Chasing Pearl

By Hallee Bridgeman

A package lost in the mail since 1940 brings a modern couple together in a miraculous way.

Bestselling author VIOLET PEARL lives a perfectly content life: she helps run The Texas Pearl, her family’s inn, lives with her sister and grandmother, and attends a great church just a block from home. She has never left her little corner of Texas and has no desire to do so now. In her spare time, Violet mentally travels to far off New York City, 1944, to solve crimes as the widow Mandalynn Clementine, the savvy sleuth in her murder mystery novels.
US Army First Lieutenant CHASE ANDERSON feels like he needs a change. From his duty station in Hawaii, he receives a job offer in the civilian market at the same time he’s asked to coach a pee wee football camp hosted by his alma mater, Texas A&M. Chase decides to take leave and coach the summer camp, intending to also check out the job offer. He has no idea God has other plans for him.
When a time-worn postal package arrives at the inn addressed to Chase Anderson with a 1940 postmark, Violet and Chase discover that his great-grandfather had also visited the inn as a guest all those years before. The box brings them together in a miraculous way, and their feelings for each other begin to grow.
Will Chase resign his commission and live out his days in College Station? Or is Violet willing to break out of her perfectly contented shell and experience life beyond her little corner of Texas?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Olivia Kimbrell Press, Inc.
• Release date: Jan 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781681901268

Hallee Bridgeman

Hallee Bridgeman is a best-selling Christian author who writes action-packed romantic suspense focusing on realistic characters who face real world problems. Her work has been described as everything from refreshing to heart-stopping exciting and edgy. An Army brat turned Floridian, Hallee finally settled in central Kentucky with her family so that she could enjoy the beautiful changing of the seasons. She enjoys the roller-coaster ride thrills that life with a National Guard husband, a teenaged daughter, and two elementary aged sons delivers. A prolific writer, when she's not penning novels, you will find her in the kitchen, which she considers the 'heart of the home'. Her passion for cooking spurred her to launch a whole food, real food "Parody" cookbook series. In addition to nutritious, Biblically grounded recipes, readers will find that each cookbook also confronts some controversial aspect of secular pop culture. Hallee is a member of the Published Author Network (PAN) of the Romance Writers of America (RWA) where she serves as a long time board member in the Faith, Hope, & Love chapter. She is a member of the American Christian Fiction Writers (ACFW) and the American Christian Writers (ACW) as well as being a member of Novelists, Inc. (NINC). Hallee loves coffee, campy action movies, and regular date nights with her husband. Above all else, she loves God with all of her heart, soul, mind, and strength; has been redeemed by the blood of Christ; and relies on the presence of the Holy Spirit to guide her. She prays her work here on earth is a blessing to you and would love to hear from you.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 1

An icy wind blew right under Mandalynn Clementine’s skirt, making her shiver and wish she’d worn wool stockings. She held her hat on her head and ducked into the alley, finally getting some relief from the wind. She clutched her purse closer to her body as her boot heels clicked on the wet pavement. Nervously glancing over her shoulder, she walked further into the alley, moonlight providing the only light. She couldn’t even see the edges of light around the blackout curtains in the windows above her.

She heard the noise again. It sounded like a strange buzzing sound. Hitler had used buzz-bombs against London. Could New York City have finally come under attack? Four long years of war and drills kept Mandalynn on her toes and her ears perked up. No air raid sirens. The sound faded. She looked behind her again but kept going forward. Finally, she saw the chalk outline of the murder victim.

There you are, she said, stopping with her toes just on the edge of the chalk. A large blood stain ruined the symmetry of the outline. So, your killer was right-handed. I guess that narrows it down a little bit.

In her mind’s eye, the chalk blurred and a young sailor in dress blues lay before her, a stab wound in his left side.

What were you doing in this alley, sailor? Some kind of rhubarb, or chasing a dame? The buzzing behind her came back, much louder. She ignored it. Was your killer an anchor clanker, too? What about you? Were you a swigger or did you snap someone’s cap?

Suddenly, the buzzing sound overwhelmed her. Startled, she looked up, her eyes wide with terror. It can’t be! Not now!

