Pearl of Great Price (31 page)

I hung out at the close of the evening just long enough to nibble one of the chocolate-chip cookies one of my friends had brought, but my interest in socializing had vanished. Then Pastor Ed caught me on my way out. “Hey, Julie Pearl, when are you going to bring your gentleman friend along? Everyone here’s really anxious to meet him.”

Trapped. So far I’d sidestepped the issue of Micah’s disdain for all things God-related. And though Sandy was all too aware of the fact, at least she’d been tactful enough to keep it to herself.

“Micah’s just so busy with all his construction jobs.” I tugged the strap of my shoulder bag up my arm and forced a laugh. “I bet he’s out at the resort right now, burning the midnight oil.”

Freckle-faced Everett Buckles ambled over. “Don’t he know all work and no play ain’t good for a body? Come on, Julie Pearl, us country bumpkins are just dyin’ to rub elbows with your rich, successful beau.”

The former class president and Arkansas State University grad wasn’t fooling anybody with his fake hick talk. Assistant manager of Caddo Pines Bank & Trust, Everett was about as successful as anybody in our little community could ever hope to be.

“Give Julie a break,” Sandy interrupted, stepping in to rescue me. “You think she’d honestly want to subject a nice guy like Micah to your backwoods brand of humor?”

Everett lifted his palms. “Didn’t mean anything. Seriously, Julie Pearl, you know we look out for our own around here. I think I speak for all of us when I say we just want to make sure this Micah Hobart character is good enough for you.”

“That’s nice, Everett. I appreciate your concern.”

Pastor Ed rested a hand on my shoulder. “He’s right, Julie Pearl. We’re all your friends here. We all want what’s best for you, and—” He stopped short of coming right out and saying it, but the look in his eyes told me he wasn’t so sure my “best” included Micah.

They all knew by now that I might very well be Jennifer Susan Pearl, the little girl thought to have drowned all those years ago. Poor Grandpa had received a boatload of sympathy over the “loss” of his only granddaughter. He was always quick to explain, however, that he hadn’t lost anything, that I’d be his own Julie Pearl for as long as he lived.

And I was just as quick to assure them all that Otto Stiles was dearer to me than any flesh-and-blood grandfather could ever be.

So even though I knew how hard Grandpa worked to accept my growing feelings for Micah, I also knew Grandpa shared the unspoken concerns of my friends. The crux of the matter came down, finally, to just one thing: was Micah’s relationship with me one of genuine love, or of guilt?

Sleep came hard that night. I felt like Jacob wrestling with the angel—knowing what was right, what I ought to do, and fighting it all the way.

