Finding Hope (7 page)

“Too dark for you. Try this one.”

Claire accepted a small rose-hued bottle and twisted off its cap. “You haven't had a lot of time for me lately.”

“I'm sorry,” Hope said honestly. “I've been working like a maniac, and it's true that I've been spending every spare minute—not that there have been a lot of them—with Charlie.”

They were silent for a few moments, each intent on her work, then Claire sought her friend's eyes. “Hope, what's going on between you and Dr. Hartman?”

“I'm not sure what you mean,” Hope said innocently. She held up her left hand and twiddled her fingers, displaying five differently colored nails.

“He's not a Christian and you're dating him,” re
turned Claire. Her lovely face was troubled. “I think we both know what your father would have to say about that.”

Hope sighed. “I'm not dating him. Not like
you
mean. I've told you a hundred times that love and marriage aren't for me. Honestly, Claire, I'm not romantically involved with him.”

Claire's loose curls swayed softly as she shook her head. “It's great that you're bringing him to church and Bible Study, but the two of you are getting awfully close. And if you can hang out with a man like
that
and not be tempted to become involved, there's something wrong with you!”

Hope was baffled. “What do you mean?”

Claire rolled her eyes. “Wake up, Evans!” she said impatiently. “He's gorgeous. He's rich. He's brilliant.” She counted on her long, tapered fingers as she made each point. Then she lowered her hands and her voice, looking her friend straight in the eye. “And he's in love with you,” she accused.

“Well,” Hope said thoughtfully, determined to address each of Claire's points, “he's definitely rich and brilliant, but I can never quite decide whether he's handsome or not. But he's not in lo—”

“Then you're stupid,” Claire interrupted. “He
is
handsome. Not in the pretty-boy Hollywood way, I'll grant you—but in a real-man kind of way.”

Hope let that pass because she had something more important to settle. “But he's not in love with me, Claire. He doesn't want that any more than I do. We don't kiss or flirt. We just talk, and he won't talk to anybody else the way he talks to me. He comes to Bible study with me, but he wouldn't with anyone else.”

Claire opened her mouth to speak, but Hope hurried on. “You know Dr. Bates from the Bible study?” she
queried. “He's an oncologist or something like that. He and Russ Mackenzie asked Charlie to go for coffee with them, but Charlie brushed them off. Don't you see, Claire? I have influence with him that nobody else has. I have to try, don't I?”

Claire sighed. “I don't know. I just can't help thinking that you're playing with fire.”

“I'm not ‘playing' at all. I pray for him and talk to him about spiritual matters. If I turned my back on Charlie, he'd have nobody at all. I won't do it, Claire. I
can't.
” Surprised by her own vehemence, Hope gave her friend a weak but apologetic smile.

“Well, I'll pray for him,” said Claire, backing off. “And you, of course.” She held up another finger. “Too pink?”

 

The next evening Charles and Hope were being shown to their table in a crowded restaurant when someone called Charles's name. He paused to greet two men, offering each a hearty handshake.

“Are you alone, Charles? Join us!” one man boomed before he noticed Hope, who had been hanging back.

Charles made the introductions. Physicians from St. Louis, the men had just wrapped up a two-day conference in Chicago.

“This year has flown by,” one of the doctors remarked. “I guess it's time for us to think about heading south, isn't it?”

“I'll be there,” Charles confirmed. “Is Marge Silverman going to make it this year?”

“Yeah. And a new guy from Dallas.”

Charles gave a satisfied nod. He told his colleagues he'd see them next month, then he led Hope to their own table.

She placed her napkin on her lap. “What's next month?”

He hesitated. “A business trip.”

“Going anywhere interesting?”

“Not particularly,” he said, looking a little uncomfortable. “Just to Mexico.”

Hope was puzzled by his reticence. “A conference, you mean?”

“Something like that,” he said dismissively. “I'll be gone for three weeks.” He glanced at his menu. “Want to try the seared scallops? Tom says they're good here.”

He obviously didn't want to tell her about the trip, so Hope tried to contain her curiosity. “Okay, put me down for the scallops,” she said. “Did you have a good day? Work lots of wonders in the OR?”

“Yes, it was a good day. But I don't think you really want to hear about it,” he said with a smile that was gently teasing. “Every time I try to tell you about an interesting case, you turn pale and shudder.”

It was true. She really
didn't
want to hear about his work. Not the grisly details, anyway. When she was eleven she'd seen her grandfather lose three fingers to a piece of farm machinery. Even now, the memory of his bloody, mangled hand made her stomach churn and her knees go weak….

