Pearl of Great Price (11 page)

On the other hand, why had I imagined a rich, attractive real estate mogul could ever be interested in a small-town flea market manager? Besides, he had to be a good ten years older than me—the gray in his beard and sideburns should have been a dead giveaway.

“Dinner was great, but I should be getting home.” I slid out of the booth. “And of course I forgive you for last week. Don’t give it another thought.”

“Wait.” He grabbed my hand, leaving me no choice but to sit back down or lose my balance and fall face first into the bread basket.

“What?”

His mesmerizing eyes reflected the gray-green of the lake outside the window. Abruptly he released my hand and broke eye contact. “Sorry, I just . . . didn’t want us to leave yet.”

“Okay,” I said slowly, in direct opposition to the staccato rhythm of my heart. “Um, do you want another decaf refill, or—”

“Sure. I mean, no, that’s not—” And I thought
I
had the corner on babbling. He stared out the window, his next words spoken so softly that I had to strain to hear him over the clink of flatware against plates and the chatter of other diners. “It’s been a long time for me, Julie. An awfully long time since a woman affected my equilibrium the way you do.”

My racing heart stopped stone-cold dead. I couldn’t think of a thing to say in reply. Instead, I gaped at him like a dead fish—eyes wide, mouth hanging open.
Good one, Julie Pearl. Real attractive.

He looked at me again and laughed. “Don’t look so shocked. I know I’m out of practice with this dating thing, but give me a break.”

So it
was
a date. Okay then. “But you hardly know me.”

