Finding Hope (5 page)

Hope cut a length of embroidery floss and separated the strands. “You think I'm unsophisticated,” she accused.

“Delightfully so,” he agreed, shifting to a more comfortable position in his chair. He picked up her tiny scissors and examined them. “I'm sick of worldly women.”

“Yeah,
right,
” she mocked as she threaded her needle.
“This from a man who wears Armani suits and drives a Mercedes!”

He ignored that. “How do you feel about Indian food?”

“Mmm—I'm wild about lamb curry. But today we're limited to casual restaurants, unless you want me to go home and change.” She held out her arms so he could inspect her coffee-brown T-shirt and baggy black jeans.

She supposed she ought to start dressing more carefully if she was determined to hang out with Dr. Moneybags. He always looked classy and she felt like a waif beside him.

“You're fine,” he said with apparent unconcern.

Easy for him to say. He looked as if he'd just stepped out of a fashion spread in one of those magazines she couldn't afford to subscribe to. Just once she'd like to see him in blue jeans and a ratty T-shirt. Maybe with a shoelace untied.

He interrupted her reverie. “It's just lunch, Hope. Nobody's going to call the fashion police on you.”

She was unconvinced. “I won't embarrass you?”

“You?” He looked honestly surprised. “Never.”

Well, if he really didn't mind, she wasn't going to worry about it. She remembered something. “Charlie, how about letting me take you to a ball game tonight? A friend has offered me his tickets for the Cubs. First row in the club box, right behind home plate. I've already asked three girlfriends, but they wouldn't dream of wasting a Saturday night with me and the Cubbies when they can go out with dashing young men, instead.”

“So I'm fourth choice. How very flattering.”

“I thought you'd be busy saving people tonight,” she pointed out.

“No. Tonight they'll just have to take their chances with Dr. Olmstead.”

“I'll drive,” Hope offered. “You need to relax. Besides, you probably don't know the best way to get to Comiskey Park.”

“Hope, the Cubs are at Wrigley Field. The White Sox are at Comiskey.” His eyes darkened with suspicion. “Did you honestly think I wouldn't know that?”

“Just making sure.” She sniggered. “I wouldn't want to waste these good tickets on someone who doesn't like baseball.”

He folded his arms over his chest and gave her a disgusted look. “Hope, I was playing baseball two years before you were born.”

She scooped up her sewing things and bent to stuff them into the canvas bag that sat on the floor. “Play catch with the chauffeur, did you, rich boy?” she asked wickedly.

Lightning-quick, he leaned forwards and gave her ponytail a teasing tug. “Little League,” he corrected. “Third base. Of course Mother hated my playing with the ‘dirty urchins,' as she called them, but Granddad told her it was a rite of passage for American boys. They let me play for two years, then I had to quit. But later, Tom got to play. I enjoyed watching him, but I was always a little envious. I had some natural ability and I wanted desperately to play.”

“Did your parents go to your games?”

“No. Never. But Granddad came a few times, and we appreciated that.” His eyes held a faraway look that was a little sad and very unlike the tight, angry expression he usually wore when he spoke of his family. “Hope, that's about as far as I want to stroll down memory lane, if you don't mind.”

She nodded, understanding, then she gave him a bright smile and changed the subject. “Let's go say goodbye to Gramps.”

 

Even though the Cubs were down by three runs going into the bottom of the sixth inning, Hope was having a wonderful time. Charles, appearing completely relaxed as he roundly criticized umpires and shouted helpful instructions to the players, was learning how to eat sunflower seeds like a major leaguer.

Hope directed him to put a handful of shells in his mouth, separate one from the rest, use his tongue and teeth to extract the tiny seed, then spit out the empty shell.

“Hold them in your cheek, like a squirrel,” she encouraged. “Then do them one at a time. It's an art form.”

He gave her a doubtful look.

She grabbed his wrist as his hand moved to extract a shell from his mouth. “No,” she said firmly. “That's not the way I showed you.”

“Do you honestly expect me to spit?”

“Look around you, Charlie. You're at a ballpark, not the Ritz hotel. Loosen up!”

He did, literally. He had left his suit coat in Hope's car, but now he unknotted his tie and pulled it off, wordlessly handing it to her. He unbuttoned his collar and rolled up the sleeves of his sapphire-blue dress shirt.

