Rich in Hope (Richness in Faith Trilogy Book 2)

by Lindi Peterson

  He stands. “The scar can be fixed. Can’t it?”

  “It’s a bit more complicated than that.”

  Stephen gathers the Band-Aids and the washcloth. “Somehow I have no trouble believing that you are complicated.”

  The warm, satiny feeling of being in his arms fades as my face heats at his assumption. “You know nothing about me, Stephen Day. Nothing. And I’m tired of your flippant attitude regarding a very traumatic time in my life. Maybe I should leave.”

  Without a glance at him, because honestly it might dampen my resolve, I head toward my room.

  When I reach it, I shove the door open and unzip my suitcase.

  I refuse to give any credence to the part of me that keeps glancing at the doorway to see if Stephen is there. To see if he will try to stop me from leaving.

  The realization he’s not going to stop me fuels my reason to leave, so before I pack up the last couple of drawers, I trade my shorts for a pair of jeans, grab my phone and dial the cab company that brought me here this morning.

  Was it just this morning?

  It feels like a lifetime has gone by.

  Hanging up, with the assurance that the cab will be here within twenty minutes, I zip my suitcase shut.

  With shaky hands, I sit on the bed and activate my GPS on my phone. I need to find a hotel. An inexpensive hotel. I have no choice but to dip into the funds that I was going to use to have my portfolio made.

  The portfolio that isn’t happening anyway.

  Why is it when you are in a hurry, your phone isn’t? As much as I need to ask Stephen for that hotel recommendation, I don’t want to ask. He hasn’t even bothered to check on what I’m doing.

  My heart saddens as I realize he’s probably thrilled I’m leaving.

  I glance at my watch. Less than ten minutes have gone by. I wonder if Malcolm with the Santa hat will be the cabbie. If so, I could end my day just like I started it.

  I stand my suitcases up and drag them down the hall. As I’m walking I see Stephen in the foyer.

  Even the side view of him is amazing. His physique is lean, angled and simply beautiful to look at. Is his intention to stop me?

  “Mr. Day?” Teresa calls, running into the foyer, stopping short of running into Stephen. “Mr. Day, there’s been an accident.”

  “An accident?” he asks as Phoebe walks into the foyer.

  “Yes, my parents. In Mexico.” The woman is sobbing, and Phoebe is edging closer and closer to Teresa.

  “My mother and father were in a very serious car accident in Mexico. I have to leave right away. Phoebe doesn’t have a passport, but I must go.”

  Stephen’s stance reveals how uncomfortable he is.

  I set my purse on my suitcase.

  “Mr. Day, I have no one to watch Phoebe. I know it’s an imposition, but could she please stay with you? You and Miss Harris?”

  “I, uh…” he stammers, looking at me.

  Teresa obviously hasn’t noticed my suitcases.

  “Have you booked a flight?” Stephen asks Teresa, and honestly, I think I can see sweat forming on his brow.

  “Not yet.” Teresa wrings her hands. “I knew I needed to talk to you first. I promise to stay only as long as I’m needed.”

  Phoebe may not be able to see, but I’m sure is very aware of the tension in the luxurious foyer with the fancy chandelier, marble floors and people who don’t know what to do with her.

  The doorbell chimes into the awkward silence. I step around Stephen and answer the door.

  “Somebody called a cab.” The rough voice startles me.

  “I did. It’s for me.” I turn around to face Stephen and Teresa.

  “Are you ready?” The cabbie, who is not Malcolm, seems put out to even be here.

  “Just a minute.” I try to keep my voice calm.

  “Meter’s running.” The cabbie starts the walk back to his cab.

  I awkwardly step around Stephen.

  A questioning expression covers Teresa’s face. She covers her heart with her hand before glancing at Stephen.

  “Miss Jenny?” Phoebe’s voice is soft.

  “Yes?”

  She slowly walks over to me and wraps her arms around my legs.

  “Will you please stay, Miss Jenny?”

  I look away from Stephen and blink my eyes. Who could say no to that voice?

  “Yes, will you please stay, Miss Jenny?” Stephen tries to spin his tone with laughter, but I see the total you-need-to-stay panicked look on his face.

