Finding Hope (9 page)

He had her undivided attention.

“Brilliant plan, don't you agree?” His tone was annoyingly reasonable. He sat back in his chair and watched her intently.

She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. She took a sip of ginger ale and tried again. “Since when are you so interested in missions?”

“I'm not at all interested in missions. But you scrape to give them every penny you possibly can, so I don't believe you'll be able to resist an offer like this.”

She had to admire him. “Charlie, you're an evil genius.”

“Yes,” he said contentedly, reaching for another slice of pizza. “I take pride in my work.”

She continued to watch him. “But I don't understand. Putting an expensive dress on me won't impress your parents.”

The teasing light faded from his eyes. “It has nothing to do with my parents,” he said. “I just don't want you to feel like an interloper in a borrowed gown.”

She stared.

His voice deepened. “Hope, I'm asking you to have dinner with people who would gladly go out of their way to slight you. I have every confidence that you'll be able to handle it, but it won't be pleasant. Wouldn't a pretty dress of your own help you feel more relaxed?”

His thoughtfulness amazed her. She'd been planning to borrow a dress from Claire, but Charles was right—she would feel like a gauche little girl playing dress-up. How was it possible that he understood?

He watched her, waiting for her decision. It wasn't a difficult one to make. She picked up the credit card. “So what's your limit?” she asked mischievously, running a fingernail over the raised numbers on the card.

“Limit?” He looked blank.

“Your credit limit.”

He was still confused. “Why would I have a credit limit?”

She laughed. “Oh, I forgot! You probably own the bank.”

He reached for her hand and rotated her wrist so he could read the name on the card she held. “No, not that one,” he said seriously. “Not that I know of, anyway. But I don't always know what Tom is up to.”

“Tom?”

“He manages my financial affairs so I can play surgeon. Occasionally he shoves a pile of papers under my nose and I sign them. Tom's a fiscal genius, so I don't usually bother him with questions.”

He sipped his ginger ale and grimaced. “Yuck. This is definitely not an acquired taste.” He got up and opened the cupboard next to the sink, removing a drinking glass. “Hope, I'm serious about this,” he said over his shoulder as he turned on the faucet. “Have some fun, okay? Get your nails done or whatever it is that women do for these things. Take a friend with you and buy shoes and everything else you need. You can treat your friend to lunch and buy her a present for helping. Make a day of it.”

He returned to the table with his drink. “Just be sure to keep all your receipts so you can add them up and let me know what to make the check out for.”

 

Hope recruited Claire for the shopping excursion. A dental hygienist, Claire was off on Wednesdays, so that day had been set aside for their “girlish fun,” as Claire called it. Over a breakfast of coffee and chocolate-filled croissants, they mapped out their shopping strategy.

By noon Hope had tried on five dresses. She and Claire had just made their decision when their salesclerk returned to the dressing room with a sky-blue silk they had overlooked. “Would you like to try this one? You seem to like clean, simple lines, so I have an idea this will please you. And the color will show off your lovely blue eyes.”

Hope obligingly ducked her head and raised her hands, allowing the woman to ease the dress over her. Claire watched in the mirror as the gown was zipped and fastened. “Oh, Hope!” she breathed. “You're gorgeous!”

The saleswoman concurred. “I like the other one a lot, but this dress was made just for you.”

It was by far the priciest one she had tried on, so Hope asked them to give her a moment to think about it. Left alone in the spacious dressing room, she stood on the platform and gazed wonderingly at her reflection in three large mirrors.

She had often been called pretty, but Hope had never felt that way. Now for the first time, she saw it. A solitary tear rolled down her cheek and she wished with all her heart that her mother could see her in this beautiful dress.

She took another look at the price tag and shuddered. But the gown was perfect in every way, and Charles
had
stressed that she should buy something “hideously extravagant.”

“Claire,” Hope called. “Tell her to hurry and ring this up before I change my mind.”

