Pearl Jinx

by Sandra Hill

  “And why is that?”

  “He needs to be needed.”

  “Says the shrink?”

  “You don’t have to be a psychiatrist to know Mark is hurting. This project could be a jump-start out of his depression. And developing the cavern into a tourist site would be a new career path for him.”

  “You’ve thought all this psychobabble through, huh?”

  “Don’t be sarcastic. Not everyone has to be a gloomy gus all the time.”

  “Gloomy gus?” He smiled, and Lord, his smile could make a nun melt. Reaching out, he used his fingertips to twine an errant strand of her hair behind her ear. “You shouldn’t look at me like that.”

  She didn’t need to ask what he meant, but she did press her lips together just to make sure her tongue wasn’t hanging out. “And you shouldn’t touch me.”

  “That was not touching, baby. Believe me, when I touch you, you’ll know it.”

  “What a macho thing to say!”

  “Ya think?” Raking the fingers of both hands through his short hair, he stared at her. “You know that we’re going to end up in bed together, don’t you?”

  She shrugged. “Maybe.”

  He arched his eyebrows in question. When she remained silent, he said, “Please don’t tell me you were serious about the baby making.”

  “I was serious, all right.”

  “And that would be your condition before letting me in?”

  Letting him “in”? Ooooh, boy, I am in over my head. “I didn’t say that.”

  His eyes raked her body. Slowly. And you would have thought she wore a bikini and not a long-sleeved PSU sweatshirt, jeans, and hiking boots. And a stupid hard hat scrooching her hair down. He was probably fixating on her freckles again.

  “I’m good,” he said.

  I don’t doubt that for one minute. Navy SEAL. Stam-ina and all that. But if he thinks he can disconcert me so easily, he’s got another think coming. She laughed. “Hey, sailor, I’m pretty good myself.”

  That got his attention. She could tell by the slight tensing of his jaw and the flare of his nostrils. He was an expert at hiding his emotions, though.

  He leaned his head down, inch by inch, giving her every opportunity to pull back. Instead of kissing her, though, he laved her lips with his tongue, then blew against the wetness.

  Kiss me.

  Still only a hairsbreadth away, he whispered against her mouth, “I want to lick you. All over. Till you beg.”

  “I don’t beg,” she rasped out. Kiss me.

  “You will,” he promised, swiping his thumb across her bottom lip.

  Kiss me. Dammit!

  Never actually touching her with his mouth or his hands, he moved his lips from side to side, over and over, almost but not quite kissing her.

  It was the most infuriating, tantalizing thing he could do. And he knew it. Kiss me, kiss me, kiss me.

  He was running a fingertip, light as a feather, along the curve of exposed skin from her chin to her collarbone, then back up. Who knew I was so sensitive there?

  Claire couldn’t let this man have the upper hand like this. “We’ll see who’s the one to beg first.” With a grunt of disgust, she took him by the ears, tugged him closer, and kissed the bejesus out of him. Then she drew back slightly, nipped his bottom lip with her teeth, and swung around, walking away.

  She thought she heard him moan.

  Moaning was definitely the first step toward begging.

  Unfortunately, his moan made her feel like begging.

  Time flies when you’re having fun . . .

  By the end of day two of the project, they had chipped away fifty gallons of rock flakes and chunks. Speck by speck. Minute by minute. Still, half the boulder remained.

  With the improvised pulley system they’d erected, those up on the ledge filled the metal buckets, which went down to those on the path, who carried the debris outside, where it was dumped into a sinkhole to be covered later with topsoil and grass seed. It was a painstaking procedure, but necessary to maintain the integrity of the cavern.

  He glanced over at Claire and Mark, who were on the other side of the boulder, talking excitedly about the project as they worked. They’d managed to get Mark up here with their support on the rope ladder. He’d been reluctant at first, but once on the ledge, he was as excited as the rest of them. Claire had been right about involving Mark in the project.

