaufort. “Well, excuse me. Let’s not offend Vera.”
Laying Snow White in a shell-shaped porcelain dish on the dresser felt like leaving the last vestiges of me behind. Lifting my chin, I followed Felicia downstairs to the candlelit dining room.
“Here she is, Mrs. C.” Felicia guided me by one elbow into the room and sent Renata a meaningful look.
Renata looked cool and elegant in the silky black trousers from this afternoon and a violet mesh poncho over a black shell. As she turned from adjusting a place setting, her mouth fell open, then spread into a wide smile. “Julie, you look fantastic. That outfit looks a thousand times better on you than it ever did on me. You could be a model.”
“Really? Gee, thanks.” Happy little butterflies danced behind my belly button. I used to play make-believe and prance around the Swap & Shop in vintage outfits borrowed from the Glad Rags booth. By the time I was fifteen, I knew I had the height to be a model, and people told me I was pretty enough. But pursuing such a dream would have meant trading the flea market for big-city life and leaving Grandpa behind, and I just couldn’t do it.
I gave myself a mental slap. Wake up, Julie, and look at where you’re standing now.
I rubbed my arms and glanced around the dining room. The first thing to catch my eye was the centerpiece, a teddy bear–shaped crystal vase containing a “bouquet” of giant decorated cookies. Then I noticed the miniature fuzzy white bears next to each plate. The bears sat with outstretched paws holding embossed place cards. Colorful satin bows with curling streamers adorned each chair.
I mashed my lips together. “Dinner party? It looks like you’re expecting a bunch of kids for high tea.”
She gave me a dubious smile. “Since you tracked me down through the Channing Children’s Foundation, I assumed you’d realize how deeply I care for young people.”
Somewhere in the house a doorbell chimed, and moments later Felicia ushered in the first arrivals. I stood to one side, watching in awe as Renata greeted a laughing young couple and their two children, all decked out in their Sunday best. Before they’d even said their hellos, three more families arrived. Soon the dining room sounded like a big, happy family reunion.
I edged over to where Felicia stood in the arched doorway. “Who are all these people?”
She cut her eyes at me. “Families Mrs. C has brought together through the foundation’s adoption program.”
I recalled the doubts that had run through my mind while trying to contact Renata at the foundation offices. Wrong again, Julie Pearl.
“Each of these children had been originally considered unadoptable,” Felicia continued. “Health, age, siblings who needed to stay together—a variety of reasons. But through Mrs. C’s efforts, deserving and qualified parents were found for them. And once a quarter, Mrs. C hosts a dinner for several families to honor the one-year anniversary of their adoptions.”
“That’s wonderful.” And she looked so . . . blissful. So perfectly at ease as she flitted from one laughing child to the next.
Renata had a heart for needy children. I couldn’t turn my back on a stray dog or cat. Were we more alike than I’d imagined?
~~~
For introductions that evening, I remained Julie Pearl Stiles, Renata’s “new and already very dear friend.” Which was fine with me. I had my hands full trying to guess which of several forks, knives, and spoons were appropriate for each course the white-smocked caterers set before me. Thank goodness the two little girls I was seated between had no more clue than I did, so we shared a few giggles behind our napkins and relied on their parents to set us straight.
By the time I fell across my pillow-top mattress that night, every muscle and brain cell in my body felt like I’d been squeezed like a wrung-out mop. I pushed my toes deep beneath the buttery-soft Egyptian-cotton sheets and snuggled into a lavender-scented down pillow that bore not even the faintest hint of mustiness. I felt like I could sleep for days.
It was utterly peaceful. And so . . . quiet.
No traffic noises from the highway.
No snuffling snores coming from the next room.
No jerk and grumble as the refrigerator cycled on and off through the night.
No cat’s purr or puppies’ whimpering or dog’s warm, wet nose nuzzling my arm in the dark.
I sat up slowly and hugged my knees to my chest. Silent tears flowed down my face.
Oh, Lordy, how I miss the Swap & Shop!
~~~
Over the next couple of days, I felt more and more like I’d stepped from real life into the pages of some bizarre fairytale. I kept thinking I ought to say my good-byes and head on back to Grandpa—except it looked like he wasn’t really my grandpa after all. But did that stop me from loving him and missing him? I thought about calling, but what would I say? “Having a ball. Wish you were here,” like some cheesy postcard from Pismo Beach?
No, before I called home—if indeed the Swap & Shop could still be called my home—I needed a little more time to adjust to my new identity, a little more time to get to know my sister. Except I didn’t see much of Renata, and when she did make an appearance, it always came with an apology. “Julie, sweetheart, just give me a few days to clear my calendar, and I promise, we’ll have plenty of time to spend together.”
In the meantime, Isabel spent hours altering selected items from Renata’s closet to enhance my wardrobe, while Yvette coached me on hair, skin, and makeup routines. After watching me mince around at the dinner party in those too-tight sandals, Renata must have sent Felicia shoe shopping. Miss Tight-lips herself appeared in my room Friday afternoon with stacks of shoeboxes, making me try on style after style and returning the ones that didn’t fit.
