by Myra Johnson
He pushed off the sofa and shuffled to the kitchen. “We need to go get her? I’ll get my keys.”
“She has no idea where she is.” I tilted the receiver so Grandpa could listen in and then spoke into the phone. “Renata, tell me exactly what kind of noise the car was making before it died.”
“Well, it was kind of a long, whistling whine, and then a rattle and sputter, and then it just quit.”
Good, something simple. Clifton had once shown me an easy fix. “No big deal. Just go around back and pop the hood. You’ll find—”
“Wait! You mean, open up the engine? I can’t do that!”
“Hmmm. Then maybe you’d better stay in the car and wait for somebody to find you.” I winked at Grandpa. “Oh, and keep the windows rolled up. This part of Arkansas is bear country, you know. And I heard talk about a mountain lion stalking the woods around here.”
“Bear? Mountain lion? Are you sure?”
Grandpa had to step away and press both hands to his mouth to keep from laughing out loud. I cleared my throat to mask my own laughter. “I haven’t actually seen any bears or mountain lions, but I sure wouldn’t want to be outside alone in the dark on the back roads.”
Short, sharp breaths pulsed in my ear. “Well, it’s not quite dark yet. If I were to, um, try to fix the engine, how long do you suppose it would take?”
“Oh, just a second or two. I can have you back on the road lickety-split.”
Dead silence. I wondered if we’d been disconnected. Then she burst out, “All right, talk me through it.” The car door slammed.
In my mind’s eye, I pictured the Beetle’s engine parts and tried to remember the exact steps Clifton had shown me. I didn’t know all the technical terms for the car parts, but she wouldn’t have recognized them anyway. We got through it with references like “the orange doohickey” and “the black box with the red cap on top,” and then I had her get back inside and try the key. I breathed a sigh of relief along with her when the VW started right up.
“Oh, and here’s the Triple-A truck. They will definitely be hearing from me about their atrocious service.” Back to her obnoxiously arrogant self. I didn’t know whether to be glad or scared.
“Good, then they can point you back to town and get you to the Swap & Shop. We’ll have the porch light on at the top of the stairs for you.”
I hung up and fell into the nearest chair like a sack of rotten potatoes. “She’s coming, Grandpa. She’s really, really coming.”
CHAPTER 31
It wasn’t twenty minutes later when I heard the familiar rumble of my little green car. Knowing how Renata felt about dogs, I didn’t see any sense adding to the commotion of her arrival, so I hurried Brynna and the pups into Grandpa’s room and closed the door. I caught up with Grandpa on the landing outside the kitchen door, and we watched Renata park under the oak tree and wrestle her suitcase out of the backseat.
Make that two extra-large suitcases and a bulging wheeled tote.
“Best go down and give her a hand.” Heaving a sigh, Grandpa trudged downstairs.
I reached the bottom step a couple of paces behind him, about the time Renata dragged the tote bag around the front of the car. The yellow glow of the porch light made her look sallow and gaunt. She stared at me with a dazed expression not unlike the look I’d seen in Brynna’s eyes the day I found her half-starved in the rotting old cabin. Noting the black grease marks streaking Renata’s face, arms, and hands, I almost felt sorry for her.
Almost.
She released the tote handle, and the whole thing toppled over. “I do hope you have hot and cold running water and a bathtub.”
I sent a pleading glance heavenward and shook my head. “This may not be the Ritz-Carlton, but I promise, we won’t make you wash up out back in the rain barrel.”
It took Grandpa and me straining together to manhandle all her luggage to the top of the stairs. Renata headed straight for the bathroom and started filling the tub. While Grandpa and I arranged her suitcases as best we could in the confined space of my tiny bedroom, several loud sighs and groans emanated from behind the closed bathroom door. I think she might have stayed in there all night, but after nearly an hour the hot water must have finally given out.
The bathroom door cracked open, and a cloud of steam seeped out. “Julie, honey, I need you to bring me a few things from my tote—the blue flowered lingerie bag and a cosmetics kit.”
“Coming right up.” I gave Grandpa a resigned smirk as I started toward the bedroom.
