Saturday Morning (9 page)

Feeling somewhat better, she eyed the large silver sculpture that stood near the receptionist’s desk. She knew nothing about contemporary art, but knowing Peter, it stood to reason that the sculpture had been created either by one of his clients or by a renowned artist.

Too bad it didn’t have a brass nameplate, like some of the oils, so she could tell what it was. She cocked her head this way and that to study it from different angles, but she still had no clue as to what it might be. Finally, she gave up and took a recent copy of
Architectural Digest
off the small glass table next to her chair. The featured homes were like nothing she had ever seen, and some of them were like nothing she ever wanted to see. She quickly thumbed through the pages, hoping to find a house she could relate to, but they were all too formal or too exotic or just “too too.”

She returned the magazine to its pile and picked up one of the
three issues of
Smithsonian Magazine.
An article on Jamaica caught her eye, and the first line grabbed her and carried her into the story and back to her beginnings.

“Mr. Kent will see you now.” The svelte personal assistant, or so her nameplate read, appeared as if by magic and nodded toward the double doors leading to Peter’s office.

Hope debated taking the magazine with her, and begging Peter to give it to her, or leaving it behind. The day’s busy schedule loomed in front of her, telling her there would be no time to finish the article. No surprise there. These days there was hardly time to breathe. She put the magazine down and followed Miss Swaying Hips into Peter’s office.
How does she do that?

“Ms. Hope Benson to see you, sir.”

Hope rolled her eyes. As if Peter didn’t know her name. He had been on the board of directors for J House for over two years.
I must be PMSing. She’s new. She doesn’t know me.
“Hello, Peter.” Hope crossed to the huge free-form desk. No drawers, no files, just glass, the color of which reminded her of the clear blue waters of Montego Bay, the prettiest bay in all of Jamaica.

Peter Kent stood up behind his desk. “Good to see you, Hope.”

He had aged since she’d seen him last. When was it? Three months ago? His dark hair was now silver-streaked, and a once healthy tan now appeared faded and splotchy. Dare she ask after his health? He was a very private man.

He came around the desk and indicated they should sit in two leather chairs, which bracketed a small table of the same blue glass as the desk. “Let’s sit here, where we can be more comfortable.”

Hope felt the now familiar heartburn start to creep up her esophagus.
Go away!

“Coffee? Tea? I have iced tea.”

How about a milk shake of antacid?
“Iced tea would be fine,” she
said, glad for the offer. “And artificial sweetener, if you don’t mind.” She saw him nod toward his assistant. Miss S.H. nodded back. It wasn’t difficult to spot the resentment in the young woman’s eyes, even through all that mascara. She didn’t appreciate playing maid.

“So what brings you here today?” As usual, Peter got right to the point.

In for a dollar, in for a dime. Her mother had loved old sayings. “Peter, are you all right?” she asked, concern overriding polite correctness. “You look … ” She clamped her mouth shut when she saw him glance at Miss S.H., as if to say,
Wait till she leaves
. So he didn’t want to say anything in front of her.

As soon as the door closed, Peter answered her question. “I’m happy to say I’m recovering.”

“I didn’t know you had been ill.” She leaned forward. “What was wrong, if you don’t mind my asking? You know how incredibly nosy I can be.” There were times she wished she weren’t so nosy; this was one of them.

“I had part of a lung removed. Malignancy.”

The personal assistant returned a few minutes later and set a small lacquered tray down on the table. “Will there be anything else?”

“No thank you,” Peter said, flashing her a quick smile. “That will be all for now.”

Wordlessly, the young woman left the room.

Hope leaned forward, took a packet of Splenda off the tray, tore it open, and poured it into the tall, frosty glass of tea.

Peter simply picked up his coffee cup and took a sip.

“Six months ago, if you remember, I would be lighting up about now. But no more. I’ve learned my lesson about smoking.”

“Oh, Peter, I wish you had let me know.” No wonder she hadn’t heard from him.
I should have called when I thought about him.

“There’s nothing you or anyone could have done.”

“Sure there is. We could have prayed for you.”