***

The shrieking of the alarm pulled Violet Pearl out of 1944 New York City and planted her square back into modern day, College Station, Texas. Annoyed, she swiped at her phone to turn it off. 5:45 AM. She didn’t even have time to pretend to keep going.

Fine! Violet’s East Texas inflection made the soft one-syllable proclamation span the length of nearly an entire second.

Pushing away from her desk, she rolled her head on her neck and blinked, not surprised to feel the dryness of her eyes. She’d started writing last night at eleven and intended to just write for an hour. She’d kept going, though. Eleven turned into two, and two to five-thirty before she even realized the time had gone by.

She reached over and flicked off the old big-band music playing on her satellite radio and raised her arms above her head, yawning. As she mentally thumbed through the coming day’s events, she identified three open hours when she could nap. Nodding to herself, she pulled her nightshirt over her head and slipped into a pair of denim shorts and a T-shirt bearing the logo of The Texas Pearl, her family’s inn. She took a moment to go into the bathroom and splash cool water onto her face, then looked in the mirror. With the right color on, her eyes looked nearly as violet as her name.

This morning, red cracks covered the whites of her tired blue eyes. She opened the medicine cabinet and found a bottle of eye drops, gasping when the cold drop hit her right eye. Blinking both eyes against the cool liquid, she felt more refreshed already. Violet knew she couldn’t fool Grandma Vi with eye drops and a face splashed with cold water, but Gran had long since given up on trying to make her keep regular hours.

Violet left her room and stepped into the dark, quiet living quarters in the basement of the inn. She could see a light on under her sister, Scarlett’s, door but didn’t disturb her. Instead, she went upstairs. In the front room of the inn, she turned on a couple of lamps and walked across the gleaming hardwood floors. She slid open the dining room door, slipped into the room, and shut the door behind her. If she left it open, the early rising guests would come on in, and they still had a lot of set up to do before opening the room.

Going through the kitchen door, Violet flicked on the kitchen lights and went straight for the coffee machine in the corner. She’d preloaded it before going downstairs last night, so all she had to do was press a button, and the sound of the coffee grinder filled the room. Knowing it would spit the ground coffee into the basket and begin brewing without her assistance, she looked at the whiteboard to see what her sister had written down for the breakfast menu. Biscuits, scrambled eggs, turkey sausage, corned beef hash, crepes with fresh fruit, oatmeal. Nodding, she went over each item and mentally arranged the order of preparation. After washing her hands, she went into the supply room and reached up on the top shelf for the big silver bowl.

Her grandmother had to go up two steps on the step ladder to reach that shelf. Violet had long given up hope that she’d somehow lose six inches off of her five-ten height and become beautiful and petite like the other women in her family. Instead, she got to be taller than even the men in her family.

She loaded the bowl with palm shortening, a pre-measured bag of flour freshly ground with their own grain mill, salt, baking soda, and baking powder. When she walked back into the kitchen, she found Scarlett at the sink. Even though they were sisters, they looked nothing alike. While Violet had straight reddish-brown hair, Scarlett had thick wavy red hair with green eyes that shown from her face. She also stood about five inches shorter than her sister.

Hey there, Scarlett, Violet greeted, stopping at the refrigerator to pull out a pound of butter and a jug of buttermilk. After setting everything on the big stainless-steel work table, she switched on the oven and started making biscuits.

Morning, Scarlett replied. Gran wanted crepes this morning.

While one might consider Violet’s Texas drawl to sound thick and sweet, like syrup, Scarlett’s sounded thick like frozen molasses on the coldest day of winter at the bottom of a frozen lake. Scarlett stood on her toes to reach above her and pull the large silver pot off of the chain to start making the oatmeal.

So I have been reliably informed.

Saw your room light on when I went to bed. How late did you work last night? Violet shrugged and cut the butter into the flour mixture. All night, huh? Gonna be a long day with you all catawampus. We have guests going and coming.

I know. Don’t squat on your spurs. I have a three-hour window I can use to catch some shuteye. She used her hands to mix in the buttermilk until the dough was the perfect consistency. While she worked, she made a mental note of what she needed to accomplish today. The Texas Pearl Inn was currently full of guests and would stay booked to almost full occupancy through the end of summer. That made for long days. Not that Violet minded hard work or long days. She’d grown up here and loved this inn as much as the rest of her family did.