“Hold on a minute, Julie Pearl.” He tugged at the hem of my dashiki. “I thought the whole point of asking her here was so she could see how life looks from your side of the highway. Bad enough you’re giving up your bed for her. You go waiting on her hand and foot and you’re setting yourself up for trouble.”
I gave him a reassuring hug. “Don’t worry, Grandpa. After tonight she’s on her own.”
~~~
“Here you go, Sneezy.” I set my empty cereal bowl on the floor so the old yellow cat could lap up the last few drops of milk. Brynna plopped her furry bottom down beside him, her tail sweeping the linoleum in broad strokes. She whimpered softly.
“Hang on, girl, almost done.” Grandpa scooped up the last spoonful of his raisin bran. As he put his bowl down for Brynna, he glanced toward the clock above the stove. “Shouldn’t her ladyship be up by now? We open in half an hour.”
About that time, a door creaked. Renata stifled a yawn as she groped her way to the bathroom, her pink satin dressing gown flowing like a royal train behind her.
Grandpa clucked his tongue. “Well, speak of the—”
“Bite your tongue, Grandpa.” I carried our now spotlessly clean cereal bowls to the sink and rinsed them. Couldn’t help wondering what Renata would have to say about people who let pets eat off their dishes. But hey, a good dousing of hot, sudsy water and any germs to be concerned about get sent right down the drain.
I’d just sat down at the table with a mug of steaming coffee when Renata came padding across the living room carpet. She halted beneath the archway leading to the kitchen and sucked in her breath.
“Oh, no! The dog!” Her eyes were two full moons with dark centers. “I—I forgot about your dog.”
A throat-tightening quiver shook me, the kind I get around people who just don’t understand or respect animals. “She won’t hurt you, Renata.” I knelt beside Brynna, who edged behind me and stared up at Renata. “See, she’s as scared of you as you are of her.”
“Yes, as well she should be.” Renata took a giant sidestep to position herself behind one of the kitchen chairs. “I’m warning you, little doggy,” she said with a shaky laugh, “I am not a pleasant person to be around before I’ve had my morning coffee.”
Her feeble attempt at humor eased the tension. I rose and went to the cupboard for another mug. “You like a little skim milk, don’t you, Renata?”
Grandpa gave a small cough. “Julie Pearl, we’d best get a move on. Almost time to open.”
“Oh, right.” I set the mug on the counter and told Renata where to find things in the kitchen. “We take the animals downstairs with us, so they won’t bother you. Come on down when you’re ready.”
Pausing at the door, Grandpa shot her one last warning glare. “Sooner the better, Miz Channing. We got plenty of work ahead of us.”
As the day progressed, I could see Grandpa getting hotter and hotter under the collar. He forbade me to interfere, while he assigned Renata one menial chore after another, starting with sweeping the aisles, dusting LeRoy Tuttle’s conglomeration of china and knickknacks, and reshelving the misplaced paperbacks in Herman Trapp’s booth.
“The woman works slower’n a slug,” Grandpa muttered as he helped Clifton carry a tub of ice to refill the snack bar drink machine.
“She is definitely some piece of work.” Clifton cast me a toothy grin. “So she’s your blood sister, huh, Julie Pearl? I see now where you got your uppity ways.”
I resisted the urge to bop one spike-haired, bleach-blond dork over the head with my 1992 Woman’s Day and slammed it on the counter instead. “I seriously wonder what Sandy sees in you, Clifton Carter Doakes.”
His only response was a chortling laugh.
“I’m finished with the books.” Renata came up behind Grandpa. “What next, Mr. Stiles?”
Noticing the dust smudge across her nose, I pretended to study the magazine cover to keep from chuckling out loud. This was a side of Renata I’d not seen before—the simple khaki slacks, periwinkle blouse, sensible canvas espadrilles. She’d pinned her gorgeous mass of hair into a neat French twist.
“You go on, Uncle Otto,” Clifton said. “I’ll finish with the ice.”
My head shot up. Uncle Otto? When had that started?
Grandpa shrugged, one corner of his mouth lifting in a half-smile. “Kid’s spent so much time here over the years, figured it was high time he thought of us as family.”
