Finding Hope (3 page)

“You're an adrenaline junkie. You make rapid-fire decisions and you're never wrong. You don't have any patience with people who are tentative and you're not terribly forgiving of mistakes. You work too much and you don't get enough sleep and you drink way too much coffee.”

He eyed her warily. “Where did you pick all that up?”

“I just spent three days with a good friend who is an ER nurse in Cleveland. She has lots of stories about ER physicians and trauma surgeons.”

“I'll bet.” His flat tone said clearly that he wasn't interested in hearing any of the stories.

Hope was talking too much. She always did. Her brothers had told her so often enough. She looked out the window and waited for Dr. Hartman to say something.

He didn't. He, too, stared out the window.

Sneaking a look at his profile, Hope was struck by the way the brilliant sunlight bounced off the subtle waves of his honey-brown hair. At the zoo she'd seen lions with coats of that color, not quite golden, and she had wondered if their fur was as silky as it appeared. It was odd how dangerous things were so often beautiful.

Dr. Hartman interrupted her daydream. “I should get back to work,” he said.

“I've really enjoyed our talk,” Hope said honestly, “but I know you're busy. Thanks for the coffee, Dr. Hartman.”

He swirled the coffee in his cup, watching the spinning liquid in apparent fascination. “Do you suppose you could call me Charles?” he asked absently.

She ran her middle finger around the rim of her own cup and considered that. The man was not going to win any prizes for his sparkling personality, but she liked him. “Tell you what,” she offered, “I'll call you Charlie.”

He nearly choked on his coffee.
“Charlie?”

She nodded firmly. “Sure. Didn't they call you that when you were a boy?”

“No, they called me Trey.”

Hope wrinkled her nose. “You mean like the playing card? The one that comes after the ace and the deuce?”

“Exactly.”

“So what are you,” she asked provocatively, “the off-spring of riverboat gamblers?”

His mouth twitched. “Not exactly.” He swallowed the last of his coffee. “I'm Charles Winston Hartman III,” he said. “My grandfather is called Charles and my father goes by Winston. I suppose they called me Trey to avoid confusion.”

Hope tossed her head. “They might have considered that little snag before they gave you a name that was already in use by two men,” she opined. “I take it you don't come from a long line of original thinkers?”

One side of his mouth turned up, an almost-smile. “Actually, we're all doctors.”

“What? Not all
three
of you?”

“I'm afraid so,” he said. “Dr. Charles Winston Hartman, in triplicate. It's awful, isn't it?”

She laughed, but the latest edition of Dr. Charles Winston Hartman barely cracked a smile. Goodness, but the man was strung tight.

Hope twirled a lock of hair around her finger. “Well, I think Charlie is a good name for you,” she said boldly. “It makes you seem more—” She broke off.

“More what?”

“N-nothing.” She stumbled over her words. “I'm sorry.” She really ought to bite her impertinent tongue, she thought distractedly. When would she learn to think first?

His eyes nailed her. “I can take it. More what?”

He wasn't going to like this. She nibbled her bottom lip for a moment before she answered. “More…approachable?”

He cocked an eyebrow at her.

“Well, you pretend not to care,” Hope said defensively, “but you really are a Charlie at heart. I can tell.”

That obviously annoyed him. “You're trying to tell me that a…Charlie…is a nice guy?”

Hope almost laughed at the way his upper lip curled
in distaste as he pronounced the nickname. She sipped her coffee, watching him over her cup. His gruff demeanor didn't fool her for a second. He was a Charlie, all right.

“I'm not a nice guy, Hope.” His tone was quietly menacing. He snapped the lid on the square tin and stood up. “But thank you for the cookies.”

Hope wondered why the man was so determined to hide his kind heart. She had seen it and she had an inexplicable need to tell him so. She watched him take four long strides away from her before she put down her cup and called, “Charlie?”

He turned.

She elevated her eyebrows and tried to look innocent.

He stared for a moment, answering her broad smile with a scowl. She expected him to turn on his heel, but he surprised her by coming back to the table. Cradling the cookie tin in one arm, he put his free hand on the table and leaned forwards, looking straight into her eyes. “Have dinner with me tonight.”

“Why?” The thoughtless question leaped out of her mouth before she could stop it. Deeply ashamed, she lowered her eyes, intending to avoid his unnerving gaze by staring into her coffee cup. But he was there, too—his face was clearly reflected in the dark liquid.

