Finding Hope (8 page)

“Yow! Ah! Kid, you're downright dangerous!”

“Charlie, I'm sorry!” Hope cried, deeply shocked by what she had done. “Are you badly burned?”

He closed his eyes briefly. “I'll live,” he said in a tight voice.

He had left his suit coat in his car, and Hope cringed as she realized a dress shirt offered little protection against a hot-coffee assault on a man's back. She dearly hoped his wool slacks had cushioned the insult to the area below his belt.

A salesclerk approached, concern and suspicion mingled in his eyes.

“We'll pay for the damage,” Charles growled. “Would you please find something to mop this up with?” As the clerk retreated, Charles turned to face Hope. “I can't believe you threw coffee on me.”

“Well, you should signal before you make a sudden stop like that.”

“I always brake for Hemingway. You should have remembered.”

She took a soggy book from his hand. “Well, it seems you dumped
your
coffee on poor Mr. Wordsworth.” She thought about what she had just said. “You were looking at Wordsworth, Charlie?” She gave him a teasing grin. “Isn't he a little sweet for a hard-boiled egg like you?”

“I was going to buy it for
you.
”

“You were?” Enormously pleased, she examined the hundred-year-old, cloth-bound book. “It's beautiful. And the pages aren't wet at all, just the cover. I don't mind that.” She grinned again. “Besides, the stain will give me something to chuckle about when I'm ninety.”

“Yes. And I will treasure the memory of my second-degree burn.”

Hope grew serious again. “I really am sorry.” She parked her books and her now-empty coffee cup on a nearby table. “Come on,” she urged, putting one gentle hand on his waist and resting the other on his arm. “Nobody can see us back here in the corner. Pull out your shirt and let me have a look.”

“No, it's okay,” he said shortly, backing away from her. His tone was strange, a husky one she'd never heard him use, but she ignored it in her concern for him.

She stepped towards him and started to tug the shirt free, but she was afraid of hurting him. “Come on, Charlie, just let me—”

“Stop it, I'm fine!” He twisted away from her as if she had burned him a second time.

“I'm sorry,” she murmured, unable to hide her shock.

“Hope, I didn't mean it,” he said quickly, his expression unreadable. “It's not bad, really.”

She stared, shaking her head in a silent apology.

He placed his hands on her shoulders, his eyes wide and dark now, seeming to beg for understanding. “Hope, you know I didn't mean it.”

But she
didn't
know that. A minute ago there had been something strange, something deeply disturbing in his eyes and in his voice. She looked away from him, biting her lip in consternation.

The clerk returned with several towels, offering one to Charles before he began wiping coffee off several books. Hope had to get away before she burst into tears. “Charlie, I'd like to wait in the car,” she said in a small, unsteady voice.

His hand went to his pocket and he silently offered his keys. Hope took them and whirled away from him.

Her tears were already falling as she wrenched open the passenger-side door of the Mercedes and slid into the soft leather seat. She pulled the door shut, then closed her eyes and forced herself to take several deep breaths.

Whatever had just happened had nothing to do with her clumsiness, she was certain. But what
was
it? She racked her brain and still came up clueless.

Lost in her troubled thoughts, she was startled when Charles opened his door. He slung a shopping bag onto the back seat before easing his lean frame behind the steering wheel. Although Hope had put his key in the ignition, he didn't move to start the car. He stared through the windshield as a drizzling rain made the transition to a downpour.

“Hope, I'm sorry.” His voice was barely audible over
the loud, angry splattering of the rain on the car's roof and windshield.

She laced her fingers together and stared at them.

Charles moved suddenly, reaching over the seat for the bag he'd just thrown back there. He fished out a small book and placed it on her lap.

It was the Wordsworth. Its cover was damp, but the damage was surprisingly minimal. At his urging she opened it and saw what he had penned on the faded, marbled paper of the flyleaf: “For Hope, a better friend than I could ever deserve.”

The inscription was signed and dated, but the signature was not his usual one. For the first time he had signed a name that no one but Hope had ever dared to call him: “Charlie Hartman.”

He watched the rain. “Hope, you've always taken my surliness in stride. Not that you should. It's just that you always have.”

He had a point. She knew his sharp words came from habit, not from his heart, and she had learned to ignore them. Why did they bother her now?

It was something about the way he had looked at her, but she didn't understand it, so how could she tell him? She sighed. “Please take me home, Charlie.”

He moved to start the car, then suddenly dropped his hand and sat back in his seat. He stared straight ahead for a moment before turning to her. “Why do you spend so much time with me?”

“I…want to,” she faltered.

A spark of frustration leaped in his eyes. “My salvation is not your responsibility.”