The crowd roared as the Cubs loaded the bases. When the visiting team's manager headed out to the mound, Hope giggled and blew a goodbye kiss to the pitcher.

She draped Charles's tie around her neck and tied a neat four-in-hand knot as he looked on. Then she undid it and tied a half-Windsor, followed by a Shelby.

When Charles's attention wandered she elbowed him. “Don't you want to see my Ronald Reagan Special? When he was president he always did the full Windsor.”

He leaned close so she could hear him over the wild crowd. “You're too young to remember President Rea
gan. And, Hope, I would rethink the navy tie with the brown T-shirt.”

She ignored him, groaning in dismay at a called strike that clearly would have been “ball four” to any umpire with twenty-twenty vision.

“Which of your brothers played ball?” Charles inquired, grimacing as the batter struck out on the next pitch.

“All of them played varsity in high school, but Mark played in college, too. He taught me how to throw a curve.”

Charles leaned forwards and spit elegantly.

Hope picked up the shell that landed in her lap and soberly handed it back to him. “Don't spit into the wind,” she deadpanned. “It's the mark of an amateur.”

He looked sheepish. “Sorry. When I'm finished with this mouthful of seeds, do you think you might buy me a hotdog?”

“Yes,” she promised. “And ice cream, if you're good.”

“I don't like ice cream, but I'll be good anyway,” he offered, spitting another shell as she watched approvingly. “Please don't tell anyone I actually did this.”

She hooted at that. “Are you kidding? I've got people taking pictures! You'll have to outbid the tabloids to get 'em. Just how rich
are
you, anyway?”

He patted her knee. “Kid, you can't count that high. Hey, guess who's up next!” he said, drawing her attention back to the game. Another batter had gone down swinging, but the bases were still loaded and the team's home-run champion was approaching the plate.

“We need this!” Charles shouted. “Come on! Give us a grand slam!”

It actually happened, and with the rest of the crowd, Charles and Hope leaped to their feet.

“Do it, Hope!” Charles yelled.

She watched in wonder as he laughed and pounded his hands together.

“Come on, Hope!” he urged again, poking at her ribs.

She'd never been more motivated to whistle in all her life. This would be the granddaddy of them all—a whistle of praise and unrestrained joy. She took a deep breath to steady herself. Then she filled her lungs again and whistled long and loud, shrilly enough to rattle car windows in the parking lot.

Women recoiled and men stared, unbelieving. Little boys watched and worshiped. Three ballplayers turned to look at Hope and one lifted his cap in awed appreciation.

Charles covered his ears and laughed like a tickled ten-year-old.

Gazing up into his face, Hope thrilled to the sight and sound of him. She'd known him for almost a month, but she'd never seen him laugh like this. She hugged herself, thinking that if she accomplished nothing else in life she would still count her time on earth well spent because on this night she had done a marvelous thing: she had made sober, cynical Dr. Hartman laugh until his eyes were wet with tears.

 

The ball game was over, but Charles didn't want this night to be. He hadn't had this much fun in years. Strike that: he had
never
had this much fun. Not in his entire life.

It was all Hope. In three short weeks the girl had shaken his world.

They strolled back to her car without speaking. It was a balmy, beautiful evening and Hope was happy, humming under her breath, almost skipping beside Charles. Her hands were shoved deep into the pockets of her jeans and he could hear the jingle of her keys and loose change.

“Charlie, where's my car?” she asked suddenly.

“Over there.” He pointed.

“Oh!” She giggled. “Now you know why I brought you.” As she lifted her arms and executed a giddy pirouette someone behind them shouted.

“Hope Evans! Hey there, Twinkle Toes! How are you, sweetheart?” She was scooped into the arms of a large young man who squeezed her until she actually squeaked.

“Ryan!” Her voice was muffled in his bear hug. “It's great to see you!”

As the man let her go, another grabbed her and soundly kissed her forehead. “How ya doin', Shortstop?”

“Scott! I thought you were in Florida these days?”

Charles watched in amazement as the second man stepped back, allowing another to take his place.