For the last five years, she and Scarlett had gradually taken on more and more responsibilities, allowing their grandmother to let more go. They started making breakfast at six every morning, did most of the housekeeping during the day, and kept up the tradition of offering a soup and homemade bread station to the guests in the evenings.

Today, after breakfast cleanup, she needed to see about getting the old Weedeater fixed. She also needed to make delivery arrangements with the two organic farms that handled their summer produce needs. Scarlett, who had graduated from culinary school in San Antonio and ran a catering company out of the inn’s kitchen, had a wedding on the books next month. Violet needed to ensure they could handle the catering order. Otherwise, they’d need to find another supplier to help supplement.

With the biscuits in the oven and some corned beef hash sizzling under a broiler, she took a sip of cooling coffee then started slicing melon, pausing when the kitchen door opened. Grandma Vi walked in, pulling an apron over her white head.

How’s my girls? she asked, heading straight for the sink to wash her hands.

Hey, there, Gran, Violet greeted.

Morning, Gran, Scarlett said from the sink. She had a colander full of strawberries and blueberries. I’m making a mixed berry syrup for your crepes.

Those berries are so good this year. Them blueberries is big as bull’s eyes. That’s going to taste sweeter than stolen honey. Grandma Vi disappeared into the supply room and returned carrying a large silver bowl, a metal whisk, and a pre-measured bag of flour and leavening. Jacob told me Wilma’s looking to scare up a little bit of pin money now that the baby’s cutting teeth. Jacob was Grandma Vi’s nephew, making Wilma their second or third cousin. Violet never could keep up with the sprawling family in their corner of Texas. Grandma Vi paused at the refrigerator and pulled out a flat of eggs and some whole milk, using the bowl to carry them.

Scarlett nodded. Yes, ma’am. She stopped by yesterday evening. Told me the baby’s teething and keeping her up all hours. I gave her a finger of fresh ginger and told her to try it.

Ginger always worked with you girls. Your mama swore by it.

Violet laughed. Because her mother-in-law did!

Yes, I did on account of it works, Grandma Vi agreed. Anyway, have her come over and grind some flour and measure it out for us for the next couple of weeks. We can store it in the freezer to keep the flour fresh. Cornmeal, too, come to think of it. That idea of yours sure has saved time in the mornings. I don’t know how we’ve run this place for eighty years before you two started coming up with ideas. I swear, you’re both just as bright as new pennies.

Violet felt her shoulders straighten with a little bit of pride. Thank you, Gran.

Nothin’ but the truth. You’re both like hooty owls, She dumped the flour into the bowl. When she finishes that, if the baby is still cooperating, she can do the deep cleaning of the rooms that are emptying today. I think eight and eleven are due.

Yes, ma’am. Eight and eleven, Scarlett confirmed.

Violet felt relieved that Wilma could handle the deep cleaning. Maybe she could stretch that three-hour nap into four. She wiped her hands on a towel and pulled her phone out of her back pocket, taking a moment to shoot Wilma a quick text. That’s perfect, she said, picking the knife back up. I needed some help today. Scarlett has to do a lunch catering order, so we were a hand or two short.

Who needs catering today, Chef Scarlett? Grandma Vi asked.

Gardening Club luncheon. Just fifteen. I’m keeping it simple. Scarlett added honey to the freshly washed berries and tossed a cinnamon stick into the pot. I’m delivering it to them at eleven-thirty.

The women worked in silence for a while. Violet let her mind wander back to that icy alley and the dead sailor. What clues did she plan to leave for the reader in the alley? Of course, she knew how the story ended, but she enjoyed giving her readers just enough information to make them feel like they could have solved it, too.

The timer went off, bringing her back into the kitchen and reminding her that she had biscuits in the oven. As Violet took the biscuits out of the oven, Scarlett said, Jacob called and asked me to hold a room. We’ll be hosting the guest coach for the football summer camp that starts up right after the Fourth. I went ahead and booked room six starting next Sunday through the end of the summer. Not positive how long it’s needed for, but I know the camp is at least two months.

