Finding Hope (4 page)

He looked pained. “Must you keep calling me that?”

She released his hand. “Don't worry. You'll get used to it.”

That didn't seem to comfort him any. He looked at his hand, flexing it as if she had injured him. “Hope, I'm not a nice guy,” he warned.

“I'm a better judge of that than you are, Charlie.”

Their gazes locked in a silent showdown, and when he sighed Hope knew he'd given in. For now, at least.

“Eat your mussels,” he said, “or I will.”

 

Two nights later he called just before nine o'clock and asked Hope to join him for a late dinner. She'd already eaten, but she told him she could really go for some cheesecake.

He was phoning from his car, and he was not far from her house. “Can you be ready in ten minutes?” he asked.

She could. She hung up the phone and turned to her dog. “Oh, Bobby, I hope I know what I'm doing.” She peeled off her T-shirt and shorts and tossed them onto her bed. “It's not actually dating, is it—just having dinner and talking? It's no different from going out with Claire or Barb, is it?”

She stood in front of her closet and wondered which of her six dresses to put on. She didn't know where they were going, but she guessed he'd be wearing another of those snazzy suits. “Must be nice to have money,” she mumbled as she pulled a sleeveless, beet-red sheath off a hanger and wriggled into it. The nails of her long, straight toes were already painted deep red, so she eased her feet into strappy black sandals.

Hope couldn't remember the last time she'd enjoyed herself as much as she had when she'd gone to dinner with Charles. She could barely scrape together money for a monthly pizza, let alone a to-die-for meal at one of Chicago's finest restaurants, so it had been a wonderful evening. But the best part had been getting to know Charles. He was amazingly intelligent, remarkably articulate and he had a delicious sense of humor.

Even apart from her facility with languages, Hope had always been considered by her teachers to be extremely
bright. But this man's brain could dance circles around hers. She had never known such a stimulating conversation partner.

“I like him, Bob,” she said. “I've never come across anyone as interesting as he is. He needs a friend and I'm just a girl, not a woman, to him. So it's really pretty safe, don't you think?”

Bob didn't disagree.

She gave her long hair five licks with a brush, then twisted it into a loose chignon, securing it with hairpins. She uncapped a tube of deep red lipstick and stroked color on her curvy top lip. Hearing Charles's car in the driveway, she gave her bottom lip a quick swipe. Then she blew a smacky kiss to Bob and slipped the strap of a small black purse over her shoulder.

She opened the front door just as Charles touched the bell. “I'm ready,” she announced.

He looked down.

“Two shoes,” Hope confirmed. “Let's go.”

She kept him company while he ate, then he ordered coffee for the two of them and cheesecake for Hope.

“Thanks for joining me,” he said after their coffee was brought. “It's boring to eat alone.”

How could he possibly know that? Hope seriously doubted that a catch like Dr. Hartman would have any difficulty finding a dinner companion. “Why did you call me?” she asked, suddenly curious. “Were all the girlfriends busy?”

“I wasn't in the mood for a date. I just wanted to talk, like we did the other night.”

Suddenly embarrassed, Hope lowered her gaze. She guessed that to Charles, a date involved quite a bit more than dinner and conversation. Although that shocked her, it was reassuring to know she didn't interest him in
that
way. But her cheeks burned and she was uncomfortably aware of his eyes on her.

She sensed a shift in his mood as the silence lengthened between them. She lifted her head and glimpsed a dark, angry stirring in his narrowed eyes. She had a disquieting impression of swirling winds and gathering thunderclouds and she felt a warning flutter in her stomach.

He spoke just a shade too casually. “What makes you think there are so many girlfriends?”

At a loss to comprehend the undercurrent of hostility in his manner, she answered hesitantly. “Well…you're good-looking and brilliant. You probably have to beat them off with a stick.”

His eyes flickered dangerously and the storm broke. “I do,” he said harshly, “but not for those reasons. Money is what women really go for, and I am disgustingly wealthy.”

Upset by his stinging words and his flinty gaze, Hope stared into the rich darkness of her coffee and said nothing.