His answer was delayed by several heartbeats. “Because,” he said finally, “you interest me.”

Hope groaned inwardly. “I don't mean to. I wasn't flirting—honest.”

“No, I didn't think you were,” he replied imperturbably.

Somewhat relieved, Hope spoke to the face in her coffee cup. “Thank you, Dr. Hartman, but I don't go out with men.”

“Don't you? Why not?”

She forced herself to look up. “Because I plan never to marry.”

His hazel eyes glinted with amusement. “Let me assure you, Hope, the only thing I am
proposing
is dinner and conversation.”

“I'm sorry. I never go on dates.” But for the first time she found herself tempted to make an exception.

“Goodbye, then,” he said abruptly. He snatched his empty cup off the table, crushing it in his hand as he walked away.

 

Hope couldn't get Dr. Hartman out of her mind. She wished she hadn't turned down his invitation. Her “no” had been automatic, a reflex.

She would never marry. She had reasons, good ones, and they began and ended with a handsome college student named Trevor Daniels. But now for the first time in almost seven years, she felt a twinge of regret.

Although she went to the hospital every day to visit Gramps, nearly a week passed before she saw Charles again. One morning she glimpsed him in the hall just as the door of her elevator closed. She frantically pressed the “open” button, but it was too late. She got off at the earliest opportunity and hurried back up to the sixth floor.

She'd missed him, of course. She stood in the middle of the hall and stared at the ceiling, completely at a loss to understand why she suddenly felt so depressed.

“Is something wrong?” a nurse asked.

“I'm all right, thank you,” Hope replied without a particle of conviction.

“I've seen you in here a lot,” the nurse commented. “You're with Mr. Seltzer, aren't you?” Hope nodded and the woman went on. “He's doing better. Try not to worry.” She lightly touched Hope's shoulder before continuing on her way.

Hope's dreary mood lifted as she watched the nurse go. There were a lot of nice people in the world, she reflected. It was silly of her to be chasing after a charm-school reject like Dr. Charles Hartman. She made up her mind to forget him.

She had just pressed the button to summon another elevator when she saw him come out of a room not twenty feet away. The resolution of a moment ago was instantly forgotten. “Dr. Hartman!” she called eagerly.

He stopped, but he didn't turn. He didn't look up from the clipboard he was writing on, but from the angle of his head she understood that he was listening, waiting.

“Charlie?”

She read his annoyance in the slight jerk of his head, the stiffening of his back. He turned, frowning. A second later he recognized her and his expression softened.

“Hello, Hope.” He didn't smile, but his eyebrows lifted slightly and he looked almost friendly. He replaced his ballpoint pen in the chest pocket of his white coat and waited for her to speak.

She was direct. She didn't know any other way. “Charlie, I've thought about it and I want to go to dinner with you.”

He regarded her thoughtfully. “Thanks,” he said quietly, then he gave his head a brief shake. “But I don't think so.”

Surprised and embarrassed, Hope lowered her gaze. “I understand. I'm sorry to have troubled you.”

She was aware that his head dipped slightly as he attempted to engage her averted eyes. Not succeeding, he studied her face for a moment before he spoke. “No, I don't believe you
do
understand.”

She looked up. “Of course I do. I don't interest you anymore.” She gave him a rueful grin. “It's okay, Dr.
Hartman. I'm not going to throw myself off a bridge or anything like that.”

The firm line of his mouth bent a little, but it straightened almost immediately. “As a matter of fact, you interest me very much. But I think a friendship with you would take more energy than I'm willing to expend. I suppose that hurts your feelings?”

She told him the truth. “No. I'm just disappointed, that's all.”

“Are you? Why?”

She shrugged. “I don't think that can matter to you. And I don't want to keep you from your work.”

She saw his smile the instant before he smothered it. “You're smooth, aren't you, Hope?”

Smooth? Her mouth fell open and she shook her head slowly. If he thought she was unruffled, then he was way past mistaken and halfway to shockingly ignorant.

“So you want to go to dinner with me?” He hugged the clipboard and waited.

Hope's eyebrows drew together. Hadn't they already established that? She blinked at him. “Is that a renewed invitation or mere idle curiosity?”

His mouth twitched again. He was definitely amused.