  My heart hammers. I’m not giving myself any illusions. I know he wants me to stay because of Phoebe. Moments ago he was content to let me walk out that door.

  Things have changed now.

  But I’m not sure my mind is one of them.

  BOUNDARIES

  IF PHOEBE WASN’T standing here, I would love to make him squirm. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

  Phoebe squeezes my legs. “Miss Jenny with the pretty voice is staying.”

  Stephen takes a couple of steps toward the door. “I’ll go take care of the cabbie. Teresa, make your plane reservations. And I’ll pay your travel expenses. All of them, so leave as soon as you need to.”

  Calmer tears stream down Teresa’s face. “Thank you,” she manages to choke out.

  “Do I need to help you pack some things for Phoebe? I’d be happy to go to your home and help.” I imagine her mind is reeling.

  “Phoebe and I live in the apartment above the garage. If you can stay with her now, while I make my arrangements and pack, that will be helpful.”

  “Sure,” I answer. “Phoebe and I will have a great time.”

  “Thank you.” Teresa quickly leaves.

  I grab Phoebe’s hand. “Let’s go into the kitchen. Maybe there’ll be something yummy to eat.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “No, ma’ams. It’s Jenny.”

  “Okay, Miss Jenny.”

  “I can handle Miss Jenny.” I walk with her to the bar stool. “Why don’t you sit here while I raid the fridge?”

  She climbs onto the bar stool and sits, her hands folded on the island. The same place I sat in what seems like forever ago. Is it possible that only a few minutes have gone by?

  I open the freezer. “How about some strawberry ice cream?”

  “My mommy bought that for me.”

  “Good. Then I think you need to eat some.”

  I start opening cabinets, looking for a bowl.

  “The bowls are in the corner cabinet to the right of the sink.”

  I suck in a quick breath. “How did you know what I was looking for?”

  “Because you need a bowl to put the ice cream in, silly. The spoons are in the drawer beside the sink, and the ice cream scoop is in the third drawer down by the stove.”

  “Thank you.” I grab a bowl and set it on the counter. Then I find the spoon and ice cream scoop. All right where she said they would be. I start scooping.

  “Mr. Stephen’s back.”

  I turn to find Stephen standing at the entrance to the kitchen, staring at me. Flustered, I drop the ice cream scoop full of ice cream on the floor.

  He smiles and shakes his head, then grabs some paper towels. But he doesn’t hand them to me. Instead, he bends over, hands me the scooper and starts wiping up the mess.

  I step around him to the sink, and wash the scooper off.

  “Did you drop something?” Phoebe asks.

  “I did.”

  She laughs.

  I manage to scoop more strawberry ice cream into the bowl. I set the bowl in front of Phoebe, along with the spoon and a napkin. “Here you go.”

  “Want some?” I ask Stephen, as I decide some ice cream might be just what I need.

  “No. You two enjoy. I’m going to get the study ready for Phoebe to sleep in. There’s a pull out couch in there.”

  “Why can’t I stay with Phoebe in her apartment? I’m sure we’d be fine there.” And I wouldn’t have to put up with his lack of compassion he’s been
displaying toward me.

  “I wanna stay here. It’ll be like an adventure.” Phoebe sounds excited.

  “The apartment is small anyway,” Stephen adds, his tone sounding the opposite of exciting.

  “Okay.” I realize I’m not going to win this battle.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Stephen. I know I’m a bother, but mommy said there wasn’t anywhere else for me to go.”

  The pained expression that crosses his face pains me.

  “You’re not a bother, Phoebe. Don’t think that,” he says.

  “Mommy said you liked being a batcher, but maybe Miss Jenny was going to cure you.”

  “Batcher?” Stephen asks.

  “I think she means bachelor.” I try not to laugh.

  “Yeah. That’s it. That’s what mommy said. Bash a ler.”

  “No comment.” Stephen tosses the paper towels before leaving the room.

  I lean against the island next to Phoebe, both of us silent as we eat our ice cream. It’s interesting to watch her fingers touch the edge of the bowl as her other hand uses her spoon.