Hope sucked in a breath, but said nothing.

“Do you think I don't know that you see me as a project?” he ranted, pushing his words like pins, straight into her heart.

Why was he doing this? She fought to keep her voice steady. “You're not a ‘project' to me. You're my friend.”

“Hope, you have a lot of friends. Maybe it's time to—”

“No, there's nobody like you.” Didn't he know? Hadn't he guessed that? “I mean it, Charlie. You're my best friend.” She closed the book and hugged it to her chest. “Please, let's not argue. I'm sorry for burning you and for—well, for whatever else I did.”

He let out a long breath. “No, don't apologize,” he said quietly. “You've done nothing at all. It's just something in me. A kind of wildness.” Avoiding her eyes, he shook his head sadly. His wide shoulders slumped and he turned away from her, looking out his window at the slackening rain.

Hope was silent, praying desperately for insight and direction.

A minute later Charles's head came up and he seemed to shake off his dark mood. Hope waited, holding her breath, and finally their eyes met, held, communicated. Forgiveness was asked and granted without a word being spoken aloud.

Charles pressed the tip of her nose with his thumb. “You're not going to believe this,” he said, “but I'm really in the mood for a good cup of coffee.”

“Me, too,” Hope admitted with a giggle. “But let's
drink
it this time, okay?”

 

Until tonight the Tuesday Bible study had never been boring. Pastor Bill and the others seemed to be enjoying a lively discussion, but instead of following it, Hope was doodling elaborate ice-cream sundaes in her little notebook. She couldn't stop yawning, although she tried hard
to hide it, and she had peeked at her watch at least three times during the past twenty minutes.

Charles appeared to be giving even less attention to the meeting than Hope was. It was obvious that he had something on his mind, but every time she tried to catch his eye, he looked away. He was probably just tired, she thought. She was tired, too, after spending several long days and late nights in front of her computer. Maybe they shouldn't have come tonight.

When the meeting finally ended, Pastor Bill asked to speak privately with Hope. She couldn't help giggling when Charles nudged her and whispered, “Now you've done it, kid. You got a detention for doodling in class.”

He had come straight from the hospital, so Hope had her own car tonight. She told him not to wait, but Charles lingered, speaking politely to several people as he downed two small cups of orange juice and three chocolate-chip cookies. “This is dinner,” he explained with a grin that didn't quite reach his eyes. He left a few minutes later, at Hope's insistence, but it was another fifteen minutes before the five or six people who remained finally trickled out into the night.

As Pastor Bill's wife rinsed coffee cups and put the kitchen to rights, Hope and the pastor straightened the living room. After they put away the small folding chairs and returned several errant sofa pillows to their rightful places, Pastor Bill picked up a heavy oak chair under each arm and headed down the short, wide hall to the dining room. “Hope,” he said over his shoulder, “I've known you since you were a baby. Will you accept some fatherly advice?”

“I know what's coming,” she said warily. She picked up two chairs and followed him. “Dad has already reminded me that dating an unbeliever is a bad idea.”

Pastor Bill set down his chairs and pushed them up to
the dining room table. “I haven't talked much with Dr. Hartman, but if you like him, he must be something very special.” He placed his palms on the table, leaning forwards and giving her a long, direct look. “But, Hope, he's not a Christian. Where do you expect this relationship to go?”

She put her chairs down and let out a weary breath. “Oh, Pastor, we enjoy being together, that's all. I pray for him and I talk to him about spiritual matters. But we're not in love.”

“And how much longer will you be able to say that?”

She shook her head impatiently. “Pastor, you must have noticed that I have never dated.”

“Yes, I've wondered about that.” He removed his glasses and placed them on the table. Rubbing his eyes with stubby, wrinkled fingers, he went on. “I've seen several very fine young men gaze wistfully at you.” He picked up the glasses, settled them once again on his face and looked expectantly at Hope.

She took a deep breath. “I can't honestly say that I have felt a ‘call' from God, but for reasons I prefer to keep to myself, I'm certain that I'll never marry. So where's the harm? This is a friendship. I'm trying to lead him to God.”

Her pastor gave her a stern look. “Hope, you know very well that people often find themselves in love without meaning it to happen. And you may have convinced yourself that your heart is in no danger, but have you thought about his?”

How could she make him understand? “I'm not the type of woman Charlie could ever be interested in,” she said honestly. She turned away, starting back to the living room.

Behind her, Pastor Bill cleared his throat. “Maybe I
should tell you what I saw in his eyes tonight. They were on you every moment.”

“No,” she protested. “There's nothing romantic going on, not on either side. You're mistaken, Pastor.”