Six is about as big as the little end of nothing, Violet observed.

It’ll just be the one cowpoke. Frees up the larger rooms for the couples and families on the books.

Violet checked the oatmeal and lowered the temperature on her way to the storage room, where she grabbed a silver bowl and a whisk. Coming back in the kitchen, she stopped at the refrigerator and took out another dozen eggs.

I remember not so long ago, Grandma Vi said, walking over to the stove and reaching above her head to pull two crepe pans off of the rack, the only time we were full was when something big was happening at the school. Grandma always called Texas A&M the school, ever since Violet could remember. Now it’s all the time. Good to see full books.

Yes, ma’am. Violet glanced at the clock on the wall. They had about thirty minutes before service. She needed to get eggs cracked.

Uncle Drew pushed through the kitchen door, carrying the coffee pots from the commercial coffee maker in the dining room. He had bushy black and silver hair that he could barely tame on a good day, and today stood out everywhere, making him look like a slightly crazy professor. He headed for the sink but stopped at Vi’s elbow and quickly kissed her cheek. Hey, there, mama. Good morning.

Mornin’, son. She gestured with her chin while she expertly flicked her wrist, causing the crepe to fly up in the air, flip mid-air, and land perfectly back on the pan. If you need more coffee, I picked some up yesterday.

Should be okay this morning. I reckon there’s enough to make it strong.

Scarlett nodded. So strong it’ll walk into your cup.

Drew looked at the whiteboard while he filled the carafes. You don’t want any grapefruit juice set out?

Scarlett shook her head. Tomato. Clive delivered double my tomato order, so I made some juice yesterday.

Violet whisked the eggs and glanced at the clock again. Everything felt on target for breakfast service. Unwillingly, her mind drifted back to New York City and the chalk outline of a sailor.

***

Though dressed in civilian attire, United States Army First Lieutenant Chase Anderson stood behind the red velvet ropes in front of the white marble wall, nearly standing rigidly at attention though he likely didn’t realize it. His eyes stared in the direction of the gilded words To the Memory of the Gallant Men Here Entombed and their shipmates who gave their lives in action on December 7, 1941 on the U.S.S. Arizona followed by the long, long list of names and ranks.

Chase stood but did not read the words, did not glance left or right, did not hear the noises of the reporters and camera crews or the sailors alongside him. He stood very still, and the entire world, the solar system, the universe all rotated and spun around him like a cyclone. Chase Anderson remained motionless in the midst of the emotional maelstrom except that he swallowed hard over and over, and struggled to fight back unwanted memories and unmanly tears.

Lieutenant Anderson?

Had he looked to his left on the southwest of the white bridge known as the World War II Valor in the Pacific National Monument, he doubtless would have seen six of the nine total 16-inch main guns of the Battleship Missouri that guarded the watery graves of Battleship Row here in Honolulu. Had he spared a glance to his right to the northeast of where he stood, he would have seen the pylon that, like a bone white tombstone, marked the location where the Battleship Nevada had died on that day that will live in infamy, the first of so many ships that found a watery grave.

Beneath his feet, beneath the warm Pacific waves, the national cemetery known as the Battleship Arizona rested on her keel in the warm Pacific sand of Pearl Harbor’s ocean floor. If he had cared to, if he had paid any attention, his nostrils might have even detected the sharp smell of the oil and fuel that still leaked up from the superstructure of the sunken ship and perpetually slicked the surface of the water below the memorial bridge even now, so many decades after the Japanese attack.

While he stood at the epicenter of one of the most bloody and costly military attacks in the history of warfare, right in the very heart of Oahu’s Pearl Harbor, 1LT Anderson’s mind roamed far from the Pacific, far from Hawaii, far from the sights and sounds and smells and the unforgettable and undeniable weight of history that surrounded him on every side. Moments after he arrived at the velvet ropes, his eyes had locked on a single name in the long list; ANDERSON, C CDR. The moment Chase read the name and rank of his great-grandfather on this wall for the first time in his life, entirely unexpected and equally inexplicable grief had compressed the very heart in his chest like a tight fist.

Shortly after his arrival at his new duty station, the local news agencies had figured out that a living descendant and namesake of one of the names that adorned this