Pearl Jinx

by Sandra Hill

  Claire tilted her head to the side. “Didn’t Abbie tell you about Sparky?” Then she smiled. Smirked, actually.

  The fine hairs stood out on his body. “Okay. Who’s Sparky?”

  “A snake.”

  “A snake with a name?” Uh-oh, this does not sound good. He must have turned a bit green, because she grinned. Oh, great! A sadist, on top of everything else.

  “A big ol’ snake.”

  “Define big.”

  “Ten feet long and, well, not quite as wide around as your tattoo.” She pointed to his left bicep where the barbed-wire tattoo peeked out from under the sleeve of his T-shirt.

  Well, he would hope not! His biceps was sixteen inches in diameter and had been eighteen when he was an active SEAL.

  “More like the size of your wrists.”

  Okay, that’s better, but still one mother of a snake.

  “Sparky’s been living in Spruce Creek Cavern for at least ten years. Not that there aren’t other snakes, but Sparky is the Big Daddy. Every so often, he sticks his head out, but then slithers back in before anyone can catch him.”

  Yeah, but has anyone ever shot him? With an AK-47? “Are you pulling my leg?”

  “I wouldn’t think of touching your leg.”

  Okay, I recognize an insult when I hear one. He thought about taking her hand and placing it on his bare thigh, just to annoy her, but sanity persuaded him to restrain himself. “I. Hate. Snakes.”

  “Afraid of them?”

  “Hell, no. Just don’t like ’em.” Probably stemmed from all those years as a kid when he’d helped hand-plow the fields and uncovered lots of the slimy buggers . . . usually black or garden variety, but even the occasional rattler. And he’d had to deal with plenty in SEAL survival training, too.

  “You had to know coming here that an underground cavern would have snakes.”

  “Sure, I knew that. I just didn’t expect any anacondas.”

  She laughed, and her whole face lit up, even her eyes, which were a pale, pale green.

  Nice. But he could see how some people might consider her eyes sort of woo-woo, fitting into the crazy category.

  “Don’t worry, he’s not poisonous . . . though he has been known to bite.”

  “You’re really enjoying yourself at my expense, aren’t you?”

  “Yep!” But then she switched subjects and floored him. Women had a talent for doing that to a guy, one minute talking about the latest hot chick movie and the next asking him something personal, something he absolutely does not want to discuss, like the size of his . . . oh, let’s say . . . rifle, or why he hasn’t ever married, or what’s that huge chip on his shoulder with the word Family chiseled on it.

  What Claire zinged him with was: “Peachey . . . that’s an Amish name, isn’t it? An Amish Navy SEAL? That’s an oxymoron, isn’t it?”

  I’m a moron, all right. Left myself wide open. Why don’t I just paint a target on my chest that says “Shoot me.”

  Chapter 2

  Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick . . .

  The man was so good-looking he made her teeth hurt.

  His brown hair was cut short in a military style, sort of shaved on the sides. His facial features were sharply chiseled, almost gaunt. His eyes were a warm whiskey color. And his body . . . Well, suffice it to say he gave new meaning to the word buff.

  Not that it mattered. Claire wasn’t that superficial. In fact, in Claire’s experience, eye-candy men were rarely worth the sugar high. Besides, he wasn’t at all her type. She’d always been more into long-haired, artistic types, not Rambos . . . even educated Rambos.

  Still, as Claire drove Caleb back to the B & B, she couldn’t help but be aware of him sitting next to her, throwing off heat like a testosterone furnace. Oh, he wasn’t hot for her. Mostly he was annoyed that he had to have her around, a thorn in his very fine ass.

  I did not think that. Good Lord, am I regressing to my teenage years? I’m thirty-five years old, for heaven’s sake. “Where are you from, Caleb?” That’s a nice safe topic.

  “Here and there.”

  So that’s the way we’re going to play it. “For example?”

