Pearl of Great Price

by Myra Johnson

  Shaking off the nagging fears, I zipped up the bank bag, stuffed it into my “Hazel Diffenbacher original” crocheted shoulder purse, and trudged up the inner stairs.

  The apartment lay in shadows. Grandpa snoozed in his easy chair, legs sprawled across the frayed brown ottoman. His chest rose and fell with soft, snuffling snores. A tender flame kindled under my heart. I tiptoed closer, wishing I could snuggle up to his whiskery chin and kiss him without waking him. I settled for brushing my fingers across the fringe of gray hair over his ears before bending to pick up the book that lay open in his lap. It was an old photo album, and I found myself staring into my own toothless grin.

  My first-grade school photo, missing front teeth and all. Same mop of messy, brownish-blond curls poking out all over my head and making me look like a wild child raised by wolves. With a self-conscious groan, I reached up with one hand to twist my long, unruly mane into a thick rope across my shoulder.

  Moving to the kitchen, I pulled a chair from the scarred gray Formica table and sat next to the front window. A late-afternoon sunbeam set dust motes aglow and highlighted a streak I’d missed last time I cleaned the windows. I resisted the urge to grab the Windex and turned my attention to the album. Paging backwards from that atrocious first-grade picture, I lingered over photos of myself at younger and younger ages. No baby pictures, though. My official photographic history began somewhere around age three and a half, the year I came to live with Grandpa.

  I hadn’t looked at these pictures in forever. It always made me a little sad to have no idea what I looked like as a baby, no photos of a first smile, first tooth, first steps. Even sadder, there were so few pictures of me with my mother, and not one single picture of my father—a bitter reminder that I was once unwanted, deserted, discarded.

  When I was little, I used to pester Grandpa all the time to tell me more about my parents, but he never seemed willing to talk about them. It looked like it pained him, and I hated seeing Grandpa upset. So after a while I quit asking.

  In his own sweet way, Grandpa mostly filled up the empty space my daddy left behind. But growing up without a mother . . . I’d come to think it was why I’d reached my mid-twenties no closer to love and marriage than averting my eyes when Clifton and Sandy stole kisses in the choir loft. A girl needs a mother to teach her things, to guide her gently through puberty and hormones and all the confusing boy-girl stuff. Shopping for a prom dress. Getting her first kiss. Planning a wedding, choosing a gown, addressing invitations. And someday being a doting grandmother to a bunch of little Julies and—

  Enough!

  Before the longings ate me alive, I slammed the album shut, forgetting my dozing Grandpa. He sat up with a snort. “Oh, Julie Pearl. You about scared the dickens out of me! Is it closing time already?”

  “I’ve got today’s bank deposit ready, and then I’m meeting Clifton and Sandy at the pool.” I tried for a lighthearted smile as I slid my sagging shoulder bag up my arm and fished out my car keys. “I’ll pick up something for supper on my way home. Don’t you bother about it, okay?”

  I gave him a quick kiss before skipping down the outside stairs. Even beneath the shade of the immense oak tree that sheltered this side of the building, the late-afternoon heat slapped me in the face. It had to be 150 degrees inside my rattletrap ’74 Volkswagen Beetle. The vinyl seat sucked against my thighs like hot tar paper. The engine grumbled and bucked a few times, and five minutes later, long before the car’s wimpy little rebuilt air conditioner could kick in, I pulled up to the drive-in window at Caddo Pines Bank and Trust, a squat brown building next to the Dairy Queen.

  “Hey, Marge.” I waved to the wiry, salt-and-pepper-haired teller.

  Marge Monroe, my friend Sandy’s mother, grinned at me over the rims of rhinestone-studded reading glasses with a wingspan that could rival a 747’s. “How’s it going, Julie?” Her words sounded scratchy and metallic over the intercom.

  “Fair to middlin’.” I dropped the deposit bag into the drawer, and she slid it inside. “Is Sandy back from Hot Springs? I’m dying to know about her job interview.”

  “I expect her back pretty quick. Her shift at the DQ starts at six-thirty.” She paused to count the cash and total the deposit. “A specially slow Monday, I see. Alrighty-dighty, hang on one sec and I’ll have your receipt.”

