by Dawn Kinzer
“But, Annie...”
“Please, Hope. You’ve stood by me these past weeks and worked hard to help get the library ready for the opening. By the grace of God and good people who volunteered, we met our deadline. Although the shelves aren’t filled, we have enough books to call it a library, and the children enjoyed Mrs. Jorgenson’s story time so much on opening day, I’m sure even more will attend tomorrow morning. Everything isn’t perfect, but it’s a start.” Annie stood and grasped Hope’s shoulders, her serious gaze sending a message. “You’re always looking out for others, but now it’s time to do something for yourself. It’s your turn, Hope.”
“Sweet words, but—”
“You’re not worried about traveling alone, are you?”
Hope raised an eyebrow and smiled. “How quickly you’ve forgotten that I not only came much of the way from New York unaccompanied, but aside from the last months in Riverton, I’ve lived in a large city my entire life.”
“I haven’t forgotten.” Annie’s lips slid into a teasing smile. “Just wanted to make sure you still remembered.” She released her grip on Hope and curled up on the bed.
“You’re right. I can’t pass up this opportunity to have Miss Lancaster look at my work. I also promised my mother that I’d share every detail of my trip with her in my next letter, and I’d hate to disappoint her. She’s feeling so far away from everything familiar.”
“I understand.” Annie squinted and pointed to a flat rectangular object wrapped in brown paper, propped against the wall. “What is that?”
“That?”
“What are you up to, Hope?”
“Can I trust you to keep a secret?”
“How can you even ask that? You know you can.”
“Even from Jake? The two of you have spent a lot of time together these last two weeks. Since the calamity at the library, he’s stuck to your side like lint to a wool skirt.”
“Hope?”
“It’s a painting.”
Annie bolted upright. “You’re not—”
“I am. I have an appointment with a gallery owner to show him the painting.” Hope’s confidence in her decision weakened at seeing the look of horror on Annie’s face.
“Ben will be furious.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. It will probably depend on the result. He could be grateful.”
“Knowing Ben, I doubt it.” Annie grimaced. “He’ll just feel that you’ve stepped into sacred territory.”
“He has a gift. It needs to be shared.”
“Your opinion. On the shared part.”
Hope cringed at hearing Annie’s words. The truth sometimes hurt. “But don’t you think others will agree once they see his artistry?”
“It doesn’t matter how many people feel the same way as you if Ben wants to keep this part of his life to himself.”
“But if I could help him move beyond his fear...” Wouldn’t that be worth breaking a promise of silence about his artistic skills?
“You think he’s a coward?”
“When it comes to his art, yes, I do. But most of us are afraid of some form of rejection, aren’t we? Take you and Jake, for example.”
“It’s not the same thing.”
“Close enough. You were afraid to tell Jake how you really felt about him. But if you’d never blurted out that you loved him, those feelings would still be hidden deep inside, and you’d be frustrated and miserable.”
“True. It wasn’t how I wanted it to happen, but it forced us to talk about our friendship. I had no idea that he’d been confused for a long time about his feelings for me. It’s going to take some time for me to trust him, but now we can try to figure things out together.”
“That’s what I want for Ben. The opportunity for him to hear how talented he is so that he can make decisions based on that information instead of hiding his work in a shed out of guilt over something that happened years ago.”
“I’ll keep your secret, and I’ll pray for you.” Annie wrapped her arms around Hope’s shoulders. “Because if this doesn’t go well...”
***
Hope surveyed the West Hotel’s immense lobby, the largest in the country, as she waited to check in. The last time she was in a place this grand, she and Henry had met his cousin, a senator from Maine, and his wife for the evening. The lovely time over dinner had been marred by Henry making fun of Hope’s aspirations as a designer, even though his cousin’s wife seemed quite interested in what Hope had to say.
Like a blacksmith shaping iron on an anvil, it struck Hope that she’d changed since moving to Riverton. She still never wanted to see Henry again, but she no longer struggled with fear when he came to mind.