“Thank you, Hope. I appreciate the thought, but you know how I am. Anyway, I’m doing fine now. God was good to me and gave me a reprieve.” He smiled, leaned against the chair back, and steepled his fingers. “Now, I know you didn’t take time from your crazy schedule to come here and drink iced tea with me. What can I do for you?”

“How about getting us a million dollars?” she said with a half laugh.

He tilted his head slightly and raised one eyebrow. “No takers yet, huh?”

“Not yet.” Hope failed at trapping a sigh. “I admit I’m a little worried.”

“A
little
worried?”

“Okay, so I’m a lot worried,” she amended. “I thought for sure that by now, what with all the letters we’ve put out,
someone
would have stepped forward to put Humpty Dumpty back together again.”

“Retrofitting an old building like J House isn’t cheap, my dear.”

“But I thought big corporations were always on the hunt for a good tax write-off.”

“There are a lot of worthy causes out there. You aren’t the only ones seeking help.”

Hope sighed. “No, I suppose not.” She took a long cooling sip of her drink. “I keep reminding myself that our heavenly Dad owns all the cattle on a thousand hills. I need to ask Him for more help—a big corporate donation for J House and the wisdom for me to not panic.”

“Wisdom is something I should have asked for a long time ago,” he said, indicating the empty ashtray sitting on the table.

Hope sucked in a deep breath. “Believe it or not, money isn’t the reason I’m here to … day.” A belch snuck up on her and came out with the word, lowering her voice an octave. “Oh, excuse me. I have a little heartburn.”

He smiled at her over the rim of his cup. “You’re excused.”

She pulled three letters from her briefcase and handed them to Peter. “They’re all from the same company. The last one came a couple of days ago, and there’s something about it … Read them in the order they were sent and tell me what you think.”

He unfolded all three, then arranged them by date. “Blakely Associates,” he said, reading the letterhead. “Never heard of them.” He read the rest of the first letter in silence. “It’s an offer on J House.” He looked up at her. “That’s nothing new. There aren’t many lots the size of yours left on Telegraph Hill. You have a prime building location, especially for condos.”

“Roger looked them up,” Hope said. “They’re a consortium out of Los Angeles.”

“Hmm. They’re offering a decent package. You could easily buy another place that didn’t need major repairs.”

“We’ve had this discussion before, Peter. Yes, we could sell out and move to the Tenderloin, but by being where we are, my girls get away from the street life, and they get a taste of the possibilities of a new life. A move would be disastrous. We’d lose Mai’s restaurant, and you know how many of my girls she hires. And what about the Saturday Market? You’ve seen how that works. It brings the whole neighborhood together. We make a difference where we are, Peter. We make a difference in the lives of the women and girls we take in, and in the lives of our neighbors. A move is out of the question.”

“You’d think after everything, I wouldn’t forget all of that,” Peter said, looking suitably ashamed of himself. Ever since Hope and her crew had helped his little sister get clean and sober, Peter Kent, attorney at law, had been a strong supporter of Casa de Jesús.

“Read the other two and tell me if you don’t start to see a difference in tone.”

Hope watched Peter’s expression change as he read them.

“I see what you mean. The wording gets stronger in the second letter and almost sounds like a threat in the third.” Holding the third letter, he read several lines aloud, “ ‘We dislike reminding you yet again that the time for negotiating a deal that will give you the means to move and relocate is running out. Be assured that we are aware that on January 1, if you have not begun the necessary repairs, the city of San Francisco will condemn the property and you will be forced to vacate. Rather than wait until that happens, we hope that you will accept this very generous offer.’” He rubbed his chin. “They certainly have all the information correct. This last part, about what they’ll offer once J House is condemned, is sort of unsettling.”

Hope felt like rubbing her midsection again but refrained. Instead of feeling better, she was feeling worse. “They remind me of vultures waiting for the kill.”
Please Lord, I can’t lose J House. Please. You know that’s my dream and reason for being.

“That’s the way some companies do business.” Peter pulled his PDA from his coat pocket and clicked out the stylus. “I think it’s time for a board of directors’ meeting. How about four o’clock Wednesday?”

