Abandon All Hope

by M. J. Schiller

  She nodded with a small smile, blinking back tears. Chase moved so Jeff could slip his hands under her knees and around her back. He made sure to keep the hurt ankle away from his body so it wouldn’t be squeezed. Hope put her hands around his neck and he rose, untroubled by his burden.

  Chase was looking up at his brother’s broad back with a mixture of pride and jealousy when Jeff called over his shoulder, “What were you thinking, bringing her here in the dark? It’s a wonder she didn’t break her neck.”

  Chase’s mouth hung open, until Hope explained, “It wasn’t his fault. I just wasn’t watching where I was going.”

  It felt unbelievably good to hear her defend him. He bent down and tugged on the sneaker stuck under the root for several minutes until it came loose and he fell backward into the dirt. He stood up and hurried after Jeff and Hope. When he caught up to the pair, all he could do was stare resentfully at her arms clasped around his older brother’s neck. He should be the one carrying Hope, not Jeff. He knew it was illogical to think this way, since Jeff was twice his size. Yet his frustration burned within him all the same.

  When they arrived at the house, Jeff laid Hope down on the couch within the soft light of the living room lamps. It was evident to all concerned that her ankle was broken. Chase was shocked by the deep purple-black color of her injury. He peeked up into her pale face and she gave him a weak smile.

  It was decided Mr. Hatton would drive the Creswells to the hospital. Chase watched from the porch as his father carried Hope out to the car and snuggled her into the backseat with a blanket his mother had provided. The phone rang and Jeff hurried inside to answer it. Chase and his mom stood on the porch and waved to the car’s taillights as it zoomed off toward town.

  Chase felt lost after she was gone.

  A few weeks later, Hope showed up on the first day of school using crutches. Chase was bending down by his locker, putting his new school supplies away, when she hobbled in the door with her mother. He stood, with a huge smile on his face, but Hope was swarmed by others who were asking all sorts of questions about her injury. She was leaning on her crutches just inside the doorway, pausing before maneuvering down the few steps to the hallway. Her hair was down and glowed, even in the low-wattage lighting of the hallway, and she had that beautiful smile on her face. He took a step toward her, but she started off down an adjacent corridor, not having seen him. Several kids followed, one boy even relieving Hope’s mom of her backpack.

  Chase froze, a huge wave of disappointment nearly knocking him backward. He had waited through the final days of summer until he could see Hope again at school, and things hadn’t turned out quite the way he had imagined they would. The noise and general confusion in the hallway seemed to be twinned with the commotion inside of his head. He turned around and slammed his locker shut, trudging down the hall in the opposite direction.

  The rest of his elementary days were much the same; he, gazing on from afar, as a group of admirers flocked around Hope. It wasn’t until his senior year of high school that he finally had the nerve to ask her out. He remembered her responding, teasingly, in a way that melted his heart, “It’s about time.”

  CHAPTER TWO

  A wooden magnet on her refrigerator read, “The rat race is over. The rat won!” and Hope had never found it to be truer.

  Today, she had wanted to look good for her Monday morning assignment meeting so she could land a big story, but the day started out as any typical bad day does, with the alarm clock set to p.m., not a.m. When Hope finally peeled her eyes open and saw the numbers 7:04 glaring at her, knowing she had a 7:35 train to catch, she flew out of bed in a panic. She fought through a head rush and scrambled to find something to wear that didn’t need to be ironed. On the way out the door, she grabbed a diet soda from the fridge, and an oatmeal cookie from a package on the kitchen counter. Oatmeal IS a breakfast food, she reasoned. Twenty short minutes after her alarm clock didn’t ring, she rushed out the door and hustled up the street, filled with a multitude of people who had apparently set their alarm clocks incorrectly as well.

  Despite this bad start, at exactly 8 a.m., Hope entered the conference room clutching her portfolio determinedly—determined to make the best of her rotten day; determined not to be stuck with another story about the wallaby’s birthday at the zoo, or some elderly lady winning her ninth consecutive quilting bee; determined to win a hard-hitting news story she could make memorable. Though she had been a photographer for the paper for years, it had only been about six months since she first requested a writing assignment. Since then, she had been stuck with the crap stories no one else wanted to take. But that would not be the case today.

