Pearl Jinx

by Sandra Hill

  “So?”

  “So, since when do you have a heart problem?”

  “It’s jist a twinge now and then. Doan go worryin’ ’bout me. I’ll be there dancin’ at yer weddin’, boy, lessen ya decide ta become a forty-year-old bachelor. And that ain’t gonna happen if I kin help it. I got an in with the thunderbolt guy. And by the way, does ya want blue or yellow embroidery on yer pillowcases?”

  Luc was laughing now. Everyone in the family got Tante Lulu’s love thunderbolt business at one time or another. Usually just before they met the love of their lives and got married.

  John shivered at the thought. “I got a lot of wild oats to sow yet, so doan be bakin’ any weddin’ cake yet,” he told her.

  “Yer wild oats is gonna turn inta oatmeal pretty soon iffen ya doan shape up.”

  “Listen, darlin’, I’m like a guy livin’ in the middle of the produce section of the French Quarter Market. Why would I eat just one cherry when there are all those peaches, apples, pears, melons, strawberries, bananas, and grapes just begging to be tasted?”

  “Hah! Too much fruit gives a man diarrhea.”

  How did one respond to a statement like that? With silence, he decided.

  She’d managed to change the subject with her usual expertise, but she didn’t fool him. He was going to investigate his aunt’s little heart problem. She was eighty-eight years old, after all, though you’d never know it by all her energy and enthusiasm for life. Hurricane Ka-trina had had an effect on her. Even though her cottage had been pretty much spared, many of her friends had lost everything. They would never recover, and neither would she.

  Meanwhile, his aunt was giving Luc a list of things she wanted him and his brothers to bring.

  “Make sure René brings his accordion. We’s gonna have music and dancin’. And tell Charmaine we gots this Amish girl what wants ta be on American Idol. Ask Charmaine if she has any clothes that might strike the judges’ fancy. Not slutty clothes. Simon Cowell would make mincemeat outta her in those. Jist colorful, kinda like what Paula Abdul wears. Ya wouldn’t believe how much black and blue these folks wear, and—”

  “Oh, good God!” Luc interrupted. Sylvie must have asked what was wrong, and he told her, “Tante Lulu is invading the Amish now.”

  “Tsk-tsk-tsk!” Tante Lulu said. “And stop by my cottage and get me some more of that juju tea. I was tellin’ Amos ’bout it las’ night.”

  “Who’s Amos?”

  “You don’t wanna know,” John said quickly, but not quick enough.

  “My boyfriend. Me and Abbie’re datin’ these twin brothers. Amos and Andy. Amos wants me ta move in with him, but I tol’ him I cain’t live outside the bayou fer long without gettin’ a hankerin’ fer crawfish. Besides, I doan go fer that hanky-panky outside marriage. Then he asked me ta marry him. Do ya know where he kin buy some Viagra?”

  “Oh, good God!” Luc said again. “I thought you were watchin’ over her, Tee-John.”

  “I am.”

  “Who sez I need a chaperon? Did I tell ya ’bout the strip joint we went to this week, Luc?” She proceeded to tell him how the strippers picked up twenty-dollar bills with their “boobies.”

  Luc was silent on the other end, either horrified or laughing. Probably both.

  “Oh, before I forget. Tell Charmaine to pick me up a bushel of crawfish. They ain’t got any crawfish worth eatin’ here.”

  “Tante Lulu! Charmaine and Rusty are coming on a commercial airline. They won’t allow food products like that to be carried. Plus, they’ll probably be considered terrorists or something.”

  “Terrorists?” Tee-John hooted with laughter. “What? Terrorists now carry bombs in food products?”

  “You try carrying a bushel of crawfish on a plane, then, smartass,” Luc replied.

  “Jist put ’em inside that hope chest that Remy is bringin’ fer Mark,” Tante Lulu suggested.

  “You’ve already got that thing filled with doilies and pot holders and monogrammed sheets and stuff,” Luc reminded her. “Did you really make up his-and-her St. Jude nightshirts?”

  “Jist bring the blasted crawfish,” his aunt said, throwing a hand up with disgust. “Y’all kin stick ’em in yer britches fer all I care. Jist bring ’em.”