  She could practically hear his brain gears rev up. Should he ignore her question and risk getting on her bad side? Or give in now and avoid a hostile work atmosphere? “Until two and a half years ago I had an apartment in Coronado, California, near SEAL headquarters. Then I moved to New Jersey, where I did some commercial diving for a bridge construction company. Now I live wherever Jinx sends me.” His response was delivered in a toneless manner meant to discourage further questions.

  But that didn’t stop her. “No roots?”

  He shook his head and flashed her a glower.

  Hah! As if she’d be deterred by a mere glower! “I’m not asking out of nosiness.”

  His snort spoke for him.

  “Really. When I work as a consultant, I need to know everything about the participants as well as the project.”

  “Give me a break!”

  She wasn’t going to let him bully her into doing less than a full job. “You were raised Amish?”

  He didn’t answer, but after a telling instant of silence, he nodded.

  “Pennsylvania Amish?” Over the years, the Amish had spread themselves across the United States, starting from Pennsylvania, as land grew scarce and too expensive for their growing families. In fact, you could find Amish in about twenty-five of the states. Many of the sects had different rules on living, some stricter than others. In Pennsylvania, the general public usually associated them with the Lancaster area, but there were many in the nearby Kishacoquillas Valley, or “Big Valley,” too.

  Again, the reluctant nod. “Sinking Valley.”

  Well, that was a surprise. And even closer. The Old Amish community of Sinking Valley was less than ten miles away. In fact, she shopped at some of their roadside stands for fresh produce. Their quilts were exquisite.

  “Did you know that the Lenape Indians referred to themselves as the People, just like the Amish refer to themselves as the People? Of course, that term meant different things to the Lenape than it does to the Amish. Still, it’s really fascinating, isn’t it?”

  He gave her a look that pretty much said, “Do you ever stop?” She tended to talk too much sometimes. It was a bad habit of hers. But really, it was interesting that Caleb had been raised Amish.

  “Look!” he said, anticipating her next question. “I left seventeen years ago, when I was seventeen, and haven’t been back since. I assume I’m still under the Bann. And no, I’m not going to tell you all the gory details. So knock it off.”

  Claire was shocked. And deeply touched. Not by Caleb’s surly attitude, but the fact that he was being shunned, one of the most barbaric practices of any culture, in her opinion. There had to be a story there, why he’d been willing to risk coming back after all these years to the region where he was not welcome. “Just one more question. Please. Do you still have family here?”

  He shrugged. “Last count, a mother, a father, grandparents on both sides, four brothers, and three sisters. Maybe some nieces and nephews. Some of my family could be dead by now, for all I know.”

  Caleb’s response raised more questions than answers, but his rigid jaw and her promise of just one last question restrained her. All those family members, and none kept in touch? How sad!

  “How ’bout you? What’s your history?”

  Well, she supposed she owed him tit for tat. And really, she had skeletons in her closet she’d rather not discuss, either. “My mother was a drug addict, and I never knew my father.”

  He blinked several times, probably trying to wade through her nervous rambling, though why she should be nervous around him was a puzzle. Well, not such a puzzle. He was so good-looking he gave hunk a bad name.

  “Anyhow, I was raised in various foster homes till I was sixteen and went psycho. After a year of trying to kill myself with wild sex and endless booze, I was taken in by a Philadelphia shelt
er, which helped me get my act together.” That was the short story, with all the colorful and painful details glossed over.

  He pondered her words, then turned his head to gaze at her. A smile twitched at his lips. “How wild?”

  She smiled back at him. “Very wild, but that’s old history.”

  “Shucks!” Any other man would have waggled his eyebrows at her to accompany the remark. Not him. After that provocative single-word response, he resumed staring forward. She was beginning to realize that he was a man of few words and not prone to playful flirting. Finally, he asked, “Why the interest in Indians?”

  “I met Henry Hawk, the guy in the picture, in college. He was from Delaware, a full-blooded Native American. He had a really fascinating family and history. Long after he was gone, I remained fascinated. Not with him, but his culture . . . the Lenni Lenape. To tell you the truth, my mother once hinted that my father was Native American and resided in Pennsylvania, though I realized later that she’d been with so many men she had no way of knowing for sure. That’s probably part of the reason for my interest in Indians, searching for my roots and all that. A Pocahontas syndrome is what I call it. Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re probably thinking that I look as much like an Indian as you resemble a midget. Though I once about starved myself to death trying to achieve high cheekbones.”