Something was coming together in her mind. Something about Charles and his doctor friends. And Mexico.

At last she had it. “I know why you're going to Mexico!”

“Do you?” He eyed her warily.

“You're meeting a bunch of doctors in Mexico,” she said eagerly. “If it's not a conference, there's only one other thing it could be.”

He tilted his head back. “And that would be…?”

Like an excited child, Hope bounced on the edge of
her chair. “It's a medical mission! You're going to provide care to poor people who wouldn't get it otherwise. Oh, that's wonderful of you!”

“It's challenging work,” he said defensively. “The cases are interesting.” Carefully avoiding her eyes, he drank deeply from his water glass.

She leaned forwards, shaking her head. “That's not why you go. You go because you're
nice.
You go because you, Dr. Hartman, are a Charlie among Charlies.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but he gave up and smiled at her instead. He'd been doing a lot of that lately.

But his face still looked drawn and tired. She gave him a pitying look. “You're exhausted, aren't you? Let's skip the movie and make it an early night.”

His smile vanished. “You want me to take you to breakfast in the morning. And then to church.”

Charles was taking the Tuesday Bible study in stride, but the Sunday service appeared to unnerve him. He'd attended twice, and both times Hope had seen him visibly rattled. Although he didn't participate in the hymn-singing, the powerful music seemed to tug at his heart. Having glimpsed the hunger in his eyes, Hope understood why he wasn't eager to go again.

“Will you, Charlie? Please?” She nodded, encouraging him.

“Hope, I really—”

“Please?”

His finely sculpted mouth tightened as something bordering on frustration flickered in his eyes.

“What's bothering you, Charlie?”

“My absolute inability to say no to you” was his gruff reply. “It annoys me no end.”

Hope smiled. He was so close. She couldn't let up now.

H
e couldn't save her. No one could have saved her. But that didn't stop the anger that rose like hot bile in Charles's throat.

It had been a car wreck. They'd kept her alive, got her into surgery to address the massive internal bleeding, but two minutes after they opened her up, her blood pressure plummeted.

“No, don't do this!” Charles had thundered. “No!” But they couldn't hold on to her.

Her name was Kelli and she was twenty-seven, although she looked much younger. She had black hair and delicate features and fine dark eyebrows. Just like Hope.

In the emergency room she had clutched Charles's hand and begged him not to let her die.

Just yesterday at church, one of Hope's friends had asked Charles how he handled losing a patient. “Not very well” had been his terse reply. People assumed the hardest part of this job was losing a patient, but that wasn't so. More difficult was hearing the pleading voices, seeing the frightened eyes of people who realized they weren't
going to make it. Charles was continually amazed that they seemed to know. More often than not, when a trauma victim spoke of death, he or she was already circling the drain.

He turned his back on Kelli, swearing harshly as he tore off his surgical gown and gloves. Another doctor put a consoling hand on Charles's shoulder but it was immediately shrugged off.

In a far corner of the operating room he collapsed onto a chair and picked up a telephone. He dialed Medical Records and dictated his surgical notes in a flat voice. Then he steeled himself and went out to face Kelli's father.

When that difficult task was accomplished Charles went to the doctors' lounge and poured himself a cup of coffee. Twice he picked up the telephone and put it down again. Finally he gave in and dialed Hope's number. “I'm sorry, but could we rethink our plans for the concert tonight?” His voice sounded tight and unnatural. She wouldn't miss that.

“Whatever you want, Charlie,” she responded instantly. Her voice throbbed with compassion. “You lost someone, didn't you?”

“Yes.” His clipped tone conveyed his unwillingness to discuss it.

“I'm sorry. Please come over, Charlie, just as soon as you can. I'll cook something and we can talk or not talk—whatever you want. Please come?”

His mouth opened but the word
no
stubbornly refused to pass his lips. He leaned his head against the wall and stared at the worn blue carpet, hating his weakness. “Yes, all right,” he said softly.

It frightened him that he was beginning to need her.

 

When Charles arrived, Hope took his arm and steered him to the sofa. He didn't protest as she arranged pillows
around him. He looked surprised but offered no objection when she loosened his tie and slipped the button on his shirt collar. She even removed his shoes and propped his feet on the coffee table.

She brought him a glass of iced tea with a sprig of fresh mint in it. As he drank greedily, she called softly to Bob. “Sit here, Bobby,” she ordered, patting the sofa, and the dog snuggled against Charles's thigh. Charles automatically lifted a hand to caress Bob's silky head.

“Dinner is almost ready,” Hope said quietly.

Meeting her eyes, Charles nodded. He hadn't spoken at all.