“T.J., how's my boy?” Hope squealed, thumping him on the back as she hugged him. “Oh, it's so good to see you guys!”

She stood back, beaming at each of them in turn, and Charles looked around to see whether there were any more men in line to hug her. He thought briefly about taking a turn himself, but she was already making introductions.

All three of the men had played high school baseball with Hope's two middle brothers, Mark and Luke. They treated Hope like an adored little sister, and Charles guessed she had been something of a mascot to the team.

They chatted for a few minutes, then Hope hugged each of the men and said goodbye.

“They're so grown up!” she marveled to Charles as she unlocked her car. “I haven't seen them since my eighteenth birthday party, when they were just out of college. That was only five years ago, but it makes a huge difference, doesn't it?”

“Not to me. Five years is merely another drop in the bucket.”

“Oh, stop talking like an old man,” she scolded as she slid into the driver's seat.

Charles wondered, not for the first time, why a charmer like Hope was uninterested in romance. He supposed that someone had broken her heart. He wondered who. And when. And how.

But most of all, he wondered why. It was impossible for him to understand how any man could bring himself to hurt Hope Evans.

H
ope was in the habit of exchanging e-mails with her father at least once a week. In the past three weeks she'd written quite a bit about Charles and had asked her parents to pray for him.

Now she stared at her computer screen, rereading a disturbing message from her father.

Hope clicked the “message delete” button so she wouldn't have to see the note again. She'd write to her father later, when she wasn't feeling so sad and lonely.

She switched off her computer and wandered into the kitchen, where she heated a cup of water in the microwave oven. She unwrapped a bag of chamomile tea, holding it to her nose for a comforting sniff before dropping it into the hot water. The scent reminded her of her mother, who enjoyed a cup of herb tea and a few verses of Scripture each night before bed.

“Why am I so blue tonight?” The sound of Hope's voice startled Bob. His ears perked up and his golden-brown eyes studied her face, alert for any sign that she wanted him.

Hope understood what her father was saying, but she wasn't dating Charles. She
didn't
date, not ever. Not since Trevor Daniels.

Even now, nearly seven years after the night her heart had been ripped in two, the painful memories invaded her waking hours as well as her dreams.

“No,” she moaned. She leaned against the kitchen counter for support. “I can't think about him tonight.” But she did….

He had a beautiful smile. He turned it on her now, and she caught her breath. He had perfect teeth, movie-star white, and he was smiling just for her. Hope felt a thrill in her chest.

“You look incredible, Hope. Absolutely gorgeous. And yellow is a beautiful color on you.”

She was pleased that Trevor liked her new dress. He moved closer and she lifted her arms as his went around her waist. She leaned against him, glorying in the warm, solid feel of him.

She was not quite seventeen and he was nearly twenty. Her parents were strict about dating, so she and Trevor had never actually been alone. They'd shared only quick, stolen kisses, and Hope had known nothing but the light
est brush of his mouth against hers. Tonight, though, he was finally going to kiss her properly. She'd been dreaming about this moment for weeks.

Overflowing with love, she lifted her face to his….

Hope's throat tightened and she brushed tears from her eyes. As she slumped against the counter she heard the soft jingle of Bob's collar. He came and sat at her feet, willing to help in any way he could.

“Oh, God,” she whispered brokenly. “It's been so many years. Will it never stop hurting?”

Trevor Daniels was dead, and with him had been buried every girlish dream Hope had cherished about love and marriage.

She removed the soggy tea bag from her cup and stirred in a spoonful of sugar. If only her parents could understand just how immune she was to romance. She wasn't going to fall in love, not with Charles or anyone else. Men didn't interest her in that way, not since Trevor.

She wrapped her hands around the warm cup. Closing her eyes, she sipped slowly as she listened to the loud, familiar rhythm of Granny Evans's old mantel clock.

On a current of loneliness Hope drifted into the living room, where she found comfort in touching the well-loved objects that made this house feel like home. Her father's favorite chair, her mother's treasured Staffordshire china dogs, framed photographs of the boys and their families—all were balm to Hope's wounded heart.

A lamp spilled soft light over one end of the sofa, calling attention to the rumpled floral slipcover. Two small pillows had been squashed against the armrest and on the table, ice cubes melted in a half-finished glass of mint tea.