I cringed beneath a sudden spasm of jealousy, like I’d already been replaced. It hadn’t taken long to realize Grandpa had pretty much turned the snack bar over to Clifton. What next—the cashier’s job? Or was Clifton setting himself up for my position as assistant manager of the Swap & Shop?
What is your problem, Julie Pearl?
It had to be all the stress I’d been under these past few weeks. Either that, or maybe I’d inherited whatever madness infected Lucille Pearl . . . and probably Renata? I shuddered to even imagine such a possibility and prayed with all my might that I’d been spared those genes. Because in the short time I’d known Renata, it was clear something wasn’t right about this woman who claimed me as her sister.
Besides, if her actions weren’t enough to convince me, there was that interesting array of pill bottles I’d glimpsed next to the bathroom sink this morning. But before I could read any labels, Renata had scurried in and swept them all into her Kate Spade designer makeup bag.
My mind flashed back to the day Renata’s attorney delivered the DNA results, and my fingers itched with stifled regret that I hadn’t yanked the envelope out of Renata’s hands to see the results for myself.
Dear God, please don’t let me go crazy!
~~~
By the end of another typically slow Monday—which was probably a blessing, being Renata’s first day and all—Grandpa had clearly changed his opinion of her. At least where her work habits were concerned. She might be slow, but she was thorough. Obsessed might be a better word. She’d do just about anything Grandpa asked of her, so long as her chores kept her far away from Brynna and the puppies.
As I tallied the bank deposit, Clifton meandered over, a damp, food-stained cleaning rag slung across his shoulder. “Me and Sandy are meeting at the pool around six. Wanna join us?”
I stifled a tremor. “Thanks, but you know me and swimming pools.”
“Oh, yeah. I forgot you nearly drowned again.” He tilted his head. “You doin’ okay, Julie Pearl? You been awful quiet since you came home. Your grandpa’s mighty worried about you.”
“He said so?”
“Didn’t have to. Seen it in his eyes.” Clifton plucked the pen out of my hand and playfully poked at Sneezy, dozing next to the cash register. The old cat raised to his haunches and batted at the pen a few times, then yawned and returned to his nap.
Clifton twirled the pen between his thumb and forefinger. “We’re friends, right, Julie Pearl?”
“Of course we are.” I straightened a stack of one-dollar bills and started recounting them.
“And friends tell each other the truth. Even if it’s hard to hear.”
I nodded. “Eighteen, nineteen . . .”
“Truth is, if anyone I know deserves better’n what Caddo Pines has to offer, it’s you.”
I sucked in a shaky breath. “Twenty-six, twenty-seven . . .”
“You’re way smarter’n me, or even Sandy. You’re the one shoulda gone off to college and made something of yourself.”
“Stop it, Clifton. Thirty-two, thirty-three . . .”
“And you would have, too, if you’d had the life you started out with.” Laughing quietly, he gave his head a shake. “I can see you now, prancin’ around in high heels and fancy duds, a pair of brainy-lookin’ glasses on the end of your nose. A big ol’ framed parchment would be hanging over your genu-wine solid oak desk—Julie Pearl Stiles, Attorney-at-Law. Or maybe Doctor Stiles, Licensed Veterinarian, since you love animals so much. Why, you’d have a whole string of clinics from here to Atlanta.”
With a frustrated groan, I slammed the rest of the bills onto the pile. “You’re talking crazy. What exactly are you getting at?”
He took my hands, stroking my palms with the sides of his thumbs. “What I’m trying to say is, maybe you were never meant to have that other life.”
I gaped at him. “But you just said—Clifton, you’re not making any sense.” On the other hand, I realized he made perfect sense, in his own convoluted way. I closed my eyes and let him explain the truth I knew deep in my soul I’d already figured out.
“It’s like your grandpa is always saying, there ain’t no such thing as a coincidence. If you really are that Jennifer Pearl kid, and if you really did get rescued and raised by Uncle Otto’s daughter—even if what she did was wrong—then it’s because right here’s where God meant you to be.” He stabbed the countertop with his index finger. “Right here, in Caddo Pines, Arkansas, doing what makes you happiest. And I know for dang sure you couldn’t have been happy keepin’ your fingernails clean while you strutted around in designer clothes and dined on caviar and filet mignon.”
