The Truth About Hope

Hope climbed the steps, and before she reached the landing, the door opened. A woman in her early thirties, with a pleasant, serene face, shoulder-length brown hair and wearing a pale blue uniform, stood in the entryway. A small smile curved her lips and she seemed to curtsy, more a bob of her head. “Welcome to Glencastle, Miss Hope. I’m Priscilla. We’re happy to have you here.”

Those simple words pierced Hope’s heart. If only her father was glad to have her, things might’ve been tolerable. But she didn’t believe it for a moment. If he’d been happy, why wouldn’t he have met her at the airport or at least greeted her here?

She forced herself to be more positive. Maybe there was a good reason for his absence. He was an important businessman. Maybe he had an unavoidable meeting. “When will my father be home?” she asked timidly.

“He is home, miss. Come in, please.” Priscilla gestured for Hope to enter the vestibule and left the door open for Morris, who was right behind them with some of Hope’s luggage.

Hope’s heart sank further. Her father was home and didn’t consider it important enough to meet her? “Will you take me to him?” she asked, unsure of herself.

“That’s not possible. He’s busy right now. You’ll see him later, as he made sure he’d be dining at home, since this is your first night here. Well, come with me. I’ll take you to your rooms.”

Hope followed Priscilla up an elaborate circular staircase. An enormous chandelier hung overhead, dripping with sparkling crystals, and paintings with bold slashes of color decorated the curved walls. Priscilla led her down a hall and through a doorway.

“These will be your rooms,” Priscilla announced. “If there is anything that’s not to your liking, please let me know and I’ll take care of it.”

Hope hugged her backpack tightly to her chest and entered the enormous room. Or rather, suite of rooms. There was a sitting area with a large flat-screen TV and sound system, an alcove with a desk, and a large bedroom, with an adjoining bathroom. Morris must have taken another stairway, as two of her suitcases were already inside, next to the corridor leading to the bedroom.

“Would you like me to unpack for you?” Priscilla offered.

“Oh, no, thank you.” Hope managed a smile, grateful for this small offer of kindness. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to rest for a while.”

Priscilla nodded. “I should’ve realized you’d be tired. You’ve been traveling, and it must all be very difficult for you. Can I get you anything?”

“A cold drink would be nice, thank you.”

“Of course. I’ll be right back.” Priscilla executed another little head-bob as she backed out of the room. No sooner was she gone than Morris appeared with her other suitcases.

Hope had barely had time to open her first bag before Priscilla was back with a silver tray holding a pitcher of iced tea, a glass and a plate of sugar cookies. She placed it on the coffee table in the sitting area. Pulling a small cell phone from her pocket, she set it next to the tray. “I’ll leave this for you. I’ve put my number in it. If you need anything, just call.”

“Thank you,” Hope murmured. She imagined she looked as forlorn and miserable as she felt, because Priscilla gave her a reassuring smile. “You’ll get used to it here. Take all the time you need to settle in.”

Rather than easing Hope’s trepidation, Priscilla’s compassion threatened to destroy what was left of her composure. “I...I...” To her horror, tears welled in her eyes. She dropped her backpack and covered her face with her hands.

Seconds later, Hope felt Priscilla’s arms around her. The woman smelled of lavender and cinnamon. She rubbed Hope’s back reassuringly. “Shh. Shh,” she soothed. “You’ve been through a lot. Take a rest or a bath. Leave the unpacking. I’ll take care of that for you later. Just relax for now.”

Hope accepted her comfort for a minute before stepping back and brushing at the moisture on her cheeks. “So I get to meet my father at dinner?”

Priscilla reached forward, then seemed to reconsider and dropped her hand. “Yes. It’s at eight, as it is every night Mr. Wilson dines at home. I’m supposed to finish work at five, but I often don’t leave until well after. I’ve made arrangements to stay late this evening. I’ll come and get you shortly before eight to escort you to the dining room.”

Priscilla’s gaze skimmed over Hope’s T-shirt, jeans and sneakers. “You might want to wear something else. A dress, maybe. Your father believes in dressing for dinner.” Priscilla’s face softened. She motioned toward the cell phone. “Please call if there’s anything I can do.”

* * *

HOPE WAS WEARING her best dress, a pretty floral print her mother had bought for her seventeenth birthday. Simply seeing the dress made her long for her mother, but she’d managed to contain her grief by the time Priscilla came to fetch her shortly before eight. Walking into the spacious, formal dining room, Hope noted that everything appeared old and staid, in stark contrast to the modern feel of what she’d seen of the rest of the house. There was a well-worn carpet on the floor, an imposing wooden table with matching chairs upholstered in rich brocade, and deep-rose velvet drapes edging the tall windows.

Soft music, something classical, was playing in the background.