Just over an hour ago, Charles had occupied that corner, listening to a ball game on television as he worked the crossword puzzle from last Sunday's paper.

Hope smoothed the slipcover and plumped the pillows. Then she switched off the light and picked up the glass. As she headed back to the kitchen, something made her turn and look again at the corner, now dark and empty, and her blues were banished by a single thought: He would come again tomorrow.

 

On Sunday afternoon as he approached room 6120, Charles heard a commotion. John Seltzer had visitors—was Hope among them? Stopping to look in the doorway, he was overcome with dread. Low voices and quiet sobs told him the family had gathered for a deathwatch.

He hadn't spoken to Hope since late yesterday afternoon when he had watched a ball game at her house. But she had told him then that the old man appeared to be slipping. She had planned to consult with Gramps's doctor before asking Pastor Bill Barnes to notify the Seltzer family.

Now two men and three women surrounded the old man's bed, but Hope was not with them. Biting his lip, Charles looked up and down the hall. Where was she? He addressed one of the men. “I'm sorry to trouble you, but have you seen Hope?”

“Hope?” The man looked blank, but one of the women turned to face Charles. She pushed her eyeglasses up to her forehead and dabbed at her red-rimmed eyes with a ragged wad of tissues. “You must mean Hope Evans. She was here earlier, but she left as soon as we arrived. That must have been a couple of hours ago.”

He found her in the lounge, in her usual corner. She had kicked off her sneakers and was sitting cross-legged in an armchair, hugging an open Bible. Her head rested against the high back of the chair and her eyes were closed. Her lips moved slightly, so Charles took the chair next to her and waited.

Her eyes opened. “I'm glad you're here,” she said wearily, her voice barely audible. “I wanted you.”

“You could have paged me,” he chided gently.

She closed her Bible and placed it on the table next to her. “I didn't want to disturb you.”

“I was just rounding, Hope. I could have—”

“Oh, Charlie!” Her eyes clouded and her chin quivered. “Gramps is going to—”

“I know,” he said softly. In mute sympathy he surveyed her tear-streaked face. His fingers itched to brush back the strands of loose hair that clung to her damp cheeks, but he was afraid to touch her and he didn't know exactly why. He felt relieved when she tipped her head back, caught the errant strands with her fingertips and hooked them behind her small ears.

“Wouldn't you rather be in there?”

“His family is with him,” she responded quietly.

He bristled. “You belong in that room if anyone does. I'm sure you've done more for him than—”

She cut him off. “Charlie, please don't.” She lowered her wet, spiky lashes, hiding her eyes from him. “They all live out of town, and they don't know me very well. They don't realize how close Gramps and I have become in the past few years, so I can't intrude on them now.”

His fists clenched in impotent anger. What had the Seltzers said to make Hope feel her presence was an intrusion? Were they jealous of the sweet young woman who had befriended their father?

Hope looked up, alarm darkening her eyes. “No, Charlie—it's okay,” she soothed. “I sat with him all night. He gave me his blessing. And he asked me to thank you for visiting him.”

Charles frowned. “I don't visit him. I've said hello a few times, that's all.”

“Oh, really?” Hope let him see she wasn't buying it. “Last week he told me you sat with him one night while he ate his dinner. You even cut his chicken for him. He felt bad about being able to eat only two bites after you went to that trouble.”

Her tears flowed again and Charles watched in silence as she wiped her eyes with a tissue. “Thank you for being nice to him,” she choked. “I'm so grateful that you took the time. I'll never forget it, Charlie. Never.”

His throat had closed and he couldn't reply, so he covered her soft, trembling hand with his. Was this how her God took care of her? Was she to suffer this heartbreaking loss all alone?

“He's ready to go home. He's not afraid. It's hard for me to let him go, but somehow, it really is okay, because he's going to God and I'll see him again. In a way, it's really quite wonderful. I wish you could understand.”

Charles let go of her hand and stood. He walked to the window and looked out, but he might just as well have stared at the blank, pale green wall, because he saw nothing. “All I understand is that it's making you cry. How wonderful can that be?” He turned abruptly, as if he expected an answer from her.