  “Pennsylvania Archives.” “Oral histories, deed books, microfiche.” “Family genealogy papers.” “Pennsylvania Indian wars.” “Juniata: River of Sorrows.” These were snippets of their conversation that Caleb was able to glean. The two chatterboxes weren’t even deterred by the paper respiratory masks Caleb had ordered everyone to wear against the bat guano. Nope, the two of them were planning a joint research project, possibly even a book, about the history of the cavern. Caleb had already photographed everything in sight from every possible angle. Claire recorded audio data on each step of their work, which would later be translated by voice transmission onto a laptop. Now all they needed was to find some treasure.

  “What do you say we quit for the day?” he yelled down to Famosa and LeDeux, who were as sweaty and dirty as he was after all their carrying and dumping.

  “Think we’ll break through tomorrow?” LeDeux yelled back.

  “We better. Meet us inside in an hour for a planning session.”

  Famosa and LeDeux headed out, waving up to him. From the distance he heard Famosa holler, “Hey, Peach. Sparky is hanging around here, as if he’s just waiting for someone. I think he’s got the hots for you.”

  They all knew by now the aversion he had to snakes, and they bled it for every ounce of humor. Not that he was laughing. That snake is just achin’ to be made into a pair of shoes.

  He stood and arched his back to work out the kinks. To his satisfaction, he noticed Claire noticing him. Am I pathetic or what? Well, after the way she’d kissed him yesterday, then tossed out that challenge about who would beg first, he’d been noticing her a lot, too. They were both acting pathetic.

  It took Caleb and Claire a good half hour to help Mark down off the ledge and onto his shaky legs on the path. Caleb could have asked Famosa and LeDeux to stay and help, but he figured Mark was embarrassed enough. Caleb followed Claire and Mark along the corridor, turning off lights in their wake.

  He took special delight in watching Claire’s rear end in front of his face going up the steep steps. Till she glanced back and gave him a glower that pretty much said, “Stop looking at my ass.” Which he totally ignored, of course.

  When they got to the area of the cave where only sunshine crept inside a short distance, he noticed Sparky drop down off the ledge and stretch himself across the entrance, just daring him to get near.

  “Get a life!” he said, jumping over the snake before it could take a bite out of him.

  Mark and Claire were grinning at him when he got outside.

  “Get a life!” he told them, too.

  They were headed across the back lawn toward the house when an Amish horse and buggy pulled into the front parking lot. He didn’t think it was Jonas, since he’d seen a pickup truck with a Peachey Landscaping logo on it last night. The Mennonites were more lenient than the Amish when it came to electricity and motor vehicles.

  No, it was a young Amish woman alighting. She wore a long blue cape dress with a black apron, her blonde hair parted down the middle and all tucked severely under a mesh prayer cap with ties dangling, the black color denoting her single status. She was pretty in a plain sort of way. Coming closer, she smiled tentatively, as if unsure of her welcome.

  “Hullo, Caleb.”

  He cocked his head to the side, still not able to place the woman, who was probably in her late teens. He kept walking with the curious Claire and Mark in tow.

  “Caleb?” the girl said, coming up closer.

  He nodded.

  “Dontcha recognize me? I’m your sister Elizabeth.”

  Aaah. Now he
saw the Peachey family features. The honey brown eyes, strong chin, straight nose, and unusual height. She must be five-eight, at least. “Lizzie?”

  “Jah!” Her bottom lip began to quiver then, just like it had when she was two. “Can I come live with you?”

  “Huh?” She launched herself at him, almost knocking him over. With her arms around his shoulders and her wet face in his neck, she proceeded to sob loudly and explain something to him. Reluctantly, he placed his arms around her, trying to calm her down.

  All he could make out between her sobs was “Dat . . . Ordnung . . . Rumspringa . . . music . . . idol . . . marriage.” Ordnung was the unwritten rules of the Amish for holy living. Then she ended with the usual teenage complaint, “My life is over. I gotta come live with you.”

  Patting her on the back, he closed his eyes and inhaled the scent of Ivory soap. Good Lord! How could he have remembered that scent after all these years? It had been one of Mam’s few concessions to store-bought goods.

  “Please, Caleb, ya gotta help me.”

  He was about to tell her that she couldn’t move in with him because he didn’t have a permanent home, just a one-bedroom apartment in Asbury Park, and besides, what did he know about raising teenage girls? He didn’t even know her, ferchrissake. But the sound of a horse clop-clop-clopping on concrete could be heard from the highway.