  We take so much for granted.

  Yesterday at this time, I was sitting in a coffee shop in New York City, my life void of Stephen, Teresa, Phoebe and a cabbie named Malcolm.

  It’s amazing how a life can change in less than twenty-four hours.

  “YOU DON’T NEED to hold my hand,” Phoebe says.

  It’s almost eight o’clock, and we’re headed to the study where Teresa had put Phoebe’s suitcase. We had chips and sandwiches for dinner after listening to a show Phoebe likes. I’m surprised how fast the time has gone by.

  “Oh, okay.” I resist the urge to baby her.

  “My mommy has worked here a long time. I know my way around.”

  “All right, then.”

  “I’m going to the bathroom,” she says just as we arrive at it. “Mommy said she put my pajamas in there. And I need to brush my teeth.”

  “Okay. Let me know if you need anything. See you in the study.”

  She steps into the bathroom and shuts the door. I’m so amazed by her. She’s very mature for a seven-year-old.

  Teresa was able to book a flight and left about an hour ago with assurances from both Stephen and I that Phoebe would be fine. We know where all her important documents are, we are in possession of her insurance cards and the phone numbers where Teresa can be reached, as well as all of Phoebe’s school information.

  At the end of the hall, toward the back of the house, is the study. I walk in to find Stephen trying to put the sheets on the mattress. “Need some help?”

  He looks up. “Sure.”

  He’s standing on the far side of the pull-out maneuvering the less-than-perfect-fitting sheets around the corners of the mattress, so I stand on the other side.

  Stephen tosses the top sheet to me, the freshly laundered scent tickling my nose, and together we manage to tuck it under the mattress.

  “I found these two blankets. I think they’ll be good enough, don’t you?” He points to two dark blue blankets he’s set on the bed.

  “Yes. They’ll be fine. Hand me one of those couch cushions, though. Let’s put them back so there’s not a gap.” I nod toward the back of the couch.

  “Good idea.” He tosses one of the cushions to me.

  I put my knee on the bed as I try to shove the cushion between the frame and the back of the couch. Stephen is doing the same, and it doesn’t take me long to become preoccupied by his closeness.

  Leaning over to give a final push to the cushion, I lose my balance and find myself leaning into him. “Whoa,” he says, his warmth searing into me, as he steadies me with his grasp.

  I’m surprised at the urge to settle into his arms, to rest against his chest.

  “Jenny.” His voice is a whisper. “We have to set some boundaries.”

  At his words I struggle out of his embrace and off the bed. Face flushed, pride stung, I clear my mind of Stephen’s touch. “I agree. Boundaries are good.”

  “First, physical boundaries. A must.” He looks flustered as he runs his hand through his hair.

  “Agreed. Stay ten feet away from me.”

  “Why does Mr. Stephen need to stay ten feet away from you, Miss Jenny?” Phoebe asks, obviously done in the bathroom.

  “Yes, why ten feet?” Stephen asks.

  “I didn’t mean literally ten feet. And Phoebe, Stephen and I were kidding around.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  “Phoebe,” Stephen says. “We’ve pulled the couch out into a bed. I know you spend a lot of time in here after school while your mom is still working but wanted to let you know things are changed a bit.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Stephen. How far away is it?”

  “About two feet straight in front of you.”

  Phoebe shuffles to the bed, then climbs in. “Miss Jenny, will you tell me a story?”

  “A story?”

  “Yes. My mommy always tells me a story before I go to bed.”

  “I’ll leave the storytelling to you two ladies. Good night, Phoebe,” Stephen says. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  “K. Goodnight, Mr. Stephen.”

  Stephen shrugs his shoulders, smiling at me as he leaves.

  Phoebe pats the bed. “Will you sit with me? My mommy always does when she tells me the story.”

  I have no idea what kind of story she wants to hear. I can recall some fairy tales. Not sure I know whole stories, though. I climb on the bed, bringing one of the blue blankets with me. I spread the cover out then settle next to Phoebe. “Which story do you want to hear? Cinderella? Sleeping Beauty?”

  She shakes her head. “No. I know those. I want to hear your story.”