“I hope I am.” He started to pick up another chair, but leaned against its tall back, instead. He looked old and tired.

“Pastor Bill, I'm sorry.” Hope reached for his hand and gave it a brief squeeze. “You're just looking out for me, I know. Thank you for caring enough to speak up.”

A few minutes later Hope went out to her car and found the Mercedes still parked behind it. Charles was leaning against his car, apparently lost in thought as he gazed up at the stars. He startled at her approach. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay,” he offered in explanation. “You look awfully tired.”

“I
am
tired,” she said, meaning it.

His hand went to his pocket for his keys. “Welcome to the club, kid. Drive carefully, will you?”

“You too, Charlie. Good night.”

“Hope?”

She turned, puzzled by his urgent tone.

“I mean it,” he said. “Be careful, okay?”

She walked back to him. He'd been quiet all evening, but she'd been too tired to think much about it. Now she put a hand on his shoulder and spoke softly. “What happened today?”

He turned his head, avoiding her questioning gaze. She lowered her eyes, absently watching the steady rise and fall of his broad chest as she waited for him to find words.

“A woman ran a red light and got broadsided by an eighteen-wheeler,” he said at last. “There were three small children in the back seat of the car. We saved the woman,” he said with difficulty, “but she won't thank us for that when she wakes up in her hospital bed. She
has only one leg now. And her kids…” Shaking his head, he finished in a shocked whisper. “Oh, Hope, they're
gone.
All three of them are gone.”

How much longer was this man going to be able to delude himself that he didn't care about people? Hope leaned her forehead against his shoulder, where her hand still rested.

“All it takes is a second,” he said. “You're tired or you're distracted and you—”

“Charlie, don't,” she commanded. “You need to sleep.”

His head moved up and down. “Yeah. Both of us.”

“I'm careful,” she assured him. “You be careful, too.” She gave his shoulder a friendly pat and stepped away from him.

Their eyes met and held briefly, and Hope was nearly overcome by a sudden urge to slip her arms around his waist and hold on tight until all confusion, all weariness, all sorrow melted away. For both of them.

But he was already opening his car door.

“S
top pestering me, Charlie.” Hope cradled the phone between her ear and shoulder as her fingers danced over the computer keyboard. “I'm working under a tight deadline, as you very well know.”

“You can talk to me for five minutes,” he insisted. “You need a break anyway. You've been working too hard this week.”

Her fingers never slowed. “Oh, that's rich,” she said, mildly irritated, “coming from the guy who considers four hours a sufficient night's rest.”

“You're awfully cranky this morning,” he returned pleasantly. “How much sleep did
you
get last night?”

She gave him no reply but the clacking of keys as she typed.

“Yes, I thought so,” he said. “Kept the coffeepot going all night long, didn't you? Whereas I, on the other hand, got a solid eight hours of blissful slumber.”

“Really? That's wonderful,” she said, forgetting to be annoyed with him. “When was the last time you did that?”

“When I was still sleeping in a cradle, probably.”

Well, she wasn't like Charles. He was a confirmed workaholic for whom there was no excuse. Hope was simply an unfortunate student who occasionally had to pull an all-nighter. She'd been out of school for more than a week now, but she was still scrambling to catch up on a couple of translating jobs.

The document she was working on had to be in Montreal by nine tomorrow morning. At this point she had no idea how she was going to accomplish that. She'd probably have to charter a jet, she thought grimly. She glanced at the tiny clock at the bottom of her computer screen and noted with a pang of dismay that it was already past noon.

“I'm free tomorrow,” Charles said. “Want to go to the art museums?”

“Umm,” she replied absently, her fingers flying.

She was translating a purchase agreement between a small Canadian shoe company and a Mexican manufacturer. Reading in French, she was typing rapidly in Spanish while speaking with Charles in English. Man, I'm good, she thought.

“Hope, get your fingers off that keyboard and talk to me,” Charles insisted. “It's annoying to listen to that clatter.”

She sighed and picked up her oversize coffee mug, taking a long drink of the too-strong brew. “Did you call for some
reason,
Charlie?”

“Yes. Will you attend an awards dinner with me?”

She pressed her weary forehead against the hot mug. “You know I will,” she said. “Just tell me when.”

“Seriously, Hope, I'm asking you to do me a huge favor.”

She put the mug down, then arched her back, rotating
her shoulders one at a time. “How huge can a dinner be?”

“It's important, Hope. Do you have an evening gown?”

“No, but I know where I can borrow one. Claire has a closet full of them, all conveniently in my size.” Just as long as she wore four-inch heels and a padded bra, but Charles didn't need to know those details.

“I'll buy you a dress,” he said smoothly. “You should have one of your own.”