It slowly dawned on me that Renata wouldn’t be ready to claim me as her sister until I looked the part, until I looked as polished and perfect as her credit cards and personal shoppers could make me. My homesickness swelled into a festering loneliness, the kind I imagined rich people might feel—at least the ones who based their entire existence on wealth and prestige. I wondered if I’d ever measure up to Renata’s ideal.
And did I even want to try? Sure, I wanted my sister to like me—to love me—but how much was I willing to change to make that happen?
Early one morning, dressed in a blue-flowered sundress that skimmed my ankles (I learned quickly that my jeans and vintage flea-market finds were not appropriate attire in the Channing household), I found my way downstairs to the breakfast room, a sunny alcove overlooking a brick terrace and sloping gardens. The table was set as usual—pristine white cloth, pastel-print placemats and matching runner, a bowl of fresh-cut flowers in the center. A coffee ur
n and a selection of cute, sugary foreign pastries waited on a buffet, along with a chafing dish of buttery scrambled eggs.
With a sigh, I poured a glass of orange juice from a frosty cut-glass pitcher and dreamed of raisin bran and whole-wheat toast spread with Katy Harcourt’s homemade mayhaw jelly.
“Finding everything to your liking, Miss?”
“Oh, hi.” I smiled at the tall, black gentleman who’d just entered from the kitchen. He was new to me. Until now a middle-aged woman and a plump, acne-scarred teen had served the meals. I cast the man a pleading gaze. “You wouldn’t happen to have something plain back there? Something that comes in a box or cellophane wrapper?”
His brows lifted, and he gave me a knowing smile. “Why certainly, Miss. Let me see what I can find for you.”
As he turned to go, I touched the sleeve of his white jacket. “And would it be okay if—I mean, this is so—” I flicked my fingers in a helpless gesture. My shoulders drooped. “I seem to be dining alone this morning, so could I have breakfast in the kitchen with you?”
His hearty guffaw took me by surprise. “I won’t tell if you won’t.” With a furtive glance toward the hallway, he extended one arm and directed me through the swinging door.
We entered an enormous kitchen furnished with an eight-burner gas range and a stainless-steel refrigerator big enough to store food for everyone on the Queen Mary. The granite countertops were lined with every modern appliance imaginable. Glass-front cupboards held an array of dishes and serving pieces that LeRoy Tuttle would have paid top dollar for to resell in his Swap & Shop booth. I could only guess at the contents of the massive pantry.
“Why don’t you have a seat over here, Miss?” The white-coated man guided me around a vast center work island toward an oak pedestal table near the far windows. He pulled out a chair for me at one end. “What can I interest you in? We stock a fairly broad selection of packaged breakfast cereals, mainly for the staff, of course, but you’re welcome to any of it.”
I shook my head and remained standing. “Thanks, but you really don’t have to wait on me. Just point me to the right cupboard and I can help myself.” I offered my hand. “By the way, I’m Julie Stiles.”
A flicker of uncertainty darkened his gaze before he smiled and accepted my hand. “I’m Walter. So glad to make your acquaintance, Miss Stiles.”
“Hey, Julie is just fine, Walter, and it’s nice to meet you, too.” Good grief, the man was old enough to be my father. I couldn’t use his first name and have him calling me Miss Stiles. Just didn’t seem polite.
But then I reminded myself this was a whole new world. It would be a long time yet before I learned all the rules.
Walter showed me to the pantry shelf where the boxed cereals were kept. I filled a bowl with Wheat Chex and insisted Walter pour milk over it right from the jug—wouldn’t let him fetch one of those dainty little pitchers like he started to. We had a pleasant conversation while I ate and Walter puttered around the kitchen, though I couldn’t for the life of me convince him to use my first name. I finally gave up and settled for Miss Julie.
Walter told me he worked at the mansion Sunday through Thursday, and Mrs. Klein and her daughter Lindy covered Fridays and Saturdays. “I’m assistant pastor at my church,” he said. “I preach at Saturday evening worship. Mrs. C gives me Friday and Saturday off so I can prepare.”
“Oh my goodness. Today’s Sunday, isn’t it?” I shoved my chair back and tossed my napkin onto the table. All I could think about was Grandpa and Sandy and Clifton all heading off to church in Caddo Pines . . . without me.
Walter folded his polishing cloth and laid it on the counter. His eyes softened. “You’re a church-going woman, Miss Julie?”
“All my life.” At least as long as I could remember.
Then the words from Jenny’s—my—obituary came back to me, the part about memorial gifts for the church’s Sunday-school wing. So church must have been important to the Pearl family at one time, too—another piece of my history to be filed away.
I rinsed my empty bowl in the sink, then stared out the window toward the garage. My VW bug wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Shortly after my conversation with Renata my first day here, she’d requested my keys so her chauffeur could “park the car in a safe place.” No doubt she’d wanted that rattletrap moved off her front drive and out of sight ASAP.