Hope had prepared beef-vegetable soup, and she had a loaf of good, crusty bread and some soft cheese to accompany it. She'd even thrown together an apple tart, and the cinnamony fragrance wafting through the house suggested it was almost ready to come out of the oven. She filled the coffeemaker and set the table.

When she finished in the kitchen, Hope peeked around the corner and was deeply satisfied to find that Charles had fallen asleep. Bob's liquid gold-brown eyes gazed calmly at her, but he made no attempt to move out from under the heavy arm that rested on his back.

Dinner could wait. Charles needed the rest. Hope watched him for a moment, her heart aching with pity, then she reached for her Bible and the comfort of the Psalms. She settled onto a kitchen chair to read.

Half an hour later Charles padded into the kitchen, shoeless and sleepy-eyed. The smile he gave Hope was oddly boyish and appealing. “Aren't you going to feed me?”

He made light conversation over dinner. They were halfway through the meal before he got to the subject that was uppermost in their minds. “People die, Hope.
We see it all the time and we each have our own ways of dealing with it. Dr. Olmstead goes skydiving, and Dr. Murray rebuilds classic cars and races them. My coping strategy is to play squash until I drop from exhaustion.” He gave her an apologetic smile. “And I growl a lot, don't I?”

Hope set the soup tureen in front of him and silently refilled his bowl.

“We learn very quickly to close off parts of ourselves. Otherwise we'd never be able to do the job. You can see that, can't you? When we lose someone, I'm always angry and disappointed, but sometimes—” He shook his head and began again. “Today, something got to me in a way that rarely—” Again he stopped. “It's just that this one…hurt me.”

It was a lot for him to admit. Hope's heart swelled with compassion. “I'll pray for you, of course,” she said honestly. “But is there anything else I can do?”

He reached for her hand and squeezed it in wordless gratitude. Hope was surprised but greatly pleased by the uncharacteristic gesture. She squeezed back, then she went to pour his coffee and cut him a generous slice of warm apple tart.

 

Hope saved a file to her computer's hard drive and got up to answer the summons of her doorbell. Charles stood on the porch looking as if he hadn't slept since she'd last seen him three days ago.

When she stepped aside, he went straight to the sofa and collapsed on it. “May I sleep here?” he asked without preamble.

“Sleep here?” Hope parroted. “What do you mean?”

He rubbed his face with his hands. “I have to be back at the hospital in six hours. I'm supposed to be off but I
rashly promised to cover for Olmstead tonight. Will you let me crash on your sofa?”

She still didn't understand the question. His apartment was closer to the hospital than her house was. And if all he wanted was a sofa, there was a very comfortable, extralong leather one in his office at the hospital. Why was he here? She sat beside him and waited.

“I've been having nightmares,” he explained. “The same thing over and over, every time I close my eyes. Now I have five hours to sleep and I desperately need—”

“But how will it help you to be
here?
” she interrupted.

He tipped his head forwards and squeezed the back of his neck with both hands. “The dreams are about you,” he said simply. “You remember the other day, when I was so upset? Her name was Kelli. She was twenty-seven, and she reminded me of you. She begged me not to let her die, but then she—”

“Charlie, no!” Hope put her hand on his knee and shook him. “You didn't fail Kelli. You can't blame yourself for her death.”

He leaned forwards, resting his elbows on his knees and dropping his head into his hands. “I know that, Hope. But in my dreams it's all jumbled up and Kelli is you. I have no idea what it means, but I'm exhausted, and I thought if I could just sleep at your house today I wouldn't—”

“Charlie.” She waited for him to raise his head and look at her. “It's okay. I'm working on the computer in the guest room, and I have books and papers all over the bed. But you can have my room. This sofa is comfortable enough, but it's too short for you.”

“It doesn't matter. I can sleep anywhere.”

“Good,” she said briskly, rising from the sofa. “Then
you won't mind a nice, comfortable bed, will you?” She took his hand and pulled him to his feet.

Hope drew back the bedcovers and fluffed pillows as Charles waited in the doorway of her room. When she moved past him, he thanked her and asked her to wake him in five hours.

She returned to the other bedroom, where she closed the door and said a prayer for him. Then she sat down in front of her computer, but was unable to concentrate on her work. She felt vaguely uneasy about the fact that there was a man in her bed. What would her parents think of this arrangement?

She decided to turn her attention to housework.

An hour later she was headed to the bathroom linen cupboard with an armload of freshly laundered towels when she noticed Charles had neglected to close her bedroom door. She put the towels away and went back to pull it shut.