Hope resumed her key-tapping. “I don't much like the idea of a man buying clothes for me,” she said honestly.

“Pretend I'm your brother. You have so many you'd never notice another one.”

“Never mind that right now. Why is this dinner so important?”

He hesitated. “My parents will be there.”

Hope's fingers came to a complete stop and her mind whirled. “Your parents?” she croaked.

“You heard correctly.”

No. Meeting Charles's parents was definitely
not
on her list of fun things to do. “Why on earth do you want me to have dinner with your parents? From what you and Tom have hinted, they'd eat me alive!”

Charles wasn't listening. Hope heard someone speak to him in an agitated tone and he replied, “No, let me take a look. I'm right behind you.” When he spoke into the phone again, there was an urgent edge to his voice. “Hope, I have to go. May I come over around seven?”

“I'll be here,” she promised. “Bring a veggie pizza if you want to be sure of a warm welcome.”

 

Pizza. It didn't take much to please Hope Evans. Charles placed the large cardboard box on the passenger seat and turned the key in his car's ignition.

He was used to women who pouted for expensive jewelry and insisted on the finest champagne, but this one would be thrilled that he'd thought to pick up a few cans of ginger ale.

He liked that about her. Once when she'd teased him about being rich he had asked her, as a joke, what she would do with a million dollars. She was in a silly mood that night, so he had expected a hilarious reply. But although she laughed, he knew she wasn't really kidding.

“Well, I'd give it to foreign missions,” she said. “Just as soon as I bought new tires for my car. And a celebratory pizza, of course.”

That was when he'd started worrying about the tires she was driving on. At the earliest opportunity he'd slipped out, unobserved, to check them. He'd been relieved to find that while they definitely needed to be replaced, they were not yet a safety hazard. That was good, because she would never allow him to buy her a set of tires, he was certain.

It was frustrating because she was so insistent that she needed to make her own way in the world. “God will provide for me,” she'd told him once. “I'm young and strong and able to work. Maybe I can't have everything I want, but I've never had to do without anything I truly needed.”

She was a puzzle to Charles. He admired her, but he just couldn't figure her out. Where did a girl like that come from? Was she born that way, or had her parents taught her?

He thought bitterly of his own parents. He had pleaded with them not to disinherit Tom, but they stubbornly insisted that at twenty, Tom was too young to be married, especially to a girl who was not “Hartman material.” When Susan died seven years later, Charles begged his parents to reconcile with Tom. His father's resolve had
wavered, but his mother's fierce pride would not allow her to back down. That night Charles had sworn he would never again ask them for anything.

And he would never marry. Because even if by some miracle he found a woman he could tolerate for more than a few hours at a time, he never wanted to be a father. He would not risk doing to a child the things that had been done to Tom. There was a very real danger of that, Charles thought, because he had become every bit as hard and cold as his parents.

He wondered if he'd ever had a chance. Was he set on this path at birth, or had he just taken a wrong turn somewhere?

His edgy mood evaporated as he pulled into Hope's driveway and cut his engine. He closed his eyes to welcome the gentle waves of relief that washed over him. It was always like that when he came here.

He looked up and studied the little house. Behind two enormous blue-blossomed hydrangea bushes was a welcoming front porch with a comfortable swing on it. Inside the house was a friend who was always glad to see him and a chocolate-colored dog who thought Charles was the next best thing to pork chops. Was this what “home” felt like? He could only wonder.

He heard Hope singing as he came up the walk, something in German, and through the open window he smelled chocolate. Her famous brownies? Maybe this time they'd be for him and not a friend or neighbor who'd just had a baby. For some inexplicable reason Hope believed new babies called for chocolate.

Charles rang the bell. The singing stopped abruptly and he smiled. A few minutes ago his mind had been a tangle of fear and doubt, but now he was here, and somehow she would make everything all right.

 

When Hope opened her door, a great-smelling cardboard box was thrust under her nose.

“Dinner is served,” Charles announced.

The tantalizing aroma made her knees weak, but Hope perked up instantly when a six-pack of canned soda was handed to her. “Hey, ginger ale!” she squealed. She closed the front door and followed Charles—and her pizza—to the kitchen. “You don't like ginger ale, Charlie.”

“You like it.”

She bristled. “You don't have to ply me with ginger ale, Charlie. I already agreed to go to your stuffy dinner, parents and all. I am not a weasel.”

He smiled. “It's not a bribe, kid—it's a reward.”

As he put the box on the table, Hope eagerly threw back the lid. Not bothering to set out plates and napkins, she simply dove in, grabbing a slice and taking her first huge bite even before the seat of her jeans connected with her chair.

