Finding Hope (2 page)

The elevator didn't appear to be moving, so he touched the button again. As he leaned his forehead against the panel and allowed his heavy eyelids to droop, the elevator lurched violently, throwing him off balance and slamming his cheek against the cold steel edge of the door opening.

Squeezing his eyes shut, he screamed a curse as an electric current of pain ripped through his face.

When the bell announced his arrival at the ground floor, Charles reached for the keys in his pants pocket. As the door opened, he squared his shoulders and lifted his chin. Then he stepped off the elevator and slowly made his way to the handicapped exit.

 

Charles opened one eye and peered at his bedside clock. He'd been asleep for almost three hours. He fumbled for the ringing telephone and pulled it to his ear. Dipping into the dangerously low reserves of his energy supply, he was able to manage a fairly impressive snarl. “What
is
it?”

The small portion of his brain that was currently online calculated that, at this point, barring an extreme emer
gency at the hospital, any person with the slightest instinct for self-preservation would hang up and pray that Dr. Hartman didn't have caller ID.

This individual possessed no such instinct.

“Afternoon, Trey,” the caller boomed. “Are you up?”

Even in his groggy state Charles could not have failed to recognize that voice, a rich baritone remarkably similar to his own. “No, Tom,” the doctor growled, “I'm sound asleep. And if you're very, very lucky, in a few hours I'll wake up convinced that I merely dreamed this call.”

Apparently aware that his call was about to be terminated, Thomas Hartman spoke rapidly. “I can get away from the office in another hour. Let's play squash.”

“No.”

“C'mon, Trey. We haven't played since last Monday. You want me to get soft?”

“I want you to get
lost,
” Charles said. He hung up the telephone, switched off the ringer and closed his eyes.

An hour later he was awakened by the insistent chiming of his doorbell. Outraged, Charles whipped back the sheets and threw his long legs over the side of his bed. He knew very well who was leaning on the button, so he didn't bother to pull on his pants before he strode angrily to the door of his apartment and yanked it open. His strength spent, he allowed his weary body to sag against the doorframe. “Tom, do you
want
to die?” he asked tiredly.

“Not smart to threaten a lawyer,” Tom responded. He flattened his palm against his brother's bare chest and shoved him out of the doorway. “Get your gear,” he said, stepping into the apartment and pulling the door shut. “We've got a court in twenty minutes.” With his thumb he pointed over his shoulder. “By the way, do you know you have a broken taillight?”

Charles had forgotten about Hope Evans until that moment. Now he felt a surge of irritation as he remembered her effusive gratitude and her unrelenting perkiness. He shuddered. “A girl hit me,” he said.

Tom studied the bruise on his brother's cheek. “What on earth did you do to her?” he asked, quietly astonished.

“The girl didn't do this,” Charles snapped. With his two middle fingers he gingerly explored his cheekbone, wincing at the sharp pain. “She hit my car.”

“Oh.” Tom seemed a little disappointed by the answer. “Then who hit
you?
”

“An elevator.”

Tom eyed him skeptically. “Have you been drinking, Trey?”

Charles ignored the question because it was a stupid one. His brother knew very well that he'd given up drinking years ago when he'd started his surgical residency. A man who was continually sleep-deprived didn't need alcohol fogging his brain.

He yawned and stretched. At least his back felt better now. He padded across the wide hardwood floor in the direction of his kitchen.

“Okay, fine,” said Tom, tagging along. “You can explain it to me later. Now get your stuff, will you? I have a feeling I'm going to annihilate you, finally, and I'm eager to get on with it. C'mon—I'll buy you a steak after.”

Charles opened his sparkling-clean and nearly empty refrigerator to remove two small bottles of vegetable juice. He passed one to Tom and uncapped the other for himself. “All right,” he said.

Suddenly the idea of wielding a racquet and sharing an enclosed court with his brother and a fast-moving rubber ball was beginning to appeal to him. Unlike the refined game of tennis, squash could get rough; especially
the way Charles played it when he needed to work off some tension. And judging by the way he felt right now, today's match was likely to set new records for incivility.

 

Late the next morning Charles reached over a chest-high counter at Lakeside Hospital's sixth-floor nurses' station and picked up a telephone. As he tersely answered questions put to him by the caller, a nurse presented him with two phone messages. Then she lifted a large tin box from the desk and placed it on the counter before him.

He handed her the telephone and she hung it up. “This is mine?” he asked, frowning at the square, emerald-colored tin.

It was. When he pried off the lid and lifted a paper doily, his jaw dropped in amazement. Assaulted by the unmistakable scent of molasses, he stared for a long moment before he gave his head a brisk shake and replaced the lid on the tin. He then turned his attention to the messages.

