Finding Hope (10 page)

They managed to calm themselves as the room lights dimmed and the master of ceremonies spoke into the microphone. Hope turned in her chair, ostensibly to see the speaker, but actually to escape Mrs. Hartman's unnerving gaze. She closed her eyes and took a steadying breath. Her heart was pounding, but Tom and Charles were perfectly at ease.

How nice for
them;
Hope was a mess.

Charles leaned towards her and put his mouth next to her ear. “And you called
me
an evil genius!” he whispered. “That was quite a performance, kid.”

Several speeches and awards followed, then Charles got up. He seemed to enjoy himself immensely as he shared a string of humorous anecdotes about his brother. “I've been saving up these stories for years,” he confided to the audience, “just waiting for my chance to
embarrass Tom publicly.” He looked at his brother. “How am I doing so far?”

Tom gave him a wry grin and a thumbs-up, then covered his face with both hands, shaking his head. The audience loved it and Hope was pleased that even Dr. and Mrs. Hartman laughed.

Finally Tom went forwards to accept the award and express his thanks, and the evening's program was at an end.

When they rose from the table, Dr. Winston Hartman held out a hand to Hope and actually said he had enjoyed meeting her. Mrs. Hartman smiled enigmatically and, casting a speculative glance at Charles, told “Miss Ever-heart” that she was “a most unusual young woman.”

As his parents left the room, Tom positioned himself directly in front of Hope. He dropped dramatically to one knee and pounded his right fist against his heart. “Hope Evans,” he declared ardently, “from this day forwards I am your devoted slave!”

“The line forms behind me,” Charles announced quietly.

Hope reached for Tom's hand and pulled him to his feet. “Well, my first command is that there be no more awards dinners. I don't think my nerves could stand another evening like this!”

Tom squeezed her hand before letting go. “The folks are pretty terrible, aren't they? I thought Mother would eat you alive, but Trey assured me you could handle yourself. What he neglected to mention was that you could handle Mother, as well!”

“I've never seen anyone tie a knot in Mother's tail like Hope just did,” Charles commented.

“Wasn't she great?” Tom enthused. “I wish dinner could have lasted longer!”

Hope groaned. “My heart still hasn't returned to a normal rhythm,” she confessed.

Charles consulted his brother. “Is that place across the street still open? You know, the place Susan liked so much?”

“Yeah, till midnight.” Tom turned to Hope. “We know the best ice-cream parlor in the universe. Are you interested?”

“It sounds wonderful,” she said with enthusiasm. She'd been too nervous to eat much dinner. “Is it the kind of place where they do incredible things with hot fudge and pecans?”

“They'll do anything you want,” Tom Hartman promised. “And so will we.”

“Now and forever,” Charles confirmed. “We owe you, Hope. We won't forget.”

She gulped. “Right. Let's just hope your mother forgets what
she
owes me!”

 

Hope slipped off her silvery sandals and tucked her feet up beside her. This was luxury. She had a whole side of the comfortable red-velvet booth to herself and across the table from her, two handsome, elegantly dressed gentlemen were going out of their way to charm and entertain her.

She dipped a long-handled spoon into a deep parfait glass and brought up a glob of hot fudge and melting vanilla ice cream. She savored the warm-cold sweetness and then plunged her spoon in again, digging for a fat pecan. Acquiring the treasure, she glanced up, straight into Tom's dancing eyes.

Tom was a peanuts man, and it had disappointed Hope a little to learn that about him. She felt strongly that all right-thinking individuals acknowledged the superiority of pecans. Still, Tom harbored a commendable appreci
ation of hot fudge, so he was as worthy a pig-out partner as she was ever likely to find.

Charles didn't care for ice cream, so he sipped coffee and scowled in mock disapproval as his brother and Hope dug into their enormous sundaes with unbridled enthusiasm.

Holding a maraschino cherry by the stem, Hope admired its plump redness before dropping it into her mouth and pulling the stem through her teeth. Deeply satisfied by the sensation of slowly squeezing the luscious cherry between her molars, she handed the stem to Tom. “More,” she commanded.

“Absolutely!” he agreed, waving the cherry stem to signal their attentive waiter. “Isn't this a great place, Hope?”

“Too good to be true. There must be a catch.”

Charles lowered his coffee cup and offered his professional opinion. “I think the catch is that you're consuming about half a million calories' worth of something that has no redeeming nutritional value whatsoever. Then of course there's the cholesterol issue…”

“Killjoy,” muttered Tom, licking his spoon in a greedy way that would have shocked his fastidious mother.

