by Myra Johnson
“I’ll be fine.” He tipped his head toward Katy Harcourt’s Classic Shoes and Bags. “Katy will look after me. She knows all that fancy computer stuff too. She won’t mind at all helping me take care of things for a while.”
Though I resisted, the idea of getting away rolled around in my mind and slowly gathered steam. It’d been years since Grandpa and I had taken a real vacation. Other than the occasional jaunt with Sandy to Eureka Springs or Memphis or Tulsa, I’d never traveled by myself. A road trip to think and ponder and seek out whatever answers might be waiting for me? Could I do this? Should I?
I began a mental list of the preparations I’d have to make, starting with giving Katy the password to my accounting software and explaining my bookkeeping system. I could stretch my cash by packing several days’ worth of food in a cooler and camping out at state parks. Maybe I could even phone a couple of old friends who actually made it out of Caddo Pines.
Rising, I paced the small area between our chairs. “But if I did take off for a while, I don’t even know what I’d expect to find. Maybe nothing at all.” I didn’t have to say aloud what we both knew, that unless he could give me my father’s real name, that search would be futile.
“You’re a smart girl. You’ll figure it out.” He slid off the chair and wrapped me in his arms. “Go, Julie Pearl. Find your truth. For both of us.”
~~~
Truth. The word struck a crazy kind of terror in my heart. I sat in my Beetle, parked next to the gas pump outside Doakes Automotive, while Jimmy Weber, possibly the last of the true-blue full-service station attendants, filled my tank with regular. He shuffled behind the car to check under the hood, then hunched next to each tire to check the air pressure.
“Lookin’ fine,” he drawled. “Clifton’s done you good with this ol’ thing.”
“Thanks, Jimmy.” I leaned my elbow on the hot metal lip of the door and handed him two tens and a five. “Keep the change.”
He gave me a two-finger salute and a toothless grin. “Where you headed, Miss Julie? Long trip? This buggy’s in good shape, but it sure ain’t up to no cross-country drivin’.”
“Don’t know for sure.” I gazed through the windshield. From here I could see Caddo Pines’s central intersection and the mileage signs pointing one way to Little Rock, the other to Hot Springs. Would I find my truth in either of those places? Were there even answers to be found?
“Well, you be careful, you hear? And don’t stay away too long, or we’ll get to missin’ your pretty smile around here.”
I waved good-bye and rolled up my window against the steamy noonday heat. So much for getting an early start. It had taken me all of yesterday evening and this morning to decide what to pack—no easy task having no idea how long I’d be gone or where I’d end up, and not at all sure I wanted to leave in the first place.
Earlier, as I’d stuffed the last suitcase into the back seat, Grandpa pressed a wad of cash into my hand. Then he slid a lumpy, stained manila envelope between the piles of luggage.
“What’s that, Grandpa?”
“Something for you to look over once you’re a little farther down the road. If you get stuck and don’t know where else to turn, maybe it’ll help.”
Knowing Grandpa, I figured it was a collection of scriptures, or maybe inspiration-filled clippings from his favorite magazines, something to lift my sagging spirits along the way.
What I needed just now, however, was clear direction. I pulled up to the stoplight at Main and First Street, glad the signal had chosen that moment to turn red and give me a few more seconds to decide.
Right, to Little Rock? I could look up Renata Channing there, find out what more she could tell me about Pearls Along the Lake or Micah or any other possible connection between us.
Or I could turn left, toward Hot Springs, and drive straight into the arms of the man I couldn’t seem to get off my mind or out of my heart.
CHAPTER 16
“Hi, Micah.”
“Julie.” He stood in the doorway of his Hot Springs La Quinta suite, a lopsided grin crinkling the edges of his beard. “You’re the last person I expected to see this afternoon. Actually, I wasn’t sure I’d ever hear from you again.”
“Well . . . here I am.” I’d rehearsed a million things I wanted to tell him when I saw him face to face. Now I couldn’t remember a single one.
“Come in.” He motioned me through the door, and we sidestepped stacks of files and boxes. “Excuse the mess. Can I get you a soda?”