Hope didn't try to hide her frustration. “Look, Dr. Hartman, I have accepted your rejection. Shouldn't you be getting back to your work?”

He ignored the question and asked one of his own. “How about seven-thirty tonight?”

Her breath caught in her throat. Was he actually smiling?

“Are you free?” he persisted. He
was
smiling.

Openmouthed, Hope stared, uncharacteristically speechless.

“Just nod your head,” he suggested. He waited until she did that, then he reached for his pen and pulled a
small tablet from another pocket. His tone was businesslike. “Address and phone number?”

Still dazed, Hope gave them.

“I have some patients to see right now,” said the doctor briskly. “I'll pick you up at seven-thirty.”

“But, Dr. Hartman, are you positive that you really—”

He held up a hand to silence her. “The name is Charles, remember?”

At last Hope's irrepressible sense of humor rescued her. “I remember nothing of the kind,” she declared pertly. She flashed him a wicked grin. “I'll see you tonight, Charlie.”

F
eeling like a naughty child, Hope raided her mother's jewelry box, liberating Grace Evans's wedding pearls from their midnight-blue velvet pouch. Although she had permission to wear the necklace, Hope had never done so.

She fastened the diamond-studded clasp behind her neck and leaned over, twisting awkwardly until she saw herself in the tiny mirror inside the lid of the satin-lined box. Not satisfied with the view, she went to the bathroom mirror for a better look. There she flipped her dark, loose hair away from her shoulders and admired the way the pearls lay against the jewel neckline of her simple charcoal-gray dress.

Blessed with clear skin and blue eyes, Hope rarely wore makeup. But she slicked on a bit of lip color before returning to her own bedroom to check her reflection in a full-length mirror.

She heard movement behind her. “Bob, you won't believe this,” she said into the mirror, “but I actually have a date.” She flicked a piece of lint off one of her short
sleeves. “Well, not a
real
date, but a man is taking me to dinner. And it doesn't mean anything at all, so don't you dare give me that worldly-wise look of yours.”

When the doorbell rang Hope was ready to go. Or would be, just as soon as she located her other black pump. On a single three-inch heel she limped to the living room and opened the front door. “I'm glad to see you,” she said artlessly, standing aside and allowing Charles to enter. “I was a little afraid you wouldn't come.”

“I said I would, didn't I?” he asked irritably.

The prickly physician didn't scare her at all. Having grown up with four older brothers, Hope was used to men and their moods. Early-morning surliness, high-decibel temper tantrums and boneheaded stubbornness were all things she knew how to deal with.

“I just thought you might have changed your mind,” she said honestly. “I wouldn't have blamed you. Because—well, I goaded you into this, didn't I?”

He gave her a puzzled frown. “I've had rather a difficult afternoon,” he said by way of explanation, if not apology, for his rudeness.

Wearing a beautifully cut and obviously expensive suit in almost the same charcoal shade as Hope's dress, he looked downright elegant. Except for the pearls, Hope hadn't dressed with any special care, which was just as well, because she could have spent a week getting ready and still not have attained
that
level of gorgeousness.

No, not gorgeousness. Charles Hartman wasn't actually handsome. He was…classy. Yes, that was it. Well, if
she
had tons of money, she'd look classy, too. Who wouldn't?

Forgetting her semishoeless state, Hope took a lopsided step away from Charles and promptly lost her bal
ance. As her arms flailed uselessly, he lunged for her, his alert reflexes preventing her from hitting the floor.

An instant later it occurred to Hope that leaning sideways in this virtual stranger's arms was probably as close as she would ever come to dancing the tango. She giggled, stammering an apology as Charles righted and released her.

He stared at her feet for a moment, then raised startled eyes to her face. Hope calmly met his gaze, chewing her tongue while she waited for him to ask.

He cleared his throat. “Is that a new fashion or are you just eccentric?” he queried.

Hope tilted her head to one side. “I'm going to need some more choices.”

He nodded, his eyes drifting away from hers as he thought. “Your other shoe's being repaired? You have an ingrown toenail? The store had only one shoe in your size but you couldn't pass up the bargain?”

Hope grinned and waited. He was good.

“Perhaps we should skip multiple-choice and try fill-in-the-blank,” he suggested.