As she leaned into the room and reached for the door-knob a rustle of sheets and a deep sigh riveted her attention to the sleeping man. He lay on his stomach with the bedcovers bunched around his waist, revealing a muscular back. His face was buried in the pillow and one long arm dangled over the edge of the bed, its fingertips just brushing the carpeted floor. His hand twitched slightly, and Hope wondered whether he was dreaming.

It had been a few years since she had seen any of her brothers in a similar posture, but the memories rushed back. She leaned against the doorframe and gave herself over to remembering Sunday mornings in her family's farmhouse.

Matthew, the eldest, could never seem to get his tie straight. Mark was always out of clean socks. Luke invariably ran late, missing breakfast because he stayed too long in the hot shower. And it was nearly impossible to
get lazy John, the youngest, out of bed. They'd think he was up, and the minute they turned away, down he'd flop, pulling the covers over his head as if that would prevent anyone from disturbing him again.

It had been a forty-minute drive from their farm to the church, so they'd had to get an early start on Sundays. It had been no small feat to get the boys ready on time. Hope had been her mother's helper, cheerfully serving the big brothers whom she idolized.

Now all four of the boys were making memories with families of their own. Hope hugged herself, thinking gratefully that her family had been—still was—exactly what God intended a family to be.

She remained in the doorway, watching Charles sleep, and a painful lump formed in her throat. He had everything, but he had nothing at all. He was good-looking and rich, talented and successful, but there was no joy in his life. He didn't know God and he didn't like himself. He tried not to care, but he
did
care, deeply. Hope knew it, and so did Tom. Were they the only ones who understood?

Indignation surged in Hope. How could the world have rejected a jewel like Charles Hartman?

She strode purposefully to the chair beside her bed. She scooped up his clothes, bent to pick up his shoes and left the room. She didn't close the door.

At the appointed time she went in to wake him. His face was still in the pillow, so she lightly touched the back of his head. Of their own volition Hope's sensitive fingers dug deep into his thick, silky hair, exploring the lush waves for several seconds before reluctantly following her brain's command to withdraw.

His eyes opened, fully alert. He rolled to his side, pulling the covers up to his chest. When he smiled, Hope's heart lurched strangely.

He made a deep, growly sound of contentment. “I slept like a rock,” he murmured, blinking at her.

She remembered this. The sleep-softened eyes, the wild hair, the froggy morning voice. Now a hand would come out to yank her ponytail and she'd hear a playful command.
What are you waiting for, brat? Bring me some coffee.

Hope gave herself a mental shake. This man wasn't one of her brothers.

Charles spotted the neat stack of clean, freshly pressed clothes on the chair. “Hope, I never expected you to—”

“It's okay,” she assured him. “I wanted to help. You can shower while I make you something to eat.”

He propped himself up on an elbow and stared at her. “You're sweet,” he said, then his mouth stretched wide in a silent yawn.

Sweet?
Since when did Dr. Hartman use words like
sweet?
With an effort Hope hid her surprise. “The bathroom's through there,” she said, pointing. “I've put out a new toothbrush and a disposable razor and a couple of other things you might need, but I don't have any shaving cream.” She eyed his face critically. “And you look like you could use some.”

“I'll make do, thanks. But I was planning to shower at the hospital, Hope. I never expected you to go to this trouble.”

“It's no trouble,” she said over her shoulder as she left the room. This time she closed the door.

Twenty minutes later he strolled into the kitchen, whistling under his breath as he knotted his tie. When he sat down, she put a plate of ham and eggs in front of him and poured his coffee.

“Hope, did you…?” He looked at her curiously. “Did you actually polish my shoes?”

“Yes. Do you mind?”

“No, they're perfect,” he said in a strange voice. “It's just that nobody has ever done that for me before. Not just as a favor, I mean.”

“I used to do it for my brothers. I know it's nutty, but I always liked polishing shoes. Something about the leathery smell, I guess.”

The look on his face nearly broke her heart. “Thanks,” he said wonderingly. “It makes me feel—” He searched for the word. “It makes me feel good.”

Abruptly she turned away, glad to have the excuse of returning the coffee carafe to its warming plate. With her back to Charles, she took a deep breath and attempted to swallow the outrage that rose in her.

The man was honestly amazed that someone had polished his shoes. It angered Hope that such a small gesture could move him like that.

 

Two days later, they made the most of a rainy Saturday afternoon by browsing in a cozy little secondhand bookshop. Carrying three books and a paper cup of cappuccino, Hope was walking immediately behind Charles when he stopped suddenly to examine a display. She ran into him, pouring her full cup of coffee on his lower back.