  And he knew . . . he just knew . . . his life was going to get way more screwed up.

  Chapter 6

  He was a chip off the ol’ blockhead . . .

  Claire knew she should scoot off and give Caleb some privacy, but she stood frozen, watching the amazing tableau unfold before her. Mark was equally stunned, but in his case, he was gawking at Caleb’s sister Lizzie as if she was a Playboy centerfold.

  The man who unfolded himself from the carriage had to be Caleb’s father. He was just as tall, and despite the long gray beard, Amish clothing, and lean frame, there was a strong resemblance. Not surprisingly, they shared a dour expression.

  An Amish woman emerged from the other side. Her attire was the same as Lizzie’s, except her prayer cap was white. Caleb, who stood with his arm looped over Lizzie’s shoulders, observed the woman with his heart in his eyes, and she did the same back at him. It must be his mother. A mother who hadn’t seen or spoken to her son in almost twenty years.

  “Mam,” he said.

  The woman glanced at her husband for approval.

  He frowned.

  So the woman stepped back with tears welling in her eyes.

  Claire had never really known her mother and had no idea who her father was. She’d been in and out of foster care till her mother OD’d when she was eight and was placed permanently in foster care from then on. A problem child, she’d been dubbed. In other words, unadoptable. To someone who’d always yearned for a real family, this shunning practice was an abomination. How dare they squander the precious gift they’d been given? Family. The love of a parent for a child and vice versa was inviolate, in her opinion. Not to be tampered with by men or churches or cultural rules. Even the Lenape in their early primitive culture, which went back ten thousand years at least, recognized the value of family. She wanted to rush forward and knock some sense into their heads.

  “Get in the buggy, Elizabeth,” the elder Peachey ordered.

  Lizzie’s brown eyes darted to Caleb. “No. I don’t wanna.”

  Mrs. Peachey whimpered.

  Mr. Peachey stiffened.

  “I sing good, Dat.”

  He made a clucking sound of disgust. “Such nonsense!”

  “Why cantcha understand? I want a career. God wouldn’t have given me the talent if he didn’t want me ta be a singer.”

  “Ach! God wants ya to take yer vows and marry up with a goot Amish boy. Ye career is ta have babies and take care of yer husband.”

  Caleb’s gaze connected with Claire’s.

  Claire rolled her eyes and barely restrained herself from voicing an opinion.

  “Get in the buggy, Elizabeth,” her father repeated, more sternly this time.

  “Hello, Dat.” Wasn’t that just like Caleb . . . to force the issue?

  His father looked directly at him and deliberately looked away. No acknowledgment that Caleb had spoken. Claire noticed something about the old man, though. His face was flushed, even his neck and ears. His hands kept fisting and unfisting. He loved Caleb, and it pained him to treat his son so.

  What a mess! Claire couldn’t just stand by and do nothing. “Hi, everyone, I’m Doctor Claire Cassidy. I live up the road a ways. I believe I buy vegetables from your roadside stand sometimes. Your rhubarb jelly is out of this world.”

  Neither Mr. nor Mrs. Peachey acknowledged her introduction or friendly overture. Caleb appeared amused at her effort.

  “Lizzie, why don’t you come inside with me and have some lemonade? Mrs. Peachey, you come, too. We can talk. They can talk to me, can’t they, Mr. Peachey, since I’m not being shunned?” She said that last word as if it was distasteful.

  Caleb glanced at her with surprise. And relief.

  “Mark, would you go see if your mother and Tante Lulu are up for company? As for you two,” she said to Caleb and his father. “You two can just stand here and glare at each other till you go cross-eyed, for all I care. Men!”

  She could swear she saw grins twitching at Lizzie and Mrs. Peachey’s lips.

  Caleb and his father interrupted their glaring at each other to glare at her.

  Big whoop!

  When Amish and Cajun collide . . .

  Whoo-ee!

  Tante Lulu was in her element. And yes, after all these years, Louise Rivard thought of herself as Tante Lulu.