Her wet blue eyes were enormous in her pale face as she pressed a shaking hand against her mouth. Looking away, Charles silently berated himself for adding to her distress. After a moment he forced himself to face her again. “Do you want me to go check on him?”

“I wish you would, Charlie.”

He slid his hands into the pockets of his lab coat and nodded mutely, waiting as she struggled to say something more.

“Would you tell him—” The voice was tiny, tentative. “Would you please just tell him that I—”

“Of course I will,” he said, having already read her request in the limpid depths of her eyes.

The memory of her tremulous smile haunted him as he walked back to John Seltzer's room. He paused at the doorway, not wanting to go in, but he carried a message and he was bound to deliver it.

When he entered, he found the men had gone and only two of the women remained. “I'm Dr. Hartman,” he told them. “A friend. May I say goodbye to him?”

“Dr. Hartman?” echoed one of the women. “He's been asking for you. We couldn't think who he meant.”

Charles approached the bed and slumped into the chair beside it. When he put his hand on John's, the old man's eyes opened.

“Can I do anything for you, Gramps?” Charles had surprised himself by using Hope's name for the man, but it had been exactly the right thing to do. The dull blue eyes opened wider and a weak smile of recognition lit the haggard face.

“Hope sends her love,” Charles said, low enough so that only Gramps could hear.

“And mine to her,” the old man replied in a feeble whisper. “Take care of her, Charles.”

Charles looked at him in bewilderment. Who was he to be charged with such a responsibility? What could he possibly do for Hope? All he had to give her was money, but she wouldn't take that, however much she might need it.

“We'll just step outside for a minute,” one of the women said to Charles. He half turned, but didn't look at her as he nodded.

The old man was whispering again, so Charles bent closer. “She's for you.” Gramps sighed.

Charles panicked. “No, you don't understand. It's not like that with Hope and me.”

“I understand…everything now” was the man's answer. “She's…for you, Charles.” The weary eyes closed again and a few minutes later John Seltzer's last breath went out in a fluttery sigh. Charles was still holding his hand.

Was it just an old man's fond wish? How could anyone who cared for Hope wish Charles Hartman on her? The dying man couldn't possibly have known what he was saying.

I understand…everything now.

No. It simply wasn't true. Hope wasn't for him. She was far too young. Too sweet. And too good for him, in every way.

Charles had made it clear that he had nothing to give a woman, but Hope wasn't looking for romance. He knew very well what she saw in him: he was a friend who needed saving. Hope's compassion knew no bounds and she was going after Charles like a lifeguard after a drowning man.

What she stubbornly failed to accept was that he couldn't
be
saved. And he wasn't worth saving, anyway.

He had pretty much come to terms with their odd relationship. From the beginning he'd been helplessly drawn to her. She was an amazing kid, someone interesting to talk to. A breath of fresh air in his stale life. Her faith and her personality appeared to be fully integrated somehow, and that intrigued him.

He gave her everything he could, though that wasn't much. She could command him to do anything, and she knew that, but he was perfectly safe with her. And she was safe with
him,
just as long as he continued to think of her as a kid. If he ever began to look on her as a woman, it would be all too easy to hurt her.

Charles looked at the fragile hand he still held in his own. With everything in him he wished Gramps could
hear and understand. And forgive him for not being the kind of man Hope needed.

When a nurse entered the room, Charles sighed and got to his feet. “Just now,” he said quietly, answering her unspoken question. He left without another word.

Hope looked up as he entered the lounge. She read his face in an instant. “He's gone home?” she asked in a surprisingly steady voice.

Nodding miserably, Charles took the chair beside her. He watched her face, bracing himself for a torrent of tears, but her eyes were calm and, incredibly, the corners of her mouth were slightly turned up. Her peaceful expression intensified the confusion he felt. “Hope?” he ventured. “Can it really be wonderful?”

Her smile widened and her bright blue eyes sparkled like clear mountain lakes under the summer sun. That was all the answer she gave him.

“But it hurts, too?” His mind labored over the paradox.

Her smile faded. “It hurts a lot.”

Charles watched her face, knowing that in another moment her chin would quiver and she would reach for the box of tissues at her elbow. Hope was a curious mixture of strength and vulnerability, and Charles understood Gramps's concern for her.