Pearl of Great Price (15 page)

Popular lake resort is site of tragic drowning: twelve-year-old driver of boat being questioned, search for child’s body continues

No charges filed in toddler’s death; drowning officially ruled accident

Pearls Along the Lake closes, family grieving loss of daughter

The drowning wasn’t news to me, but why had my grandfather saved all these clippings? And why had he given them to me now? “What are you trying to tell me, Grandpa?”

The last clipping was a death notice for Jennifer Susan Pearl, dated twenty-five years ago, almost to the day:

 . . . The child’s tragic drowning occurred June 21 near the family-owned resort, Pearls Along the Lake. Jennifer Susan is survived by her parents, Everett Roy and Lucille Marie (McLain) Pearl, and sister, Renata Louise Pearl, of Hot Springs; and one aunt, Geneva Pearl Nelson . . .

A memorial service is scheduled for June 27 at 2 p.m. at Mountain Valley Christian Fellowship Church. In lieu of flowers, the family asks that memorial gifts be made to the church’s building fund for the new Sunday school wing. . . .

My gaze drifted from the page as images zigzagged through my brain. Images of a little girl who drowned twenty-five years ago. Images of a golden-haired toddler whose body was never found.

JSP—Jennifer Susan Pearl.

JPS—Julie Pearl Stiles.

Goose bumps rose on my arms, and it felt like every breath of air had been sucked from the room. Grandpa
knew
. Deep in his heart, he had to have known. But he let a family keep on grieving, mourning the death of their precious little girl. He let them blame a desperate and confused teenager, whose only real crime was desiring a safer, saner life for herself and her baby sister. He let a young boy grow up believing he was responsible for a little girl’s death.

A little girl who wasn’t dead at all, who’d grown up believing her name was Julie Pearl Stiles.

C
HAPTER 17

Along about 3:00 a.m., tears all used up and the initial shock finally easing off, I trudged downstairs to wait for Micah outside the door to his office suite. I wouldn’t call him at home to say what I had to tell him. No sense both of us losing a good night’s rest. But I wanted to be the first person he saw when he arrived.

A subtle vibration stirred me awake. Not that I’d done more than lightly doze, my arms wrapped around one of the thick foam pillows from my hotel room. My spine was in knots and my seat bones felt numb from sitting on the floor half the night.

“Julie, what on earth—” Micah dropped his briefcase and knelt beside me. “How long have you been waiting here?”

I forced a laugh. “Don’t ask. Would you help me up? I don’t think I can move.”

He got to his feet, then lifted me. I groaned as my back unkinked. Natural as breathing, I wrapped my arms around his waist and pressed my cheek deep into the cleft of his shoulder. It felt good to lean on someone warm and solid, someone tall enough to look down on me, someone who could make me feel safe and protected.

“Julie, you’re shaking. What’s wrong?” He stroked my hair, and his fingers got all tangled up in my mess of a braid.

I didn’t want to let go of him, not ever.

But we had some talking to do. Taking a half-step backward, I pulled my hair over my shoulder and tugged off the loose rubber band. I wrapped the band around two fingers and popped it over and over, as if the activity would drain some of my agitation. “Can we go inside? I need to tell you something. Something important.”

Eyebrows drawn together, Micah pulled a card key from the pocket of his oxford button-down and slid it through the reader. When the green light blinked, he shoved open the heavy door. The suite lay in semi-darkness, the drapes billowing over the humming air conditioner. Micah flipped a light switch, and two wall lamps flickered on.

I went to the window and pushed back the drapes. Beyond the parking lot, cars wrangled for lane space on Highway 7 in Hot Springs’ version of morning rush hour—not a safe place to be this time of day.

Was anywhere safe anymore?

I heard water running at the wet bar, then a burbling sound as Micah filled the reservoir of the coffeemaker. “Need some breakfast?” he asked. “I can have room service send something over.”

“She didn’t die, Micah.” I spoke the words without looking at him.

“What?”

“The little girl. Jenny Pearl. She didn’t drown.”

A drawer slammed shut. “Are you trying to convince me there’s a God? That Jenny’s happily playing in heaven now?”