Three nurses drew near and looked on with interest. He ignored them, as he always did. The rapt attention of women was no novelty to him.

His shaving mirror told him no lies. He was moderately good-looking in a rugged sort of way. Not handsome. Just over six feet tall, he had light brown hair and alert hazel eyes that were usually narrowed in some cynical contemplation. He didn't smile much, he knew. Even when he did, it was little more than a sardonic upturning of one corner of his mouth—usually the right side, although he was flexible.

But he didn't have to be handsome or charming, he thought bitterly. He could look like Notre Dame's hunch-back and act like the Wicked Witch of the West's favorite brother and women would still throw themselves at him because in the end it was all about money. Specifically “old” money.

He dated frequently, but he scrupulously avoided young women and those of the middle class. Since no woman could be interested in him apart from his money, he opted to stick with the ones who were sophisticated enough not to make it so tiresomely obvious.

The nurses were circling now, showing a little more boldness than usual, but the frustratingly fascinating Dr. Hartman pretended not to notice.

He opened the box again and inhaled the deep, spicy-sweet aroma of molasses. He selected one picture-perfect oatmeal cookie and gazed reverently at it. Plump and golden brown, it was thickly studded with raisins and walnuts and—here was the stroke of brilliance, Charles thought—it was flecked with tantalizing bits of orange peel.

Silently passing the open tin to one of the nurses, he bit into his cookie. It was impossibly delicious. Coffee, he thought urgently. The phone calls could wait.

He detached the small white envelope that was taped to the lid of the tin. As he opened it and removed a neatly folded sheet of paper, something else slipped out.

Confusion gave way to annoyance as he watched a fifty-dollar bill flutter to the floor. He bent to retrieve it, stuffed it in the chest pocket of his white lab coat and scowled as he read the message.

He crumpled the note and carelessly pitched it at a wastepaper basket. It troubled him not at all that he missed.

When the greedy nurses finally surrendered the tin, Charles took another cookie and replaced the lid. He chewed slowly, fully aware that subtle magic was being worked on him. He snorted in contempt, loathing himself as he yielded.

He loved oatmeal cookies and these were by far the best he'd ever eaten. Hope Evans might be oppressively sweet, but she was also a culinary genius, and if he ever saw her again he wouldn't hesitate to tell her so.

Charles didn't smile often, but he was doing it now, with
both
sides of his mouth. He tried not to do it, because he was irked by the way the girl went on and on about his “kindness.” But he just couldn't help himself.

“H
ello, handsome. Are you behaving yourself today?”

Careful of the oxygen and IV tubes that snaked everywhere, Hope leaned over the hospital bed to bestow a tender kiss on the old man's cool, papery forehead. When he smiled and held out a feeble hand, she scooted a chair closer to the bed and sat down. Capturing his icy hand in both of hers, she rubbed it briskly, as if by warming the one extremity she might restore health and strength to the rest of his worn-out body.

Nearly six feet tall in his younger days, John Seltzer looked small and fragile in the white expanse of the bed. He'd lost his appetite a couple of weeks ago and now he appeared to be shrinking, evaporating before Hope's eyes.

He gently reproached her. “Weren't you supposed to be at school this morning, sweetie-pie?”

She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “I'm on top of it, Gramps. I'll finish my course work in just three more weeks, then I'll have the whole summer to finish
my thesis. I'll be able to turn that in during the fall quarter, so please don't worry. I'll make you proud.”

“You always do, Hope.” Faded blue eyes regarded her with obvious affection. “I couldn't be any prouder of you.”

She swallowed hard and looked away from him. She might have quit school by now if it hadn't been for Gramps.

Sometimes she forgot the old man was actually no relation to her. A longtime friend of her parents, John Seltzer was a retired missionary who had come home from Africa five years ago, his health broken.

At that time, Hope's parents, both teachers, had been seeking a new challenge. Hearing God's call, they sold their small farm and purchased a two-bedroom house in a nice suburb of Chicago. Then just after Hope's high school graduation, they left to take their friend's place at a school in Africa.

They planned to return to Chicago one day, but for now Hope lived alone in their little house. Gramps resided just across the street, and Hope believed the Lord had positioned him there to comfort and guide her, especially during that first scary, lonely year on her own.

She managed a sunny smile for her friend. “Everything's fine at your place,” she assured him. “I caught your paperboy this morning and asked him to stop delivering for a while.”

Gramps withdrew his bony hand from hers and patted her arm. “Thank you, sweetie-pie. You run along now.”

She pulled her feet up and sat cross-legged in the armless chair. “No, I want to talk, unless you're too tired.”

The wrinkles in his forehead deepened. “Is something worrying you, Hope?”

“Just you,” she answered truthfully. “I hate seeing you in that bed. But I have some good news.” She raised
her eyebrows and tilted her head back, encouraging him to guess.