“Does that impress you?”

Her heart twisted. Did he truly believe money was his only attraction? Did he think she was here tonight because of
that?
She shook her head, aching for him. “Not everyone is like that, Charlie.”

“Yes,” he said savagely. “Every woman I've ever met.”

“I don't believe it,” she insisted. He would probably take her head off for this, but she couldn't stop herself. “I don't know where you've been meeting women, Charlie, but I think you've been going out with the wrong ones.”

“No, they are perfectly suited for what I want.” The
dangerous glint in his eyes made it impossible to mistake his meaning. “And now I've shocked you, haven't I?”

He had, but more than that, he had
meant
to do it. Why was he being so nasty? Hope sipped her coffee, then picked up her napkin and dabbed at her mouth. It wasn't much, as stalling tactics went, but it gave her a few seconds to think. “I guessed that was true, but I never thought you'd say it,” she reproached him. “Not to
me,
Charlie.”

She saw the regret in his eyes before he lowered them, but he wasn't a man who apologized. Her heart flooded with pity. “You've got a lot more going for you than money, Charlie, and anyone with an ounce of character is sure to see that.”

He made a small sound of disgust and shook his head in amazement. “You honestly believe that, don't you? I suppose you're about to tell me what a charmer I am?”

“No.” She opted for brutal honesty because he would sneer at anything less. “You're not charming at all. You're about as warm and fuzzy as a porcupine. But I admire you for so many—”

“Oh, don't sugarcoat it, kid,” he interrupted. He smiled, oddly entertained. “I'm an ogre and you know it!”

A minute ago he had hurt her, but now he was just plain ticking her off. She was determined to set him straight. “That's just it, Charlie—you're
not.
But you try so hard to make yourself and everyone else believe that you are. It must be a tremendous strain. I wonder how much longer you'll be able to keep up the act.”

He wasn't smiling now. “Stop it, Hope,” he said in a low, threatening tone.

Refusing to be intimidated, she folded her arms on the table and leaned towards him. “Why?” she challenged. “Are you afraid your mask will slip?”

“There's no mask. This is who I am. You appear to be convinced there's something in me worth redemption. There isn't, and your pretty illusions are in danger of being trampled. I might regret that, but I wouldn't bend over to pick up the pieces.”

She was very sure. “Yes, Charlie—you would.”

He might snap at her, he might try to shock her a little, but he wouldn't hurt her for the world. Hope knew that even if he didn't. She had decided to be a friend to him and she always stood by her friends. If he expected her to run away just because he was a little testy, he was going to be surprised. She lifted her chin and silently defied him.

“Stop it, Hope,” he said again. It wasn't a warning this time, but a plea, and sudden insight told Hope she'd pushed him too far. She had meant only to shake him up a little, but somehow she had disarmed him completely. She looked into his wide, frightened eyes and realized he understood nothing at all about friendship and trust.

Impulsively she reached out to touch his hair. She was surprised that he didn't shy away, but sat perfectly still, watching her face in apparent amazement. She ruffled his civilized, honey-colored waves, coaxing them to stand up rakishly.

Satisfied with her work, she swallowed a giggle and withdrew her hand.

He gazed at her soberly, making no effort to smooth his hair. “What was that for?”

“It needed to be done,” she said with an almost-straight face.

“Are you laughing at me?”

She was. “Don't you think it's about time somebody did, Charlie Hartman?”

His mouth opened slightly and she saw his tongue
move against his cheek. He didn't smile, but he came close.

“You're wondering whether I'm fearless or merely stupid,” she guessed, lifting a forkful of cheesecake.

His breath came out in a huff. “You are a most uncommon girl.”

“No,” she protested, reaching for her coffee. “I'm as ordinary as they come.”

He shook his head in slow motion, his eyes on her all the while. “Hope, there is nothing remotely ordinary about you.”

She lowered her cup and dropped her gaze. Aware that he was still watching her, she picked up her fork again, toying with her dessert as she prayed silently.
Lord, let me show him what a real friend is. And help me teach him that You are the best friend of all.

