The Truth About Hope. Kate James

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.”

CHAPTER FOUR

      SOMEHOW, HOPE MADE it through dinner. She couldn’t remember what she’d eaten or much of the conversation. Stamped on her mind was a pair of hard, assessing eyes.

      When she returned to her room, she found that Priscilla had unpacked her belongings.

      Wandering around the beautifully furnished, spacious suite—lifting a ceramic bowl, trailing her fingers across the gleaming surface of a credenza—she felt completely adrift.

      In the bedroom she noted that the bed had been turned down, the pillows fluffed, and her childhood teddy, Sebastian, well-worn from being well loved, sat in the center of the bed. That small gesture, from a woman who must’ve understood how lonely she was, made her want to cry.

      She saw the photographs—of her and her mother, Aunt Clarissa, her and Luke together, and her other friends from Canyon Creek—arranged on the dresser. Uncannily, her favorite picture of her mom had been placed on the nightstand. Next to it was a glass of milk and a small plate of cookies. Her mother used to do that when Hope hadn’t been feeling well or just needed her spirits lifted.

      She reached for the silver-framed photo on the nightstand and sat on the edge of the bed. She ran a fingertip across the image of her mother. Her father had it right; she did look like her, especially now that she was older. Pride crowded out some of the pain. But she was even prouder of being like her mother, something her father apparently derided. Her mother had been beautiful, but more important, she’d been lovely inside, a kind and gentle person. Hope missed her more than ever.

      She wished her mother had told her about Jock. She knew very little about her father, and she couldn’t understand his reaction. He had wanted her to live with him. Then why did he seem so cold and uncaring, so...hostile? It made no sense.

      Her father thought she was like her mother, and that seemed to elicit his scorn. He had her future mapped out, too. The schools she’d attend, the courses she’d take, even the people she should be friends with. All of that he’d discussed—no, discussed was the wrong word. He’d informed her over dinner.

      Hope sighed heavily. Replacing the picture frame, she reached for Sebastian and hugged him. Nestling back against the soft pillows, she closed her eyes.

      * * *

      HOPE BOLTED UP in bed and looked around, disoriented. Recognition came with a sense of alarm. She was in the room she’d been assigned in her father’s house. She heard a soft knock on the door and realized that must have been what had awakened her. Her eyes felt gritty and her throat raw. She was still clutching Sebastian and placed him gently against the pillows, then swung her legs over the edge of the bed. The room was dark, except for the bedside lamp and the alarm clock’s glowing red numbers, indicating it was ten minutes after seven.

      She must have dozed off and slept right through the night, even neglecting to take off the dress she’d worn the evening before. All the sleepless nights must have been catching up with her.

      The knock sounded again.

      “Just a minute,” she called out in a scratchy voice. Scooting off the bed, she rushed into the bathroom, brushed her hair and tried to smooth the wrinkles from her dress. When that didn’t work, she grabbed her housecoat hanging on the back of the door and pulled it on, tying the belt snugly around her waist.

      Hurrying through the dim living area of the suite, she bumped her shin against the corner of the coffee table and yelped. With a slight limp, she made her way to the door, opened it a crack.

      “Good morning, Hope,” Priscilla said cheerfully, balancing a large tray in her hands. “I brought you breakfast.”

      “Um...thanks.”

      Priscilla smiled. “You’re going to have to open the door for me to bring it in.”

      “Oh, sorry.” Hope stepped back.

      Priscilla took the tray to the small table by a window in the sitting area. She pushed back the heavy drapes and bright sunshine flooded in.

      Hope followed her. “So, I’m not having breakfast with my father?”

      Priscilla glanced over her shoulder. “If you want to have breakfast with your father, you’ll have to get up a lot earlier. He usually eats at five thirty and is generally out of the house by six.”

      “Oh.” There was a tremor in Hope’s voice. It was clear she hadn’t made a great impression on her father the night before, and now she’d missed breakfast. “If I was expected downstairs at that time, no one told me.” She knew she sounded petulant.

      “Don’t worry about it, miss. He wasn’t expecting you. Sit down and eat.”

      Hope slid onto the chair and tugged the lapel of her housecoat up to cover the collar of her dress. “You didn’t need to go to all this trouble. I can come down and get my own breakfast, once I know where everything is.”

      “It’s no trouble. It’s my job. But when you’re ready, I’ll show you around the house, so you can find your own way.” Priscilla lifted the cover off the plate in front of Hope. “Is there anything else I can get you?”

      Hope stared at the omelet, sausages, toast, orange juice and the cup of hot chocolate Priscilla was pouring from a thermos. It all looked and smelled wonderful, but she didn’t have much of an appetite. “No, thank you.”

      “Fine, then.” Priscilla did her little head-bob and moved to the door. “When you change, leave that pretty dress on your bed. I’ll have it cleaned and pressed for you.”

      Hope’s hand flew to her neck. Touching the collar of her dress peeking out above the housecoat, she felt the heat rise to her face.

      “You don’t have to worry about things with me, miss,” Priscilla said softly.

      “Thank you—and please call me Hope.”

      “Okay, Hope.” Priscilla opened the door. “I’ll be back in an hour, if that suits you.”

      Hope nodded, and Priscilla shut the door behind her.

      * * *

      AN HOUR LATER, Hope was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. She’d pulled her hair back into a high ponytail and slipped on her sneakers. She smiled when Priscilla arrived and followed her out of the room. Soon, her head was spinning, and she still hadn’t seen the entire house.