Hope frowned at Tom. “Nice going, Hartman!” she scolded. “Why'd you have to bring Dr. Doom to our ice-cream party?”

“I thought he was with you,” Tom returned.

They both glared at Charles until he laughed. “Okay,” said the doctor. “I take it back. I don't suppose ice-cream sundaes, in moderation, will do you any real harm.”

“You moron,” said Tom with feigned contempt. “Ice-cream sundaes ‘in moderation' are no fun at all.” He winked at Hope. “Give me ice-cream sundaes in reckless
abundance! Pile them high with cherries and nuts and then drizzle unspeakably gooey things on top of them!”

“Hear, hear!” Hope contributed eagerly, rapping her spoon against the side of her half-empty water glass and loving the tinkling sound it made. “Oat bran may help us live longer, Dr. Hartman, but I would not
want
to live without ice cream!”

“I'm with the lady,” said Tom, pointing his spoon at her.

Charles smiled. “The lady has chocolate on her face.” He reached across the table and dabbed at Hope's chin with his own napkin. She sat perfectly still, delighted by the happy light in his eyes. It occurred to her—and she gave silent thanks to God—that smiling was becoming a habit for Charles Hartman.

He was still smiling as, with a flourish, their waiter placed a small silver bowl on the table.

It was full of cherries.

 

Hope's body melted gratefully into the butter-soft leather seat of the Mercedes. Her eyelids drooped to half-mast and she was only dimly aware of the colorful city lights that flickered past them as Charles drove her home in an easy silence.

She was startled awake when he opened her door. “Let's go, Cinderella. You can't sleep in my car.”

She yawned. “Well, I believe I was doing a pretty good job of it.” She accepted his hand and was pulled to her feet. They strolled up the walk and climbed the porch steps, by an unspoken agreement heading to the swing instead of the front door.

“It turned out to be quite a lovely evening,” Charles said, pushing with his feet to rock the swing.

“Yes,” Hope agreed, yawning again. “Thank you, Charlie.”

“I knew it was right to take you,” he said. “I'm sure Tom hasn't enjoyed himself like that since before Susan died. Hope, I'm more grateful than I can say.”

She leaned her head against his shoulder, acknowledging his thanks, and for ten minutes they listened together to the night sounds and the rhythmic squeak of the moving swing. Then Hope slipped off her sandals and put them on the seat between herself and Charles. “These are pretty, aren't they? I balked at spending so much, but Claire said, ‘It's not a two-hundred-dollar pair of shoes. It's a four-hundred-dollar donation to the missionary society.'

“Claire's an intelligent young woman.”

“Not to mention drop-dead gorgeous.”

“I suppose so.”

Hope giggled. “Want her phone number?”

“Isn't she a little young for me?”

“Young? Claire's twenty-six.”

“Practically middle-aged,” he teased. His eyes flicked over Hope and his voice deepened. “Would you really throw your friend to a wolf like me?”

She slapped a mosquito off her bare arm. “Claire would be sorely tempted, but she wouldn't go out with you.”

Charles gave her the tight-lipped smile that she hated because it always seemed to precede a nasty remark. “Why is that? Because I'm not a Christian?”

“Yes,” she said uncomfortably.

“You go out with me,” he accused.

“That's different.”

“How is it different?”

She didn't know quite what to say. “Well, it's not like we're dating,” she said finally.

“Isn't it?” His eyes glittered in the dim light and he stopped the swing. “What
are
we doing, Hope?”

“I…well…we're friends, aren't we?” She watched him closely, trying to understand why he was pressing her this way. “I enjoy your company and you enjoy mine, so we spend a lot of time together. But we're not—” she yawned “—dating.”

“Go to bed,” he said gently. “I want to sit here and look at the stars for a while. Turn off the porch light, will you?”

“Okay. Good night, Charlie. Be careful driving home.”

 

The porch light went off and Charles tilted his head, listening to make sure she turned the dead bolt.

What
was
he doing with Hope? He'd been asking himself that question for weeks. She'd been only partly correct when she said he enjoyed her company. The truth was, he needed her company like he needed air to breathe.

He didn't understand it. All he knew was that her gentleness, her remarkable good sense, her unquenchable optimism, everything about her soothed him. Just saying her name, Hope, somehow tamed the angry beast in him.

