Pearl of Great Price (9 page)

Finally, with the bank bag locked up and a pan of Spanish-style Rice-a-Roni started on the stove, I had a moment to myself. I pulled a chair up to the tiny desk in the back corner of the living room and poked the O
N
button on my relic of a computer. Being in the flea market business, I’d learned plenty about finding new life and value in just about anything old. Computers? Not so much. I’d just about dozed off by the time my accounting software opened. I keyed in the weekend sales data and bank deposit, then calculated our commissions and vendor payments.

That done, I decided it was time for some Internet research. I clicked on my browser icon and then sat there tapping my toes while the homepage loaded. Blast our rural telephone company Internet provider. If I was going to find out anything before next Christmas, I’d need a fast computer with a decent high-speed connection. Sometimes I went over to Sandy’s whenever I wanted to look something up online, but I sure didn’t need her peering over my shoulder now that her employer was the new owner of Pearls Along the Lake.

I ransacked my brain for other options. Clifton’s dad had a computer at the shop, but Clifton, as technophobic as my grandpa, naturally steered clear of it. The nearest library with computer access was over in Hot Springs, and it was too late to get in there on a Sunday evening.

Rats
. I crossed to the window and stared down at the parking lot. Grandpa and Katy Harcourt had carried their banter outside, and the sounds of their laughter rose on the summer breeze.

The solution hit me so hard, I couldn’t move fast enough. I wrestled the kitchen door open and darted onto the landing. “Katy, wait!” I leapt down the steps two at a time.

She spun around. “Slow up there, girl, before you break your skinny neck.”

“What on earth is wrong, Julie Pearl?” Grandpa reached out to steady me as I skidded across the gravel to halt right in front of them.

“Katy—your laptop.” I shoved a tangled clump of hair off my face while I caught my breath. “You have one of those mobile broadband thingies, don’t you?”

“Only way to get a good Internet connection in this backwater town. You need to borrow it, sugar?”

“Would you mind?”

“Not one eensy-weensy bit. I won’t be in the shop tomorrow, so you can keep it till Thursday. Click on the little lightning-bolt icon and it’ll sign you in to my provider.”

I gave her a quick hug. “Katy, you’re a lifesaver.”

“Oh, pooh.” She waved me off and started toward her car. Turning with a wink, she added, “Just don’t go lookin’ up none of them X-rated Web sites or computer dating services, you hear?”