  Hope took her seat as others claimed their own, all of them wearing stiffly starched shirts and pressed trousers, or tight-fitting skirts and silk blouses. One by one, her colleagues pulled up to the table, sliding out their cell phones and tablets. Hope glanced down at her pad of yellow legal paper and wrinkled blouse. On top of that, in her haste to leave her apartment, she had shattered a glass in her bathroom sink. Trying to clean it up, she managed to imbed the tiniest, and most painful, shard into her finger. Now she noticed a spot of blood on her blouse, presumably from her bad-morning-massacred fingertip. With a sigh of resignation, Hope debated a possible career switch.

  A honey-toned voice whispered in her ear. “Good morning, Gorgeous.”

  Hope’s boyfriend, Phillip, lifted his head and continued to orbit around the table until he was sitting opposite her, ostensibly in the best position to gaze on her face. Handsome blue eyes darted in her direction as he lowered his ex-college-football player frame into a seat. An electric-blue shirt set off those eyes, making him look like he belonged behind an anchor desk, not a byline. His blond hair contained more styling products than Hope’s did, something she liked to tease him about, though she liked the results. Usually, Hope was not drawn to men with Phillip’s cookie-cutter good looks. She preferred men with a lopsided smile or a crooked nose or a scar, something slightly off-kilter, but Phillip’s down-home, South Carolina charm had won her from the get-go.

  Just as Phillip took his seat, Jack Delaney, chief editor of The Chicago Globe News, entered the room. He strode purposefully to the head of the table and turned his back to the windows overlooking Michigan Avenue. He chose not to take a seat. Instead, his shoulders hunched slightly, he stood behind his chair, grasping the top of it with his hands. A big man, Delaney’s stature had seemed to inflate as his importance to the company did, growing taller with each rise in the ranks. He was barrel-chested, a thick shock of dark gray hair slicked back on the sides, giving it an oddly aerodynamic look in Hope’s eyes. In his usual brusque manner, he began the meeting as if he were one of those announcers at the end of car commercials, verbalizing the fine print.

  “Good morning. I’d like to, first of all, offer my congratulations to a pair of staff members who recently won awards for their fine work in the field of journalism. Liz McPherson was honored last week with the coveted Robert F. Downy Award for her series on the insurrection in Kosovo.”

  Liz McPherson, a tall blonde with perfectly coiffed hair and a catty smile, sat to Phillip’s right. She was given a resounding round of applause and thumps on the back by those sitting around her. She nodded her thanks.

  “And I would also like to recognize Hope Creswell who was recently given the Ladies’ Garden Club Award for her work describing the ongoing renovations in Grant Park. Congratulations, Hope.”

  There was a smattering of polite applause before the chief editor resumed the business of the day. Hope studied her hands, embarrassed. Phillip coughed quietly and she raised her eyes a little to catch his proud smile. It made her feel better, if only by the slimmest fraction.

  “Now,” Jack Delaney said, clearing his throat, “I’d like to get through these assignments quickly, as I’ve got a plane to catch. I will list each project first, and then we will discuss who would be best suited for them. First off, I need a couple of seasoned ve
terans for a series on Afghani politics. This will be an in-depth report, running four consecutive Sundays, and will require these reporters to be out of the country for at least a month, so let’s keep that in mind before you volunteer for this one…”

  This is it! Hope thought wildly. This is the piece that will make everyone take me seriously. She tried to talk herself into a reasoned calm. Okay, so this may be a little out of my league, but if I could convince Delaney I could learn from being paired up with a pro on a project like this... Hope was so engrossed in her thoughts she almost missed his next words.

  “Mr. Hatton will be in town for a day or two doing a couple of shows and, I believe, shooting a video. I’d also like this to be a lengthy article, or couple of articles, for our entertainment section, and the reporter would need to shadow Mr. Hatton for the duration of his stay, which I’m sure, for many of you female reporters, would not be too much of a hardship.” He gave a low chuckle.

  “Hope, aren’t you from Nebraska, like Chase Hatton?” Liz piped up.