Half an hour later they purchased a silvery pair of evening sandals and a tiny crystal-beaded bag. After that, Claire led the way to the cosmetic counters.

“Hope, try this lipstick.” Claire had definitely entered into the spirit of the expedition. “And you need perfume, don't you?”

Of course she did. And a pair of dangly earrings.

“No.” Claire was adamant. “I'll put your hair up for you, and with your long, slender neck you'll be plenty elegant without any jewelry at all. I imagine you'll make a lovely contrast to all the society matrons dripping with diamonds.”

Hope consulted her watch. “Our manicure appointments are for three-fifteen, so we'll have time for a leisurely lunch.”

Claire's bow-shaped lips curved up. “Sounds good. Is lunch on Dr. Hartman, too?”

“Naturally.” Hope nudged her friend with an elbow. “I trust you're hungry for something expensive?”

 

The next evening, Charles sat at Hope's kitchen table and opened his checkbook. When he raised his eyebrows, waiting, she took a steadying breath and named an astonishing figure.

“Really?” His deep voice registered surprise. “Well, good for you. To be honest, I wasn't sure you'd have the guts.”

She and Claire had enjoyed themselves tremendously. But late last night, Hope had added up the receipts and got the shock of her life. He couldn't have meant for her to spend
that
much.

She gave him a weak smile. “It's an awful lot, isn't it?”

“Not to me,” he said comfortably.

He uncapped his fountain pen and Hope watched as he dated the check and made it out to the missionary society. “Are you really going to double it?” she asked.

“Oh, I might just round it up a little,” he said casually. “Because I'm so pleased with you.” His pen scratched lightly across the paper, then he signed the check and tore it free, folding it in half before placing it atop the stack of bills beside Hope's telephone.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “It's very generous.”

“No, not particularly.” His eyes swept slowly over her as he slid the checkbook and pen into a pocket of his tuxedo jacket. “I have to say it again, Hope. You look beautiful. The gown is just perfect, and I really like your hair that way.”

Hope smiled to herself. Of course she was beautiful. Dr. Hartman's magic credit card could make
anyone
beautiful.

“You look pretty gorgeous, yourself,” she replied. What was it about the starchy black-and-whiteness of a tuxedo that made a man look so dashing? Charles was always nice-looking, tall and straight in his usual Italian
suits, but tonight he was positively handsome. Hope had never thought that about him before. Could a wing collar and a bow tie do all that?

She couldn't stare at him forever, much as that idea appealed to her, so she dropped her gaze and examined her fingernails. Cut fashionably short and squared a little, they were painted the subtlest shell-pink.

Charles stood. “Are you going to admire your pretty hands all night, or may we go now?”

Suddenly Hope wanted to run. “Charlie,” she squeaked. Her hand closed around his wrist in a desperate attempt to convey her nervousness.

He took her other hand and pulled her to her feet. “Don't fold on me, kid. Tom needs you. Just be yourself and everything will be fine.”

Hope read the uncertainty in his hazel eyes and was stung by shame. This man had never denied her anything. He would move a mountain if she wished it. How could she deny this small request, the only thing he had ever asked of her?

She took a steadying breath and squeezed his hand. “I'm okay,” she said, flashing him a confident smile. “Let's go.”

A
s she and Charles entered the glitzy banquet room of a venerable old downtown hotel, Hope sternly reminded herself not to gawk. Magnificent crystal chandeliers glowed overhead and tall candles flickered among the stunning floral arrangements that decorated each table. In the soft pink light of the room every man was handsome and every woman beautiful. And Hope noticed more than a few older women who appeared to be, as Claire had suggested, “dripping” with diamonds.

She felt a light touch on her elbow and heard Tom's voice. “Trey, why don't I take charge of the ravishing Miss Evans while you go find Donovan? Apparently there's some change or other about the timing of your speech.”

Nodding at Tom, Charles touched Hope's shoulder, wordlessly excusing himself. Then Tom took Hope by the hand and introduced her to several of his friends before leading her to their own table, where he presented her to Dr. and Mrs. Winston Hartman.

