Rich in Hope (Richness in Faith Trilogy Book 2)

by Lindi Peterson

  Rich in Hope

  by

  Lindi Peterson

  Copyright © 2014 Lindi Peterson

  Rich in Faith (excerpt) Copyright © 2014 Lindi Peterson

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons (living or dead), events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  Printed and bound in the United States of America.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  ISBN: 978-1-942419-00-6

  Cover design: Lynnette Bonner

  indiecoverdesign@blogspot.com

  Cover images © Dreamstime.com: 32737301 10225327 8542973

  Editor: Emily Sewell

  DEDICATION

  To Caleb Christopher. Our very own Christmas blessing.

  “The Lord bless you and keep you; The Lord make His face shine upon you, and be gracious to you; The Lord lift up His countenance upon you, and give you peace.” Numbers 6: 24-26 NKJV

  Other Novels by Lindi Peterson

  Her Best Catch

  Summer’s Song

  Richness in Faith Trilogy

  Rich in Love

  Rich in Faith

  (coming February 2015)

  www.lindipeterson.com

  Isaiah 61:3 To console those who mourn in Zion, To give them beauty for ashes, The oil of joy for mourning, The garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness; That they may be called trees of righteousness, The planting of the Lord that He may be glorified. NKJV

  BEAUTIFUL

  I MADE A LOT of money when I was beautiful.

  But I’m not beautiful anymore.

  So now I’m broke.

  The cab door squeaks as I open it before the cab driver, Malcolm, his identification read, can come around. Patience is not a virtue that I possess at the moment.

  Pointing toward the trunk, I indicate to Malcolm that I don’t need his help exiting the cab, but I do need his help with my bags.

  With a scowl, even though he’s wearing a festive Santa hat, he complies.

  My gaze travels to the unfamiliar million-dollar plus house I’ll be inhabiting for the next few weeks. The sage green stucco one story sits in the center of the cul-de-sac, a silhouette against the dawn.

  Quiet.

  Alone.

  Like me.

  At least for a couple of days.

  The trunk slams. Trying to breathe normally, I clench the cab fare in my hand, refusing Malcolm’s offer to help take the luggage to the front door. As the early morning breeze kicks up, my blonde hair swirls around me.

  I wish the long, luxurious locks would wind around my face and head, like a tall turban, and cover the hideous markings of a supposedly simple surgery gone very wrong.

  As it begins to rise, the sunrise splashes orange and yellows across the gray sky. The December air is much warmer here in Florida, sharply contrasting the flat-out cold temperatures I left behind in New York City. The city that never sleeps.

  The city that doesn’t forgive is more like it.

  As I hand Malcolm his fare, one of the twenty-dollar bills becomes caught in the wind. It doesn’t travel far, and Malcolm and I try to stomp on it at the same time. My boot wins.

  In the rush to save the bill, I’m distracted. The auto-response of looking directly at him as I hand him the bill that tried to escape causes the reaction I’ve become familiar with, yet can’t become used to.

  His widening eyes, which quickly turn to pity, seep into my being.

  My hand shakes as I give him the rest of the money then stand, my lack of control unfamiliar and irritating. A storm of uncertainty rages inside me as I grab my luggage with both hands and start pulling. The weight of the luggage forces a slow pace, while the sound of the luggage wheels thumping over the brick driveway drown out the cab’s exit from the cul-de-sac.

  But the sound doesn’t drown out the mantra playing through my head.

  It’s not looking good, Jenny. I’m afraid there’ll be scarring. Jenny, the cheek is very hard to reconstruct. Months to recover.

  And then from my parents the ever faithful, you’ll always be beautiful to us, Jenny. The same words they spoke to the overweight, lonely girl I was in school. I’m now almost thirty and am in danger of reliving my childhood. Not the overweight part, but the lonely part.

  In fact, I think it’s already started.

  Tears I thought no longer existed, prick the corners of my eyes, blurring my walk to the front door. Sheer habit forces me to blink them away, refusing to focus on the hopelessness of my situation.

  I pull the house key my best friend Katherine gave me out of my jean pocket as I reach the front door. The front door which, when I enter through it, will let me escape the festivities of Christmas. Will let me hide and be hidden from the world.

  Having this avenue of escape has been one of the things that has kept me from totally losing it, totally curling into a heap on the floor, totally deciding my life is over.

  But in reality, life as I know it is over. The hope I had for the future I always envisioned is gone.

  All because I was a little too vain.

  What I wouldn’t give to see that tiny pimple on my cheek again.

  It only takes seconds to unlock the door and let myself in.

  The house is quiet, like it’s asleep, and I’m sure the sound of me tugging my luggage inside would wake it if it were alive. My expensive luggage now sits on the expensive marble floor. Finding the house key a place in my purse, I realize I’m overdressed, too warm and exhausted. Flying at night has never been something I’ve enjoyed, but it is much less populated. And since staying away from people for a few weeks is my goal, it’s what I had to do.

  As the door clicks shut, I breathe a thankful sigh.

  Alone at last.

  And I’m thankful there are no Christmas decorations. I’m not in a pretty bow, mistletoe kind of mood.