  Hope was speechless. Chase Hatton was not a name she had expected to hear, not this morning, not now.

  “Yeah. Didn’t you tell me once you grew up in Lincoln with Chase Hatton and went to school with him?” Phillip added.

  “I…well…I…” Hope wondered if she looked as panicked as she felt.

  “Is that true, Hope?” Jack Delaney asked in his bass voice. She nodded faintly. “Well, good. Good. You already have an in. You’ll be perfect for it. And Liz and Phillip? I’d like to put you on the Afghani story, if you’re up for it.”

  “I’d be thrilled,” Phillip was saying.

  “Yes. Of course,” Liz interjected.

  “Good. Then that is decided.” The big man continued to hand out assignments, but Hope’s head was buzzing. What had just happened? She felt like a quarterback lying on the turf after he’d been waylaid by a blindside tackle. She was to interview Chase? The discombobulated feeling she had started off the day with returned in spades.

  Jack Delaney cleared his throat one final time. “ I will leave the remainder of the assignments in the hands of the senior editors, who will pass them on to the rest of you. Thank you for your time this morning. Let’s get out there and write some more award-winning stuff.” With that, the whirlwind of a man was gone and the door was shutting behind him.

  It wasn’t until Hope heard the general shuffling of a meeting coming to an end that she came out of her stupor. People gathered their belongings and pushed back chairs noisily, though she still sat, dazed. She glanced up and thought she saw Liz McPherson winking at Phillip. Then, Liz seemed to realize Hope was watching her.

  “Congratulations, Hope,” she said patronizingly. “I’m sure you’ll enjoy hanging out with a rock star for a couple of days, huh?” She gave Phillip’s hand a squeeze, and followed the others out of the conference room, leaving them alone.

  “Hope,” Phillip began, “you’re not mad I took this assignment and will be gone for a while, are you? ‘Cause I could tell Delaney I don’t want it. It’s just…it’s a great assignment.”

  She found her voice. “No, I’m not upset about that. You should go. I understand.”

  Phillip strolled around the table and leaned on its edge next to her chair. “Then what are you upset about?”

  “Nothing. Nothing. It’s just been one of those mornings, you know?”

  “Well, maybe,” he murmured, bending down to nuzzle her ear, “it’s because you didn’t let me stay all night.”

  She didn’t even hear him. “Phillip, I wanted to be ready for this meeting. I wanted to get a good assignment. Ugh! Liz McPherson. I swear she did that on purpose.”

  “What? You mean the Chase Hatton story? Oh no. I’m sure she didn’t—”

  “I’m sorry, Phillip, but I think that woman has it in for me.”

  “Liz? Oh no, honey. I don’t think so.”

  “And I’m not thrilled about you traveling with her either,” Hope added peevishly.

  Phillip laughed. “Well, just think about me, leaving you here with Mr. Hunky Rock Star.”

  “Oh, believe me, Phillip, you have nothing to worry about with Chase Hatton. That’s for sure.”

  “That bad, huh?” When she didn’t elaborate, he changed the subject. Leaning in, he whispered mischievously, “Why don’t you and I go back to your apartment to ‘do a little research’ for our stories before I have to start packing?” He toyed with the lapel of her blazer, and then gave it a playful tug.

  Hope smiled up at him. How was it, even at her lowest, he could still pull a smile from her? “I’m up for ‘a little research.’” She, in turn, fingered his tie, pulling him to her with it until she felt the warmth of his mouth on hers. Hope’s fingers glided up Phillip’s chest and explored the familiar skin of his face. His hand traveled to the back of Hope’s neck, caressing her bare skin there. Before they could get carried away any further, they heard someone’s hand on the doorknob. Jumping apart guiltily, they turned to see Liz McPherson in the doorway.

  Liz frowned, appearing annoyed at having obviously interrupted something. “Phil, our flight leaves in four hours, so you may want to get packing,” she snapped. She turned to go, purposefully leaving the door open in her wake.

  Their faces fell as they looked at one another. Phillip hung his head, mumbling. “Damn Delaney! Why does he have to be so gosh darn…” He scrambled for the word he needed.