Tall and slim like his sons, Dr. Hartman had neat gray
hair and the leathery brown face of a golfer. He gripped Hope's hand firmly. “A pleasure, Miss Evans,” he said, but his bored expression strongly suggested otherwise.

“How do you do?” asked Mrs. Hartman, a trim, attractive blonde. Her handshake was as cool and impersonal as her face, which was a real shame. Hope thought she would be a beautiful woman if only her smile would reach her eyes instead of remaining confined to her flawlessly painted mouth.

Hope murmured the appropriate greetings and expressed polite regret at not being able to meet Dr. Hartman, Sr., who was home with a cold.

They had just seated themselves when Charles arrived. “Good evening, Mother,” he said, bending to drop a perfunctory kiss on the smooth cheek that was offered. “Father,” he said politely, shaking Dr. Hartman's hand, “is Granddad all right?”

“It's nothing that concerns us,” said his mother crisply. “He didn't feel up to a late evening.”

“Of course,” said Charles in a tone every bit as starchy as hers. He took the empty chair between his father and Hope. “Shall I look in on him tomorrow?”

“Thank you, but he's fine. Dr. Jennings saw him today.”

Shocked by the cold formality of their exchange, Hope darted a look at Charles. She was appalled by the hostile glint in his eyes.

“Mother, I wasn't offering to make a house call.” His voice was low, but every word had a razor-sharp edge to it. “I was merely suggesting that I might visit my grandfather.”

Tom looked at him in undisguised alarm. “Trey…” he began in a warning tone.

Hope's hand quickly moved under the table, finding Charles's knee and silently communicating an urgent
message:
Not here, not tonight. Remember Tom.
Charles turned towards her, his harsh expression softening as he met her eyes. Hope removed her hand, silently thanked God and resumed breathing.

“I apologize for my tone, Mother,” Charles said in a perfectly ordinary voice. “If it's not inconvenient, I would like to visit Granddad tomorrow morning.”

“As you wish,” said his mother dismissively. She looked at Hope. “You're from the hospital, I suppose, Miss…Everett?”

Hope smiled sweetly and let the error, which seemed to be intentional, pass. “No, I'm a grad student.”

“Hope is a remarkably talented linguist,” Charles said with a hint of pride that warmed her heart.

“Oh, how very interesting,” said Mrs. Hartman, sounding not at all interested.

Both Charles and Tom had warned Hope about the impenetrable reserve of their parents. She had thought herself prepared to meet them, but the reality was much worse than she had braced herself for. Determined to meet the challenge, she squared her shoulders and turned on the charm full force. “Dr. and Mrs. Hartman, this must be a very proud night for you,” she gushed.

“
Must
it?” Charles's father asked with palpable sarcasm.

Charles draped his arm across the back of Hope's chair, a warning. She ignored it, fixing a bright smile on her face. “Yes, Tom has accomplished quite a lot, hasn't he? And his brother, too, of course. I'm sure you're delighted with both of them. It must be terribly thrilling for you to know your children have turned out so well.”

Tom gurgled and abruptly set down his water goblet. Charles gazed at Hope with unabashed admiration. Dr. Hartman ignored them all, turning in his chair to speak to a waiter.

“Thrilling,” echoed Mrs. Hartman woodenly. “Of course.” She delicately sipped her water.

Hope went on, perfectly aware of Dr. Hartman's indifference, Mrs. Hartman's scorn and the rapt attention of Charles and Tom. “Mrs. Hartman, there are many things I admire about each of your sons, but I am profoundly moved by the generosity of spirit I see in them. At the risk of embarrassing them—and you, of course—I just have to tell you that they inspire me!”

“How very kind of you to say so,” murmured Mrs. Hartman, looking very unkindly at Hope.