  Only now can I truly relax.

  This beautiful house will help. An elegant wrought-iron chandelier hangs overhead. The living room is straight in front of me, so I look down the hall to my right, deciding that’s where the bedrooms must be. I grab my suitcases and head to the second door on the left. I stand outside the room Katherine told me I could use until she arrives in a couple of days.

  Cautiously I step inside, my gaze sweeping the room.

  Relief escapes in the form of a sigh as I see the walls and dresser tops void of mirrors. Perfect.

  Katherine’s memory of this room was spot-on.

  Smiling, I think back almost ten years ago when Katherine and I met. We were both after the same modeling job. Turns out they hired us both and we became best friends.

  With a sense of comfort, because thinking of best friends and being surrounded in luxury can do that to a girl, I bring in my suitcases from the hall. One holds my clothes, and the other holds the items that will launch my new career.

  Or destroy it.

  Catching my breath from the unfamiliar strain of actual manual labor and potential second-career failure, I notice the white furniture and king-size bed. The burgundy and tiny white polka-dotted bedspread is cute and feminine. Long, wide windows grace both outside walls of the corner room, which will let in plenty of light during the day. Wanting nothing more than to put on my pajamas and curl up into the comfy-looking bed, I reason I need to unpack.

 
After all, there’s no one here to do it for me.

  I try lifting one of my suitcases onto the bed, but the overloaded bag is extremely heavy. So, I climb up, boots meeting gorgeous bedspread, and use every ounce of strength I have to pull the flowery luggage onto the bed.

  I’m now at the point of almost sweating, but I press on, shoving the oversized, useless decorative pillows against the headboard. I yank my other suitcase onto the bed, the reality of my new, hopefully temporary, life sinking in as I sink into a sitting position against the useless decorative pillows.

  No bellhops, no doormen.

  No housekeepers or cooks.

  Just the three of us—me, myself and I.

  Welcome to Jenny’s DIY.

  Well, it can’t be that bad. Leaning forward, as I put my finger on the zipper to open my luggage, I become aware of a scent in the room. A subtle scent that reminds me of outdoors. Woodsy outdoors, not beach-like or tropical.

  Probably one of those air fresheners plugged into a wall somewhere. After all, the bathroom is right off the bedroom.

  I unzip the suitcase that holds my clothes, then eye the dresser. I also see the doors to the closet. Looking back at my suitcase I realize this is going to be a project.

  Might as well start.

  As I slide off the bed I notice a photograph on the nightstand. Picking up the photo, I smile as I take in the image. A lion has both of its paws wrapped around a man. I can only see the man’s profile, but the dynamics of the photo threaten to burst through the glass.

  This lion loves this man.

  And this man must be Stephen Day, Katherine’s brother. According to Katherine, he’s a renegade, rogue wildlife photographer who can’t stay in one place for any length of time. And right now he’s halfway across the world in some remote country she couldn’t pronounce, taking pictures of four-legged creatures she’d never heard of.

  Which is why we’re borrowing his house.

  The photo seems much too bold to be in this room, on this tame, plain white nightstand with its frilly, lacey lamp.

  I return the photo to the nightstand before grabbing a stack of clothes out of my suitcase. Walking to the dresser, I set my clothes on top of it as I open the drawer.

  A foreboding feeling comes over me at the sight of clothing in the drawer. Making sure my stack is straight and not ready to tumble, I walk out of the room and look around.

  Second room on the left, Katherine said. So, yes, I’m in the right room. I step back into the room. Burgundy bed spread with white polka-dots, exactly like she described. No mirrors just like she remembered.

  I have to be in the right room.

  I pull out the top clothing item in the drawer.

  Black boxer-briefs.

  As I hold them, a freshly laundered scent mingles with that woodsy scent. My cheek may be scarred, but my brain isn’t.

  Somebody is staying in this room.

  “Never seen briefs before?”

  The black briefs slip from my hands at the sound of the oh-so masculine voice. I watch as the briefs miss the drawer and land silently on top of my brown boots.

  My mind flies back to childhood and the story of the three bears. I can’t help but laugh as the words “Who’s been sleeping in my bed” try to block out the “never seen briefs before” question.

  I look up, turning slightly. Immediately my laughter dies. I swallow the huge lump in my throat, now feeling like Malcolm the cabbie with my eyes widening. Only mine widen in surprise.

  And as a woman who appreciates beauty, what a nice surprise.

  A put-together-in-all-the-right-places man leans against the doorway, making the doorway appear much smaller than it had when I walked through it moments ago. His rich brown hair, hint of sideburns and gorgeously angled face are model-worthy. And it doesn’t stop there.

  Lips that any girl would love to kiss part slightly to reveal white, straight teeth.

  Muscular arms, flat abs, no shirt, black running shorts, just-the-right-amount-of sexy legs and brand-new-looking running shoes root me to the unfamiliar point of being unable to say a word.

  Not even hello.

  Oh, and did I mention the sheen of sweat that only enhances all the attributes I’ve run through my head?

  At least I hope I haven’t voiced any of my thoughts.