I laughed out loud. “Don’t worry. Finding the love of my life on the Internet is the absolute farthest thing from my mind.”

~~~

Smells of chicken Santa Fe lingered long after we’d cleaned up the supper dishes and Grandpa had gone to bed. Seven-thirty was early even for him, and I had to remind myself he wasn’t getting any younger.

The thought sent a shiver up my spine.
Oh, Lordy, don’t call my grandpa home to heaven too soon. He’s all I have in the whole world.

Still, with Grandpa in bed and the apartment to myself, I could get started on my Internet searches. I moved Katy’s laptop to the end of the table and drummed my fingernails while Windows loaded. A tinny chord sounded as the desktop appeared onscreen—a grainy photo of Katy and her grandkids smiling around a candlelit birthday cake. I laughed. The mobile broadband icon had been strategically placed right over Katy’s buxom chest.

A couple of mouse clicks later, I found the search engine I wanted and typed in my first request: Renata Pearl Channing.

The top entries had to do with Carol Channing, Pearl Bailey, soprano Renata Scotto, various obituaries for people with similar names, and L.E. Channing, owner and CEO of GigantaMart, Inc. No mention of Renata on the GigantaMart site, which was mainly the store’s online portal and location finder. The next dozen or so listings were mainly obituaries and other references to various people named Renata or Pearl or Channing. Halfway down the third page I came across a site for the Channing Children’s Foundation, based in Little Rock, Arkansas.

Lo and behold, when I opened the homepage, there before me appeared a photo of Renata Pearl Channing in all her perfectly coiffed glory. Only she was identified under the picture as “Mrs. Lawrence Eugene Channing, Founder and President.”

I scanned the introductory paragraph and learned the organization, under Mrs. Channing’s “loving direction and personal involvement,” provided a variety of services for underprivileged children throughout the greater Little Rock area—school supplies, clothing, daycare, medical assistance, you name it. The foundation also ran a home for unwed mothers and provided adoption services. Links took me to pages with more detail, including photos of Mrs. Channing holding a smiling toddler on her lap, handing out toys next to an enormous Christmas tree, and soothing a crying child who apparently had just been given a vaccination.

And, yes, her husband was the noted L.E. Channing of GigantaMart fame. So she was a philanthropist, dedicating her life (and her husband’s bank account) to helping children. I felt hard pressed to reconcile the image with my first impression of the cool, inscrutable woman who’d strolled into the Swap & Shop like she was queen of the world.

On the other hand, it did explain her consternation when she thought we had a child in the back of the hot van. As if Grandpa or I either one could ever do anything so stupid. It was her snootiness more than anything that made me mad, but I guess money can do that to people.

Next search: Pearls Along the Lake.

Some jewelry sites, lake references, but no exact matches. I figured too many years had passed—the resort had closed down before the age of the World Wide Web. I’d hoped maybe an obliging history buff in the area had posted something about it on a personal Web site. Not even the Hot Springs online newspaper archives went back that far.

I cleared the search box. Okay, why not?
Micah Hobart,
my speedy little fingers typed in. When the results came up—
presto!
—there was my own Mr. Micah Hobart, listed on a “Who’s Who in Arkansas” page as a prominent real estate investor/developer. The blurb said he was headquartered in Dallas, with a branch office and several buildings and industrial centers to his credit in Little Rock. Picture of him and everything. His beard showed a little less gray, and he wore a neatly pressed baby-blue shirt and striped tie. When he cleaned up for the camera and actually put on a smile, the guy wasn’t half bad-looking. I could almost—
almost
, mind you—understand how Sandy could be so taken with him.

Nothing much in his bio appeared helpful. It mentioned briefly his latest endeavor, the purchase and renovation of some resort property on Lake Hamilton. The final paragraph contained a smattering of information about his background and family. I skimmed it quickly and was about to call it a night and sign off when a line jumped out at me:
Hobart, originally from Fort Worth, Texas, is the son of Mrs. George MacDonohoe and the late Thomas Hobart.

You don’t forget a name like MacDonohoe. I’d seen that name only a few days ago, in the torn, stained register pages Grandpa and I found at Pearls Along the Lake.

“Micah Hobart and Renata Pearl Channing must have known each other even as kids,” I muttered as the computer when through its shutdown routine. Brynna came over and nuzzled my hand, and I absently scratched her behind the ear. “Brynna-girl, this just gets curiouser and curiouser.”

C
HAPTER 9

August, 25 years earlier

Fort Worth, Texas

Micah flipped his sweat-stained red ball cap off his brow and sent it sailing across the kitchen, where it snagged a peg on the hat rack, swung back and forth a couple of times, then settled into place. He made a victory fist. “Yes!”

“That you, Micah?” Edith MacDonohoe emerged from the back bedroom with a brimming plastic laundry basket. “How’d practice go?”

He puffed out his chest. “Guess what, Mom? Coach is starting me in Friday’s playoff game.”

“Pitching? Oh, son, I’m so proud of you!” She dropped the basket, pulled him into her arms, and planted a wet kiss on his forehead.

