Pearl of Great Price (17 page)

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.”

C
HAPTER 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.

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
.