  “Hey, I didn’t say anything . . . about you not looking Native American.”

  “You thought it.”

  “I’m sure there are plenty of auburn-haired, green-eyed Indians.”

  She made a face.

  “The Lenape, huh?”

  “Len-NAH-pay,” she said.

  “That’s just great! A woman who corrects a man’s pronunciation.”

  “Sensitive, are we?”

  He made a mock growling sound. “So the guy in the picture was your college friend?”

  “Yes. That photo was taken about fifteen years ago at the annual meeting of the tribes in Oklahoma.” When he didn’t say anything, she suddenly felt uncomfortable in the silence and made the mistake of blathering on. “I was wearing the attire of a Lenni Lenape maiden. If you’d examined the photo closer, you would have noticed it was hardly the body of an older woman like I am now. I was a college student then.”

  He muttered something like, “You look fine to me.”

  She shot him a surprised glance, but his expression betrayed nothing.

  Luckily, they arrived at the B & B, forestalling any further questions from either of them. Or her continuing to babble on like a windup doll. Five vehicles were parked near the barn. The vintage Mercedes sedan she recognized as Abbie’s, and a big-wheeled pickup truck belonged to her grandson Mark, though he probably couldn’t drive it now if it was standard shift. Two vehicles had New Jersey plates—a dark green Jeep Grand Cherokee that she assumed was Caleb’s and a Lexus. Then there was a cherry red Chevy Impala from Louisiana.

  “Some of the gang is here,” Caleb announced unnecessarily. “I didn’t think they’d get here till this afternoon.”

  Claire had planned to drop Caleb off, then go in to State College, the town where the main campus of Penn State was located. One of her former colleagues was holding some research materials on cavern exploration for her. Two men were approaching her car, though, so she unhitched her seat belt and got out along with Caleb. One of them was older than she, dark-skinned, probably late thirties, long black hair tied back into a low ponytail. From the background materials she’d been given, she guessed it was Adam Famosa, from Rutgers, who was of Cuban descent. He was not unattractive . . . and he knew it. The other, early to mid-twenties, could only be the Cajun, John LeDeux, with those mischievous eyes, an overconfident stride, and a T-shirt with the logo “Bite Me Bayou Bait Company.” Girls from twelve to thirty must fall all over him. Good thing I’m thirty-five.

  Caleb introduced her to both men, who gave her unabashed surveys from head to toe, with special attention to her pink running bra. Men! At the same time, they appeared wary, probably having been warned that she was going to be a stumbling block. The enemy, so to speak.

  “What’s the plan?” Adam asked Caleb.

  “Once Ronnie and Jake get here, we set up a meeting. Hopefully at seven here at the B & B. The owner, Abbie Franklin, has lent us her library to use as our control center, where we can spread out all our materials.”

  Adam nodded. “I picked up the diving equipment in Barnegat. Mr. Redneck USA here brought the rappelling ropes and hanging ladders. We’ve studied the background material you sent us. So we’re all set.”

  “How long do y’all think we’ll be here?” John asked with a heavy Southern accent. “I gotta be back in Looz-ee-anna by September 15th. I’m startin’ my new job as a police officer. I cain’t wait. There’s people who’re gonna pee their pants when they see me in uniform.” John grinned at them all.

  “That’s two months away. We’ll be done long before that,” Caleb said.

  “Will you schedule a little time for me during your meeting tonight?” Claire interjected. “I need to go over the Park Service regulations.”

  “More regulations!” Caleb scoffed.

  “Don’t be difficult,” she chastised Caleb, to the amusement of the other two men. “At the beginning of any project, I like to clear the air, to avoid any misunderstandings.”

  “You do realize that you are not running this show?” Caleb folded his arms over his chest.

  “I never asked to run anything, but I won’t be disregarded, either.”