I followed him into a small sitting area flanked by two massive conference tables layered with papers, blueprints, and more files.
“Julie?” At the sound of Sandy’s surprised voice, I whirled around. “What in the world are you doing here?”
Why hadn’t it occurred to me she’d be here too? “Hi, Sandy.”
She darted around the table. “I’ve been trying to get hold of you for days. You never returned my calls.”
“I’ve had a lot on my mind.” She was my best friend. I should have told her everything. “I’m sorry.”
My knees wobbled. My mouth tasted dry and cottony. I realized I hadn’t eaten since breakfast—half a piece of toast that I could barely choke down. “Do you have any Diet Coke? No, make that regular. I need the sugar.” I fixed my sights on a barrel-shaped armchair and staggered toward it.
“Be right back.” Micah disappeared into an adjoining room.
Taking the chair across from me, Sandy planted her palms on the creased legs of her navy slacks. “You don’t look so good, Jules. Did something happen? Is it your grandpa?”
“No, he’s fine.” I closed my eyes and slumped lower in the chair, resting my head on the back.
“Then what’s wrong? I’ve never seen you looking so—so—”
Lost? Scared? I sat up and tried to pull myself together. Micah stood near me with a frosty can of Coke in his hand. I reached for it with a nod of thanks. The sweet, fizzy liquid tingled all the way down, and the coolness revived me.
Micah wiped the dampness from the soda can onto his jeans and propped a hip against one of the conference tables. “Julie, does this have anything to do with . . . with what you told me last week at the park?”
I took another sip of cola. “Actually, it has everything to do with it.”
“What are you two talking about?” Sandy looked back and forth between us.
“I didn’t know how to tell you before, Sandy. It’s about my—” I broke off and shook my head, afraid the next words out of my mouth would bring with them another torrent of unwelcome tears.
Micah looked at me with understanding. “Want me to give it a try?”
At my silent nod, he moved closer and laid a hand on my shoulder. “Julie found out last week that her mother died without ever identifying Julie’s real father.”
“But you told me his name once.” Sandy’s brows drew together. She gave her head a quick shake. “You always said you’d go looking for him someday, after . . . you know.”
“That was the plan.” I combed through my mass of tangled curls with the fingers of one hand. “But apparently the name on my birth certificate, the same one Grandpa wrote in his big Bible, is a phony. There is no John David Jones. My mother probably pulled the name out of thin air.”
Sandy’s face twisted into a mixture of shock and sympathy. “Oh, Jules, how awful.”
I finished the last of my Coke and stood, strength returning to my voice. “So now I’m on a quest to find out who I really am.”
“But if you don’t even know your father’s name . . .”
“Actually, there may be another avenue I can try.” I nailed Micah with a pointed stare.
He spread his hands. “Oh, no, you’re not back to that again?”
Sandy cocked an eyebrow. “Julie, what’s he talking about?”
“There’s a connection somehow, a connection with Micah and Renata Channing and Pearls Along the Lake. I don’t know yet how this puzzle all fits together, but I inten
d to find out.”
~~~
Before the afternoon ended, I’d persuaded Micah to tell Sandy the full truth about his history with Renata Pearl Channing, including the boating accident and the child who drowned. We sat around the round coffee table, now littered with empty Chinese take-out containers, and sipped from Styrofoam cups of iced tea.
Sandy finger-combed her heavy bangs off her forehead. “Oh, Micah, what a horrible burden to carry all these years.”
“There has to be more to it. Something my grandpa is afraid for me to find out.” I poked the straw into my cup to break up the ice chunks. I wasn’t sure I was ready to share my theory about my mother knowing Micah’s stepfather.
Micah reached for a fortune cookie and ripped off the wrapper. “Maybe your grandfather remembers reading about the accident in the papers and thinks I’m bad news—dangerous, irresponsible. What else could it be?”
“My grandpa’s always given people the benefit of the doubt. He’d realize you were just a kid then. He wouldn’t hold it against you.”