Tom said he was on dangerous ground, walking around the edges of love. But good-hearted Tom was incapable of understanding how much a man could despise himself. How a human heart could be as cold and hard and unyielding as a stone. The problem was that Charles
couldn't
fall in love, not even with Hope, and that knowledge filled him with despair.

But what about Hope? Sometimes he saw a tenderness in her eyes that frightened him. He longed to pull her into his arms, but he would allow himself to do nothing that might encourage a deeper feeling than the warm friendship she gave so freely.

He'd come dangerously close to kissing her that day
in the bookstore when she spilled coffee on him. She'd wanted simply to check his burned back, but when she put her hands on him he'd nearly lost control. Shocked by his sudden desire, he'd barked at her in a desperate attempt to keep her at a distance. That mistake had almost cost him her friendship.

He felt like a man walking a tightrope, and it was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain his balance. He had to be with her, but he couldn't afford to get too close. He couldn't let her go, but if tenderhearted Hope ever began to imagine that she was in love with him he would
have
to. Somehow.

For a long time Charles watched the stars dance to unheard music in the black-velvet sky. The night was deceptively calm, he thought; surely this quiet universe was only a heartbeat away from spinning out of control.

He was filled with fear.

“Don't let her love me,” he whispered to the distant points of light. “Please don't, because I'll never be able to give her anything in return. Do anything to me—I will bear it. Just don't let Hope love a man who has no heart.”

“T
wo, please,” Charles told the woman behind the lemonade stand. “Big ones. Lots of ice.”

On a sunny Friday morning they'd driven to the country for an antique auction and flea market. Hope was scouting for a sturdy sewing basket she could refurbish for her mother's upcoming birthday. Charles was getting an education.

“Auctions, I know about,” he had said to Hope over breakfast. “I've bought paintings at Sotheby's. But what exactly is a flea market?”

“You'll see when we get there” had been her reply. “Brace yourself for a culture shock.”

He seemed to be enjoying himself immensely as they pondered over mysterious gadgets and shook their heads at some of the junk people were so eager to buy. He'd even purchased an antique pocket watch for his grandfather, who collected and repaired them.

Hope hadn't found what she'd been looking for, but it was worth the ninety-minute drive just to see Charles's stunned expression when he witnessed two middle-aged
women emitting squeals of girlish delight and eagerly plunking down their money for the privilege of taking home a black-velvet painting of Elvis.

It was hot. There wasn't a cloud in the sky and the merciless sun was taking no prisoners. Even in khaki shorts and a sleeveless white cotton shirt, Hope was sticky with sweat. Only occasionally was there a soft puff of wind, but it was a perfect day, Hope thought, for sipping freshly squeezed lemonade and munching peanut-butter cookies in the deep shade of an enormous oak tree.

They escaped the crowd by hopping a fence and climbing the steep hill that was crowned by the ancient tree. Hope sank into the tall, almost-cool grass and watched as Charles dropped gracefully beside her. “You look so different,” she told him, accepting the large cup of lemonade he offered and handing him a cookie. “Are you boycotting Armani?”

He looked down at his plain gray T-shirt and faded blue jeans. “You don't approve of my outfit?” He removed his Chicago Cubs ball cap to finger-comb his damp hair. “You told me to dress ‘scruffy' today. I thought I did pretty well.”

“You did great. I like it. It's just such a novelty, you understand. When you're not wearing your doctor outfit, you're wearing a suit. I've never seen you in anything else, have I?”

“Not true. Last week you saw me in black tie.”

She gave him an exasperated look.

He leaned back on his elbows, stretching out his long legs and crossing them at the ankles. He studied the green canopy above them. “You're trying to tell me I work too much.”

“Would it kill you to make room in your life for a few more T-shirt days?” she asked wistfully.

“Not if they could all be as nice as this one,” he said, still looking up. “Got another cookie?”

“I only bought two,” she apologized, handing him the last bite of her own. “I didn't know they'd be this good. Besides, we haven't had lunch yet.”

He took the tidbit she offered, then sat up and reached for his lemonade. He watched with lazy interest as a honeybee inspected his bare forearm before discovering the cup of sticky-sweet liquid in his hand. “I'm going for more cookies,” he decided. “Let's forget about lunch. Unless you want a sandwich or something?”

She didn't. She enthusiastically embraced the cookies-for-lunch proposal. It had to be a nutritionally sound idea, she reasoned, since a doctor was suggesting it.