  He stared at her pink jogging bra, then gave her a look that said she would be pretty hard to disregard.

  “Listen, mister—”

  “I’ve read some of your papers on the Lenape,” Adam interrupted. “Very interesting.”

  Caleb continued to hold Claire’s gaze.

  “We have Indians in southern Looz-ee-anna, too,” John said. “The Houma Indians have similar ethnographics to the Lenape. Their methods of dealing justice were remarkable for their time. And I saw a linear chart once that compared the interpersonal dynamics of all Native Americans. You’re probably familiar with it—the one put together by Professor Thibadeaux at Tulane. Anyhow, it was amazing how all the tribes ran neck and neck on almost all factors.”

  Caleb broke his gaze with Claire. He and Adam regarded John as if he’d sprung two heads.

  “You gotta understand, chère, these two lunkheads think ever’one below the Mason-Dixon Line has the IQ of a mudbug. They’s biased agin us rednecks.” John winked at her.

  Adam made a hissing sound.

  “I see yer not married, darlin’,” the Cajun said, scanning her ring finger. “Guess it’s yer lucky day. I’m not married, either.”

  “You’ve got the finesse of a bulldozer.” Adam gave John a pitying shake of the head.

  John was not about to be pitied. “Hey, you know what they say down on the bayou . . .”

  Both Caleb and Adam groaned.

  “Ya cain’t catch any alligators iffen ya don’t put out any bait.”

  Claire smiled. “And I’m the gator?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “I’m flattered, John, but you’re much too young for me.”

  “I, on the other hand, am much closer to your age,” Adam pointed out.

  “But, Claire, older women and younger men make the best combination. All that stamina, dontcha know. I kin give ya references.”

  “Sex references?” She arched her eyebrows.

  “The best kind.”

  “You are such a loser, LeDeux,” Adam said.

  Adam and John were clearly open to a little side action on this project. Not from me! Her eyes connected with Caleb’s again, and she could tell that he’d been thinking the same thing. With a subtle shake of her head, she indicated to him that she had no interest in his colleagues. Not that way.

  Caleb smiled. She wasn’t sure if it was because she wasn’t going to hop in bed with the Mutt and Jeff of dating games. It didn’t matter. When he let loose, his eyes
smiled, too. She liked his smile. A lot.

  After the two men left, Claire prepared to leave. “Do you want to get together sometime today and fill out those forms?”

  His lips said, “Sure,” but he probably thought, Hell, no!

  “Will you come back to my place, or should I come here?”

  “Here is fine.”

  He would no doubt find a way to put it off. Still, she nodded, got into her car, then told Caleb through the open window, “You should know something about me.”

  “What’s that?” He leaned against the door frame, putting his face level with hers.

  “I believe in being up front and honest.”

  “Yeaaaah?”

  “Much to my surprise, I find myself attracted to you.”

  He grinned. “And that’s a bad thing?”

  “Yes and no. You should stay away from me. Far away.”

  “Why is that?”

  “My biological clock is ticking. And your sperm bank is looking mighty attractive.”

  “Whaaaat? You’re kidding, right? Ha, ha, ha! Why aren’t you laughing?” His face couldn’t have been any greener if she’d suddenly had snakes crawling out her ears.

  Beware of chain-smoking, devious grandmothers . . .

  “I’m sick and tired of your pity party, boy. Get up off your be-hind and help me around here.”

  Mark Franklin was watching The Price Is Right when his grandmother barged into his bedroom, making that sudden demand in a strident, no-nonsense voice. “Stop treating me like a kid, Gram. I’m twenty-five freakin’ years old.”

  “Then start actin’ like it.” She stubbed one cigarette into an ashtray on the bureau near the door and immediately lit up another. After taking a long draw and exhaling a cloud of smoke, she looked at her watch, then at his pajama bottoms, then back to her watch. “It’s noon, for heaven’s sake! Get the heck up and take a shower. I need your help.”

  He raised the stump of what used to be his left arm. “What? You want me to dig your vegetable garden? Or fix the roof? How ’bout I change the beds for all your guests? Or scrub the toilets?”