“Julie’s right,” Sandy said. “Her grandpa is the kindest, most understanding man I know.”
Micah gave his head a doubtful shake. He methodically broke open his fortune cookie and flattened the small slip of paper, studying it as if it might hold the answers we sought. He gave a harsh laugh and crushed the paper in his fist.
Sandy and I exchanged glances. “What’s it say?” I asked.
“‘The past holds the key to a brighter future.’” He tossed the wad into the empty mu shu pork container and stalked to the window. The western sun knifed through the slit in the sheer white curtains, striping Micah’s face with harsh light. “Because of me, an innocent baby went to her death at the bottom of a lake. Where’s the ‘brighter future’ in that?”
“It was an accident,” I said tiredly. I felt a headache coming on. “You can’t keep blaming yourself.”
“Julie’s right, Micah. And who knows?” Sandy cast me a desperate frown. “Maybe all this is coming out now for a reason. Maybe it’s God’s way of saying you and Mrs. Channing both need to finally let go of the past and move on.”
Micah swung around. “Sorry, ladies, but your platitudes aren’t making me feel any better.”
I rose with a groan and gathered up empty containers and plastic utensils, then deposited them in a nearby trashcan. “I’m exhausted. Maybe I’ll see if I can get a room here for the night.”
“You’re serious, then.” Sandy gripped the arms of her chair. “You really did leave home.”
“I’m dead serious. My luggage is in the car.” I found my shoulder bag where I’d dropped it next to the door and fished out my keys.
Micah held out his hand. “Give me your keys. I’ll get your bags while you check in.”
~~~
La Quintas are not exactly budget motels. Even with the discount Micah finagled for me, my room cost a big chunk of the cash Grandpa had given me. Still, it was a luxurious treat to settle into a clean, comfortable room decorated in soothing, natural shades of beige and brown. I filled the pristine white tub and soaked for nearly an hour, replenishing the hot water as the temperature cooled.
And I tried not to think.
Dressed for bed in a cotton sleep shirt, my damp hair plaited in a loose braid, I stacked pillows against the headboard and flipped through the TV channels with the remote—another luxury. At home, we used one of those digital converters for our ancient RCA, and then we had to tweak the rabbit ears just right to tune in. Finding nothing of interest, I pressed the OFF button and rested in the silence of the darkening room.
My glance fell upon the luggage Micah had carried in for me. The larger suitcase sat unopened next to the dresser. Poking out of the front pocket was the envelope Grandpa had stuck in the car before I drove away this morning. I didn’t know if I could stomach whatever bromides Grandpa thought might help.
I rolled over and snuggled under the covers. I squeezed my eyes shut and prayed for sleep to come quickly.
“Julie, Julie, my little love. My sweet little turtle dove.”
My pillow grew damp with tears. “Oh, Mama, Mama . . .” Her face floated across the blackness behind my eyelids, the image of the pale, thin woman in Grandpa’s old family photo album.
Tired as I was, sleep had deserted me. I tossed back the covers and swung my feet off the side of the bed. I felt my way to the bathroom and pawed through my toiletries by the glow of a tiny orange nightlight. I felt sure I’d packed some Tylenol in there somewhere. After scattering hand lotion, makeup, shampoo, and a handful of hairpins across the counter, I remembered I’d thrown the Tylenol into the big suitcase as an afterthought just before I zipped it shut. Leaving the mess, I found the switch on the dresser lamp. The glaring bulb momentarily blinded me.
When I could see again, I muscled the heavy suitcase onto its side, but as I felt for the zipper pull, my arm caught the edge of the manila envelope. I sank to the floor and stared at it for a long moment. Bleary-eyed, I slid it from the pocket and shook the contents into my lap—two smaller envelopes, one a bulky brown business packet, the other a plain number-10 thick with folded papers. I held them both to the light. On the front of the white envelope I recognized Grandpa’s broad, flowing scrawl.
Save for Julie, he had written. Nothing more. I laid it aside.
The lumpy packet bore no markings. The contents gave beneath the pressure of my probing fingers. I unwound the string securing the flap.