I
t appeared that she had passed some kind of test. Hope sat on her porch swing, her purse and her Bible beside her. Rocking gently, she mulled over the events of the past two weeks.

Consciously or not, Charles had done his utmost to push her away. Confronted with his unrelenting cynicism, she'd dug in her heels and fought for him. When the smoke cleared, she'd remained standing, battered but not beaten, still determinedly waving her banner of friendship.

And Charles had surrendered, handing her his trust as if it had been hers by right, a spoil of war.

Hope glanced at her watch—5:50. Provided he had been able to get away from the hospital, Charles would be here in ten minutes. But people didn't stop bleeding merely to suit Dr. Hartman's convenience, and Hope was learning to be flexible.

She still couldn't believe he had actually agreed to accompany her to Tuesday night Bible study. When she'd
asked he had merely pressed his lips together for a moment before answering, “Sure. Whatever you want.”

It was almost scary. He seemed unable to deny her anything. Did the man think he had to pay for her friendship? Or was this the Lord at work, softening Charles's heart?

She leaned her head back to catch a few slanting rays of the late-afternoon sunlight on her face. Eyes closed, glorying in the sun's warm caress, she listened to the sounds of summer: the hypnotic drone of a neighbor's lawnmower, the delighted squeals of children as they splashed in a wading pool across the street. Her last drowsy thought was to wonder how many times she had danced around the lawn sprinkler with her brothers on hot summer afternoons just like this one….

“Hope.”

She opened her eyes and saw Charles ensconced in the wicker chair next to her, one ankle resting on his other knee. His suit coat had been tossed over the porch railing and his tie was loosened. He was refolding her newspaper.

“Hi,” she murmured groggily. She struggled to sit up. “How long have you been here?”

He placed the folded paper on a small table and looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes. You must have an awfully clear conscience to be able to sleep that soundly.”

Hope rubbed her eyes, thinking it probably had more to do with growing up with four rowdy boys and their noisy friends. She'd learned to sleep through just about anything.

Charles stood. “We'd better go.”

They stopped for a quick dinner at Hope's favorite deli, which was nearby. She loved the place not only for its excellent soups and sandwiches, but for the charming
outdoor eating area that was crowded with large pots of fragrant herbs and dramatic cascades of colorful petunias.

They got their food and carried it out to the small patio. “It smells good here,” Charles commented.

“It's the herbs.” Hope ran her hand lightly over the needles of a rosemary plant, then held her fingers under Charles's nose.

He sniffed. “I know that smell.”

“It's rosemary. You've probably had it with lamb or potatoes.”

He pointed. “What's that one? I can smell it from here. Something minty?”

“Spearmint. You must have brushed against it when you walked by. That releases the scent, especially on a hot day like this.”

Hope pointed out several other herbs, telling Charles which dishes they were commonly used in. He touched and sniffed them all, cautiously delighted by each little discovery.

As they ate messy but delicious Reuben sandwiches and crunched enormous spears of dill pickles, Hope wondered again whether anyone had ever seen past her friend's tough outer shell to the gentle heart beneath. Charles denied its existence, but Hope knew better.

It occurred to her that he knew all about her life while she knew next to nothing about his. She tried to draw him out, but it wasn't easy. He deflected several questions about his family before he gave in.

“It's not a sweet story,” he warned. “I saw little of my parents while I was growing up. I was always away at school or summer camp, and they were too busy, anyway. I was fed, clothed and educated by a long line of individuals who were handsomely paid to perform those services. And at an early age I was given to understand that the sole reason for my existence was to heap addi
tional glory on the exalted name of Hartman.” He looked at his plate, his shapely mouth twisting in contempt.

Shocked into speechlessness, Hope waited for him to go on.

He was silent for a moment before he continued. “Winning important piano competitions, earning perfect scores on my SATs, starting college at sixteen—those were the things that mattered to my parents. There was never any…affection.” He shrugged as if to say that didn't matter, but Hope knew his indifference was feigned. She watched with an aching heart as he picked up a plastic spoon and carefully stirred his coffee, to which he had added neither cream nor sugar.

