A Discovery of Hope (A Coming Home Again Novel Book 3)

by Lowe, T. I.

  JP pauses between taking the pictures to readjust a few flowers and catches sight of me by the door. He looks up sheepishly at being caught creating art and abruptly reaches over to the phone dock, turning the music down to only a whisper.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I say as I begin backing away from the door.

  “No. You’re welcome to stay,” JP whispers back as he pushes the hood off his head. He eyes my gown and all of a sudden I feel inappropriately dressed. Dragging his hands through his messy hair, he seems to force his attention back to the flowers, so I trying easing back out the door again. Before I get too far he asks, “What’s off with this arrangement?”

  I scoot closer and inspect the scene. “Besides the fact you have magically suspended flowers in midair?” I ask with a raised eyebrow.

  “Hidden wire,” JP confesses.

  I point to the right side of the arrangement. “It needs a little variation in color in this spot.” I turn to look at JP and find him already holding flowers a few shades lighter.

  “Right answer.” He smirks as he hands the vivid flowers over to me.

  I nervously place them in the arrangement and reposition a few others before stepping back to inspect it.

  “You have a good eye, Willow.” JP gives me an appreciative look, instigating me to shiver. He mistakes this reaction as I sign that I’m cold and shucks off his zip-up hoodie. He helps me into it and I gladly take it. At least my bare shoulders are covered now.

  After this, we continue to listen to “Wicked Garden” and get down to photo-taking business. JP explains the photos are for an ultra-cool florist wanting something off the grid for their new ad campaign. I’d say he has accomplished this exquisitely. These ads will definitely catch attention. He allows me to take a few photos as well and is talking to me about angles and lighting as I do. The man is an endless bank of photography knowledge and has a way of explaining techniques and information without seeming teachy and preachy. I’ve learned more than I could have ever hoped for in this short time of working with him.

  I’m straightening a few flowers that are beginning to slip in their wire restraint when JP asks, “What nationality are you?”

  I look up to find him studying me carefully. “Southern,” I quickly retort.

  He shakes his head slowly and narrows his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

  “I’m biracial. My mom is white and my dad is black. Is that a problem?” I immediately go on the defense and pop a hand on my hip.

  “Not for me. Is it for you?” He throws the question back at me. He pinches his eyebrows together and continues to look me over, causing me to feel exposed.

  If I’m going to be truthful, I would say yes. Sometimes it bothers me because I don’t feel like I know exactly where I belong. I think it would be easier to be either all white or all black. The world likes to categorize and my category seems like an oddity sometimes. I’ve had a few run-ins over the years with people who look at me with confusion—like they can’t figure me out. And this has come from various races, both from strangers and family members.

  Before I can comment, JP moves before me and places a flower behind my ear. His eyes slowly travel along my face. “You just look so exotic with your gold eyes and olive complexion,” he murmurs as he glides his fingertips over my cheek. He holds my chin and angles my face in various directions as he continues to study me. He is surprisingly gentle for such a strong, rugged man. “You must photograph well. I would love to photograph you.” He says this reverently.

  I try to push away my awkward feelings and roll my eyes. “I bet you have all the women drooling over you.” I blush instantly at blurting this out. Since the accident last year, I tend to have a problem keeping my thoughts to myself. Duke likes to call me out on this. I just wish I could control it better around JP.

  JP raises an eyebrow at my blunt words, but doesn’t comment—for which I’m thankful. He releases my chin and takes the camera off the tripod. Before I can register what’s happening, he has turned the camera on me and taken several shots. I’m not comfortable with this but don’t stop it either. I stand still, without meeting the camera lens. I don’t smile, nor do I frown. In this moment I just let myself be me, hiding behind nothing. He gets even closer, and all I can think of is, can he see my scar? It feels like he is seeing all of me and I feel way too vulnerable. I don’t allow it for very long though. After only seconds, I walk out of the room without uttering another word.

  I race back through the dark gallery and head to my room. I flop on the bed and find Hope sitting cross-legged beside me. She has her own flower tucked behind her ear. I pull the flower from behind mine and study it.

  “Why are you so upset?” she asks.

  Although I’m not crying, I do feel pretty shaken. “I don’t know... I let some wall down and it scared me.”

  “How so?”

  “At first, I thought I wanted the camera to capture all of my flaws, but then it scared me as to what the flaws might reveal.” I shake my head. That’s some pretty deep stuff.

  Hope pats my hand. “You are in the potter’s hands. He is constantly shaping and molding you. You are wonderfully and beautifully made.”

  I tap the scar on my scalp, skeptically.

  “Yes. Wonderfully and beautifully made.” Hope repeats. “Your battle scar is not a flaw. It is a testimony of a miracle. How special you are to have such a gift.”

  An hour passes with Hope letting me absorb her words quietly. After another hour passes, she disappears as a knock hits at the door, startling me. I open it to only find an 8x10 canvas leaning against the wall. I retrieve it before closing the door. My mouth goes dry as I study the image captured. It’s a black-and-white headshot of me, but the flower behind my ear is still saturated with its vivid fuchsia color. My eyes are looking down, casting subtle shadows along my cheeks. He has captured so much in this one shot and he knows it, because a note is attached to it stating, beautifully broken. Those are the same words he murmured the night of his drunken incident. Why does he keep saying that? I look around the walls in hopes of finding a hook to hang it on and am surprised to discover hooks have recently been placed all along the space. When did he do this? And why?