She gulped her icy lemonade and wiped the corners of her mouth with her thumb, watching as Charles descended the hill. He waded through the rushing river of people, making his way back to the baked-goods table.

It was true, what Tom had said. Charles
was
different. He was calmer, not as easily irritated. He was smiling more, and now he laughed easily and often. In the two months since they'd met, he'd changed in so many small ways that only now, when she studied him from a distance, did Hope see it.

With hands in his pockets, he sauntered through the crowd. Fascinated, Hope watched his long, easy strides. A tiny child darted in front of him and Charles stopped suddenly, bending to lay his large hand on the little blond head. Hope smiled as he gently steered the toddler out of harm's way and back to its mother.

“Yes,” she said under her breath. She looked up at the hot blue sky.
You're working on him, aren't You, Lord? Please keep it up. And show me what I can do to help.

 

With a full bag of groceries in one arm, Hope answered her kitchen telephone on the sixth ring. The deep, familiar voice made her smile.

“Hello, Hope. This is—”

“Tom Hartman,” she finished for him.

He sounded pleased. “How did you know? People say our voices are identical on the phone.”

She eased the heavy bag onto the counter. “It was the ‘hello' that tipped me off. He never says that. He just starts talking.”

“That's true. Listen, Hope—how about doing me a favor?”

“I already did you one,” she teased. “How quickly you men forget!”

“Now, there you're wrong, honey. I will
never
forget. But did Trey tell you they took our grandfather to the hospital for surgery yesterday morning?”

She tucked the phone against her shoulder and began pulling groceries out of the paper bag. “Yes. I understand he broke his hip.” With her foot she gently nudged Bob out of the way so she could open the refrigerator. “How is he today?”

“He'll be fine. But he needs cheering up and I have an idea,” Tom said carefully. “Why don't you visit him tomorrow?”

What?
Hope dropped a bag of frozen peas on the floor. It split on impact and tiny green balls bounced and rolled in all directions, much to Bob's delight.

Was Tom out of his mind? She hadn't yet recovered from her harrowing encounter with Dr. and Mrs. Hartman. Was he really asking her to go back into the lion's den?

That's what it sounded like. But she couldn't say no to Tom. If he thought she could do some good, she ought to go.

“Aw, come on, Hope,” he encouraged. “You may as well know the entire family, right? And I really think you could do wonders for the old man. He's not exactly a teddy bear, but he's not as bad as my parents, either.”

She caved. “Okay. But you'll owe me ice cream for this.”

 

Tom pressed his hand into the small of Hope's back, urging her to approach the hospital bed. “Good afternoon, Granddad. May I present Hope Evans?”

“I believe you just did,” the old man snapped.

Hope stifled a giggle. He was a Hartman, all right. But he looked like a fairly harmless one, old and thin and bespectacled. What hair he had was not gray but snowy white, and it was short and neatly combed, leaving a perfect pink circle in the middle of his head. He was dressed in a pair of luxurious royal-blue silk pajamas.

“What do you want?” the man growled at Hope.

“Tom says you need cheering up. I happen to be good at that.”

Dr. Hartman grunted. “I don't need cheering up.”

He didn't look all that dangerous. Hope inched closer. “Isn't that a little like saying, ‘I am not insane'? Nobody believes you.”

He almost smiled. “Young woman,” he said, enunciating every word, “I am
not
insane.”

“Okay. But what if you were? Would you admit it?” Without being invited to do so, Hope took the chair beside Dr. Hartman's bed. She was aware of Tom slinking around the corner and out of the room, but she wasn't too concerned.

“Who are you?” the old man demanded.

“You're not a very good listener,” she scolded. “My name is Hope.”

“And why are you here?”

He'd already rejected the truth, that she'd come to cheer him up, so Hope thought a dose of the ridiculous was indicated. She leaned forwards and gave him a saucy smile. “I heard you were filthy rich and single,” she said. “My nefarious scheme is to charm you and get you to marry me. Then I'll push your wheelchair off a cliff and run away with a handsome but penniless young man.”

He was smiling. “Isn't that a little like saying ‘I am insane'? If you're willing to admit it, it probably isn't true.”

This was going to be easier than she had dared to hope. He was just a lonely old man, after all. He was fairly rough around the edges, but he reminded her of Charles and she just couldn't help liking him.

 

Charles spotted his brother just outside the door of their grandfather's hospital room. “How's the old man?” he asked in a low voice.

“Don't go in. Hope's with him now.”