  “My story?”

  “Yes. A story you make up. You can make up a story, right? My mommy does.”

  Mommy has some big shoes. And I’m not sure how capable I am of filling them. “What kind of story do you want to hear?”

  Her lips purse momentarily. Then she smiles. “You need to make up a story.”

  Right now the stories that are running through my mind involve a ruined life, an ugly face and heat from an amazingly attractive man. Those elements don’t sound so good for storytelling to a seven-year-old. But I really need to try. Phoebe has been ripped from her mother’s arms, and although I know she knows Stephen, she doesn’t really know me.

  “Okay,” I start. “How about there’s a little girl—”

  “She’ll be a teenager,” Phoebe says.

  “Okay. There’s a teenage girl who lives in…where does she live?”

  Her expression looks lost in thought for a few seconds. “How about a city called Mexico. That’s where my mommy is.”

  “Sure. So, living in a city called Mexico, there’s a girl—”

  “A princess,” Phoebe interrupts.

  “Oh. A princess? Nice. I like it. So we have a princess—”

  “She has to have a name.” Phoebe’s voice is matter of fact.

  “Of course she has a name. And her name is…”

  “Bea.”

  “Bea?”

  “Princess Bea,” Phoebe states.

  “Princess Bea it is, then. Princess Bea lives in Mexico. She lives in a beautiful castle with her mom and dad.”

  “The king and the queen.”

  For a little girl who insisted I make up a story, she’s extremely helpful in setting the scene. “Okay.”

  “And her father is very handsome.” Her voice now sounds sleepy, and we’ve barely begun our story about Princess Bea who lives in Mexico with her mom and dad.

  Phoebe slinks down further into the pillow and covers.

  “Are we done with our story?” I ask, wondering about Phoebe’s father and if he was handsome.

  “For tonight. Mommy adds to it every night.”

  I pat her on the top of the head. “Okay. Goodnight.”

  “Night, Miss Jenny.”

  The sofa bed squeaks as I climb off, but Phoebe doesn’t flinch.
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  The room plunges into darkness as I turn off the light. The same darkness Phoebe lives in all the time. Unsure as to whether I should shut the door or not, I decide to leave things as they are.

  I walk back to the kitchen to find Stephen leaning against the counter, a piece of paper in his hand. He seems to be studying it hard.

  The space on the other side of the island beckons me. Palms flat on the island top, I look at Stephen, who has turned his attention away from the paper and now is looking at me. “Boundaries,” I say.

  He smiles. “It’s not quite ten feet, though.”

  “I could crawl into the refrigerator or go into another room, I guess.”

  Staring at people is usually considered rude, but staring at Stephen can’t be helped. Not only has he been aesthetically put together, but there’s an air about him that can’t be ignored.

  “I want to thank you for staying. Not sure what I would have done if you had left.” His tone is filled with gratitude.

  I don’t know what I would have done if I had left. But I’m not letting him know this. “It’s all good.”

  “I’m not used to being around kids. At all. This is way out of my comfort zone. Way out. So again, thank you.”

  My heart laughs. I have no idea why a guy who likes being hugged by a lion would be so scared of a little girl.

  I wonder what else Stephen Day is afraid of?

  BELIEVE

  IT’S ABOUT ELEVEN in the morning. Phoebe is sitting on the couch in the room off the kitchen, listening to music with her headphones, while Stephen and I attempt to make lunch for Gary and Alice.

  “I remember baking cookies with my mom when I was little,” I say to Stephen as we stand in the kitchen, staring at the items he’s picked up at the grocery store.

  We have one hour.

  “This will be easy. We’ll make some sandwiches, and I bought this coleslaw already made. And here”—he points to a bag,—“is soup. Just mix with water, and voila, baked potato soup.”

  “Seems simple enough,” I say. “Why don’t I make the sandwiches and you can make the soup.” I also notice his camera sitting behind the computer. I don’t think the man goes anywhere without it.

  He pushes his hand through his hair. “No, Cheetah. I’ll make the sandwiches. I’ll even toast the bread. That way we’ll both be cooking.”