  “Most of that is one of Hazel’s tablecloths. Wish we could sell one or two of those every day.” The drawer slid out and I claimed the bank bag and receipt. “If you hear from Sandy, tell her Clifton and I will be at the pool.”

  “You bet. And keep your fingers crossed for my girl. She needs this job.” Marge made no secret of the fact that she and Fred were getting tired of having their daughter living under their roof again, not to mention coming home every night smelling like burgers and fries.

  Out of college, Sandy had landed a great job with a telecommunications company in Oklahoma City, but when they started laying people off, her job was among the first to go. The manager position at the DQ was supposed to be temporary, until Sandy found something better.

  Of course, Sandy’s career moves had a whole lot to do with the problems between her and Clifton. Not being college material himself, it about broke his heart when Sandy went away to school and then took the job in Oklahoma. I’d sidestepped a few too many of their quarrels lately as Clifton nagged her to look for work closer to Caddo Pines.

  I waved good-bye to Marge and headed toward the trailer park. Tall Arkansas pines framed the entrance. A narrow blacktop road led between Winnebagos and travel trailers down a hill to the grassy commons surrounding the pool. As I nosed the Beetle up to the chain-link fence, I glimpsed Clifton preening on the high dive while several tanned high-school girls in bikinis cheered and applauded. Even soaking wet, his gelled hair stood in proud, chlorine-green spikes.

  I stopped at the whitewashed check-in counter, and the bored-looking attendant waved me on without a second glance. She’d been around long enough to know I never got wet past my shinbones, so no point charging me the dollar fifty. With a nod of thanks, I picked my way along the deck between water puddles and lounge chairs.

  “Yo, Julie! Watch this!” Clifton loped to the end of the diving board and cannonballed into the blue-green water. The well-aimed splash drenched Heather Juergen, the bossy lifeguard watching the deep end. Clifton’s bevy of bikinied admirers erupted in hoots and catcalls.

  Heather let out a shriek I bet they could hear clear to Memphis. “Clifton Carter Doakes, you are so out of here!” Pointing toward the exit, she jammed her whistle between her lips and blew three sharp blasts.

  “Aw, come on.” Clifton rested his forearms on the edge of the pool and grinned at her. “You looked awful hot up there. I was trying to cool you off.”

  “Yeah, right.” Heather’s freckled face beamed the same shade of crimson as her Red Cross swimsuit, whether from sunburn or rage it was hard to tell. Her bosom rose and fell with all the drama of Scarlett O’Hara. “I ought to have you permanently kicked out. You’re a creep, Clifton Doakes. A conceited, immature creep!”

  I cast a groan skyward and ambled over to the base of the lifeguard stand. “Now take it easy, Heather. You know Clifton was just playing around.” I turned to glare at Clifton and lowered my voice. “Apologize, you dope. And try to act your age for a change.”

  A flicker of remorse clouded his expression. He mumbled a halfhearted “Sorry.”

  “Humph.” Heather crossed her arms and slumped into her seat.

  One more Clifton fiasco averted. His insecurities in the romance department had him acting out even worse than normal these days.

  I kicked off my huaraches and grabbed Clifton’s Scooby-Doo beach towel from his usual deck chair. Making myself a poolside seat with the folded towel, I chose a semi-dry spot at the shallow end of the adult lap-swimming lane, where I hoped to avoid the worst of the splashing.

  By the time I’d hiked up my skirt and lowered my feet into the water, I was already having stomach-kno
tting flashbacks to those humiliating days of childhood swimming lessons. There’s not much worse than having six other kids laughing at you because you’re scared of water. Not to mention the swim instructor, a middle-aged lady with saddlebag thighs reminding me that if I didn’t dive in and paddle across the pool with the other kids, I’d have to watch while they slurped up the grape Popsicles she always brought for after class.

  To this day I hate grape Popsicles.

  Clifton swam over and hoisted himself out of the pool, after which he proceeded to drip all over the corner of the towel. His mouth twisted into a sheepish grin. “You’re not mad at me, are you?”

  “For Pete’s sake, Clifton, sometimes you act like a dorky teenager.” I couldn’t restrain my spiteful tone. “If you really want things to work out with Sandy, you’re going to have to get your act together.”