Forget him, Hope. Focus on the present, and leave the past behind.
She pushed thoughts of Henry aside and tried to memorize every detail around her so she could give accurate descriptions when she returned to Riverton. If only she could have seen Annie’s reaction to the elaborate architecture—thick pillars, the gabled roofs, bay windows, towers, and dormer windows. It was all so beautiful, and a slight wave of disappointment fell over her at not being able to share it in person with her cousin.
Not only did the hotel have 407 rooms and 140 baths, but it had also been the temporary home of Mark Twain. Hope had saved that piece of information as a surprise for her cousin, and now she wouldn’t have the heart to share it. Annie had copies of The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, and The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, but her favorite book by the author was A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court.
Hope thanked and tipped the bellboy for carrying her small trunk to her lovely room, then she closed the door behind him and flung herself across the bed. Just to catch her breath. Too excited to sleep the night before, she’d dressed at sunup to get to Martindale in time to catch the early train. Somehow she’d managed to get the horse and buggy to the livery. They’d be waiting for her there when she returned.
Exhaustion was settling in after sitting near a family with three active little boys during the long train ride from Martindale to Minneapolis. Good thing she was able to force down a small meal on the train. Not having to seek out a place to dine in the middle of the day, she could spare the time to close her eyes for a moment, and the bed felt so comfortable...
***
Hope woke with a jolt. How long had she slept? It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes, could it? She opened the case to the watch dangling from the gold chain around her neck.
No! How could I?
More than an hour had passed. Nervous energy surged through her body. She didn’t have much time to freshen up, change, and get to her appointment at the Woodlin Art Gallery. After sending numerous requests for a meeting, she’d received word that Mr. Woodlin might only have a few minutes to offer in the middle of his busy day, so she couldn’t risk being late.
She flung open her trunk and pulled out a blue suit she’d been told complemented her eyes, but also gave a business-like air. As the person representing Ben’s work to an influential man in the art world, Hope wanted to make a good impression—not too soft and feminine, but also not brash. Men seemed to have a difficult time accepting strong women in the business arena.
The gallery was only four blocks from the hotel. It should be an easy walk—one of the reasons she chose to stay at the expensive hotel, besides looking at it as a treat and a small taste of what she was used to in New York.
Hope stepped outside the hotel and into September sunshine. Size and weight made carrying the wrapped painting cumbersome enough, but protecting it from pedestrians jostling her wasn’t going to be as easy as she imagined. She spotted a nearby streetcar headed in the right direction and raced to get on.
Four city blocks added to a fair amount of distance, but the ride went much faster than if she’d tried to maneuver her way on foot to her destination. The streetcar stopped at a corner and Hope spotted the gallery just ahead.
“Please excuse me.” Hope squeezed between a robust man wh
o smelled of cigars and a hefty gentleman with thick glasses as she struggled to disembark.
The toe of her boot caught in her skirt as she stepped from the car, throwing her off balance. She clutched the painting, and teetering for a second, twisted her ankle. Sharp pain shot through her foot. Her eyes watered, and she almost dropped to the ground.
Hope couldn’t stop now. She hobbled the rest of the way to the gallery door. Thank goodness a doorman was present to help her in.
Breathless and fighting back tears, Hope limped toward the receptionist sitting behind a large mahogany desk.
“Good afternoon. I’m Mrs. Mayfield. How may I help you?” The pretty woman in a stylish dark plum suit offered a warm smile, which helped put Hope a little more at ease, though her ankle throbbed.
“I’m Hope Andrews. I have an appointment to see Mr. Woodlin at three o’clock.”
Mrs. Mayfield checked an appointment book lying open in front of her. “You’re a few minutes early. Mr. Woodlin is currently in a meeting. His schedule is very tight today, but I’m sure he’ll see you as soon as possible. Please take a seat.” She gestured toward several comfortable-looking chairs. “I noticed you struggling a bit with your foot when you walked in. Are you going to be all right? Is there anything I can do to help?”