Hope was unstoppable now. “Tom has achieved something truly remarkable by getting the burn unit financed, don't you think?” She tossed her head. “Oh, what am I saying? Here I am, rattling on like a fool, telling the man's very own mother that he's an incredibly generous individual! You must be beside yourself with delight.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Hartman icily. “
Beside
myself.”

“Aw, cut it out, Hope,” said Tom, obviously pleased.

Charles said nothing, but his eyes gleamed with satisfaction. When he removed his arm from the back of her chair, Hope experienced the same nervous thrill she'd felt years ago when her father had let go of her bicycle and sent her off, balancing on her own for the very first time.

As dinner was served, Charles inquired about the lectures his father had given at a recent medical conference. Then Tom mentioned Charles's upcoming trip to Mexico.

“Trey, you seem to be out of the country rather a lot,” Mrs. Hartman reproved. “Shouldn't you be focusing more on your career?” Her steel-blue eyes issued an unmistakable challenge.

“Oh!” said Hope brightly. “But think what his services mean to those unfortunate people. I believe the doctors who do that work are bona fide heroes, Mrs. Hartman. Don't you agree?”

Mrs. Hartman's mouth made a firm, thin line. After a frigid silence, she spoke again. “Miss…Everstone, I'm interested in hearing where you met Trey.”

“Well, we weren't formally introduced,” Hope said airily, breaking a piece off her roll and buttering it. “I'm afraid I hit him.”

She pretended to be unaware of the sensation her words had created. Three pairs of eyes were on her as she took a bite of her roll and chewed carefully. She sneaked a look at Charles and found him smiling at his plate as if his smoked salmon had just performed some clever trick.

Tom broke the stunned silence. “I knew it!” he said to his brother. “I never bought that wild tale about your disagreement with an escalator.”

“It was an elevator,” Charles corrected without looking up.

“Yeah, whatever. So, what did you do to Hope?”

“Oh, he didn't do anything,” Hope replied casually. She lifted a forkful of salmon to her mouth and chewed thoughtfully. “This is very good.”

“Yeah, sure—it's great,” said Tom, who had yet to taste the salmon. “Why'd you hit Trey?”

Hope didn't know where the parents were in all of this; she was afraid to look at them. She kept her eyes on Tom and drank deeply from her water goblet before continuing. “I ran into his car in the hospital parking lot and I broke his taillight, that's all. Naturally, it was an accident, but I must confess that I ran away from the scene!”

Hope finally glanced at Mrs. Hartman. A minute ago she'd been convinced that the woman's eyebrows couldn't possibly be ratcheted up another notch, but she had been mistaken.

“Well, to be fair, you did toss me your wallet as you dashed by,” Charles reminded Hope.

“Why did you do that?” Tom wanted to know.

“Because I was terribly upset and in a hurry,” she replied. “I just meant for him to copy the information on my driver's license and then leave the wallet in my car. But he came looking for me, instead. He'd noticed that I didn't have enough money to pay for parking. So he sneaked a fifty-dollar bill into my wallet and then brought the wallet to me. Of course he tried to get away before I found the money.”

“Sounds like something he'd do,” said Tom, his head bobbing up and down.

Charles rolled his eyes. Hope looked at Mrs. Hartman for a response, but there was none, so she turned back to Charles. “Oh, stop making those faces,” she ordered. “You just hate it, don't you, when somebody catches you being nice? Honestly, Charlie, sometimes you really—”

“Charlie?”
Mrs. Hartman had spoken at last, and she looked like someone who had just inadvertently swallowed an insect.

Hope beamed at the woman. “I know everyone calls him ‘Charles,' but I think that sounds just a little bit stuffy.”

“Stuffy?” the woman echoed in undisguised disapproval.

Hope nodded emphatically. “Haven't you ever noticed that rich men always seem to be called ‘Charles' and never ‘Charlie'? Or is that just in the movies?”

“I'm sure I have no idea” was Mrs. Hartman's chilly response.