Seated at the head of the long table was her father. He had a narrow, chiseled face and short-cropped gray hair. He wore a charcoal suit, white shirt and a yellow-and-blue paisley tie. There was a stack of papers in front of him and he held a multifaceted crystal tumbler filled with a rich gold liquid. A man, formally attired in a black suit and tie and wearing white gloves, was standing behind her father. For some reason Hope wanted to giggle. Instead, she said a silent thanks to Priscilla for her advice about what to wear. In her jeans, she would’ve been seriously underdressed and would’ve felt at an even greater disadvantage. Self-consciously she smoothed her hands down her skirt.

Her father’s eyes shot up, a pale gray, no warmer than they’d been in the photographs she’d seen of him.

“Well, don’t just stand there.” Her father’s voice boomed across the great expanse of the room. “Come, come.” He gestured toward the place setting to his right without rising. “Have a seat.”

Priscilla pushed Hope gently from behind. “Go ahead. It’ll be fine,” she murmured in her ear. “He won’t respect you if he thinks you’re afraid of him,” she added in a whisper.

Hope felt her knees wobble and was relieved that they weren’t actually knocking together so that her father would notice. When she reached the chair, the black-suited man pulled it out for her. She mumbled a thank-you and began to sit—only to spring up again as she felt the chair hit the backs of her legs, presumably because the man had pushed it in for her.

She squirmed a little and had just settled in her chair, when Black Suit draped a napkin across her lap.

Her father set his papers aside, finished his drink, and the butler, or whatever he was, removed the empty tumbler and replaced it with a crystal goblet into which he poured a small amount of deep-red wine. Her father tasted the wine, and at his nod, Black Suit topped up the glass. He then held the bottle questioningly toward Hope.

She stared at him, unsure what was expected of her.

“Well? Would you like some wine with your dinner?” her father demanded.

“I’m only seventeen,” she squeaked.

“I know precisely how old you are. I was there when you were born, but that doesn’t answer the question. Billings can’t be standing there all night with the bottle in his hand.”

“Um...no, thank you.”

“Well, then.” Her father took a long, appreciative drink of his own wine, while Billings removed her wine goblet and poured water from a silver pitcher into another glass. Next Billings placed bowls containing a rich, fragrant, ginger-colored soup in front of her and her father. A delicious aroma wafted up. Not having had anything to eat since she’d left Canyon Creek that morning, other than a couple of the cookies Priscilla had brought her, she could hear her stomach grumble in response. Mortified, she glanced at her father and clasped her hands across her belly.

Her father’s eyes met hers. Without comment, he picked up the bread basket and offered it to her. She hesitantly selected a roll.

He kept his gaze on her, long and intense. Hope had the urge to squirm again.

“You look just like Rebecca,” he finally proclaimed. “Your mother was an extraordinarily beautiful woman. You resemble her.” He nodded, as if in approval, and reached a hand toward Hope. She nearly jumped when he took a lock of her hair and slid it through his fingers. “You’ve got her hair, too. It was, as they say, her crowning glory.”

Hope thought his expression was wistful, but that was probably wishful thinking on her part. Her sense of grief and loss intensified, and she averted her eyes and spooned some soup into her mouth.

“Tell me about yourself,” he commanded before she had a chance to swallow. “And let’s see if you’re like her in other ways, too.” The last comment was flung at her like an insult. “Then we’ll talk about how our living arrangement is going to work.”

CHAPTER FOUR (#ulink_4a57f58e-c796-55f7-9385-67bbc31c7f78)

SOMEHOW, HOPE MADE it through dinner. She couldn’t remember what she’d eaten or much of the conversation. Stamped on her mind was a pair of hard, assessing eyes.

When she returned to her room, she found that Priscilla had unpacked her belongings.

Wandering around the beautifully furnished, spacious suite—lifting a ceramic bowl, trailing her fingers across the gleaming surface of a credenza—she felt completely adrift.

In the bedroom she noted that the bed had been turned down, the pillows fluffed, and her childhood teddy, Sebastian, well-worn from being well loved, sat in the center of the bed. That small gesture, from a woman who must’ve understood how lonely she was, made her want to cry.

She saw the photographs—of her and her mother, Aunt Clarissa, her and Luke together, and her other friends from Canyon Creek—arranged on the dresser. Uncannily, her favorite picture of her mom had been placed on the nightstand. Next to it was a glass of milk and a small plate of cookies. Her mother used to do that when Hope hadn’t been feeling well or just needed her spirits lifted.

She reached for the silver-framed photo on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. She ran a fingertip across the image of her mother. Her father had it right; she did look like her, especially now that she was older. Pride crowded out some of the pain. But she was even prouder of being like her mother, something her father apparently derided. Her mother had been beautiful, but more important, she’d been lovely inside, a kind and gentle person. Hope missed her more than ever.

She wished her mother had told her about Jock. She knew very little about her father, and she couldn’t understand his reaction. He had wanted her to live with him. Then why did he seem so cold and uncaring, so...hostile? It made no sense.