Читать книгу The Truth About Hope - Kate James - Страница 12

CHAPTER THREE

IT WAS HOPE’S first time on a plane. With every passing minute, she was inexorably transported toward an uncertain and terrifying future. The distance between her and everything she knew and loved increased. Far below, the ranches formed a patchwork quilt of greens and browns. The occasional ribbon of blue water haphazardly transected the rectangles of varying textures and sizes. Gauzy white clouds drifted by.

Hope leaned her forehead against the cool window and thought about her mother as she watched the ground rush by. It still didn’t seem possible that she wouldn’t see her bright, vivacious, loving mother again. When reality did come crashing down on her, the weight of it seemed too much to bear. Her reflections turned to her father, what she’d known and what she’d learned over the past week.

Jock Wilson had left her and her mother when Hope was barely two. She wasn’t aware of the details because her mother never talked about it. Aunt Clarissa didn’t know much either or, if she did, she wouldn’t say. Her father had taken off to make a fortune with the internet. Hope had no idea if he’d wanted them to move with him and her mother had refused, or if he’d simply left without giving them a choice. Hope wondered if he’d enlighten her, but did it really matter?

Her father had owned and operated a computer components manufacturing plant in Canyon Creek. He was reputed to be one of the most successful businessmen in the area at that time. Evidently it hadn’t been enough for him. She and her mother hadn’t been enough.

Manufacturing was a huge contributor to the Texas economy, and a lot of people in Canyon Creek had earned their living at her father’s plant. His company had been one of the largest employers in town. As a consequence, her father’s leaving—or more accurately, the closing of his plant—had created considerable hardship. Nearly everyone in Canyon Creek had been negatively affected.

Hadn’t Luke thrown it at her when he’d mentioned her father’s having destroyed the town? Many people had lost their jobs, Luke’s father among them. The impact on the local economy was still talked about fifteen years later.

Hope had heard, too, that her father’s employees wanted to buy the business from him, but he’d refused their offer. Instead he’d closed the plant.

She would’ve thought he’d want the proceeds from the sale of his business, either to his employees or a competitor. Aunt Clarissa told her it had to do with some sort of financial advantage folding the company would create for him. Apparently he wanted to show he’d lost money on it. One thing she understood about her father was that he was a shrewd businessman. It must have made sense for him from a business perspective, if not a human one.

The building had sat empty for years until it was finally torn down. Now there was a Taco Bell and a gas station where the plant had been.

After Jock Wilson left Canyon Creek, no one heard from him again, as far as Hope knew. If he’d had any contact with her mother, Hope was unaware of it. Her mother had received some sort of financial support, but again the details were sketchy, and it couldn’t have been much. Hope speculated that might be part of the reason her father had wanted to show a business loss, to decrease the amount of support he’d have to pay.

Whatever the circumstances behind her parents’ split, it had obviously been acrimonious. There hadn’t been a single picture of her father in their home. The only images Hope had of him were those she’d found on the internet.

He was a tall, distinguished-looking man, slender, with short, slicked-back hair. She guessed the color of his hair would’ve been close to hers at one time, but now it was streaked with gray. His eyes weren’t anything like her deep brown ones, though. They were a piercing slate gray. There was no warmth in them, judging by what she could see in the pictures. Even when he smiled, it never touched his eyes. She pulled a picture from the side pocket of her backpack to refresh her memory of the man who was her father.

Examining the picture, Hope resented the guilt she felt every time she remembered what her father had done. But was she any better? Here she was, leaving Canyon Creek, too. As far as everyone was concerned, her reasons weren’t very different from her father’s—and she was the one who’d convinced them of that.

A few days after her run-in with Suzie, Hope had come to appreciate the significance of her impulsive actions. She’d been prepared to endure the move to San Jose, with the expectation that when she turned eighteen, she’d come home again. But what she’d done—what she’d said—made that impossible.

With the pretense she’d created, there was no way she could return. The dynamics had already shifted during the week since her “revelation.” People treated her differently.