Charles watched in apparent amazement. “Hope, when was the last time you saw food?”

She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “Just a minute ago, when I took your brownies out of the oven,” she said with her mouth full.

“
My
brownies?” He looked inordinately pleased.

“Yes.” She unhitched a can from the six-pack and snapped it open. “But if you hadn't arrived with the pizza just when you did, I'd be halfway through that pan by now.”

He gave her a look of stern disapproval. “So you haven't been sleeping
or
eating?”

“Stuff a sock in it, Doctor. I've had a rough couple of days, but it's over now. It was an aberration, I assure you.”

That did not appease him. “How much trouble is it to pour a glass of milk and peel a banana?”

She took a long pull from her soda. “I haven't had time to run to the store, and I'm completely out of food. I thought long and hard about scrambling the last three eggs, but I knew you were bringing dinner. So I sacrificed them to make brownies.”

He made an impatient noise and looked away from her. “The girl's a brainless wonder, Bob,” he said to his furry friend. “How do you put up with her?”

Hope was too busy scarfing pizza and gulping ginger ale to defend herself, but she watched in fascination as Charles lifted a slice of pizza from the box. He had the most beautiful table manners she'd ever seen, but here he was, calmly eating pizza out of a box without so much as a paper napkin. He managed it with an air of unstudied elegance.

“What are you looking at?” he inquired.

“I'm waiting to see if you'll lick your fingers,” she answered truthfully.

“Why?”

“Because you have exquisite manners and I haven't offered you a napkin. I was just wondering how you'd handle it.”

His eyes twinkled as he produced a handkerchief from his pocket. “Prepared for every contingency,” he said suavely. “Are you disappointed?”

“No, I'm delighted. I dearly wish my mother could see you. She'd cry tears of joy. She did her best, but my brothers are still animals.” Hope downed half a can of soda in a single breath, then she again wiped her mouth on the back of her hand.

“Hmm. It would appear that she didn't wholly succeed with
you,
either. I suppose you're going to belch for me now?”

Hope loved the way his mouth moved when he was trying desperately not to smile. “Charlie, for a guy who's been up to his elbows in blood and guts all day, you are ridiculously easy to gross out.”

“Hope, I have been performing surgery, not butchering beef. Credit me with a
little
finesse, won't you?”

Her mouth was stuffed again, so she put her index finger and thumb together and flashed him an okay sign.

“Thank you. Want to hear about the dinner?”

Hope raised her eyebrows and nodded vigorously.

“Tom's being honored,” Charles began. “He has managed single-handedly to raise an incredible amount of money for the new burn unit at Lakeside. I have to give a speech and I want you to be there for Tom.”

Hope was deeply interested. “That's wonderful,” she said with feeling. “I'm not at all surprised that Tom did something so nice. But I don't understand why you want
me
to go.”

Charles opened a can of ginger ale. “He and I will be alone at a table with our parents. They will barely speak to him, and Tom wouldn't dream of taking a date. If you come, I know he'll relax a little.”

So Charles was still protecting his brother from their parents. Hope's heart ached for the mixed-up family. But it still didn't make sense. “I'm surprised your parents have consented to go,” she said.

“That's the funny part—Mother is honorary chairperson of the organization that's giving the award. She's not going to be in a very good humor, I'm afraid. She was asked to introduce Tom, but she declined. I don't know what excuse she gave them, but I'm sure she made it sound perfectly reasonable. She excels at that sort of thing. Anyway, I'm going to do it.”

Hope fought an urge to grab him and hug the stuffing out of him. “Of course you are,” she said staunchly,
angry that Tom's own mother would slight him. “So they'll sit with him for the sake of appearance?”

“That's it exactly. But they won't give another inch.”

Hope's spine stiffened in fierce loyalty. “I'll do whatever I can.”

“Thanks. I knew I could count on you.” Charles wiped his fingers on his handkerchief and leaned forwards to extract his wallet from his back pocket.

“No,” Hope said firmly. “I won't allow you to buy me a dress.”

Hazel eyes flicked over her. “Actually, you will,” he said with maddening certainty. “I knew you'd dig in your stubborn little heels, so I've developed an ingenious strategy for handling you.”

Hope's eyes narrowed and her cherry-red fingernails drummed threateningly on the table. “
Handling
me?”

Charles selected a credit card from his wallet and laid it on the table before her. “You will take this to the finest store in town and buy something hideously extravagant.”

She jeered at him. “Ha! I'd like to know what makes you think you'll be able to get me to do that!”

He gave her a smug look. “This is where my superior intellect comes in. However much you spend, I plan to double it and write a check in that amount to your church's missionary society.”