Charles's eyes opened wider.
“Hope?”

Tom shushed him. “Keep your voice down. I asked her to come. She's doing great.”

Charles shook his head. Nothing surprised him about Hope anymore. He leaned forwards with Tom, straining to hear snatches of the conversation inside the room.

“Can you believe we're eavesdropping on Granddad?” Tom whispered. “Hey, let's try your stethoscope on the wall.”

Tom reached for the instrument that was draped across his brother's shoulders but his hand was slapped away. “I have work to do,” Charles said indignantly.

A peal of feminine laughter emanated from the room. It was followed closely by an old man's surprisingly energetic chuckle.

Tom was awestruck. He put his hands in his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “Can you
believe
this?”

“Easily,” Charles replied. “She has a knack for—” He was interrupted by the insistent beeping of his pager. He removed it from his pocket and read the message. “It's a trauma,” he announced. He spun around and started down the hall. “Clever of you to bring her,” he called over his shoulder.

 

They visited for almost forty-five minutes, then Hope told Dr. Hartman she was leaving so he could rest.

“But I am enjoying this,” he protested. “Don't go.”

“Dr. Hartman, you're not the only unmarried rich old man in town, you know. I want to look around a little before I settle for you. I might find one I like better. One with more hair, maybe.”

He laughed again. “Come back tomorrow, Hope. You're good medicine.”

She blew him a flirty kiss, then she went out to find Tom. She didn't have to look very far—he was just outside the door, where he had been listening shamelessly, and she almost tripped over him.

“Hope, there's some kind of magic in you,” he said admiringly. “I've never heard Granddad laugh like that.”

She jabbed him in the chest with her index finger. “You owe me ice cream, mister.”

He draped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a friendly squeeze. “Honey, I'm yours to command. Would you like to have lunch first, or do you want to head straight for dessert?”

She considered. It didn't take long. “Dessert.”

Tom looked pleased. “Exactly what I was thinking,” he said.

 

Old Dr. Hartman was in the hospital for more than a week. Hope visited him every day and they became friends.

“Will you come see me after I go home?” he asked one day.

She hesitated. “I'd like to, but I'm not sure it's a good idea. I don't think Mrs. Hartman likes me very much.”

“I can't believe you're afraid of them,” he said witheringly. “You were tough enough to face
me,
weren't you?”

She smiled. “Well, you were pretty much immobilized in that bed, and Tom was just outside. The risk was negligible.”

“So what about that God of yours? Can't He take care of you?”

He was so like Charles, turning her inside out, challenging her to prove that she believed. Hope sat up straighter in her chair. “You're absolutely right. I'll give you a couple of days to get settled and then I'll come. That is, if the butler hasn't been given orders to bar my entrance!”

“Well, you needn't worry about that. The house belongs to me, you know.”

“Yeah, but who pays the butler?”

“Uh-oh,” he teased. “That could be a problem. Do you think you could shimmy up a drainpipe?”

 

A few days later, Hope parked her car in front of the biggest house she'd ever seen. No, it wasn't a house. Calling that imposing structure a house was like calling the Crown Jewels of England a nice little collection of baubles.

Hope was more curious than impressed. Did people really live like this? Did maids roller-skate in the hallways as they went from room to room changing bed linens? How many days did it take to dust every picture frame in the place? Wasn't the food cold by the time it traveled from the kitchen to the dining room table?

She gave herself a mental shove and climbed the front steps. For some reason, she counted. Seventeen.

The door was opened by a pleasant-looking middle-aged man who greeted her by name and said that Dr. Hartman, Sr. was expecting her. She was ushered through the front door and across an enormous hall, up one side of a wide double-staircase, down the east hallway to the fourth door on the right.

Dr. Hartman was in his wheelchair, parked by a window. “I watched you come in,” he said by way of greeting. “It took you a couple of minutes to get up your nerve, didn't it?”

She told him her fancies about maids on roller skates and he laughed. “My father built this house for his bride in 1917, two years before I was born,” he said. “Do you like it?”

“I'm not sure,” Hope answered honestly. “It's beautiful, but overwhelming. But I like it that the same family has lived here for so long. That's nice.”

“No, my family is not particularly nice at all,” he said roughly.

Hope thought of Charles and Tom and the way their parents had hurt them. Her eyes grew moist and she pretended to look out the window so Dr. Hartman wouldn't see. “This house was built in 1917?” she asked absently. “There are seventeen steps out front, you know.”