“I was five years old when baby Tom came along,” he said as he laid the spoon on a paper napkin. “I was absolutely fascinated by that little creature.” Looking up, he grinned suddenly. “Maybe because I wasn't allowed to have a dog.”

A smile tugged at Hope's mouth and she gave in to it.

“I used to sneak into his nursery and watch him sleep,” Charles remembered, his own smile slowly fading. “He was tiny and defenseless and I vowed to protect him always.”

His expression hardened. “But our parents can be incredibly vindictive, and when Tom married against their wishes they hurt him terribly. I tried to stop them, but…” His eyes sparked with barely controlled anger. “I don't like them, Hope,” he said fiercely. “They've done some unforgivable things to my brother and I don't like them at all.”

“Oh, Charlie, how awful!” she breathed. Looking down, she tried desperately to blink back her compassionate tears.

It was too late. He had already seen them, and his head
jerked impatiently. “What's awful, Hope? That they're monsters or that I don't like them?”

“All of it,” she gasped, truly horrified. She lifted shimmering eyes to answer his granite gaze. “It's so sad!”

As she watched his face, his anger slowly dissipated. He shook his head in a silent apology. “It's difficult to talk about,” he admitted.

“Do you want to tell me about your brother?”

He nodded. “Tom's an attorney. He was happily married until three years ago, when he lost his wife to a rare form of cancer. It hurt him a lot, but it didn't make him bitter. He's still as good-hearted as ever.”

His brother appeared to be a safe subject, so Hope pursued it. “Do you see him much?”

“Yes, he lives here in Chicago. We try to play squash twice a week and we often have dinner together. Right now he's in Italy with friends, but you'll be able to meet him in a week or so. You'll like him, Hope. Everyone does.”

On the strength of the warm light in his brother's eyes, Hope
did
like Tom Hartman, sight unseen.

It was time to leave for the Bible study, and as they stood and began clearing off their table, Hope impulsively touched Charles's arm. “I shouldn't have pressed you about your parents,” she apologized.

His big hand cupped her shoulder, giving her a brief squeeze. “No, it's okay. Actually, I'm glad you know. I've never told anyone those things.” He lowered his voice and made an amazing confession. “And…maybe I needed to.”

From the deli they drove to the home of Hope's pastor, where they joined two dozen other people in a cramped living room. Tuesday was the night for choir practice and various meetings at the overcrowded church, so Pastor
Bill Barnes and his wife hosted this informal Bible study in their own home.

The group was a good mix of ages, and in their no-holds-barred discussions Pastor Bill tackled any subject that interested the participants. Tonight's conversation ran along the lines of “How can we know there is a God?” Hope was thrilled that Charles appeared to be listening attentively.

When the meeting ended, they enjoyed coffee and cookies. Hope introduced Charles to several people, including Pastor Bill, a longtime friend of her parents. Charles was scrupulously polite, but after ten minutes Hope took pity on him and linked her arm through his. “Let's go,” she whispered.

Enjoying the soft night, they walked to his car without speaking. Charles looked thoughtful as he fastened his seat belt and started the engine. “That wasn't what I thought it would be. In fact, it was rather interesting.”

“Really?” She tried not to sound too eager. “What interested you?”

“Your pastor said frankly that he couldn't prove the existence of God. If he had insisted otherwise he would have lost my attention immediately. But now, I almost wonder…” He shook his head. “Pretty shrewd of him, don't you think?”

Hope sent up a silent prayer for wisdom. “Well,” she began carefully, “it's not his job—or my job—to reveal God to you. The Holy Spirit does that. But we can help by nudging you a little, pointing you in the right direction. Pastor Bill was trying to pique your curiosity. The rest is between you and God. We can answer some of your questions, Charlie, but we can't make you believe. We can't prove God to you, but if you ask Him, He will prove Himself.”

Charles absorbed that in silence.