What she had done weighed heavily on her. Aunt Clarissa had urged her to tell everyone the truth, but Hope couldn’t bring herself to do it. She just didn’t have the strength or the energy to set things right. Still believing that moving to San Jose was her decision, Luke had tried to change her mind until the very end. She couldn’t forget the look of hurt and anger—and astonishment—on his face when she’d seen him that last time. When she’d told him there was nothing left in Canyon Creek for her. In some respects that was true. Her father had made all the arrangements to settle her mother’s estate, what there was of it, and sell their small house and its contents. She was on her way to her father’s with nothing more than a few suitcases and no idea what lay ahead.

Usually she looked forward to summer. Being out of school, working with her mother at the garden center where she was a manager and being with Luke. But now the months without classes stretched unnervingly ahead of her.

The plane was soaring higher, shrouded in dense white clouds. She put in earplugs, laid her head back against the seat and closed her eyes—until she suddenly jolted awake. Confused, she glanced outside and saw that they were on the ground and the tarmac was rushing past at an alarming speed. She clasped the armrests to steady herself and wondered where they were. Hadn’t they just taken off? Checking her watch, she was surprised to find that she’d been asleep for over three hours.

The plane slowed and pivoted, and the terminal building came into view; they were at the gate in minutes.

As soon as the flight attendant announced that it was safe to do so, Hope gathered her belongings. Having been seated in business class, she was among the first passengers to deplane. She made her way to the baggage carousel, searching for her father.

There was no tall, slender, silver-haired man that she could see. A hint of panic shot through her. Then she noticed a man in a dark blue suit walking toward her. Surely this wasn’t her father. He couldn’t be. He was shorter than she’d imagined, had a stockier build, and his hair was thick and black. Most significantly, he couldn’t have been much older than thirty.

But he was definitely headed in her direction. She took an involuntary step back as he reached her.

He swept his gaze over her. “Are you Ms. Hope Wilson?”

She wanted to take another step back but resisted. “Yes.”

He nodded. “I’m Mr. Wilson’s chauffeur, Morris. I’ll take you to his home.”

“Oh” was all she could say. It came out as a squeal. Here she was, leaving her life behind, and her father couldn’t meet her himself? She didn’t think she could’ve been more disappointed, but she’d been wrong. And the chauffeur hadn’t said “your father.” Or “your home.” She hadn’t realized that she’d nurtured some small kernel of hope that maybe—just maybe—her father wouldn’t be as bad as she dreaded. That he’d welcome her and they’d be able to find some common ground.

Instead, he’d sent his chauffeur. Hope had an overwhelming urge to run back up the bridge, back on the plane. But that wouldn’t have accomplished anything.

With a sinking heart, she knew her only option was to go with this Mr. Morris, to a house that wouldn’t be her home, to a man who’d be a father to her in name only.

She wouldn’t let them see her pain and disappointment. She straightened her spine. “Thank you, Mr. Morris,” she said with as much dignity as she could muster.

“It’s just Morris, miss,” he clarified, as he took her backpack and arranged for a porter to carry the rest of her luggage to the sleek, silver limousine waiting at the curb.

Soon they were driving through a residential area with gated properties, pristine lawns, tall hedges and sprawling gardens. As Morris signaled a turn into one of the entrances, Hope shifted forward to get a better look. Black wrought-iron gates opened smoothly to let them pass and they drove along a textured concrete surface intersecting areas of brilliant green, perfectly trimmed turf. Rows of towering palm trees marched along on either side. As they rounded a curve and the house came into view, Hope sucked in a breath. It wasn’t a house. It was a mansion.

Grand and imposing, it had turrets and balconies and iron railings. The walls were warm, butternut-yellow stucco, the roof deep-red clay tile and the wood of the doors, shutters and trim a rich coffee brown. Flowering shrubs abounded. Although it was just early evening, lights glowed cheerful and inviting.

Morris pulled up adjacent to a set of wide stone stairs leading to the front portico and ornately carved double doors.

Hope was so stunned by the magnificent mansion her father called home that she sat motionless, even when Morris held the car door for her.

“Miss,” he prompted, and she glanced up, having almost forgotten he was there.

She exited the car, grateful for the hand he offered. She moved toward the trunk, but Morris forestalled her. “I’ll take care of your luggage. You go on in.”

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.”