I woke up the next morning with an achy hip and an answer I didn’t want to face.

~~~

“Come to the young adult meeting with me tonight, Micah. Please. My friends are all asking to meet you.”

We sat on the recently restored front porch at the resort, hip to hip in an oak swing that still smelled like fresh varnish. The chains made a rhythmic creaking sound, a soothing counterpoint to the ringing of hammer against nail as workmen labored to rebuild the cabins behind the house.

“Can’t, Julie. I’ve got crews working overtime to get the cabins roofed before winter. We need to be ready to work on the interiors by the time the weather turns bad.”

“But it’s not like you have to oversee every detail. What’s a couple of hours?”

He pushed out of the swing and stood at the porch railing, staring up through the crisp orange leaves of an ancient oak tree. “They’re your friends, not mine. I don’t think I’d fit in.”

“They could be your friends, too, if you’d give them a chance.” I moved to stand beside him, our hands brushing. “Or is it really you’re afraid of how they’ll see you—a man who can’t stop living in the past?”

His cold, gray eyes met mine. “Is that how
you
see me?”

“I love you, Micah. More than I can say. You know I do!” My heart wrapped around itself until I could hardly catch a breath. “But until you can accept forgiveness—until you can forgive yourself—I’ll never know for sure whether your feelings for me stem from love or guilt. And I—” Oh, God, this was hard! “I can’t go on living like this.”

A long, shuddering sigh tore from his throat. His fingers tightened around the porch rail. “So what are you trying to tell me? That it’s over between us?”

I gazed at Micah’s tanned, work-roughened hands, the hands of an artist and craftsman, a builder. Coarse, dark hairs curled above his callused knuckles. Wood stain outlined the blunt-trimmed nails of his long, strong fingers, the same fingers that so often lately had stroked my cheek, tucked a stray curl behind my ear, caressed the nape of my neck.

I would miss those hands, their tender touch. I would miss the warm, heady feeling of his lips on mine, our kisses hello and our kisses goodnight. I would miss Micah Hobart more than words could say.

“Yes, Micah, it’s over.” With a last lingering glance at the hands of the man I loved, I turned and walked away.

C
HAPTER 36

Tears streaming down my face, I climbed into my VW and started the engine. My grip tightened around the gearshift knob, but I couldn’t make myself release the clutch. Maybe I was waiting for Micah to miraculously experience a change of heart and come chasing after me.

But he just stood there staring, his silence a boulder crushing my heart. Finally I drove away, so blinded by tears that I could hardly see the road.

Reaching the highway, I turned toward downtown Hot Springs, just driving, driving, with no other goal than to lose myself in the city. I passed the Oaklawn racetrack, crawled through the tourist traffic along Bathhouse Row, then took the turn onto Whittington Avenue just beyond the stately yellow Arlington Hotel and cruised past the Dryden Pottery building with its colorful mural depicting the Caddo Indians. Spotting the sign for West Mountain, I made a quick left turn and wound my way up to the scenic overlook.

I yanked my keys from the ignition, slammed the door shut behind me, and jogged up the hiking trail, stopping only when the sharp pain of exertion knifed through my side. I sank onto a stone, sweat dripping from my forehead to mingle with the tears. I stared upward through whispering pines at a crystal blue sky and asked the heavens how I’d ever ended up like this.

I never asked to fall in love with Micah. I never asked to be Jenny Pearl.

No, but you weren’t content being Julie Stiles, either. You wanted answers about your past and you found them.

Not the response I wanted, but obviously the only one I could expect. With the October breeze whistling through the pines and chilling me through my fisherman’s sweater, I heaved an exhausted sigh and trudged down the trail to the car.

On the way back through town, I felt an overwhelming urge to see Aunt Geneva. Crazy as things had become since last summer, I hadn’t had another chance to visit with her since the day Renata took me to “officially” meet her, but I well remembered the calming influence she’d been, an island of objectivity in a churning sea of confusion.

After only a couple of wrong turns, I recognized the neighborhood Renata’s chauffeur had driven us through, then the tree-shaded street, then the modest ’50s-era white frame cottage. I parked in the slanting driveway, then plodded up the brick porch steps. Standing with both hands stuffed into my jeans pockets, I listened as the doorbell echoed through the house.

The door swung open, and Geneva’s look of surprise quickly melted into one of joy and welcome. “Julie. Come in.” She reached for my arm. “I’ve so wanted to talk to you again, but . . . Well, I heard how things ended between you and Renata, and I felt a bit awkward about getting in touch.”

“Same here.” I followed her down the hall to a small den at the back of the house. Outside the wide picture window, cardinals and blue jays vied for the best morsels at bird feeders hanging from a multilevel verdigris pole.

Geneva offered to make tea, but I shook my head and perched on the edge of a tweed armchair. “Maybe you knew I’ve been seeing Micah Hobart?”

She nodded.

“Well, I broke it off this morning.”

Settling into the motion of a high-backed wooden rocker, Geneva smiled her understanding. “I’m so sorry, Julie. What happened?”

“I thought it would help him forgive himself, knowing Jenny didn’t drown. I thought I could help Renata too. But I couldn’t.” A great bubble of agony swelled inside my chest. I rose and stalked to the window. “Now everything’s so much
worse
. I wish I’d never heard of Jennifer Susan Pearl, or Pearls Along the Lake, or Renata Channing . . .” My voice flattened to a whisper. “Or Micah Hobart.”

Soft footsteps padded behind me. With gentle hands, Geneva turned me to face her, and I stared into sympathetic eyes beneath a cloud of pale red-gold curls. She shook her head. “My, my, you’ve taken an awful lot of responsibility onto these slim shoulders. Do you really think God has left it up to you to do what only he can do?”

I drew my eyebrows together in an unspoken question.

Geneva slid her hands down my arms until she clasped both my hands in hers. “It doesn’t matter if you’re Jenny Pearl, or Julie Stiles, or the Queen of Sheba,” she said with a laugh. “Micah’s and Renata’s pain is their own, and their healing is between them and God. There’s nothing you or I or anyone else can do to make it happen.” Her lips skewed into a troubled frown. “Much as we wish we could.”

A commotion outside the window drew our attention. Neither of us could suppress our laughter as an angry jay dive-bombed a squirrel dangling by its toenails from the highest bird feeder. The squirrel finally dropped to the ground and darted up a tree, while the jay cackled in derision.

Geneva hooked her arm through mine and squeezed. “Do you think that squirrel’s going to give up on those tasty sunflower seeds just because a noisy old bird chased him off?”

Even as I shook my head, the squirrel scampered partway down the tree trunk and made a flying leap to the top of the nearest feeder. Birds scattered and sunflower seeds tumbled over the lip and onto the ground. The squirrel made another leap and munched on the fallen seeds while practically grinning in triumph at the birds.

“What did I tell you?” Geneva chuckled as we returned to our chairs. “As the old saying goes, where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

“But you just said it wasn’t up to me to help Renata and Micah.”

“It isn’t.” She quirked a brow. “Was that squirrel looking to help anybody but himself? No. He was just being the creature he was created to be and taking advantage of the banquet I set out.”

“That sounds so selfish.”

“There’s nothing selfish about being who you were meant to be.” She rocked slowly, deliberately, pushing with the toe of one foot. “The point is you need to accept
who
you are and
where
you are in the life you’ve been given, and do the same for Micah and Renata. Allow them room to come to healing in their own good time.”

“I know you’re right.” I closed my eyes and whooshed out a sigh. “Okay, I’ll try.”

Then my eyes popped open, and I nailed Geneva with a desperate gaze. “There’s just one problem. I
still
don’t know for sure if I’m Jenny.”