For a man who was so reluctant to smile, he had a great sense of humor. Hope rewarded him with the correct answer. “Bob plays with my shoes. I was looking for the mate to this one when you arrived. I'll continue the search now, if you don't mind. I'm guessing you want to go to one of those swanky places where they pretty much insist on their patrons being fully shod.”

“It's what I had in mind. Definitely one of those fashionable
two-shoe
establishments. You have a son?”

“N-no, I've never been married,” she replied in confusion.

“Well, that wouldn't preclude your having children. I knew that one even before medical school.”

She didn't care for his casual attitude. “Yes, it
would,” she stated firmly. “I believe the biblical teaching that sex outside of marriage is a sin.”

He gave her a noncommittal shrug. “Then who's Bob?”

“Oh!” she said, finally understanding. Looking Charles in the eye, she put two fingers to her mouth and whistled, watching with satisfaction as he cringed. Hope was proud of her whistle. It was exquisitely loud and nerve-shatteringly shrill.

“Hope! You might have warned me,” he chided, twisting his fingers in his ears.

She bent to caress the cocker spaniel that had just bounded in from the kitchen. “That was nothing. I can do it much louder,” she declared. “I have four older brothers, and I can whistle and spit and belch with the best of 'em. My curveball isn't bad, either.”

“I can imagine,” he said admiringly. “But are you about ready to go? I haven't had a thing to eat all day, unless black coffee counts.”

She removed her solitary shoe and handed it to him. “Check under the sofa and see if you can find something that looks like this. I'll go look under my bed.”

A minute later Charles called to her. She returned to the living room, where he handed her both shoes. She inspected them for damage and slipped them on. “Nice work,” she said. “And black coffee
doesn't
count, so let's get moving.”

 

Delighted by the massive bouquet of pink roses in the lobby of the small French restaurant, Hope couldn't resist touching one perfect bloom as a hostess escorted Charles and her past the display. When they stepped into the dining room, she was even more impressed to find that each white-draped table was graced by three red roses and a bit of ivy in a small silver vase.

Much was made over Charles and his guest. “You must be a regular here,” Hope commented after they were seated.

“It's my favorite restaurant,” he acknowledged. “I come here just about every week.”

“Do you eat out a lot?” she wondered.

“Every day. I don't cook.”

“Not at all?”

He shrugged. “I make coffee.”

“What's in your refrigerator?”

“Fruit juice, vegetable juice, bottled water,” he recited.

“What else?”

“Nothing else.”

“No ketchup? Men always have ketchup.”

His mouth twitched. “Is that so? I must be an exception, then.”

Hope lowered her gaze and concentrated on not blushing. What she had just said implied an extensive knowledge of men and their refrigerators that she didn't actually possess. Uncomfortably aware of her companion's amused regard, she opened her menu and pretended to study it carefully.

Charles broke the excruciating silence. “Do you need any help deciphering the French?” he asked politely.

Without looking up, she thanked him in that language, assuring him that she was having no trouble reading the menu. She didn't mention the grammatical error she'd spotted.

“Your accent is beautiful. Are you French?”

Hope raised her eyes to his. “I'm a natural mimic. Languages are easy for me.”

His eyebrows lifted appreciatively. “How many do you speak?”

“French, German, Spanish, Italian and Japanese.”

That obviously surprised him. “Really? Do you speak them all as perfectly as you do French?”

“I'm not that good in Japanese. My accent is pitiful and I have the vocabulary of a ten-year-old.”

She looked at her menu again, and this time she noticed the prices. It was all she could do to keep her eyebrows from jumping straight up to the soaring, wood-beamed ceiling.

When she heard a chuckle, she realized she had not managed to conceal her shock from Charles. “Go ahead and have some fun,” he said. “It's on me tonight. And the portions are small here, so be sure to try a lot of different things.”

Well, why not? Dr. Moneybags could afford it. And if a girl was going to have just one actual date in her entire lifetime, she might as well make it memorable, right?

After their orders were taken, Charles encouraged Hope to talk about her schoolwork and her translating. Then he asked about her family. “Your parents are in Africa, you said?”

“Yes. They're both teachers, and when I finished high school, God called them to the mission field. The boys were already scattered—one in Dallas, two in Los Angeles and one in Pittsburgh. So Mom and Dad sold the farm and bought the house where I'm living now. Am I talking too much?”

His mouth twitched with humor. “I'm getting used to it. What will you do after you get your degree?”