“Thank you for being so considerate.” Hope tried to speak with assurance. “I twisted my ankle on the way here, but I’m sure I’ll be fine once I rest a moment.” She sank into a large, soft chair and tried to ignore the pain by focusing on the artwork adorning the walls.
What had she done? By coming here, she’d not only broken her promise to Ben, but she now suffered with a sprained ankle. If the swelling and tenderness got any worse, she might not have the strength to find her way to Miss Lancaster’s home. Maybe Hope deserved to lose her opportunity for trying to prove she was right about Ben’s talent. He’d be furious once he knew she’d betrayed his trust, but she’d have to tell him at some point. Was coming here worth risking what they’d only begun to build?
A half hour passed as Hope watched people come and go, but still no Mr. Woodlin. She pushed herself up from the chair and tried to walk to the receptionist without putting much weight on her injured foot.
Hope attempted a smile. “Excuse me, but do you know if Mr. Woodlin will soon be free to see me?”
“He’ll come down as soon as possible, but I’ll go find out what I can. If anyone comes in, please tell them I’ll be back shortly.” Mrs. Mayfield put down her pen and climbed the stairs to the second story, then disappeared.
There was nothing more she could do but pray, so Hope moved back to the chair and began to do just that. She prayed Mr. Woodlin would soon meet with her, then love Ben’s work just as much as she did.
Ten minutes or more later, Mrs. Mayfield returned with a beautiful blue and gold tea cup, the contents steaming. “I’m sorry. Mr. Woodlin is still in the same meeting, but I’ve brought you jasmine tea if you care to have some.”
“Yes, thank you. That’s very thoughtful.” Hope accepted the cup and sipped the warm liquid. It did help calm her jittery stomach. This waiting was excruciating.
An hour later, Mrs. Mayfield gave Hope a sympathetic look. “Would you like more tea?”
“No, thank you.” Close to five o’clock and closing time for the gallery, and Hope still needed to store the painting and freshen up at the hotel before her dinner with Miss Lancaster. Should she leave now? But she’d already waited for nearly two hours. After all she’d endured that afternoon, she couldn’t accept giving up now, despite her physical agony.
Not only hungry, Hope desperately needed to use a powder room. Hope toddled over to the desk, leaned over, and whispered, “Is there a...”
Mrs. Mayfield nodded and pointed. “Take that hall, turn right, and you’ll find one on the left at the end of the hall.
What if Mr. Woodlin came down to see her, and she was gone? She might not have another chance.
“Don’t worry.” Mrs. Mayfield must have seen Hope’s hesitation. “I’ll chain him to the desk and keep him here if I have to.”
Hope nodded with gratitude, found her way, and returned as quickly as she could. Still no Mr. Woodlin. An ornate grandfather clock bonged five times, and her queasy stomach made her want to retch.
Fifteen more minutes crept by. Hope’s throat started to close in. A drop of liquid plopped from her lower eyelash onto her right cheek. She whisked it away.
The grandfather clock ticked away six minutes. The passing of three hundred and sixty seconds no longer available to her. If she stayed any longer, she’d likely make a mess of her own opportunity by showing up late for her dinner engagement with Miss Lancaster. But if she left now, she’d fail at getting Ben’s work seen and leave feeling defeated after wasted efforts at the gallery.
“Miss Andrews?” The distinguished-looking gentleman descending the staircase wore a tailored charcoal gray suit.
“Yes. I’m Miss Andrews.” Hope clutched Ben’s painting in front of her.
“I apologize for keeping you waiting.” He reached the bottom of the stairs and extended his hand in greeting. “Arthur Woodlin.”
Hope accepted the firm grip with one of her own and shook his hand. Mr. Woodlin’s blue-gray eyes reminded Hope of the pigeons back in New York.
“I apologize, but I only have a moment to spare. I’m hosting an event for loyal gallery patrons, so I know you’ll understand that I can’t be late.”
“Of course.” Hope tried to clear her dry throat, but didn’t have much success.