  He’s staring straight at me. He doesn’t look away. His dark-eyed gaze evokes no pity.

  Actually, it hardens the longer I stand here. Like I’m invading his space.

  Looking down at the drawer, then across the room, I realize I am invading his space.

  My suitcases are strewn across his bed. My hands are literally in the cookie jar of his stuff.

  Personal stuff, too.

  He pushes off the door frame in a smooth move. “The beautiful Jenny Harris has come to visit.”

  He knows my name?

  He starts a slow, lazy walk toward me. “Even my underwear,” he says as he bends down to pick up his black briefs, “are so enamored by her beauty, they literally fall at her feet.”

  His sweaty, heady scent slices through my “I’m not beautiful anymore” mantra that constantly buzzes through my mind.

  I swear I can feel the heat off his body.

  Except that it’s probably only my face flushing at everything about him.

  But he’s so close.

  I can reach out and touch him if I wanted to. And I want to, just to make sure he’s real.

  Because I think the photograph has come to life.

  BENEFICIAL

  HE SCRUNCHES HIS briefs in his fist. “I guess I’ll need these in a minute when I take my shower.” He nods toward the door leading into the bathroom.

  “In my bathroom,” he adds.

  His emphasis on the word my sends my mental blocks tumbling. Yes, this amazingly beautiful man is Stephen Day. “Your sister said you were out of the country.”

  “I was. Now I’m back. So do all underwear models go looking through strange men’s underwear drawers, or is that a task enjoyed only by you?”

  Snatching my stack of clothing, I walk to the bed, dump it in my suitcase and start zipping my luggage shut. “I apologize for intruding, but I had no idea Katherine would offer your room to me, even if you were out of the country.”

  “This isn’t my room. I’ve ordered new furniture for the master, but my early return and a back order issue has me staying in this guest room.”

  At least that explains the frilly décor. “Katherine will be here in a couple of days. She’s going to model clothes I designed and her boyfriend is going to photograph the line. So is there another bedroom I can use?”

  He closes his gorgeous eyes momentarily, then shakes his head. “That’s what that message meant. I’m catching on now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There was a message on the house phone from Katherine this morning. You might want to check your cell. I don’t think she’s coming.”

  Shock runs through my body. My best friend knows my future depends on this amazing opportunity I’ve been offered. “Please tell me you’re kidding.”

  My purse is sprawled out on the bed next to my luggage. I rummage through it until I find my phone. There were no messages when I landed, but there are now, I see.

  I push a couple of buttons, tapping my foot, anxious.

  One message.

  I press the button and hear Katherine apologizing. Joe surprised her with a Christmas Mediterranean cruise. Her voice squeals and whispers at the same time that she thinks this may be the proposal cruise, and it’s the only reason she’s ditching me. My heart sinks as she explains that she’ll be returning January fourth and she’ll call me. If I’m still talking to her.

  I know she’s been waiting on a proposal from Joe for a while now. I want to be happy for her, and I’ll admit a part of me is excited, but honestly, I’m tired and overwhelmed and having a hard time coming around to what this means.

  Thumb shaking, I hit the delete button before tossin
g my phone into my purse. “She thinks he’s going to propose.”

  Stephen smiles. “That’s good. He’s a nice guy. So Katherine was going to model some clothes and Joe was going to take some pictures?”

  “Those ‘some clothes’ are my designs that need to be photographed and in a certain gentleman’s hands by the end of the year.”

  “Can’t you just call up one of your other model friends?”

  I shake my head at his ignorance. He has no idea how my world works. At the moment I have no idea how my world works, but I’m not letting him know that. I need to form a new game plan. “It’s not that easy. Can you just tell me which room I can stay in?”

  He sighs. “I’m not trying to be harsh or anything, but it’s not real appropriate for us to be here together. Alone. I can refer you to a hotel.”

  “Hotel?” Whoever said chivalry is dead hasn’t met Stephen Day.

  “Yes. There’s a great selection of nice hotels not far from here.”

  My tired brain is spinning fast to come up with an excuse as to why I can’t leave. Excuse? I’ll just tell him the truth. “I really don’t have the money for a hotel.” There. Done.

  Surely he’ll sympathize.

  “A successful underwear model like you? Come on.”

  He has no idea. Between my elective surgery gone wrong and a poorly chosen business venture, I’m broke with a capital B. A fact which I can barely admit to myself, so I’m certainly not admitting it to this gorgeous guy. It appears I have no choice but to leave. “Okay. In ten minutes you won’t even remember I was here.”

  “All right, Cheetah.”

  He did not just refer to me as animal. “Cheetah?”

  “Cheetah. You’re a fast mover.”

  He walks to the bathroom door, tosses his underwear on the counter, then makes his way back to the bed. “Let me be of assistance.”

  Still trying to take in what has happened and regretting that I acquiesced to his demand I leave, I tap the luggage now zipped shut. “Be my guest.”

  With his strength, my luggage slides easily off the bed, landing with a soft thud onto the stone-tiled floor. Then he grabs my bags, totally dispensing with the pull handles, and simply carries them the old-fashioned way.