“No, that isn’t what this is about.” I went to him, took the unopened foil coffee packet out of his hand, and pulled him over to the window, where the morning light could shine bright and full upon my face. “Look at me, Micah. Take a good, long look.”

His face contorted in confusion and anger. “Whatever this is about, just stop it. I’ve told you what I went through back then.”

“Please, Micah,
look at me
.” I grabbed tufts of his beard and forced him to make eye contact. “Isn’t there something about me you recognize?”

He stumbled backward, catching his thigh on the corner of the conference table. Wincing, he rubbed a hand along the seam of his blue jeans. “You’re talking crazy. I mean it. Stop.”

“No, listen. It’s true. I was so sure we were connected somehow, but I couldn’t have been more wrong about how and why.” In a rush of words I told him about Grandpa’s letter and the newspaper clippings. An image grabbed me. “It was the dog, I bet, the one you told me about. He must have swum out and dragged me to shore. Everybody else was so busy rescuing you and Renata, they probably didn’t see—”

“Now you’re
really
imagining things.” Micah slumped into one of the barrel-shaped chairs and pressed his palms into his eye sockets. “I don’t want to hear any more of this.”

“You have to, Micah, because it all makes perfect sense.” I sat across from him, hands clasped. “It explains so much—Grandpa’s reservations about me getting to know you, my terrible fear of drowning. It explains why Mama lied about my father on my birth certif—”

I grabbed my head to keep it from spinning right off my neck. Of course. I was the proud owner of a forged birth certificate. Could you get arrested for that?

Micah leaned back and stared at me. “But there were boats all over the lake that day. How could nobody notice?”

“I don’t know.” I lowered my hands and forced a breath. “Maybe the current carried us out of everyone’s sight by the time the dog got me to shore. My mother—I mean the woman I’ve always believed was my mother—must have found me.”

He crossed his arms. “This woman witnesses a boating accident, then finds a half-drowned baby, but she doesn’t report it to the cops?”

When he said it like that, I realized how foolish it all sounded. No one in their right mind would even think about running off with someone else’s child, unless . . .

Staring into space, I pictured the woman in the few photographs I’d seen of my—of Angie Stiles. I imagined a restless, rootless young woman camping on an island with a bunch of freewheeling ne’er-do-wells. I imagined her desperation and loneliness, wishing she’d never turned her back on her own family. I imagined her finding a lost baby girl and seeing me as a gift meant just for her, the answer to years of yearning for something that would give her life meaning.

I tried to voice these thoughts to Micah. “Maybe she thought if she had a child, she could turn her life around. Everybody thought Jenny was dead, so if my mother kept her—me—then left Hot Springs, changed my name, and somehow faked a birth certificate to prove I was hers, who would know?”

“Good story, Julie, but what proof do you have? A bunch of newspaper clippings and an ambiguous letter from your grandfather.”

My voice thickened. “I have this.” I pulled the blue gingham sailor cap from my back pocket. In the brighter light of morning, I could make out the mud and water stains, still faintly visible even after repeated washings.

For long minutes the only sounds were the whirring air conditioner and Micah’s slow, labored breathing. He gazed at the cap, his eyes crinkling at the corners and wetness pooling along the bridge of his nose. “Jenny?” The name came out like sandpaper on rough wood. He crushed the sailor cap to his chest. “Oh, my God. Jenny.”

Those four murmured words didn’t begin to convey the whirlwind of emotions I read in Micah’s eyes. Hope that the little girl he never meant to harm hadn’t drowned after all. Gratitude for a second chance at making things right. Utter amazement that Jennifer Susan Pearl might be sitting across from him right this minute, all grown up and alive as she could be.

My own eyes filled with tears—from sadness, relief, or joy, I couldn’t say. Probably all those reasons and then some.