  “Efficient?”

  “I was going for something more like hyperactive.” He gazed at her with a sigh. “Walk me to my car?”

  “Sure.”

  Phillip slung his hand over her shoulder, and they left the conference room.

  On the way to the parking garage, Hope was quiet. She knew Phillip would attribute it to his leaving, but she had more on her mind. Chase Hatton. The name stirred up so many emotions she had trouble sorting through them all. He had been the first man she loved. Boy, she corrected. He was barely eighteen. In truth, he was the only person she had ever given her heart to, not foreseeing Chase would simply throw it aside.

  Phillip nudged her from her reverie as they headed down to the ground floor in an elevator. “You gonna be okay?”

  “Sure. I’ll be fine. I’ll just miss you is all.”

  “I’ll miss you, too, babe.”

  The door of the elevator dinged open, and they exited, their footsteps ringing in the empty parking garage. Minutes later they stood beside Phillip’s sporty convertible. Hope leaned against the door. Goodbyes like this were always difficult. And it was true, she would miss him. Okay, so theirs wasn’t the heart-stopping love affair she had dreamed of once. But she had grown up. Those relationships happened only in romance novels. Passion in real life was little more than a momentary physical urge, quickly satisfied, though still leaving you empty.

  As if to emphasize the point she was making in her head, Phillip pulled her close, sticking his hands in her back pockets and, as she raised her head, kissing her hard on the mouth. He moved his right hand to her throat, letting it rest there briefly, and then slid it downward, under the fabric of her blouse.

  She giggled and squirmed. “Phillip! There have to be security cameras in here.”

  “So let them watch,” he muttered, not fully taking his lips from hers. “Maybe they’ll learn something.” She felt her passion rising to meet his. He suddenly grabbed her hips and spun Hope so her front was pressed against the car. His mouth was on her neck, and his hands sought her breasts again, though covered with the blouse this time. She thrilled to the sound of his voice near her ear. “We could be quick, you know? It’ll only take me an hour to get my stuff ready.”

  She chuckled, making a small gurgling sound in her throat, and checking the elevator, praying no one would get off. “It’ll take you that long to decide what to wear on the plane.”

  Phillip’s hands stilled; he must have realized she was right. He was a terrible packer, always second-guessing himself or feeling as if he were leaving someth
ing behind.

  “Phillip.” Hope pushed her tush into him, giving herself enough room to turn around. She straightened his tie, which was comically askew. “You have to go.”

  “All right,” he sighed. “You win.” He tugged Hope in once more, growling in her ear. “You drive me crazy, you know?”

  “Yeah,” she whispered back. “But it’s a very short drive.”

  “Hey,” he said, pretending to be hurt. Phillip disengaged himself and slapped her rear before opening the car door. Sliding into his seat, the reporter started the engine smoothly. He rolled down the window and reached up to pull her in for a last kiss. “You know, the boys in the security booth are very disappointed right now.”

  “Oh, I’ll make it up to them,” she teased as she stepped away from the car.

  “You better not!” Phillip called as he pulled out. And, with a flashy squeal of his tires, he was gone.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Chase strolled out of his hotel bathroom wearing only a pair of jeans. He rubbed a towel over his damp hair. His muscular chest still held a few sparkling drops of water, glistening, in fact, all the way down his toned abs to the waistline of his jeans, darkening their top. He had arrived in Chicago just this morning, and already completed a charity concert in Grant Park. Since the facility had no dressing room, the singer had come back to his penthouse for a shower after the live performance.

  His manager, Hal Westwood, sat at a table with papers spread out in front of him, his ever-present cell phone amidst them, at-the-ready. Hal was tall, sober-looking, with thick, brown hair, which was always professionally styled. He was more often than not dressed in a suit and tie, even when attending casual affairs. Hal was good at what he did, and well-respected in a field where flash was more the call for the day, and professionalism was sometimes seen as “being uptight.”

  Chase picked up a piece of pineapple from a heaping tray on a side table as he asked, “Okay, Hal, what’s next on the agenda?” He popped the pineapple into his mouth and listened to his manager’s reply.