Finding Hope (18 page)

Overcome with gratitude, Hope leaned her head against her mother's shoulder. “If only Charlie could have had parents like mine,” she said wistfully. “Mom, they don't love him, not like you and Daddy love your children. It's so horribly sad.”

Grace stroked her daughter's arm and spoke with a tenderness that soothed Hope's aching heart. “I know, sweetheart. But God gave Charles exactly what he needed to make him the dear man he is today. Don't you ever doubt that.”

H
ope's heels clicked noisily over the hardwood floor before going silent as she stepped onto an enormous Oriental carpet. In the middle of the room she stopped, resting her hands on her hips as she surveyed her husband's apartment.

It was not, as she had once imagined it would be, impossibly huge and extravagantly furnished. It was spacious, but not overwhelming. There was some lovely antique furniture and there were a dozen very good paintings; but for the most part the apartment had a Spartan feel. It cried out for a few homey touches, a plant here and perhaps a curtain there, but Hope liked it.

“It's just like you, Charlie,” she said over her shoulder. “Quietly valuable.”

He was behind her, chuckling softly as his arms encircled her waist and pulled her against him.

“It's odd that you never brought me here,” she commented.

She felt him shrug against her. “You never asked to
see it,” he said. “And I always preferred to be at your house.”

Hope twisted slightly, looking up at him. “So, do you have a castle somewhere?”

“No. I've never had a house, but I want one now.” He kissed her ear. “I want so many things now.”

She covered his hands with hers and leaned her head back until it was cradled against his shoulder. “Tell me what you want, Charlie. Tell me everything that you want.”

He was silent for a moment, then he drew a deep breath. “I want to rake leaves in our own backyard. I want to see Bob curled up by our fireplace and I want to smell apple tarts baking on rainy Saturday afternoons. I want to wake up to your smile every morning. I want several noisy little people who will call me ‘Dad' and beg me to read storybooks and take them to ball games.”

He turned her around to face him. Leaning his forehead against hers, he went on. “I want to rethink my position at the hospital and drastically cut my hours so I can be a real family man. I want to go to church every Sunday and learn how to please God. I want to see what you look like with silver hair and laugh lines. And when we're very, very old, I want to die knowing that walking through life together has brought us both closer to God.”

He kissed her, long and slow, and when his mouth abandoned hers she moaned an incoherent protest and tried to entice it back. He leaned away from her, teasing her, his rich chuckle triggering a tiny explosion of delight deep inside her chest.

“Your turn, Hope.” His low voice flowed over her like warm water as he caught her hands in his. “What do
you
want?”

What did she want? She wanted to die in his arms. How could he kiss her like…like
that
…and then imagine
she would be capable of coherent speech? “Kissing,” she blurted. “What I want is more kissing.”

He raised her left hand to his lips, his warm eyes mesmerizing her as his mouth touched the two rings on her third finger. “Anything you say, Mrs. Hartman,” he said complacently.

Several minutes later Hope unknotted his bow tie and tugged on the ends, pulling his head down until his nose pressed hard against hers. She looked straight into his eyes, giggling when she found it impossible to focus at such close range. “Did you like our wedding, Charlie?”

“I loved our wedding,” he said. “It was perfectly sweet in every way. And I'm so glad my parents came.”

It had been something of a surprise. Old Dr. Hartman had been looking forwards to the wedding, but right up to the last minute Hope had been afraid Charles's parents wouldn't come. Then Mrs. Hartman had rapped softly on the door of Hope's dressing room, bringing a gift—an exquisite pearl necklace that had belonged to Charles's great-grandmother, the beloved bride for whom the Hartman house had been built in 1917.

“Of course I'm delighted, but I wanted to wear
your
wedding pearls,” Hope confided to her mother after Mrs. Hartman left them.

“No reason why you can't,” Grace replied. She removed her own pearls from their velvet pouch and wound them around Hope's wrist, fastening the clasp to make a lovely bracelet.

So the Lord had worked everything out, and, holding tight to her father's strong arm so she wouldn't float away, Hope drifted happily down the aisle to take her place beside Charles.

The windows of the picturesque chapel had been thrown open to welcome the glorious September evening, and amid a hundred flickering candles and the incredibly
sweet fragrance of gardenias, Charles and Hope were married.

Now as she stood in the safe circle of her husband's arms Hope silently thanked God for the thousandth time.

“By the way,” Charles said, “did you see how well Tom and Claire were getting along? I believe he finally asked her out.”

“He did,” Hope said eagerly. “Dinner on Tuesday. Oh, Charlie, wouldn't it be great if—”

She was silenced with a soft kiss. “Let's just wait and see,” he suggested. “I'd rather concentrate on our romance right now.”

She didn't object.

“Such a lovely gown,” he murmured, leaning away from her to appreciate the luscious white silk. “And so very fetchingly rumpled.”

He kissed her again, then his hands were in her hair, his long fingers gently probing for the pins that held the graceful twists Claire had so painstakingly arranged. “This is pretty,” he said. “I like all the white flowers in your dark hair. But I've been waiting all evening to do this.”

He pulled a gardenia loose and touched her nose with it. Hope's eyes closed automatically as she inhaled the flower's heady scent. Charles dragged the cool, velvety blossom across her lips, over her chin, down her neck before opening his hand and letting the gardenia fall with a whispery plop to the floor.

More flowers and pins followed, raining softly all around Hope until her hair fell free, tumbling to her shoulders. Charles watched in openmouthed fascination, then he wove his fingers through her dark locks and pulled her close. “Hope…” he breathed softly, kissing both corners of her smile. He pressed his cheek against
hers and spoke in her ear. “I love your name. It suits you perfectly.”

She stood absolutely still, scarcely even breathing as she thrilled to the exquisite tenderness of the voice in her ear.

“Hope…” he said again. “You're like a warm burst of sunshine after a winter storm.” He moved back a little to look into her eyes. “I was bitter and cold and my heart was so shrunken, I didn't even know I had one. But you took my hand and led me home. How can I ever thank God for sending you?”

With one finger she lazily traced the curve of his ear. “Well, the donations to the missionary society and the building fund made a nice start. And the checks you wrote this morning were even better,” she said. She gave him an impish grin. “But I hear they could use some Bibles in Russia and my father was telling me the other day about some plans they have to build a clinic in—”

“Go ahead, Hope. Give it all away if you can.” Sliding his hands out of her hair to cup her face, he slowly shook his head as if he just couldn't believe the treasure he held. “And when the last penny is gone, I will look into your sweet face and swear that I am still a very, very rich man.”