by Myra Johnson
~~~
Shades of Monday, minus the lab tech. Renata sat in the same fancy armchair, looking serene and elegant in iridescent-green silk slacks and matching sleeveless sweater. Felicia was her usual businesslike self in a tailored ice-blue pantsuit. For once I was grateful for clothing options other than my vintage flea market apparel. I thought I looked the picture of style in the navy slacks Isabel had hemmed to capri length and a bold, patriotic-print tunic top. I struck a confident pose against the antique limestone mantel.
Apparently the effect was lost on Felicia. “Aren’t we a bit early for the Fourth of July?”
I ignored her as Howard Kirby, seated on the sofa, cleared his throat, reached into the inside pocket of his suit coat, and removed a sealed envelope. “Renata, are you ready?”
She stalled for about three centuries while examining an enameled fingernail. In the meantime, nervous sweat trickled down my spine. “Howard,” she said softly, “I trust you have abided by my wishes?”
“Of course.” The stout attorney pressed his lips together. “As you instructed, no one other than the lab technician, including myself, has seen the contents of this envelope.”
“Good.” Catlike, Renata rose and stood before Kirby, hand extended. He laid the crisp white envelope in her palm. “That’s all we need from you today, Howard. Thank you so much for your assistance.” Pinching the envelope between her thumb and index finger, she gave a dismissive nod.
As Kirby rose with a confused frown, Renata turned to Felicia. “Please have Martin bring the car around. And fetch my purse and cell phone, will you, dear?”
“But, Mrs. C—” Renata’s personal assistant looked even more flustered than the attorney, and despite my own confusion, I couldn’t help relishing that fact. Felicia’s leather soles scuffed across the Oriental carpet as she rushed toward the foyer to catch up with Renata and the attorney. “Wait, what about the test results?”
Renata paused and gave Felicia a look that I can only describe as utter serenity. I edged closer, and Renata’s placid gaze drifted to me. I shivered under its coolness. “I have no intention of looking inside this envelope,” she said. “I am going right now to lock it away in my safe-deposit box, and there it will stay.”
Kirby and Felicia both stared at Renata, their jaws practically dragging the floor.
“Renata, this is stupidity!”
“No, Mrs. C, you can’t be serious—”
“I am deadly serious.” She looked from one to the other as if daring them to argue. Then her eyes locked with mine once more, and she smiled. “I have no need for a piece of paper to tell me what I already know is true.”
Five seconds after Renata left, Felicia stormed through the house slamming doors, drawers, and phone receivers. I had no idea who all she called, or what all that banging around was intended to accomplish, but I had to admit, her loyalty to Renata was impressive.
And I had to wonder about it.
I mean, why should my true identity be such a big deal with Felicia, a mere employee . . . unless for some reason (maybe her faithful service and devotion?) she expected a sizeable bequest from the childless Renata Pearl Channing?
Talk about gold diggers!
I followed the din to a third-floor office suite. Felicia stood with her back to me between a burnished bamboo desk and tall windows framed by built-in bookcases. She yammered away on a cordless phone. “Larry, I mean it, you have to do something. You can’t let her get away with this. It’s absolutely outrageous!”
Larry? As in, Lawrence Eugene Channing?
I sauntered into the paneled room and plopped my rear into a thickly padded armchair. The slick, bronze leather felt cool against my back—probably just what I needed to lower my temperature a few degrees before I laid some heated words on Ms. Beaufort.
“No, next week is not soon enough.” Her tone became wheedling. “I need you, Larry. Please, you’ve got to put a stop to this nonsense before—”
My loud “A-hem” got her attention in a hurry. Spinning around, she pressed the phone against her abdomen. “How long have you been sitting there?”
I lifted an accusing eyebrow. “Long enough to hear you whispering sweet nothings to Larry.”
If I’d thought she looked flustered earlier, now I read sheer panic in her darting glance. She recovered quickly with another of those haughty looks she was so good at. “I don’t know what exactly you think you heard, but you’d do well to keep your meddling nose out of it.”