Why is it, when you’ve wanted something so badly for so long and it’s finally staring you in the face, all at once you’re paralyzed? Maybe it’s realizing that actually having the object of your desire could be even more painful than merely wanting it. Like craving a frosty milkshake and then slurping it down so quickly that you get brain-freeze and it feels like it’ll never end and all you can do is press your tongue to the roof of your mouth in agony until it passes.
No amount of tongue-pressing would make the contents of this envelope go away. I knew then, knew in my deepest core, that the secrets it held would hurt, maybe even more than I could bear. But I had no choice. I had to know, once and for all.
I tipped the envelope sideways, and a small, blue-gingham sailor cap slipped out. It must have been mine a long time ago. Why else would Grandpa have saved it? The cap even bore my own faded initials—JPS—in heavy blue embroidery across the brim.
But something wasn’t right. The P was much larger than the letters on either side, the way you usually see items monogrammed, with the initial for the person’s last name larger and centered. Meaning the owner of this cap rightly should have had the initials JSP, not JPS, unless the person doing the monogramming made a pretty stupid mistake.
I laid the sailor cap on the carpet and pried open the seal of the other envelope. Inside, brittle onionskin paper surrounded a collection of creased, yellowed newspaper clippings. My pulse throbbed beneath my jaw as I separated the fragile pages.
Again, Grandpa’s spidery script on the onionskin. I reminded myself to breathe.
My precious Julie Pearl,
If you are reading this, it means you’re all grown up now, and something you’ve learned, or remembered, or maybe needed to know for health reasons—who knows?—has got you asking questions again about your parents. I prayed this day would never come—and maybe I’m worried for nothing, because even though you’re just a little thing as I write this, I can see you’re a strong girl. And I know the Lord will help you through whatever comes of this.
Your mama died without telling me the whole story, so I can only guess at what really happened—but I’ve a pretty good idea. I saved all these clippings so maybe someday you can ferret out what’s true and what isn’t. One thing is true, though—your mama loved you with all her heart, loved you till the day she breathed her last. Everything she ever did was out of love for you.
I hope you can forgive us both for keeping this from you all these years. Right or wrong, I love you like my own, my treasure
, my “pearl of great price.”
Love always,
Your Grandpa
Forgive them? For what, Grandpa? What did you know all these years that you never told me?
A chill shook me. I shifted to kneel at the foot of the bed and spread the newspaper clippings across the floor. The headlines screamed at me:
Popular lake resort is site of tragic drowning: twelve-year-old driver of boat being questioned, search for child’s body continues
No charges filed in toddler’s death; drowning officially ruled accident
Pearls Along the Lake closes, family grieving loss of daughter
The drowning wasn’t news to me, but why had my grandfather saved all these clippings? And why had he given them to me now? “What are you trying to tell me, Grandpa?”
The last clipping was a death notice for Jennifer Susan Pearl, dated twenty-five years ago, almost to the day:
. . . The child’s tragic drowning occurred June 21 near the family-owned resort, Pearls Along the Lake. Jennifer Susan is survived by her parents, Everett Roy and Lucille Marie (McLain) Pearl, and sister, Renata Louise Pearl, of Hot Springs; and one aunt, Geneva Pearl Nelson . . .
A memorial service is scheduled for June 27 at 2 p.m. at Mountain Valley Christian Fellowship Church. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that memorial gifts be made to the church’s building fund for the new Sunday school wing. . . .
My gaze drifted from the page as images zigzagged through my brain. Images of a little girl who drowned twenty-five years ago. Images of a golden-haired toddler whose body was never found.
JSP—Jennifer Susan Pearl.
JPS—Julie Pearl Stiles.
Goose bumps rose on my arms, and it felt like every breath of air had been sucked from the room. Grandpa knew. Deep in his heart, he had to have known. But he let a family keep on grieving, mourning the death of their precious little girl. He let them blame a desperate and confused teenager, whose only real crime was desiring a safer, saner life for herself and her baby sister. He let a young boy grow up believing he was responsible for a little girl’s death.