His weary eyes lit up. “Have you picked up another translating job?”

Hope beamed at him, grateful that he always took pleasure in her little accomplishments. “It's a software manual. English to French, German and Spanish. It's a big job, Gramps. I'll be able to pay off the last of my undergraduate loans.”

“That's my girl,” he said warmly. “Smart as a whip. I don't know how you manage to keep all those languages straight.”

“Well, it's a real trick to give a strictly accurate and grammatical translation when the speaker never pauses to let you catch up,” she admitted. “But I can do it, Gramps—my brain actually
works
that way. I'm just beginning to understand what an incredible gift God has given me.”

Foreign missionaries and international students had been frequent guests in the Evanses' home, so Hope had become interested in languages at an early age. She'd learned Spanish in elementary school, French in middle school and German in high school. Remarkably bright, she had a flair for grammar and a gift for accents. She'd picked up two more languages in college.

Her parents had given their fifth child and only daughter enough money to see her through her freshman year. Since then, she'd been able to support herself by translating documents. Working hard, Hope had ripped through college, earning her bachelor's degree in just three years. Now wrapping up work on her master's, she dreamed of traveling the world as a simultaneous interpreter.

She had accomplished a lot, but without God's gifts
and her parents' careful nurturing, she would not now be in this position to pursue her dream.

“I'm thankful for everything God has given me. My sharp mind and most of all, Mom and Dad.” She gave Gramps an impulsive hug. “And you, of course. You've done more for me than you'll ever know,” she said softly.

“You really are a sweetie,” he said, patting her arm. “It's been a privilege to watch you spread your wings, but I'll miss my little bird when she flies away.”

“I'll always return to my nest,” Hope promised. “The assignments will be short-term, you know. A weeklong conference here and a three-day seminar there. Still, I imagine I'll get homesick for you.”

With that thought, sadness settled around Hope like a dreary morning mist. Gramps wouldn't be around much longer, whether she stayed in Chicago or not.

To hide her melancholy she busied herself straightening his bedcovers, then took a plastic pitcher across the hall to refill it with fresh water and ice.

When she returned to his room, they talked for several minutes and then Hope encouraged him to sleep a little. She promised to return in an hour or two.

She saw the objection flicker across his face even before he opened his mouth. “No, sweetie. You don't have to—”

“I'm going to hang around for a while,” she said firmly, silencing his protest. “I'm hoping your doctor will wander in before too long. There's a nice visitors' lounge just down the hall, and I've brought some work to do. So I'll see you later.”

 

Hope sank into a comfortable wingback chair in a remote corner of the spacious lounge. Grateful to be alone in the restful greens and beiges of the room, she slipped
off her penny loafers and pulled her long legs into the chair with her.

A soft sigh escaped her as she rubbed moisture from her eyes. Yes, she was sensitive. Her brothers had always teased her about her overactive tear ducts. But she had good reason to be worried about Gramps. His weak heart had just about reached the end of the road.

She wrapped her arms around one knee, drawing it to her chest. In her agitation, her body rocked slightly as she whispered a desperate prayer. “Please don't take him yet,” she begged. “I know it's selfish, but he's taught me so much and I just can't do without him. Oh, please—not just yet….”

She untangled her arms and legs and got to her feet. A cup of coffee would clear her head; then she would review some of her notes while Gramps slept. She pushed her bare feet into her loafers and headed for the coffee machine just across the hall.

Approaching with quarters in hand, she groaned in dismay when one slipped from her grasp, bounced twice on the well-polished floor and rolled in a wide half circle before disappearing under the machine.

Delving into her pocket for more change, Hope became aware that someone was standing immediately behind her. “Why does the coin
always
go under the machine?” she grumbled companionably. “Do they put suction devices down there, or what?”

“I've often wondered.” The deep voice floated over her head as Hope pulled her fist out of her pocket and opened it. Seeing only a useless assortment of pennies, nickels and dimes in her palm, she heaved a dramatic sigh.

“Please allow me.” A masculine hand, large and long-fingered yet surprisingly graceful, fed coins to the machine.

Hope's gaze traveled up the sleeve of a white lab coat, past broad shoulders around which a stethoscope was slung, pausing to rest for the briefest moment on a shapely but unsmiling mouth before finally meeting a pair of sober hazel eyes that she recognized. “Dr. Hartman! Thank you so much.”

“Not at all.” Today his manner was polite if not actually friendly. “Thank you for the cookies,” he said. He stepped back and showed her the green tin he held under his left arm. “Oatmeal happens to be my favorite and these are remarkably good.”

She gave him a warm smile. Yesterday his harsh words had scraped her like sandpaper, but he'd been incredibly generous, for all that. He was a puzzle, this poker-faced doctor with the sharp tongue and the soft heart.