“That sounds mighty like a threat.” I did my best imitation of Renata calmly inspecting her manicure. “Seems to me, someone with nothing to hide wouldn’t be so nervous about what she’s not hiding.”
She lifted the phone to her ear and muttered, “I’ll call you back,” before pressing the disconnect button and laying down the phone.
I stood and rested my fingertips on the polished expanse between us. “So tell me, Felicia, what exactly is going on between you and Renata’s husband? Are you the reason their marriage is on the rocks?”
She stiffened. “What gave you the idea the Channings’ marriage is in trouble?”
“Larry’s never around, Renata hardly mentions him, and when she does, the look in her eyes . . . well, let’s just say it doesn’t take Dr. Phil to interpret the signs.”
I could hardly bear to look at the scheming hussy. A Blue Delft vase of fading yellow roses adorned the corner of the desk. I plucked a wilted petal and crushed it between my fingers. “Hmmm, seems I’m not the one Renata needs to be worried about.”
With the musky scent of decaying roses filling my nostrils, I turned to leave.
Before I’d taken three steps across the carpet, Felicia grabbed my arm. The panicked look had returned full force. “Where are you going? What are you planning to do?”
I jerked my arm free. “Don’t worry, I’m not running to Renata to expose your little secret. She’s smart enough to figure it out on her own, if she hasn’t already.” With a shudder, I made another move toward the door. “And you had the nerve to accuse me of deception.”
“Mrs. Channing may be convinced you’re her dear departed sister returned from the dead.” Venom crept back into Felicia’s voice. “But I know your type—poor white trash looking for an easy way out of the gutter.”
I mimicked her stance of crossed arms and nose in the air, mine hovering a good eight inches above hers. “Tell me, Ms. Beaufort, what gutter did you crawl out of before you latched onto the Channings?”
She opened her mouth to respond and then froze, her staring eyes fixed on something beyond my shoulder. She sucked in a tiny, sharp breath. “Mrs. C.”
I spun around to see Renata standing in the doorway. She set her hands on her hips. “What on earth is going on here? I could hear the two of you shouting all the way downstairs.”
“Mrs. C, I—it’s just that the DNA results—” Felicia’s arms jerked like the forelegs of a nervous spider.
Renata released an exasperated huff as she stepped forward and lightly touched Felicia’s cheek. “I appreciate your concern, darling. But my decision in this matter is final.”
She turned to me. “And you, Julie dear, try to get along with Felicia. She’s been my assistant for almost nine years now, and I don’t know what I’d do without her. There are . . . things you don’t know, things you don’t need to bother yourself with.” She cast Felicia a strangely sympathetic look.
As if I weren’t confused enough already. Larry? Renata? Felicia? I had to wonder what more there was to know.
~~~
Over the next couple of days, Felicia and I kept our distance. I decided neither her doubts about my identity nor her sordid personal secrets were worth getting myself in a snit about. And anyway, Renata wasn’t leaving me much time to think about such things. She kept me pretty well occupied helping her finalize arrangements for the big Fourth-of-July bash she’d been planning for this weekend.
“It’ll be your coming-out party, in a way,” she said on Friday m
orning as we lingered at the breakfast table poring over lists and schedules.
I laughed nervously. “Coming out of what?”
“It’s just an expression, sweetie.” She signaled Lindy over to refill her coffee cup, and when she didn’t offer the timid girl even a nod of thanks, it felt like a tiny death inside me.
“A coming-out party,” Renata continued, as if explaining complicated social graces to an illiterate hillbilly, “is a traditional rite of passage for a debutante, an occasion to introduce her to society as an eligible young woman. Usually it’s a formal dinner and dance—ball gowns, tuxes, string quartet. And of course every handsome unattached young man in town is on the guest list, but—”
I shoved my chair back. “If I’d known that’s what you had in mind—”
Her laughter echoed off the high ceiling. “I promise it’ll be nothing nearly so formal. But I do want everyone to meet you. My gracious, I want the whole world to know my sister is alive!”
An image of that sealed white envelope flashed through my mind. I fingered the hem of a mauve linen napkin. “Are you sure it’s a good idea? I mean, do you really want to make an announcement like that without knowing for certain, without . . . seeing those DNA results?”