He took my hand. “Think we could change that?”

~~~

Dating my best friend’s boss? Would Sandy be okay with the idea? Was
I
okay with the idea? I hardly slept a wink that night, getting up several times to pace and think, think and pace. All the while, Brynna lay in her box with the puppies and cast me a puzzled stare, her onyx eyes shining in the glow of the streetlight outside my bedroom window. Time and again, my thoughts returned to the exhilaration of riding shotgun in that snazzy maroon pickup and smelling the rich leather upholstery, the pungent aroma of day-old coffee left in a Starbucks cup on the console, a whisper of aftershave reminiscent of an ocean breeze . . .

“Cut it out, Julie Pearl. You had it right the first time. You hardly know the guy, and you’re not exactly in his league.” Besides, had I conveniently forgotten I was on a fact-finding mission, and that Micah Hobart might have some answers for me?

By the time the streetlight flickered out and dawn crept across the horizon, I was a basket case. Thank goodness it was Tuesday and I didn’t have to worry about working the front counter and looking perky for customers. Point me toward the janitor’s closet, stick a mop in my hand, and maybe I’d manage to get a little work done while I puzzled out this latest twist.

Around mid-morning Grandpa caught me staring into the brown, gritty foam in my mop bucket. “What’s gotten into you today, Julie Pearl?”

“Huh? Oh, just tired. Didn’t sleep so good.” He’d given me the perfect opening to pepper him with my own questions, but I didn’t feel clear-headed enough to take advantage of the opportunity. Instead, I gave a halfhearted smile, dunked my mop a few times, then resumed my attack on the stubborn ketchup spill under a table in the snack bar.

Grandpa moved the table to one side so I could get a better angle on the spot. “Nothin’ to do with Mr. Micah Hobart, naturally?”

“It was just dinner, that’s all. Good grief, what ignorant slob made this mess, anyway?” I knew I sounded like a riled up banty hen, but the events of the past few days had left my nerves feeling like they’d been run through a meat grinder.

“It’s quite a mess indeed.” Grandpa sank with a groan onto one of the vinyl padded chairs.

“Oh, Grandpa.” I plopped the mop in the bucket and bent to kiss the top of his head. “I’m all churned up inside, and I’m taking it out on you.”

He took my hand and pressed it to his cool, wrinkled lips. “No cause for you to be so confused, Julie Pearl. It just ain’t right.”

Was Grandpa finally ready to talk? Instantly alert, I pulled another chair over and sat across from him. “What are you trying to say, Grandpa?”

“I should’ve spoke up yesterday, when that Hobart character showed up and invited you out.” He fixed me with a worried gaze. “Please, darlin’, don’t get mixed up with that man. Promise me you won’t. It can’t do nothin’ but lead to more trouble.”

“
More
trouble?” My stomach flipped around like a washer on spin cycle. I squeezed his hands. “If you know something, then tell me. What is it about Micah Hobart? What is it about Pearls Along the Lake?”

He wagged his head. “It’s a long story, Julie Pearl. A long, long story.”

There are times when you think you want to know the truth, but deep down you have to ask yourself if you really do. Like two days before Christmas, sneaking under the tree and peeling back the wrapping paper on a package, and either you’re so disappointed that on Christmas morning you’d rather not even open the gift, or so thrilled you can’t bear to wait.

I had the sick feeling Grandpa’s “long story” would be one “gift” I’d be sorry I ever peeked into.

Grandpa looked toward the ceiling. “Oh, Lord, give me the words.”

“You’re scaring me, Grandpa.” I tucked my hands between my knees.

He sighed. “There’s much I don’t know, can’t tell you for certain. But you’re a grown-up now, and you should be told . . . before it’s too late.”

“Too late?”

“Before your old grandpa ain’t around to tell you anymore.” He seemed to fold in on himself, like a book about to close, a story about to end.

“Oh, Grandpa! Please don’t talk like that!” I flung myself into his arms and buried my face in the nubby blue collar of his plaid polo shirt.

He gently pushed me away and dried my spurt of tears with the ball of his thumb. “I’m sure not planning on heading home to heaven anytime soon, but the years have a way of creeping up, and my ol’ ticker ain’t what it used to be. Honey-pie, you know I can’t live forever.”

I sniffled and scooted onto my chair. “I know. I—I just don’t want to think about it.”

“Someday you’ll have to—no forty-seven ways to Sunday around it. But for now,” he said, thrusting out his jaw, “it’s time to tell you what you’ve been hungering to know.”

I didn’t dare imagine where this was headed. “Is this about the old resort? Micah Hobart? Renata Channing?
What
?”

He waved a hand to silence me. “Remember when you were in second grade and your teacher asked you to make a family tree?”

“Sure, I remember,” I said, his question dragging my thoughts back through time. I remembered how it bugged me so bad that everybody else in my class had whole orchards of ancestors—big, broad branches loaded with brothers and sisters and aunts and uncles and cousins once, twice, and three times removed. All I had was a squatty tree trunk labeled “Grandpa,” and a puny little branch sticking out the top marked “Julie Pearl Stiles.”

“Now, Julie Pearl,”
my teacher had said,
“surely you have a few more relations you could add to your tree. You talk to your grandpa about it. Have him help you fill it in.”

Grandpa nudged my toe with his and gave a rumbling chuckle. “I can still see you sitting at our same old kitchen table with that pitiful sketch and your box of broken crayons. I felt so sorry for you.”

“It was the first time you ever talked much about our family. You gave me Grandma’s name—Julia Caroline Dugan Stiles—and then the names of all my great-grandparents.” I remembered how I’d added branches for each of them, feeling more and more like a living, thriving bud on a strong, deep-rooted tree.