Without turning from the window, I said quietly, “How much do you know about me, Walter? Has anyone told you who I am, why I’m here?”
A long, tense silence met my ears before he finally spoke. “There are rumors floating around—can’t avoid it in a big ol’ house like this. But it’s none of my business, Miss Julie, and I don’t stick my nose in where it isn’t supposed to be.”
The horrible, overwhelming sense of loneliness swept through me again. Why had I come here, when nothing was turning out the way I’d hoped? Renata and I hadn’t even taken a meal together since her dinner party for the adoptees—she always had some function or business to attend to. How was I supposed to get to know my sister if she was always too busy for me?
Walter came up beside me and gently took the bowl from my hands. “Let me, Miss Julie. It’s my job, not yours. You should go now. Mrs. C will not be happy to know I fed you cold cereal in the kitchen.” He gave a low chuckle, but there was no humor in it.
Truth be told, it sounded more like pity.
~~~
The house echoed with silence this lonely Sunday morning. My car keys hadn’t been returned yet, and I hadn’t a clue how to track down the chauffeur to ask for them. I should have asked Walter while I had the chance. Now I felt trapped and isolated.
“There you are.” Appearing out of nowhere, Felicia Beaufort snagged my arm as I went in search of the library and something to read to help pass the time.
At least with Renata’s petite watchdog I had the advantage of height. I stared down my nose at her. “Sorry, didn’t know anyone was looking for me.”
“I searched the entire house. Where have you been?”
“Having breakfast.” Obviously the entire house didn’t include the servants’ areas. I held my arms out from my sides and turned slowly. “Want to search me? I promise I haven’t swiped the heirloom silver. Walter can vouch for me.”
Felicia made a rumbling sound in her throat. “Mrs. C is waiting for you in her private suite. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“And I don’t like being ignored. I don’t see her for days, and now she doesn’t want to wait? Well, she can—” I bit off the rest of my retort and took several deep breaths while Felicia gave me the evil eye.
Once I’d calmed down a mite, I folded my arms across my ribcage and spoke slowly. “Ms. Beaufort, I honestly don’t care what you think of me, whether you believe I’m Jennifer Pearl or not. But you’d better believe that I have no deceitful intentions whatsoever. I came here for one purpose only—to show Renata she’s not responsible for her baby sister’s death. And maybe, somehow, help her forgive herself and let go of the past.”
“That is, if you really are her sister. The family attorney will be here first thing tomorrow to arrange for a DNA test.” She nodded toward the main staircase. “Now please, don’t keep Mrs. C waiting any longer.”
Trudging up the curving stairway, I couldn’t help wondering why Renata hadn’t insisted on a DNA test from the get-go. I’d caught almost every episode of CSI and all its spin-offs. What better way to prove or disprove my claim? And once my identity was confirmed, maybe Felicia would get off my case and Renata and I could concentrate on getting to know each other and make up for lost time. DNA test? Bring it on!
I was practically skipping by the time I knocked on the partly open door to Renata’s sitting room. I peeked inside. “Hey, it’s me.”
“Come in, Julie, dear.” She beckoned from the satin-striped chaise, a polished wooden lap desk propped on her thighs. “That dress looks charming on you—suits you perfectly. I promise we’ll go shopping together soon. I w
ould have had Felicia bring you some outfits to try, but her tastes run a bit too conservative for me. I trust the shoes she selected were suitable, though?”
“Oh, yes, fine.” I lifted my skirt to display the silver Cole Haan ballet flats I’d slipped into this morning. I didn’t mention I’d be afraid to wear them beyond the front door for fear of sullying their pristine soles.
Renata capped an expensive-looking fountain pen and set the lap desk on the Oriental carpet. “Do sit down, darling. I apologize again for leaving you on your own so much.”
“I understand. I’ve tried to keep myself occupied.” More like preoccupied. I pulled over an ottoman upholstered in cherry velveteen and sat across from her. “Do you think we could spend some time together today? There’s so much we—I—”
A tidal wave of emotions washed over me. I leaned forward and hugged my knees, afraid I’d be sick to my stomach all over Renata’s designer rug.
She swung her legs off the side of the chaise and knelt beside me, taking me in her arms. “Oh, my Jenny, my precious, precious Jenny-love.”
“My sweet little turtle dove.” The distant echo from my childhood sang through my thoughts, a little rhyme my mother—Angie, that is—used to croon to me. Or had my memory deceived me? Did the words belong to my real mother, or maybe even Renata, instead?
My cheek pressed against the lapel of her pale green satin robe, and I inhaled the crisp, floral scent of Amarige. When Sandy and I were teens, we used to sample all the expensive fragrances at the Dillard’s cosmetics counter in Hot Springs Mall—until some grumpy sales clerk banished us.
I wondered what Sandy would think if she could see me now.
I wondered what Grandpa would think.