She sniffed. “I’ve already told you, I don’t need test results to convince me. You’re here, and that’s all that matters.”
“But people are bound to ask questions—how you found out about me, what proof you have. The last thing I want is all your friends thinking this is some prank, that all I want is your money.”
“I am beyond caring what other people think,” she said, and her tone gave me chills.
The thing is, I cared a lot—more than I wanted to admit. It was why I came here in the first place—the need for authenticity, the need to understand where I fit into this whole crazy, mixed-up world. It wasn’t enough that Renata accepted me. Felicia didn’t believe I was Jenny. Howard Kirby clearly had his reservations. And unless Renata could show positive proof that I was her sister, doubts would linger in the minds of everyone she introduced me to.
Then I remembered my one possible ally, the only person who, so far, had maintained any semblance of perspective. Just as Grandpa could always soothe away my anxieties, I’d sensed the same calming spirit in Aunt Geneva.
And since I’d declared Grandpa and everyone else from my old life off limits until I got my head wrapped around all this, I felt an overwhelming need to talk to Geneva—alone, away from Renata’s manipulations and blind belief.
I’d seen the file containing the party guest list among the folders and paperwork scattered across the breakfast table. Certainly Geneva’s name would be among the invitees. I could get her number and then later call her on my cell phone.
As soon as Renata returned to perusing the caterer’s menu, I casually thumbed through the stacks until I found the file. Sliding it into my lap along with one of Renata’s favorite decorating magazines, I rose and stepped toward the French doors leading to the terrace. “I’m going to sit outside and read for a bit before it gets too hot.”
“Good idea, honey. Here, take this.” She handed me a pad of sticky notes. “Our next project will be to redecorate your suite. If you come across any ideas you like, mark the pages so you can show me later.”
“Um, okay.” Redecorate my suite? I hadn’t even decided how long I’d be sticking around.
I let the door swing closed behind me and sauntered over to a patio chair just beyond her range of vision. The July morning had already grown warm and humid. My skin felt tingly, as if the heat were penetrating every air-conditioned nerve fiber and telling it to relax, let go. I breathed deeply and closed my eyes.
Micah’s warning, never far from conscious thought since the morning I steered my VW out of the La Quinta parking lot—was it only last week?—weighed heavily on me this morning. Already I felt myself being sucked into Renata’s world, Renata’s lifestyle . . . Renata’s control.
But she was my sister. How could I learn to love her unless I understood her? Unless I gave myself a chance to experience her world, walk in her shoes? Although, remembering my sore feet after the dinner party my first night here, I realized I’d never intended that part literally.
Yes, I definitely needed to talk to Geneva. Of all people, she seemed to know Renata best—or at least had the clearest perspective. Which was what I needed, and badly.
Making sure I was alone on the terrace, I laid the magazine aside and pulled the guest list from the file folder. There had to be twenty or more pages here, a two-column computer printout in alphabetical order by last name, including mailing address and phone number. I began a brisk page-by-page scan looking for Geneva Nelson.
What I hadn’t expected was the name that did catch my eye.
Micah Hobart.
Renata had invited Micah? Last I heard, they weren’t exactly on speaking terms.
I cut my eyes toward the French doors to the breakfast room. I couldn’t see Renata directly, just the shimmery pink toenails of one arched foot casually swinging under the corner of the tablecloth. “Renata Pearl Channing, what exactly are you up to?”
CHAPTER 24
With the guest list tucked between the magazine pages, I marched inside through the side door to the kitchen. I made myself slow down long enough to offer the weekend cook a smile. “Good morning, Mrs. Klein.”
The plump woman looked up in surprise as she set a jam-smeared plate in the dishwasher rack. “Miss Julie! Did you need something?” A horrified look on her face, she started toward the breakfast room. “That Lindy—what did she forget this time?”
“Oh, no, Lindy’s doing a great job.” I kept forgetting my place, apparently. Which was not the servants’ areas. “I just wanted to tell you in person how much I enjoyed the . . . the scrambled eggs. You must have a special secret for making them so tasty and moist.”