“I hope to travel to conferences all over the world as a simultaneous interpreter. I'm studying medical terms, especially. One day you might go to a meeting in Paris and hear my voice through your earphone.”

“It sounds like you'll have some real adventures. Is that why you don't want to marry?”

This was the part she hated. People always asked why
she didn't date, why she didn't want a husband and children. It wasn't something she cared to discuss, yet everyone seemed to think she owed an explanation. She never gave one. God alone knew how her young heart had been shattered. Everyone else could speculate all they wanted.

“I prefer not to talk about it,” she said slowly, “but I
am
resolved. And to be honest, I have mixed feelings about being here with you. Since I'm not interested in romance I've made it a rule never to go out with men. This is the first exception I've made in almost seven years.”

He raised an eyebrow. “You're against a little harmless fun?”

She regarded him thoughtfully. “What if I went out with a man and he began to love me? My ‘harmless fun' could end up hurting someone. Don't you see?”

One corner of Charles's mouth turned up. “Well, don't worry. As charming as you are, there's absolutely no danger of my falling in love with you. So we can be friends, can't we?”

Hope lightly caressed one of the red roses. “I'd like that. But you said… How did you put it?” She looked up, meeting his eyes. “That a friendship with me would take more energy than you're willing to expend?”

He pursed his lips, appearing to consider his earlier statement. “Hmm. Well, perhaps I could exert myself a
little.
”

She grinned at him, delighted by the quirk of his mouth that told her he was trying not to smile. “It might be worth your while,” she said eagerly. “I'm really good at friendship.”

His almost-smile died instantly. “I can't say the same, Hope. Maybe you shouldn't waste your time.”

“Waste my time?” she echoed faintly.

“I don't really care about people,” he said matter-of-factly. He rapped his chest with a fist. “Heart of stone.”

Hope's eyes widened. Did he honestly believe that? He was a doctor, wasn't he? Of course he cared about people. She shook her head. “Nonsense. You gave me parking money.”

His eyes held hers easily. “It was an impulse, that's all. I'm not a kind man.”

She stood her ground. “Nonsense,” she said again, more firmly this time.

“I mean it. There's no ‘niceness' in me. I am incapable of love.”

His uncompromising words and his earnest, unwavering gaze shocked her. Nervously, she fingered her mother's pearls. “What about your family?”

“I don't care much for my parents. My grandfather is okay, but we're not particularly close. I feel affection for my brother, but sometimes he gets on my nerves. Honestly, I've never loved anyone.”

A plateful of steamed mussels was set before her but suddenly Hope had no appetite. “What about God?” she persisted when the waiter had gone.

Charles's lips parted and for several seconds he stared at her without speaking. “I would very much like to believe in something or someone. I wish I knew how. But nothing touches me.”

Hope shivered. Never in her life had she heard anyone utter such a bleak sentiment. Speechless with pity, she could only stare at him as tears gathered in her eyes.

“Don't take it to heart, kid,” he said with a gentleness she never would have expected from him. “It's nothing I can't live with.”

As she continued to study his face, something in it changed. It was as though he had suddenly become aware
that he'd inadvertently left a door ajar, and now that door was carefully closed.

“Try your mussels,” he suggested. “They're good here—lots of garlic.”

Hope looked at her plate, blinking furiously to hold her tears at bay. This poor man was wandering alone in a wilderness. Could she help him find his way to God?

With all her heart, she wanted to. She looked up, straight into the hazel eyes that were now carefully guarded. “Okay, let's get to work,” she said briskly. With her fingertips she wiped moisture from the corners of her eyes.

Charles leaned back in his chair as if to distance himself from her. “Get to work on what?” he asked cautiously.

She gave him her sweetest smile. “Our friendship. It's clear that you need me, Charlie, and I've decided to take the job.” She offered her right hand so he could shake it.

He turned his head and looked at her sideways. “Not a good idea,” he cautioned, ignoring her hand.

She leaned forwards, taunting him, her eyes boring into his. “Scared?”

His head jerked slightly and he gave her a thin-lipped smile. “Of a Girl Scout? Hardly.”

She again extended her hand and this time it was clasped briefly. As he started to withdraw, Hope impulsively tightened her grip, holding his large hand captive in her slender one. “You won't regret it, Charlie.”