“Cut it out, cut it out!” He laughed and squirmed out of reach.

“Wait till I tell George. He’ll bust his buttons.” Mom wiped her lip prints off his face with the side of her thumb. “Hey, superstar, let’s have a snack to celebrate.”

Micah pulled out a chair in the breakfast nook and plopped down at the table while his mother poured him a tall glass of milk. Sipping slowly, he watched Mom arrange apple slices and peanut butter crackers in a neat circle on a flowered paper plate. He bumped his sneakers against the legs of the chair. “Think George can get off work to come to the game?”

“I’m sure he’ll try his best—careful, there, don’t spill your milk.” Micah’s mother pulled a napkin from the avocado-green ceramic dispenser and dabbed away his milk moustache. “You know George loves you like his own. Has from the day we got married.”

Micah wasn’t sure what to make of the funny, tickly feeling in his chest. Yeah, it felt good to know his step-dad loved him, cared about him as a son. George was a good man—patient, understanding. Loved baseball and fishing and telling gross jokes that made Micah’s friends double over in loud guffaws (and made Mom cringe).

But Micah would always, always miss his real dad.

If Daddy hadn’t died, if they’d never gone to that lake place in Hot Springs, if he’d never met Rennie Pearl . . .

Micah twisted apart a cracker and scraped his front teeth over the peanut butter filling. He closed his eyes and made himself think about the feel of sticky peanut butter on the roof of his mouth, the scratch of cracker crumbs as he swallowed.

“Oh, I nearly forgot,” Mom said. “You got a letter today.”

“Me? It’s not even my birthday or anything.”

“The postmark is Little Rock, Arkansas.” Mom retrieved a plain white envelope off the counter and handed it to him.

The handwriting was girlish—the round, swirling script of a teenager. Little circles dotting the I’s, curling tails at the end of each word . . .

His stomach did a nosedive. He shoved the envelope across the table as if it were on fire.

“Micah, what’s wrong?” His mother planted her hands on her ample hips. “You haven’t even opened it yet.”

His voice dropped to a tense whisper. “It’s from her.”

Edith MacDonohoe picked up the envelope and studied it, front and back. “There’s not even a return address. How do you know who it’s from?”

“I just do,” he said. “It’s from Rennie Pearl.” The name tasted bitter in his mouth, like the memories from last June he tried to forget . . . and knew he never would.

“Oh, my.” His mother sank into a chair and pressed a hand to her forehead. “What would possess that girl to write you a letter? Didn’t you suffer enough? All because of that little tart and her scheming.”

Micah tucked his hands under his armpits. His breath scraped the insides of his lungs. “You open it, Mom. See what it says.”

“Humph, as if you should care.”

The whole world seemed to tilt sideways, time grinding to a near standstill, while he watched his mother slide a ruby-red fingernail under the seal and gently work open the envelope. The soft ripping sound blended with the ticking of the stove clock, the clothes dryer rumbling, Bob Barker announcing the next prize on “The Price Is Right” on the family room TV.

One thin sheet of lined paper slipped out. His mother unfolded it and read softly:

Dear Micah,

I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am for everything. You were only being my friend, trying to do the right thing for me and my sister. I will always love you for that, so promise me you won’t go on blaming yourself. Remember, Jenny’s in a better place now.

Love,

Rennie

Micah’s mother shook her head. “What’s she mean, anyway—‘Jenny’s in a better place’? The poor child is
dead
, for goodness’ sake.”

Micah could almost feel the milk curdling in his roiling stomach. “You know how Mrs. Pearl acted so crazy sometimes. Rennie just means she’s glad her baby sister didn’t have to grow up in that house.”

“If you ask me, Rennie’s the one who’s crazy. Every time we stayed there, I felt like she was always staring at us, giving us the evil eye.” Her whole body quivered, and her mouth puckered like she’d bitten into a lemon. “I wish we’d never gone to that place. Thank goodness they’ve shut it down.”

“Rennie was always nice to me.” Micah said the words in a secret voice, like he was trying to convince himself they were true. They used to be friends, he and Rennie. Didn’t matter that she was a couple years older—Rennie always treated him like he was somebody special. Yeah, she was a little strange, but who wouldn’t be in a family like hers? And anyway, who else was he going to hang out with every summer while Mom and George celebrated their second, third, fourth—how many, he’d lost count—honeymoons at Pearls Along the Lake?

The first time they stayed there, Rennie seemed to know how awkward he felt with his parents acting like lovesick teenagers and no other kids his age around. One day she asked him if he wanted to help her clean cabins. It sure beat sitting in the front of George’s little motorboat while listening to George and Mom smooching in the back. Completely grossed out, he’d pretend not to notice and instead fix his attention on the tree-covered islands they’d pass. One even had campers on it sometimes—weirdoes in blue-jean cutoffs and shirts with beer logos on the front. The guys had shaggy beards and tangled hair even longer than the girls’. One couple owned a big yellow dog that would dart out to a rock overhang and bark like a maniac at the ski boats zipping by.