It was a quiet ride back to Hope's house, and as she sat in the darkness beside Charles, she prayed. Her eyes stared straight ahead, but her lips moved a little as she spoke to her Heavenly Father.
Please, Lord, draw him to You and reveal Yourself to him. Bring him to his knees before You and heal his wounded heart. And show me what I can do and say to help him find You.

“I know what you're doing,” Charles said humorously, glancing over at her. “Do you think it's fair?”

She kept her voice as light as his. “What are you afraid of, Charlie?”

His rich chuckle filled the car and Hope's heart. “You and God,” he said, “ganging up on me.”

 

Hope closed her Bible and placed it on the table beside her. It was almost two in the morning, but she hadn't been able to sleep. Curling more comfortably into the overstuffed chair, she tucked her bare toes under the ruffled hem of her long cotton nightgown and patted her lap. Bob answered her invitation and Hope held him close, absently stroking his glossy coat as she thought about Charles.

They were as far apart as summer and winter, as different as potato chips and caviar. She'd grown up on a farm and he'd grown up in a mansion. She was twelve years his junior and her sunny disposition was diametrically opposed to his irascible nature. She was warm and giving while he was aloof.

So why did he constantly seek her company? He phoned her every day, sometimes more than once, and unless he was working or sleeping, he wanted to be with her.

Hope guessed he had no idea why he was so drawn to her. She hadn't understood, either, until tonight. But now she knew why he was unable to stay away. For all his
gruff protests, he was searching for love and acceptance, compassion and forgiveness. He was desperately seeking meaning and purpose in his life.

Charles Hartman was looking for God.

He was intrigued by the personal relationship Hope had with Jesus Christ, but he couldn't admit that. Not to himself and certainly not to Hope. But he watched her, listened to her, questioned her, all without any conscious understanding of what he was seeking. Hope saw it now, and she rejoiced.

“He's close, Bobby,” she said, fingering one of the dog's floppy, velvety ears. “I have a feeling we're about to see the Lord make a brand-new man of Charlie Hartman!”

 

Two days later, Hope carried her canvas bag into the visitor's lounge, where she sat at a table to do some needlework. One of her close friends was expecting a baby, so Hope was embroidering a tiny shirt.

Humming softly, she worked for more than an hour before someone spoke her name from the doorway. As she raised her eyes her heart lifted, too. “Charlie. How did you know I was here?”

“I didn't,” he said calmly, coming to sit beside her. “But I can't seem to pass Mr. Seltzer's room or this one without sticking my head in to look for you.”

She eyed his dark, stylish suit and wondered whether he was starting or ending his workday. When on duty he wore blue scrubs and a lab coat that was emblazoned above the pen-stuffed pocket with Dr. C. Hartman in red script. “Are you coming or going?” she asked.

“I'm off until seven tomorrow night,” he said with a satisfied air. “How about you?”

She wound thread around her needle to make a French knot. “I've been with Gramps all morning. He had a
rough night, and I didn't want to leave until I was sure he was resting comfortably. I was just about to check on him one last time and then head home.”

“Are you hungry?”

“I'm famished,” she admitted. “But it's my turn to buy.”

He looked put out. “Hope, I understand your wanting to reciprocate when your other friends treat you. But it's different with me. You can't pretend I'll ever miss the pocket change I spend on you. And what am I supposed to do—sit around twiddling my thumbs until you can afford to take your turn? Why should I have to suffer just because you're poor?”

He had her there. “Charlie,” she muttered, “you're downright nasty.” Shaking her head in pretended disgust, she repositioned her embroidery hoop and tightened it. “Why don't you go return calls or something?” she suggested. “I want to finish this. I'll come down to your office in ten minutes.”

“No, I'm really free. Take your time.” He reached for his wallet and checked his cash supply. Apparently satisfied, he folded the wallet and replaced it.

“Sure you have enough? I'm really hungry.”

“I have enough for anywhere
you
want to go,” he answered. With his foot he hooked the leg of an empty chair, pulling it towards him and propping his long legs on it.