~~~
I stewed for days over Clifton’s homegrown wisdom—even though his logic might be a bit flawed. As Jenny Pearl, I might have grown up getting my nails dirty cleaning vacation cottages and learning the resort business right alongside my sister. If I’d never “drowned,” if Renata hadn’t carried that guilt all her life, who knew where either of us would have ended up as adults?
In the meantime, Grandpa kept right on showing Renata all the tiresome but necessary aspects of the flea market business. And she kept right on surprising me with her fanatical urgency to do whatever Grandpa asked—but not without some complaining over her ruined manicure. It was like she had to prove something, prove she could work as hard and long as the rest of us. I’d never forget the maniacal look that would come over her as she scrubbed a piece of stuck chewing gum off the floor or washed down and squeegeed the front windows inside and out.
When Grandpa wouldn’t even let me help with the routine cleaning and reorganizing on the two days we were closed, I decided to back off and let Renata exorcise her demons—if that’s what she was doing. In the meantime, I took advantage of the free time to get alone and ponder what all the changes this summer really meant. I didn’t feel like I fit in anywhere anymore, like I was caught in some kind of weird limbo between two lives.
One sultry evening, as I sat hugging my knees halfway down the outer stairs to our apartment, the door opened and closed above me, followed by the tick-tick of doggy toenails on the landing. A second later, Brynna licked the inside of my ear with her warm, wet tongue. I couldn’t suppress a laugh as I flinched and drew my arm around her. Those big, dark eyes looked up at me, and it was almost like she beamed her doggy thoughts straight into my brain: You’re not alone, Julie Pearl. I know what it means to feel lost. Don’t let yourself be lost to those who need you most.
CHAPTER 32
I was only fooling myself if I thought I could drag Renata to church with us Sunday morning. I looked in on her once as Grandpa and I got ready to go, but she appeared dead to the world, one of those velvety black sleep masks covering her eyes and all my bedroom window shades pulled tight to the sill. I said some extra prayers for her that morning. And quite a few for myself as well.
We came home from church to find a four-course meal laid out on our kitchen table. Roasted chicken, glazed carrots, buttered baby peas, the works.
“
You cooked?” I blurted a split-second before noticing the aluminum takeout containers poking out of the trashcan.
“I know a lovely restaurant in Hot Springs that delivers.” Renata set an iced-tea pitcher at one end of the table. Her eyes narrowed, and her nose lifted just a tad. “Sunday dinner is the old-fashioned family tradition, isn’t it?”
Grandpa huffed and brushed past her. “Julie and I usually just grab a sandwich or somethin’ so we can get on down to open the shop.”
“Well, this sure beats the canned soup and toasted cheese sandwiches I’d have whipped up.” I caught up with Grandpa and chastised him with a meaningful eye roll as I dropped my purse on the serape-covered cedar chest. If an “old-fashioned” Sunday dinner made Renata feel more at home here, we’d eat it and enjoy every bite.
At twelve sharp we opened the shop to admit a bevy of die-hard antique hunters and sunburned vacationers looking for weekend bargains, and the pace kept up most of the afternoon. When we finally hit a lull, Grandpa excused Renata from her temporary duties helping Clifton dish up nachos and told me to teach her how to work the checkout counter.
I’d already walked her through my record-keeping system three times when she tossed her pencil aside and lifted her hands in frustration. “This is utterly pointless. At least I know how to mop and dust.”
I narrowed one eye and stared at her. “You manage a house bigger than my entire high school. You run a prominent charitable organization. You plan extravagant dinners and huge fundraising events. And you expect me to believe you can’t do a little simple bookkeeping?”
Renata picked at a tiny blob of dried nacho cheese stuck to the sleeve of her lace-edged knit top. “Darling, are you so naïve? The secret of success is to surround yourself with highly competent people who know how to make you look good.”
“Like Felicia Beaufort?” The bitter-sounding words popped out before I could stop myself.
One eyebrow lifted in a catlike sneer. “Like Felicia Beaufort.”
I tapped my stubby fingernails on the counter. “I know you know something’s going on between her and your husband. How can you keep her on?”