Hope checked her pocket calendar. “Fine with me. Here or at J House?”

“Here. I’ll have dinner brought in. In the meantime, I’ll do a little digging and see if I can find out why Blakely Associates wants J House so much.”

Hope thought about walking back to the shelter, but she caught the bus instead. She greeted the driver, found an empty seat, and nodded to the petite Japanese woman sitting next to her.
“Konnetchewa, obasan.”
Hope said, using the traditional Japanese greeting.

“Hai.”
The woman sketched a slight bow, then in perfect English said, “Thank you for speaking my language.”

Hope returned the bow. “You are most welcome.”

An elderly man, who lived in Hope’s neighborhood and sometimes
attended Sunday services at J House, got on the bus at the next stop. “Hey, Hope. Good to see you.” He smiled as he found a seat.

“And you,” Hope returned, trying to remember his name.

“You have a good name,” Hopes seatmate said, nodding.

“I thank my mother for that.” Times like this, Hope was grateful she’d learned greetings in several of the many languages spoken in San Francisco.

“I get off next.” The little lady stood and gathered her parcels.

“Sayonara.”

Hope smiled after the woman, then settled into her thoughts.
Thanks, Big Dad, for Peter and for all those You bring our way.
She blew out a breath at the fumes seeping in the window.
Kiss, what am I to do with her? Lord, please get her to stay long enough for us to help her.

Knowing her stop was coming up, Hope stood and made her way to the front of the bus. “Thanks, Juan. You’re the best driver in all of San Francisco.”

“You take care now.” The bus driver waved a good-bye. She stood on the sidewalk and waited for the signal to change. She only had a couple of blocks to walk, but they were uphill, and she wasn’t feeling her best today.

The common room rang with the laughter of playing children, led by one of the younger women who was well on her way to a second month of clean and sober living and a fifth month of impending motherhood.

Hope loved the sound of the children’s laughter. Too many of them had little to laugh about before coming with their mothers to the shelter. Several had been living on the streets; others had been on the run from an abusive relative.

Hope waved at their greetings and headed down the hall for her office. “Have you seen Kiss?” she asked the woman with the cornrows, who was mopping the hall.

“She the new girl at lunch?”

“Yes.”

“She lyin’ on her bed.”

“Could you please tell her I’d like to talk with her?”

“Sure ’nough.”

Hope set her briefcase down behind her desk and checked the list of messages. She had three calls to return, and Roger had left the day’s mail stacked in the middle of the desk calendar.

She sat down and started going through the mail. Five credit card offers! The days were gone when she could just toss them in the trash. Now she had to shred them to protect herself from identity theft. What was the world coming to?

She swiveled her chair around toward the window and smiled at the blown-glass hummingbird suspended by a piece of fishing line from the top of the window frame. She leaned forward and tapped it with her finger. Refracted dots—every color of the rainbow—bounced against her walls and made her smile. Roger. Wise, wonderful Roger. He was constantly looking for things to make her smile.
What would I do without you?
She thought to go find him, but just then the office door was pushed open and Kiss came in.

“You wanted me?”

“Yes, please come sit over here so we can talk.” Hope indicated the chair closest to her desk.

Kiss perched on the edge of the chair. She looked more than ever like a lost waif now, dressed in a denim skirt and scoop-neck T-shirt striped in various shades of red. Without all that makeup, she appeared to be the picture of innocence.

“Thanks for coming.”

“Did I have a choice?”

“Here at J House, you always have a choice,” Hope assured her.

“Yeah.” Kiss looked away, her gaze taking in the colored dots
hitting the walls and ceiling. One thumb worried the other on her clasped hands.

Hope tapped the hummingbird again. “Pretty, isn’t it? My husband gave it to me to make me smile.” She got a pencil and dug out from under the mail the admission form she’d started earlier. “I really do need to get some information from you.”

“Why?”

“Government regs. We have to follow certain procedures.”

Kiss shook her head, her soft hair swaying with the small action. “Why bother? I’m not staying.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Can you tell me why?” Hope kept her voice soft and gentle, as though she were taming a wild creature.