  “Oh, I have some gossip, Tee-John.” Luc’s voice was suspiciously serious all of a sudden. “Looks like we might have two more brothers we never heard of. Twins.”

  “Huh?” he and Tante Lulu said as one.

  “These two guys approached Remy recently when he was making a delivery to a customer up in Alaska. They claim to be sons of Valcour LeDeux.”

  “I fer one ain’t surprised. I wouldn’t trust that Valcour any farther than I could sling an alligator,” Tante Lulu said.

  “How old are they?” he asked.

  “Are they Eskimos?” Tante Lulu asked.

  He could hear Luc laughing on the other end of the line. “No, they’re not Eskimos. They’re into ranching or logging or something. Remy wasn’t clear. And besides, they weren’t overly friendly. They’re twenty-eight.”

  “Hmmm. While he was with my mom but not married to her yet,” Tee-John calculated.

  “Suppose that means I’ll hafta make more hope chests.”

  “Don’t jump the gun,” Luc cautioned. “They might not really be our half brothers.”

  “Hah! Would anyone in their right mind wanna claim Valcour LeDeux as a daddy iffen they dint hafta?” was Tante Lulu’s opinion.

  Once the phone call ended, he and his aunt sat swinging slowly. She was quiet for once, probably contemplating okra.

  Then, out of the blue, she asked, “How long do ya think it might be till yer ready ta settle down and get married?”

  Huh? How about never? He shrugged, then lied, “Four or five years, maybe.”

  She remained quiet for a few long moments, then said, “I suppose I kin hold out that long.”

  And John felt as if a vice were squeezing his heart.

  Plain thinking . . .

  Samuel Peachey threw his work gloves down with disgust and quit his morning chores halfway through. It was an unprecedented act for him in all his sixty-seven years.

  He walked into the house and found Rebekah sitting at the kitchen table, both hands wrapped around a cup of tea, which she was staring at. Meanwhile, there was wet laundry to be hung on the line and tomato sauce bubbling on the stove, waiting to be canned. Rebekah being idle was unprecedented, too.

  “Rebekah?” he said, sitting down next to her. “Does something ail ya? Do ya have the stomachache again?”

  She shook her head. There were tears in her pale blue eyes.

  Truth to tell, he felt like cryin’ himself.

  “The boys?”

  She nodded, knowing perfectly well what boys he referred to. Caleb and Jonas. Though they were grown men now. It was a subject that they’d avoided talking about for ever so long, and yet it was like a big wall between them.

  He braced both elbows on the table and put his fists under his chin. After several long moments, he asked, “Could we have been wrong all these years?”

  “I don’t know, Samuel, but it feels wrong.”

  “If we break the Bann, we’ll be shunned ourselves, Rebekah. Do ya think ya could stand that?”

  “I don’t know. I jist know this ain’t right.”

  “I have an idea.”

  “What?”

  “I think it’s time ta go fly fishin’.”

  She slapped his arm as she dabbed at her wet eyes with the hem of her apron. “It’s not the time fer joshin’.”

  “I’m serious. I do my best thinkin’ when I fly fish.”

  “Ya goin’ alone? Or are ya invitin’ Caleb and Jonas?”

  “None of those.” He smiled, happy that he was finally about to do something.

  “I’m goin’ ta Claire’s place over on the Little Juniata ta get me some advice. She noticed my fly rod when she was here the other day and invited me ta fly fish on her property.”


  “Yer gonna take advice from an Englisher? Yer gone ferhoodled, fer sure and fer certain.”

  “Jah. An Englisher who loves Caleb, I’m guessin’.”

  “Ah!” Now she understood. “Well, as long as yer not consultin’ with that crazy Cajun woman.”

  “Ach, but she gave ya some pretty underthings. Dint know I still had it in me.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

  Rebekah blushed. “Should I plan on trout fer supper tonight, Samuel?”

  “No, but I do expect I’ll smell like fish.”

  They smiled at each other then. Maybe there was hope.

  Ann Landers of the Little Juniata . . .

  Claire awakened just past dawn, as usual. No alarm necessary. Still, she lay in bed for another half hour, just thinking.