He chewed his lower lip and stared at her for several seconds, apparently considering something. “I'm taking a short break,” he said at last. “Would you care to join me?”

He was just being polite, Hope realized. Trying to make up for yesterday. She ought to have let him off the hook, but the moody doctor fascinated her. She accepted his offer.

“Let's go over there,” he suggested, nodding to indicate a small seating area at one end of the corridor. He handed her the cookie tin. “I'll bring the coffee. What do you take?”

“Black with one sugar, please.” She turned away as he pressed the buttons on the machine.

What on earth am I doing?
Hope wondered as she walked to the end of the hall. She wasn't at all interested in men and she never went on dates. So why had she just agreed to have coffee with this stranger, a man who apparently never smiled, someone who almost certainly had been hoping she'd refuse him?

She could almost hear her mother's voice.
Sweetheart, that impulsive nature of yours is going to get you into trouble.

But it was only coffee, right? How much trouble could she get into over coffee?

After considering a comfortable-looking sofa and the two armchairs adjacent to it, Hope opted for the little bistro table and chairs because they were situated directly under a live, potted tree and in front of a sunny window. She placed the cookie tin on the table and sat, nervously tapping both feet as she looked out the window and waited.

A sturdy paper cup full of steaming coffee was set before her with a quiet, liquidy
thunk.
Smiling her thanks, she looked up as Dr. Hartman took the chair opposite her. When he turned his head briefly, she saw a purple bruise on his right cheek.

“I did that to you?” she gasped. “Oh, I'm sorry!”

“No,” he said shortly. “I got knocked against the door in that ancient elevator, that's all.”

That cleared up a mystery for Hope. “So
that's
what it was.” She nodded sagely, then answered the question she saw in his eyes. “I was standing in front of the elevator when you got on it and after the door closed I heard something awful.”

“Yes, that would have been my face shattering,” he said ruefully.

She hesitated. “Um, what I heard was more like yelling.”

“Ah,” he said knowingly. “I imagine I said something terribly shocking?”

She nodded, trying not to smile.

Dr. Hartman opened his mouth to speak again, but his lips clamped shut as his pager signaled him. He removed the device from his coat pocket and glanced at the mes
sage. “In your dreams,” he muttered. He replaced the pager and returned his attention to Hope. “Was it as bad as what the attorney in the Jag yelled at you?”

Remembering, she shuddered. “Not even close. But what you said was quite audible. An old lady who had just come around the corner gave me a look of stern disapproval.”

He drummed his fingertips on the edge of the table. “Why?”

Hope lifted a shoulder and dropped it again. “Beats me. I guess I look like someone who would shout really bad words in a deep, manly voice.”

He made an amused noise in his throat. “Not much, you don't.” His eyes, frankly appraising, never left her face as he swallowed some coffee and set down his cup. “You look like a Girl Scout,” he concluded.

His fingers were drumming again, all ten of them, and Hope guessed he already had a pretty good caffeine buzz going. She watched for a moment before realizing his quick, light movements were not random ones. “What are you playing?” she asked suddenly.

His hands stilled. “Chopin,” he replied in obvious disgust. “A piece I don't even like.” Leaning back in his chair, he shoved his misbehaving hands into his pockets for a time-out.

“Ever think about switching to decaf?”

“Nearly every day,” he said. “How's your grandfather?”

Hope gathered her long, loose hair and flipped it behind her shoulders. “I'm worried about him, to tell you the truth. He's only sixty-seven, but his dear heart just won't go on much longer, and I'm going to miss him so much. He's not really my grandfather, just a sweet old man who's been friendly with my parents for years. They're missionaries, in Africa, and I'm pretty much
alone here except for—” She stopped abruptly. “Sorry. You didn't ask for my life story, did you?”

Ignoring the question, Dr. Hartman opened the tin and offered her a cookie. When she politely declined, he shook his head. “I just can't believe how good these are,” he said with feeling. He bit into one with obvious relish.

Hope leaned her elbows on the table, holding her coffee cup in both hands. She blew across the surface of the hot liquid before taking a cautious sip. “So, what kind of doctor are you?” she asked.

He smiled, tight-lipped. “I'm a surgeon. Trauma.”

Hope was interested. “You put people back together after nasty car wrecks and things like that,” she stated.

He glanced at his watch. “I've never heard it put quite that way, but that's pretty much what I do.”

“Oh, I know what you do. You bark orders and everyone jumps and then you say arrogantly heroic things like, ‘Nobody dies tonight! Not on
my
shift!'”

His startled expression tickled her. “You've said it,” she crowed. “Haven't you?”

“You must watch an awful lot of television,” he answered evasively. He finished his cookie and reached for another.