  He winced, and I felt bad for him, sorry I’d used my simmering stewpot of worries as a reason to lash out. Clifton was a decent guy and a loyal friend. Not to mention he knew the inside of old car engines better than I know my own name. He found my Beetle in a salvage yard ten or twelve years ago, cobbled it together with parts from other junkers, and somehow kept the persnickety thing running.

  He’d learned the trade from his dad, the owner of Doakes Automotive and Body Shop, but leave the two of them together for long and it was World War III. Clifton could have easily found automotive work elsewhere, but with his mom slowly going blind from macular degeneration, Clifton chose to stay close to home. Instead, he’d cycled through one minimum-wage job after another—his latest sacking groceries at Friendly’s Neighborhood Supermarket. Between the lack of local job opportunities and Clifton’s underachiever tendencies, seemed he couldn’t settle on what to do with his life.

  “Hey, you two!” Sandy’s perky voice startled me. She looked sharp in her interview attire—slim white skirt, pink knit top with lace edging, white patent-leather sandals. Shoving her sunglasses up through thick brown bangs, she shimmied from head to toe. “I got the job!”

  “Wow, that’s super!” I pushed up from the pool deck to give her a hug. “So? Details, girl!”

  Sandy tugged me over to an umbrella-shaded table. She motioned for Clifton to hurry as he scooped up Scooby-Doo and wrapped the towel around his hips.

  “I start one week from today,” Sandy said as we pulled out chairs. “My new boss is a real-estate developer. He’s planning a resort, but it won’t open for several months yet, so he set up a temporary office in a suite at the La Quinta.” She exploded in a burst of giddy laughter. “I’ll be Mr. Micah Hobart’s administrative assistant—can you believe it? Good-bye, Dairy Queen!”

  “It’s about time! I’m so proud of you, Sandy.”

  The brief downturn of her lips told me she’d picked up on Clifton’s down-in-the-dumps vibes. She squeezed his hand. “The best part is it’s just over in Hot Springs. Close enough that I don’t even have to think about leaving Caddo Pines.”

  A relieved grin crept across Clifton’s face. “So what kind of developments is this dude going to have you working on? Nothin’ after hours, I hope.”

  “Now, Clifton, don’t get all jealous on me.” Sandy released a girly giggle, and I couldn’t help rolling my eyes in embarrassment. If that’s what romance did to a person . . .

  I shook off a twinge of envy. “Go on, tell us about it.”

  “It’s exactly the kind of career opportunity I was hoping for. Mr. Hobart is building brand new super-modern luxury vacation condos. And I’m getting in on the ground floor—literally!”

  “A tourist resort, huh?” Clifton rested his ankle on the opposite knee. “Then he’ll be hiring more people down the road?”

  “Probably. The place will be called Hamilton Haven. It’s on the site of some old lakefront cottages Mr. Hobart bought cheap. He took me to see it. The location’s great, but what a candidate for Extreme Makeover: Resort Edition—broken-down buildings, weeds and brush overgrowing everything. I’m glad my boss can see the potential, because I sure can’t.”

  Clifton hiked an eyebrow. “Where is it exactly?”

  “A few miles off Highway 270 on the way into Hot Springs.” Sandy described the turn-off, waving her hand in the general direction. “The setting is gorgeous—hidden away at the end of a private road, with a wide stretch of Lake Hamilton shoreline. Driving by on the highway, you’d never know it was there.”

  She lifted her sunglasses off her head and cast Clifton a pleading look. “Promise me you won’t go poking around, honey. Mr. Hobart just closed the deal today, and the construction fencing isn’t even up yet. I mean it, it’s a disaster area.”

  I tried to picture a place that dumpy. “Gross.”

  “You aren’t just kidding. Supposedly it was a popular vacation spot in its heyday, but the owners abandoned it. The place has been sitting untouched for nearly twenty-five years. It used to be called Pearls on the Shore, or maybe Pearls Along the Lake.” Sandy waved her sunglasses. “Something ‘Pearl,’ anyway. I think it was the family’s name.”

  My mind flashed back to the headline in the Caddo Pines Recorder—the article I was about to read before Grandpa yanked the paper out of my hand. Pearls Along the Lake—I was pretty sure I’d seen that name in the first line or two of the story. And could there be a connection with our snooty rich visitor at the Swap & Shop? She’d told me Pearl was her maiden name. Remembering the way she’d looked at me, I stifled a shudder.