  Then, with a wide yawn, she padded out to her kitchen and turned on the coffeemaker. She reached down and patted Boney on his head, which he was rubbing against her bare leg below her nightshirt while he yipped loudly. It didn’t take much to get Boney barking. The cats, being more refined, all meowed good morning to her.

  It looked as if it would be another sunny day, she thought as she yawned again and glanced out her back window. Then did a double take.

  There was an Amishman standing in the middle of the river, wearing hip boots and a flat-brimmed straw hat. She didn’t own the river, so of course anyone could be seen fishing there on occasion. But an Amishman? That was a first for her.

  Especially since it was Caleb’s father, she realized, peering closer.

  Should she call Caleb and alert him to his father’s presence? No. First of all, she was a little peeved with the guy for not making more of an effort to see her again before he left town. Yeah, she’d agreed to cutting things off. But that didn’t mean she wouldn’t welcome a little coaxing on his part.

  When her coffee was ready, she went out on the deck with a mug, being careful to close the door on Boney, who would disturb the fisherman. She watched for about fifteen minutes. Mr. Peachey was clearly an experienced fly fisherman. Not just in his technique, but the way he studied the hatches flying above him. At one point, he reached upward and caught one in his fist . . . probably a green drake, it being too late for mayflies. He studied it in his palm, then took a new fly from his vest and put it on his line. Soon after, he had a twenty-inch rainbow on his line, which he immediately released, in tune with the catch-and-release pattern followed by most people in the area.

  Which would be really unusual for an Amishman, she realized. Their culture was pretty much based on work and day-to-day survival. Fly fishing for the fun of it just didn’t seem to jive.

  But actually, the man was relaxed as he cast, drawing his line back slowly, taking in his surroundings, which indicated to her that he was using the exercise for thinking. In fact, many books had been written about the philosophy of fly fishing, even one called All I Need to Know about Ministry I Learned from Fly Fishing.

  Eventually Mr. Peachey noticed her and gave a wave, after which he pulled in his line and waded toward shore.

  “Don’t stop on my account,” she yelled down to him.

  He shook his head. “I’ve had enough fer today.”

  When he walked up the steps to the deck, she pointed to the extra mug of coffee she’d brought out for him.

  “Denki,” he said, sinking down to the chair beside her with a long sigh, but not before going wide-eyed at the yip-yip-yipping dog and five meowing cats lined up at the kitchen sliding door, begging to come out. “I ain’t been fly fishin’ fer years. Guess I’m a bit rusty.”

  “You looked pretty good to me.”

  He fidgeted. Clearly, he had something else on his mind. “I come ta talk ta ya ’bout Caleb.”

  Ooookay. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? I mean, he might not appreciate us talking behind his back.”

  “We need advice. Rebekah and me.”

  And you’ve come to me? Oh, boy! This is a disaster in the making. “What can I do for you?”

  “I want ta know ’bout Caleb.”

  She frowned, not sure what he meant.

  “He seems so sad.”

  “Of course he is. Were you hoping he would be happy about his parents cutting him off for seventeen years?”

  He flinched.

  She couldn’t be sorry. They were harsh words, but true.

  “We cannot approve of his life in the military, or a life spent huntin’ fer treasures, but we thought he at least was content. We missed him awful much, but until he came back, we thought he’d settled in his new life.”

  “He had, pretty much. I’m a bit of a pacifist myself, Mr. Peachey, but I have to say that Caleb’s career in the military has been an admirable one. You should be proud of him. As for the treasure hunting, there’s nothing wrong with that, but I suspect Caleb is still trying to find himself. And even if he were set up with the perfect career, that would never make up for the hole in his heart.”

  “Hole in the heart?”

  “His estranged family.”

  Mr. Peachey’s throat worked for several seconds, as if he was unable to speak over some strong emotion. “Ach, there is a hole in our hearts, too.” He put up a hand to halt her from speaking. “It may not seem that way ta you, but we are in pain, too.”

  “Then why don’t you do something about it?” Her tone of voice was more exasperated than she would like, but really, these people were all hurting each other unnecessarily.

  “That’s why I’m here.” He took a long sip of his coffee and set the mug down. “I usta think all this was Caleb and Jonas’s fault ’cause of the choices they made. Not the buggy accident or Hannah bein’ pregnant with Jonas’s baby, but the choices they made not to apologize ta the church.”