“I should have left the gallery fifteen minutes ago. However, I do admire your tenacity, so I’d like to see what you brought.”
With trembling fingers, Hope unwrapped the painting—Ben’s art—and her chance to prove that his work had value.
Mr. Woodlin surveyed the framed scene of the little boy playing in the field with his dog. “Miss Andrews, I’m curious. What makes you think this painting has any merit? Why do you have so much interest in promoting this artist?”
“I’m not a professional painter, Mr. Woodlin, but I’ve studied art history, I’ve sat in studios for months where skilled painters have shared their knowledge, and I’ve enjoyed many hours in New York’s finest galleries. I’d like to think that I’ve gained some understanding of what makes art exceptional.”
Now wasn’t the time to hold back. Be bold, Hope. “But, there’s more to art than what can be taught through books or in classrooms. For most people, it comes down to feelings. What does a particular piece evoke within? What does it say to the heart? I know what I feel when I look at this painting—and other paintings by this artist—and I believe they need to be shared.”
“Well said.” His warm smile helped calm Hope’s breathing. “In order to make an appraisal of the work, I’d like to spend more time with the painting than what I have now. If you leave it with me, I’ll commit to shipping it back to you unharmed and at my expense.”
What should she do? Could she believe him? Because the painting was created for the auction to raise money for the library, Ben had never signed it. What if someone else claimed the work? Hope said a quick prayer for guidance. She’d trusted Mr. Woodlin to give an honest evaluation of Ben’s talent, so she needed to trust him in this too.
“It’s a deal, Mr. Woodlin.”
“Very well.” He shook her hand again. “Mrs. Mayfield will take care of you and set everything up.”
“Thank you, Mr. Woodlin.” She’d done it. Hope had presented Ben’s work to one of the most prestigious galleries in the Midwest. She’d sing if she could carry a tune, and she’d perform a jig if the celebratory act wouldn’t result in killing pain. She couldn’t break out in song or dance, but she could send a prayer.
Thank you, Lord, for giving me the strength to wait for Mr. Woodlin, and thank you for the opportunity to leave Ben’s work with him. Right or wrong, I’ve brought the painting this far. I can do no more. It’s in your hands, and I know that I need to trust your
plan for Ben, whatever that future holds.
Hope gave Mrs. Mayfield the painting and her address in Riverton just as the grandfather clock bonged five thirty. She would have brought her portfolio with her, but without Annie to help, there was no way she could carry both the painting and her designs. There was no other choice but to make her way back to the hotel to get them before finding her way to Miss Lancaster’s. The lovely lavender gown she planned to wear that evening would remain in the hotel room, unworn. Hope wouldn’t have a spare minute to change.
With her heart pumping and her ankle hurting, she hurried back to the hotel to get her designs before catching another streetcar going in the direction of Miss Lancaster’s home. She got off at her stop and breathed relief at how much easier it had been to move without carrying the painting, only to realize she’d gotten off three blocks too soon.
The sky, now dark, sprinkled Hope’s face with moisture. She’d have to hurry to make it before the clouds opened and blessed the ground with a deluge. Anxious to reach her destination, Hope pushed forward, despite the pain shooting from her ankle with each step.
There! The numbers on the house matched those on the slip of paper in her hand. Almost out of breath, and wincing in agony, Hope climbed the steps and reached the covered porch before the rain broke free and poured from the heavens. She clutched her safe and dry portfolio to her heaving chest with one hand and tucked several locks of loose hair behind her ear with the other before knocking on the door. This was it. After tonight, her whole world could change.
The door creaked open about six inches, and a short, elderly woman looking like Mrs. Claus with her light blue eyes and white hair smiled up at Hope. “May I help you?”
“Hello.” Hope felt better already in the lady’s calming presence. “I’m Hope Andrews. Miss Lancaster is expecting me.”
The woman covered her mouth with her hand. “Oh, dear, oh dear...” She swung open the door. “Come in. Please. I’m Mrs. Newman, the housekeeper.”