“Goodness me! Why, thank you, Miss Julie!” She pressed a hand to her bosom, and her florid complexion turned even redder. “Must be the extra pat of butter in the skillet, and of course not overcooking them.”
“I’ve got to remember that next time I—” I started to say, scramble eggs for Grandpa. I covered the heart-stopping surge of homesickness with a cough. “Anyway, thanks again for the delicious breakfast, and tell Lindy, too.”
With a cheery wave, I hurried through the back hallway and found my way upstairs. In my bedroom, I flung the magazine onto the bed and flopped down beside it, head in my hands. With every day that passed, I grew more and more certain I’d never fit into Renata’s world.
And now, for reasons I couldn’t fathom, she’d invited Micah to her barbecue. What if he came? What would I say to him?
One step at a time, Julie. I would not turn tail and run from this situation. I was made of sterner stuff.
Step one: Consider the possibility that Renata wanted to make peace with Micah. That would be a good thing.
But terribly awkward for me. How would he see me now? As the woman Julie Stiles who was just beginning to open her heart to him? Or the grown-up version of Jennifer Susan Pearl, the baby sister of Rennie Pearl, the teenager who’d all but ruined his life?
Deep breath, and on to step two: Find out whether Micah had accepted the invitation. Then, at least, I could begin to prepare myself.
I figured Sandy would know. She spent more time with him than anyone else these days. I pulled open the bottom drawer of the mahogany nightstand where I’d stashed my crocheted shoulder bag and fished out my cell phone. When I powered it on, it immediately flashed the MESSAGES WAITING icon.
And guilt, guilt, guilt flashed across the backs of my eyeballs. What if something had happened to Grandpa? Steeling myself, I thumbed the voicemail button.
“Hey, Jules, it’s me.” Sandy. I gave a small sigh of relief. “Just checking up on you, girlfriend. I miss you. And I’m worried about you. . . . And I’m not the only one, if you get my drift. Call. Soon. Okay?” The time stamp indicated she’d left the me
ssage one week ago today.
“Me again. Why haven’t you called? I know you’re probably living it up with the rich and famous in Little Rock, but don’t forget about us back in Caddo Pines. We miss you, Jules. And we love you.” Monday, 4:57 p.m.
“Don’t you ever check your voicemail?” The cajoling tone in Sandy’s earlier messages had given way to urgency. “Or are you ignoring us on purpose? Julie, I mean it, please call.” Yesterday morning.
Finding no messages from Grandpa and nothing from Micah, I felt strangely let down. Not even so much as a “Hey, how ya doin’?” from my old buddy Clifton.
I couldn’t blame them. I was the one who’d cut ties with my former life, and they were obviously leaving it up to me to decide when and if I wanted to reestablish the connection.
And I did. Oh, how I wanted to, with every fiber of my being.
I punched the speed-dial icon next to Sandy’s name in my contacts list. She answered on the second ring.
I spoke timidly. “Hi. It’s me.”
Static on the line, then a raspy, “Jules—thank God!” More static while she asked me to hold on a minute, then her muffled words, “I’m taking my break now, Micah. Back in fifteen.”
A door creaked. When Sandy spoke again, she had that breathy sound of someone talking and walking at the same time. “Okay, I can talk now. Julie, how are you? Is everything okay?”
“Things are . . . weird. Sorry I didn’t call you sooner. I haven’t had my cell phone on since I got here.”
“I assume you mean Renata Channing’s place? Micah told me you went to find her. So is it true? Is she really your sister?”
I kicked off my amazingly comfy Cole Haan flats and melted into the pile of down bed pillows. “Renata believes it. Except her attorney set up a DNA test, and when the results came back, she didn’t even look at them—wouldn’t let anyone else, either. She locked them in her safe-deposit box.”
“Seriously?” Another whoosh of a door opening and closing. Then children’s laughter, water splashing. Sandy must be outside by the hotel pool.
“Sandy, I was going to call you this morning anyway. I was wondering about Micah. Did he by chance—”