  Crowds of people to feed. Gumbo on the stove. Two of her Peachy Praline Cobbler Cakes in the oven. Lazy bread warming on the counter. Thunderbolts of love snapping all over the place. A war hero to be saved. An Amish family in need of healing. Weddings to plan. Treasure to be found. It was enough to make an old lady’s juices come to life.

  She wrung her hands with glee, then took the pitcher of lemonade over to the table and refilled the glasses sitting in front of Claire and the two Amish ladies, Rebekah and Lizzie Peachey, who were talking softly. Tante Lulu was fascinated by the peculiar clothing and language. Not that she was being judgmental; after all, she was from a culture that had suffered its share of ridicule over the years.

  Mark was in the shower, following Tee-John and Adam, who were outside moving two picnic tables from the streamside up to the lawn beside the patio, under Abbie’s supervision. Caleb was in the front of the house, trying to out-glower his father.

  Ever since Katrina hit southern Louisiana, Tante Lulu had been depressed. She kept it from her family, but sometimes she just needed to get away from all the devastation.

  From the minute that blasted hurricane had hit, she’d worked dawn till dusk and continued for weeks, using her traiteur skills to heal the injured unable to find hospitals. And poor René! For years her great-nephew had been one of those government lobbyists, fighting to save the bayou and wetlands. He’d been predicting this catastrophe for years. Now he blamed himself for not having tried harder.

  Her cottage on Bayou Black hadn’t suffered that much, except for some lost shingles and one ancient tupolo tree that toppled over. All the live-oak trees lost their hanging moss for a long time. Of course, gators and snakes by the dozens had to be chased out of her house as the water level rose, but that was part of living on the bayou.

  The rest of the LeDeuxs had been similarly spared. But friends and neighbors, especially those toward Nawleans . . . Ah, it had been more than two years, but they would never totally recover.

  Tante Lulu needed a break, and that’s why she’d come to central Pennsylvania. Plus, that scamp Tee-John needed some reining in now and then.

  Pouring her own glass, she sat down. The three of them hardly noticed her, so engrossed were they in outtalking each other.

  “It wonders me how ya can break yer Dat’s heart
like this,” Rebekah told her daughter. “He can’t go through the heart pain he did with Caleb and Jonas again.”

  “It’s not fair to play the guilt card, Rebekah,” Claire offered.

  “Jah. Why should I be responsible for what my brothers did? And I’m tellin’ ya, Mam, I’m thinkin’ Caleb and Jonas had the right idea.”

  “On the other hand, Lizzie, cutting family ties isn’t the answer, either. Don’t do anything rash.”

  Claire was trying to be logical in a situation that was pure emotion, in Tante Lulu’s opinion. It was like trying to talk the crawfish into the boil pot by saying he’d enjoy the swim. Tante Lulu figured she would have to step in soon.

  Rebekah put a hand to her heart in distress. “Ya gotta come home and stop this foolishness. It ain’t right, ya runnin’ off like this.”

  “You and Dat forced me ta take drastic measures,” Lizzie said, throwing her hands in the air with exasperation. “Don’t blame me.”

  Rebekah gasped.

  “Ya wouldn’t listen. I don’t wanna take my vows. Not yet. And for sure and for certain, I ain’t gonna marry Abram Zook.”

  “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with Abram, but if he don’t suit ya, there’s other fellas.”

  “It’s more than that, Mam. I have an awful hankerin’ to sing.”

  “Ya can sing at Sunday service.”

  “Himmel! Not that kind of music.”

  Rebekah’s thin eyebrows rose as she regarded her daughter. “Ya haven’t been listenin’ to that devil music, have ya? Oh, ya wicked girl! What have ya done?”

  “I like rock ’n’ roll. I wanna try out for American Idol,” Lizzie blurted out.

  Tante Lulu choked on her lemonade, and Claire’s jaw about dropped onto her chest. Now, this was something to perk up the old blood.

  “An Amish girl on American Idol? Hmmm.” Tante Lulu tapped her fingertips on the table. “That Simon Cowell guy would swallow a cow, thass fer sure. But wait a minute, this could be a great hook . . . an Amish rock star. I never had no family members in show business, though they do a good version of the Village People, and René does play in a zydeco band.”

  “Your family does a Village People show?” Claire’s eyebrows rose with interest.