  Sandy checked her watch. “Yikes, I gotta get to the DQ. Can’t wait to give ol’ George Bradley my one-week notice. I am so ready to not go home every night smelling of ‘eau de greasy burgers.’”

  Rising, Sandy tousled Clifton’s spikes, beamed us both a megawatt grin, then raced through the gate in a blur of pink and white. Watching her Honda Civic roar away, Clifton settled back and rubbed his jaw. “Maybe I should apply for Sandy’s old job. The pay’s gotta be better than schlepping groceries for little old ladies.”

  I was still stewing over the day’s events and wondering how they all fit together—and somehow, I just knew they did, even right down to Grandpa’s edginess. What was it he so badly didn’t want to talk about?

  Smiling wanly, I pushed my chair back. “I should be going, too. Gotta stop at Friendly’s to pick up a few things for supper.”

  “I’m off again tomorrow.” Clifton stood and tossed his towel across the chair. “Want to check out the old resort?”

  “Oh, I don’t think so—”

  Suddenly I did. An urgency had crept over me, like the buzzing of a bumblebee I couldn’t shoo away. It was more than curiosity about Sandy’s new job, more than idle interest in a tumbledown old resort.

  No, it was the honest-to-goodness, deep-in-my-gut certainty that nothing about today was coincidence. It all meant something, and I needed to find out what. “Sure,” I said, keeping my voice even. “The flea market’s closed until Thursday, so I’ve got all day. What if I pick you up around ten?”

  CHAPTER 3

  June, 27 years earlier

  Hot Springs, Arkansas

  “Rennie, leave that baby alone!”

  The girl backed away from the crib, a sharp stream of air escaping between tight lips. “I’m not doing anything, Mama. Just looking at her.” She flicked a clump of shaggy, red-brown hair out of her eyes.

  Rennie’s mother flounced into the nursery, the sleeves of her purple-and-fuchsia paisley caftan flapping like a bat’s wings. “Oh, my sweet baby Jenny-girl, what’s your big ol’ mean sister doing to you?” She swept the nine-month-old into her arms. “Won’t she let you take your nappy-pie in peace?”

  Rennie lowered her gaze. She spied the mustard stain on her T-shirt, and her face warmed. Turning sideways, she crossed her arms over the spot. “I swear, Mama, I didn’t wake her up. I heard her crying and came to see if she lost her pacifier.”

  “Nice girls do not swear.” Mama tapped the toe of her slipper on the hardwood floor. “And what are you supposed to be doing?”
r />   “Sweeping the cabins.”

  “Sweeping the cabins, ma’am.” Mama settled herself in the spindle-backed rocking chair and nuzzled the baby’s cheek, then lifted glaring eyes to Rennie. “You’re a young lady now, practically a teenager, and it’s high time you started acting like it.”

  “But I was just—”

  “You know how much I rely on you these days. It’s the busy season, and your daddy can’t manage the place all on his own.” Mama’s voice turned all whiny and saccharine-sweet. “Specially now we’ve got little Jenny, and me still feeling so frail and all. If you don’t do your part, why, things will absolutely go to pot around here.”

  Rennie ran one finger along her baby sister’s soft cheek. Jenny giggled and squirmed, sending a delighted shiver through Rennie. “I know, Mama, but—”

  “No buts about it. Now you do an extra good job in cabin three. The MacDonohoes are due to arrive this evening, and they always leave a nice tip if things are done up the way they like.” The rocking chair creaked rhythmically. “And then you get yourself cleaned up before suppertime. And comb that mop of hair. For goodness’ sake, child, you do look a fright.”

  Rennie’s lips flattened. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now be a good girl and fetch me one of my little pink pills. My nerves are botherin’ me something fierce today.”

  So what else was new? “Yes, ma’am,” Rennie said again, and dodged around the corner to the bathroom. She returned with the pill and a Dixie cup of water, then stood with her chin lowered in case Mama had further orders. Which she generally did.

  With a gulp, Mama downed the pill and flicked her hand in dismissal. “What are you standing there gaping for? Get those chores done lickety-split.”