  What buggy accident? What pregnancy? Caleb had never really explained the details of his and Jonas’s shunning.

  “It was such a little thing ta do, the kneeling confession, but they refused.”

  She wanted to ask about his choice . . . his and Rebekah’s . . . to shun their own sons. Where was the fairness in that? Instead, she asked, “And now?”

  “Now I’m not so sure. The only thing I’m sure about is we have a broken family that needs fixin’.”

  “And you think I can help, how?”

  “Do ya love Caleb?”

  She didn’t even hesitate. “I do, but that doesn’t mean we have a future together. My dreams are a big roadblock to him.”

  His brow furrowed with puzzlement.

  “A farm. Babies. If not marriage, at least long-term commitment. Most of all, love.”

  He waved a hand as if all that were irrelevant, which it was not. “Knowing Caleb . . . and lovin’ him like ya do . . . surely ya have some suggestion on how we can fix this mess.”

  Caleb is going to kill me for interfering. Hah! He’ll be gone soon anyhow. “Well, actually, I do, Mr. Peachey.” And she told him. In no uncertain terms.

  It was the craziest thing, but for a blip of a second she felt as if someone was doing a high five Snoopy dance in her head. I’ve been hanging around Tante Lulu too much.

  Welcome to the fair . . .

  The grounds of the Butterfly B & B resembled a fairgrounds Saturday morning as Veronica and Jake, arms looped around each others’ waists, walked over the lawns on the side and back of the historic brick house.

  It would be another half hour before it was opened to the public. The public being the news media—TV, radio, newspapers, and cavern and history magazines. Also, tourism boards, historical societies, and museum reps, a few Lenape Indians still residing in the area, the Nittany Grotto Club and other caving enthusiasts, township and county officials who could be helpful to Mark and Abbie once they needed permits to open the cavern, and a few friends and family.

  An exclusive interview had been given to an area newspaper, which had held off printing any info on the treasure hunt till now. But that wouldn’t run till this evening.

  “Caleb did a wonderful job with the Pearl Project, h
is first as manager, didn’t he, honey?” Veronica remarked.

  “Yep. Far better than we did in Mexico searching for those friggin’ lost Aztec relics. I never saw so many scorpions in all my life.”

  Veronica laughed. “I think you’re as afraid of spiders as Caleb is of snakes.”

  “That is one big mother of a snake. If a guy’s gonna be afraid of snakes, that would be the one.”

  “Did you see the snakeskin collection his nephew Noah has over on that table near the refreshment table?”

  He nodded. “Mark added a couple of Sparky’s, too. Cute kid.”

  They looked at each other then. Her pregnancy remained new to them and a marvel. Every time they saw a baby or child, they shared the same thought. We’re going to have one of those? Amazing! It was still their secret. Maybe they’d share it at the party tonight.

  “You know, this project will not only give Jinx, Inc., some great profits, but I have to give Caleb credit for coming up with this idea for an invited-guest-only extravaganza this morning,” Veronica remarked.

  “I agree. Proactive rather than defensive way of presenting our story to the media. Goodwill with the community and publicity for Jinx, Inc.”

  Caleb must have overheard them as he approached. “I wouldn’t have been able to put this together so soon or so professionally if I didn’t have help from Ross Bennett Consulting in Reedsville. You’ll be getting the bill.”

  “Money well spent,” Veronica said.

  “Bennett is a computer genius. He designed and produced all the brochures and graphics displays, even those for Jinx, Inc. Check out that high-definition large-screen TV that has a running video of the recovery operation, not to mention other Jinx projects. And those smaller DVD players have PowerPoint presentations on everything from history of the region to the mechanics of cave diving. We all had fun with the animated video he did of Robber Davie Lewis and his exploits. Very funny!”

  “I love the treasure chest logo he used on the Jinx pamphlets,” Veronica said. “I assume we can use it in the future.”

  “I love the way he described me as ‘Cool Hand Jake, the coolest professional poker player on the circuit today.’” He winked at her. “Not to mention the handsomest, sexiest, and wittiest—”