Charles suddenly lifted his napkin and Hope suspected him of wiping off a smile. She shrugged and went on. “Of course I could never call him ‘Trey,' as you do, because of my grandfather. He lived in Tennessee and he raised hunting dogs. He had a favorite hound called Trey. He was third in the litter, of course. The dog, I mean—
not my grandfather. I believe Grandpa was actually a deuce….”

Tom made a strangling noise and dropped his butter knife on the tablecloth. Charles's eyes closed tightly and he shook with soundless mirth. Their father forgot himself entirely and chuckled.

Mrs. Hartman's elegantly painted mouth fell open most unattractively, but she made a quick recovery. “Miss…Everest, my son's name is an honorable one,” she said frostily.

“Certainly it is,” Hope affirmed. “But even if the name wasn't already in use by two fine men, Charlie would have made it honorable all by himself, don't you agree?”

“Absolutely!” Tom boomed. He leaned back in his chair, his wide grin testifying that he was having a marvelous time.

 

Chewing an inside corner of his bottom lip, Charles studied Hope in silent amazement. She was breathtakingly lovely tonight—not sexy or stylish, but undeniably elegant in a simple gown of pale blue.

Her poise was as remarkable as her beauty; but Charles, seated close beside her, had seen the telltale pulsing at the base of her throat. He could almost
hear
the wild hammering of her heart, and he marveled at her courage. Smiling brightly and chattering madly, she ignored the barbs that were so skillfully aimed at her. Every blow glanced off her armor of good humor.

In the dim light her vibrant blue eyes had darkened to indigo. And there was fire in them—not just reflected candlelight, but something that came from within her. To Charles's immense satisfaction, her indignation had been aroused on Tom's behalf. Hope had all the protective instincts his mother lacked. Tonight she had figuratively
put her slender arms around Tom and she was telling his parents in no uncertain terms to back off.

They were getting the message, certainly; but the way Hope was delivering it was nothing short of brilliant. Charles could barely contain his admiration—it threatened to spill out of every pore of his body.

 

Profoundly grateful that no one was aware of her clammy hands and her nervously curling toes, Hope chattered nonstop, daring the Hartmans
not
to be entertained. Every time her courage began to falter she glanced at Charles and was strengthened by the warm approval in his eyes.

Picking up the thread of their earlier conversation, she turned to Tom. “There's just one thing that bothers me,” she said. “I think Charles Winston Hartman is a beautiful name and Charles Winston Hartman, Jr. also has a lovely ring to it. But Charles Winston Hartman, III is problematic.”

“Problematic? In what way?” challenged Mrs. Hartman.

“Well,” Hope drawled, “you don't fully appreciate the difficulty until you look at his signature.”

“I've never been able to read his signature,” Tom confided. “He's a doctor, you know.”

“Yes, of course. But think what his signature looks like. The first name is a squiggle, the middle name is a scribble, the last name is almost a straight line and then at the end you see the problem.”

Charles took the bait. “What problem?”

“Well, it's all those pesky Roman numerals,” Hope said reasonably, spelling it out for him. “I-I-I.” She looked at Tom again. “How can a man be expected to maintain any semblance of modesty when his own name whips up his ego like that?”

Tom chuckled. “It explains a lot, doesn't it?”

Dr. Winston Hartman had been watching Hope steadily, a half smile on his tanned face. But the smile was no longer cynical. He was genuinely amused.

For a fleeting moment Mrs. Hartman's eyes shone on Hope with grudging admiration and she looked as if she, too, wanted to laugh. But the impassive mask slid over her features once more.

“Hope.” Charles looked at the ceiling, trying desperately but failing utterly to keep a straight face.

“Is something wrong, Charlie?” she asked innocently.

His shoulders shook. “You're killing me!”

“Oh, I wouldn't worry,” she said tranquilly, looking around her. “You know, I'll bet you couldn't toss an olive in this room without hitting a doctor. Want me to get one for you? A doctor, I mean. I know you don't care for olives.”

That brought a peal of helpless laughter from Tom, and Charles lost what little control he had left.