“And then you asked about your mama and daddy.” Grandpa huffed a shuddering breath and grew silent.

“I remember.” I could still see my grandpa’s hunched shoulders as he trudged to the polished pine chest under the living room window. Folding back the brightly colored Mexican serape, he’d unlatched the lid and hefted an enormous, well-worn Bible. Once we were snuggled together on the coarse brown sofa cushions, he’d opened the Bible to the gilded flyleaf. An ornate family tree filled the page, each of the spaces filled with the spidery black handwriting I recognized as Grandpa’s. There were all the names he’d just given me.

There were the names of my very own parents.

Angela Mae Stiles. John David Jones
.

I pinched my eyes shut at the memory. The ache beneath my heart made it hard to breathe. “Angela and John.”

“Angie, we called her. She was our little girl, our only child.” Grandpa’s voice sounded thin and reedy.

“You told me her hair was even curlier than mine.” It always comforted me to be reminded of the one trait I shared with the mother I never had a chance to know.

Then the pain of being abandoned pressed in on me again as I recalled the rest of what Grandpa had told me that night. For the first time in my young life, I’d found the courage to push him for answers. And still he’d hemmed and hawed. He said my mother had gotten so sick that she couldn’t take care of me anymore, so she brought me to the Swap & Shop and went away. I pictured her fragile and weak, pale against white sheets, my daddy hovering over her, tending her, loving her. Then, once she was all better, surely they’d come back for me.

I looked up to see Grandpa staring off into the rafters. He scraped his palms back and forth on the knees of his khaki pants. “Hardest thing I ever had to tell you was that your mama wasn’t coming back, wasn’t gonna get well. That your mama had . . .”

“Died.” A knot swelled against my larynx. “And then I had to go and ask about my daddy. And you said—”

“I told you he’d gone on with his life somewhere else.”

The words knifed through my heart just like they had that night. I hugged myself and shivered. I was a little girl again, with Grandpa taking my skinny face in those great warm hands of his that smelled like Dial soap. And just like that night, he said to me, “Julie Pearl Stiles, you are loved more than you’ll ever know. You’re my precious jewel, lost but found, a treasure beyond all earthly riches. You are my ‘pearl of great price.’”

Then he sat back and with a sad shake of his head began to paint new pictures for me of the parents I never knew.

C
HAPTER 12

April, 24 years earlier

Texarkana, Texas

Angie’s head pounded. She sagged against the bagged-ice freezer outside the 7-Eleven, her vision so blurry, she could hardly see the numbers on the pay phone. Could she even remember the right combination? Lately her mind would go blank sometimes, just empty itself at the most inconvenient moments. Or she’d get confused, start out doing one thing and find herself an hour later in the middle of an entirely different task, her original intentions forgotten.

But this morning she willed her head to stay clear—too much was at stake—and once she started dialing, the numbers she needed came back to her like old friends.

“Otto Stiles’ Swap & Shop.”

“Daddy?”

Silence, then a tremulous, “Angie, is that you?”

Her reply got tangled in the sobs ripping through her throat. “Daddy, I need to come home.”

“Oh, darlin’, you never had to ask.” Now Daddy was crying. “Just come.”

She should have known. Just like the father in the story about the Prodigal Son, her father stood ready to welcome her back with open arms, no questions asked.

Except she wasn’t coming alone. “Daddy, I have a little girl now.”

“You’ve had a baby?” A quiver of excitement laced his tone. “When? How old is she?”

“She’ll be four in September—on Mama’s birthday. I named her Julie, after Mama. Julie Pearl Stiles. And Pearl because she’s such a treasure to me.” She drew the sleeve of her ragged sweatshirt across the wetness of her face.

“Three and a half years old?” His pain and shock echoed across the phone lines. “All this time and you never told me I had a grandchild?”

“I—I didn’t think you’d understand.” How could she ever explain to him about Ray, about all the promises he’d made, all the wasted years following him all over the country, living like vagabonds? Believing the lie that he loved her, hoping that if only she could get him to love this child, she could tie him to her forever?

Her father gave a harsh, grating sigh. “It don’t matter no more. Just come home. Bring the little one. We’ll do fine, the three of us together.”

Yes, yes.
She squeezed her eyes shut and let her knotted mass of curls swing forward, grateful it hid her tear-streaked face from the prying stares of customers traipsing in and out of the convenience store.

“Okay. I’ll be home soon, Daddy.”
And soon it’ll be just the two of you.

She gazed down at the green-eyed toddler clutching her leg and ran a hand over the soft, springy fuzz of golden curls.
Oh my Julie-love, my precious little turtle dove.

C
HAPTER 13

Present Day

“I’m sorry, Julie Pearl. I don’t even know if that was your daddy’s real name. Your mama wouldn’t tell me about him, said I was better off not knowing, said he never mattered anyways.”

All these years of wondering, waiting for the day I could track down this man named John David Jones and make him tell me why he left us! “But I have a birth certificate. It has my parents’ names, just like you told me. It says I was born in Big Spring, Texas.”

Grandpa’s mouth flattened. His glance shifted sideways.

I crumpled against the chair and felt the curlicue design of the metal pressing into my spine. “All those stories you told me when I was little, you made them up.”

“I see now the harm it’s done, but back then I thought it was for the best.” His eyes crinkled downward at the corners. “Couldn’t flat out tell you your folks never married, that your daddy up and walked out on your mama, leaving her to suffer alone.”