But one question kept running through my head, begging for an answer:

Now that I know, what happens next?

~~~

Micah rose like an old man and rubbed the back of his neck. “This is a lot to take in so early in the morning. I need some coffee. How about you?”

Snow White was back in my hotel room, so I reached for his wrist to read the time on his watch—8:25. My stomach growled. “I think I’m ready for breakfast.”

He stared at me, shaking his head, laughing softly. “You just hit me with the most incredible possibility I could ever hope for, and you’re thinking about food? Honestly, Julie—Jenny— Good grief, if this really is true, what do I call you?”

“Let’s stick with Julie.” I paced to the wood-framed mirror over a credenza. “I don’t have a clue what Jennifer Susan Pearl is all about.”

Micah stood behind me, his hands on my shoulders. “Are you planning to find out?”

“I think I have to.” Our gazes met in the mirror—his forehead creased with a million questions, my eyes wide and jumpy with questions of my own. I swung around to face him. “I need to go—right now. I’ll get breakfast later.”

“Wait. We need to talk more about this.”

“Oh, Micah, I can’t.” I hugged him again, briefly, then hurried to the door. “You’re not the only one who needs to know the truth.”

“You’re going to see
her
?” His voice had a strange catch in it.

Pulling open the door, I glanced back at him with a smile that was half exultant, half terrified. “She is my sister, after all.” After years of believing I was an only child, it felt strange to say it, to realize I had a living, breathing sibling.

Micah strode toward me and shoved the door, ripping the knob out of my hand. “Julie, don’t. You have no idea what you’re getting yourself into.”

I rubbed my palm. “What I’m getting myself into is reconnecting with the family I never had a chance to know. What’s wrong with that?”

“You don’t know Renata. You don’t know what she’s capable of. If you really are Jenny, she’ll—”

“You keep saying
if
. Micah, don’t you
want
it to be true?”

“I told you, nothing would make me happier, but—”

Voices echoed in the corridor, Sandy calling a greeting to one of the housekeeping staff. I glanced toward the door to the adjoining room. “Can I get out through there? I don’t have the strength to repeat all this to Sandy just now.”

Micah looked sideways at me. “Yeah, sure. Just don’t leave the hotel without telling me. Promise me that much.”

I didn’t answer. I couldn’t promise. Not if he intended to talk me out of seeing Renata. I slipped into the next room and out the other door.

~~~

Renata Pearl Channing. Mrs. Lawrence Eugene Channing. Neither listing appeared in the Little Rock phone directory I’d borrowed at the McDonald’s where I’d stopped for a late breakfast. I shouldn’t be surprised a family as rich as the Channings had an unlisted number. I did find a listing, however, for the Channing Children’s Foundation. Parked in the sweltering sun outside the McDonald’s, I used my cell phone to call the number.

A cheery receptionist answered. “Hi,” I said. “I’m trying to reach Mrs. Channing.”

“She . . . isn’t available at this time.”

“Okay, when should I call back?” Leaving a message didn’t sound like the best option, under the circumstances. I fanned myself with a wrinkled Arkansas map, folded back to show the Little Rock inset. My phone wasn’t fancy enough to have one of those GPS things.

Throat clearing, papers rustling. “Excuse me, ma’am, I’ll have to transfer you to our manager.”

Elevator music, just what I needed. I hummed along with repeated golden oldies by Barry Manilow, John Tesh, Neil Diamond . . . I swore if “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers” played one more time, I’d hang up and head back to Caddo Pines.

“Good morning, this is Dana Ellis. May I be of assistance?”

As patiently as I could manage, I expressed my urgent need to contact Renata Channing.

I didn’t care for the condescending tone of Ms. Ellis’s response. “I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mrs. Channing does not maintain an office here.”

“But she’s your founder and president. Your Web site says so.”

“I realize that. But Mrs. Channing’s . . . involvement . . . takes place outside the scope of these offices.”

In other words, she just showed up for the picture. I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. This was getting me nowhere fast. And I’d already lost twenty-five years.

“Okay,” I said, “can I leave my number with you? Can you have her return my call?”

“I suppose so . . . if she checks in, that is.”

Ms. Ellis’s tone suggested it wasn’t very likely she would.

“Can you call her? Page her? Send her an e-mail?”

“Mrs. Channing prefers not to be disturbed unless it’s absolutely necess—”

“It
is
absolutely necessary.” Annoyance and fatigue threatened to strangle me. The adrenaline high that had kept me going since last night was quickly winding down.