~~~

Two hours later, after a lunch of homemade seafood gumbo and cornbread, I left Geneva’s with a shoebox full of old photographs she’d culled from her scrapbooks and albums. “Take your time going through those,” she told me as I laid the box on the floor of the VW. She leaned in the open door to give me a hug. “If you have any questions, call or come over. You’re always welcome.”

I wasn’t sure what I expected to glean from a bunch of pictures of people I didn’t know. Notice more family resemblances? Get a glimpse into the family that might have been mine if things had turned out differently? At home later, with the bedroom door closed and the photos fanned out across my chenille spread, I studied them, gazing into each face as if the flat, faded images could speak to me.

Unlike my own stash of photos, unorganized and unlabeled, Geneva’s collection had been carefully notated, names and dates penned neatly on the backs. I came across shots of the Pearl family at Renata’s various birthday parties, at Jenny’s dedication ceremony, at Christmases and Thanksgivings and school programs. There were grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins of all ages. A few looked a little like me—tall, fair, curly-haired.

And equally as many did not.

At the bottom of the shoebox I found one of those fold-out photographer’s displays, the kind containing several different poses from one sitting. The subject was Jennifer Susan Pearl, age eighteen months, according to a penciled caption on the back flap. I sat on the edge of the bed, letting the lamp on my nightstand illuminate the photos as I spread the folder open. A dainty toddler in a pink checked dress sat cross-legged on a fuzzy white rug. She wore a fluffy bow in her golden hair, and her jade-green eyes glimmered under the studio lights.

I ran my finger along the edge of the first portrait, and a smile crept across my lips. Was I looking into my own face from over twenty-six years ago?

Brynna stirred from her nap on the braided rug and gave a whimper. A second later a
tap-tap
sounded on my door, then Grandpa’s voice. “Julie Pearl? You up?”

“Come in, Grandpa.”

He ambled into the room, thumbs hooked in his belt. His gaze swept across the bed. “This what Miz Nelson sent home with you?”

I pushed the photos into a pile and invited him to sit beside me. “Look here, Grandpa.” I stretched out the folder across both our laps. “Can you see anything of me in these pictures?”

He tilted his head up and down, getting the best angle on his bifocals, then rubbed his chin. “Got your eyes and dimples, that’s for sure. But I don’t know. Somethin’ just don’t seem right.”

Pressing my lips together, I looked closer at the little girl in the portraits, examining each minute feature.