  I hang the photo on a hook near the door and leave it and my curiosity for the night.

  ~~~~~

  I head downstairs and go in JP’s office to get to work this morning. I find him behind his desk, studying his computer screen.

  “Morning,” he says without looking up. “There’s coffee and bagels in the back room.”

  I backtrack and help myself to half of a bagel and cup of coffee. I bring it back to the office and set up shop in the floor by the filing cabinet. My mission is to knock out the third container today. I pull a stack of blank files and a pen close before pulling a handful of photos into my lap. It’s a treat to go through them. The first one I catalogue today is of a snowstorm. The photo has captured big fat flakes floating in the sky. I know they were not taken around these parts. I flip to the back and see JP has scribbled, Colorado ski trip. I skim through at least thirty snow shots and file them away.

  It’s been unusually quiet, so JP has gotten most of the paperwork off his desk and is now answering an abundance of emails by the time the morning leans closer to noon. As for me, container three is done! I slowly stand and begin working the kinks out of my back and legs, stretching my arms over my head and rolling my neck. I let out a small moan in relief as the aches ease away. When my eyes open, I find JP’s watching me carefully. He holds my gaze as the tension between us is so thick I can feel it prick my skin. He licks his lips as he looks over mine, causing the pull between us to fortify. I stay in my spot as he rises from his chair, but pauses. He seems to be fighting an inner battle and when he shakes his head, I know his resolve is slipping again.

  Why is he stubbornly negating whatever this is between us?

  He takes a cautious step towards me as though trying not to startle me. My heart rate pic
ks up in anticipation and I’m about to wrap my arms around his neck and demand he meet my lips when the front door sensor chimes to alert us of visitors. The spell is broken and JP steps back, rubbing his hands over his face as he lets out a frustrating sigh.

  Sounds of a large gathering have filled the front gallery. “Hello! Where’s our favorite photographer?” A lady’s voice with a thick southern drawl echoes back to us.

  JP chuckles and heads out of the office door. “Oh, you are in for a treat, young lady.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask as I follow behind him.

  “You’ll see.” He is all lit up for the first time all week. We emerge from the office and find a dozen or so older ladies swarming around and chattering away. They are giggling and ribbing each other like a bunch of teenage girlfriends and I can’t help but grin at them.

  As soon as their eyes land on JP, they rush over and surround him. “There’s our young handsome thang,” one of the ladies croons out. Each one takes turns hugging and kissing him. He has to stoop down for the majority of them to be able to reach him. By the time they’ve all greeted JP, his cheeks are speckled with various shades of lipstick and he’s grinning wider than I have ever seen.

  “Ladies, I’d like you to meet Willow.” JP pulls me from behind him and places me in front of him as though he’s sacrificing me to these bubbly ladies. And these ladies actually cheer before bombarding me with generous hugs. Each one introduces herself as I’m wrapped in comforting arms. Their names are obvious nicknames and I get a kick out it—Veevee, Beebee, Leelee, Ceecee, Jeejee, Geegee, Sheshe, Deedee…

  The lady with warm chestnut colored hair slings her arm around my shoulders as though she’s claiming me as her own, and I don’t think I mind at all. “Just call me Bee,” she says.

  “Those can’t be your real names.” I laugh.

  Bee squeezes me a little closer. “Suga’, you get through as much life as us ole broads have, you earn the right to call yourself anything you very well please.” Her southern drawl is thick and slow as though she is in no rush to speak. The group chuckles at her comment.

  “Plus, this group has gotten too big and it takes too much effort to keep everyone’s name straight. We like to keep things simple,” the one who calls herself Veevee says. She looks like the tough cookie of the group. Her brightly colored bifocals are perched on the very tip of her nose and she’s eyeing me over the top of them. There’s a beaded chain dangling from each leg of her glasses that keeps sparkling when the light hits just right. She’s wearing a black and hot pink track suit with neon running shoes. She looks like she is on her way to run a race except her hair has been freshly curled and styled and her makeup is flawless.

  I look around and find the rest of the group dressed impeccable in various perfectly tailored pantsuits and sensible shoes. Each one is clutching an oversized high-dollar handbag. I know my labels and clearly they do, too.

  “Just who are you lovely ladies?” I ask as I try to take them all in.

  “We’re the Gal Pals,” Geegee answers. She has bright snow-white hair but her soft blue eyes emit a youthfulness.

  “The Gal Pals?” I question. I hear JP lightly chuckle behind me.

  “Yes, darlin’. We got each other’s backs, fronts, sides, and even underneath if need be.” Ceecee says this with a firm nod of her head and then she shouts. “HOLLA!”

  “HOLLA!” A chorus sings out through the group. My cheeks are already starting to ache from smiling so much.

  Jeejee is the shortest of the ladies and I doubt she even reaches five feet. The little thing scoots over to JP’s side and laces her tiny arm through his giant one. “All right handsome. You know what we’re here for.”

  JP pats her arm with his free hand. “Yes ma’am.”

  Veevee steps forward and claims his other arm and they all start heading to the back room. I decide to stay put.

  Leelee glances over her shoulder. “You comin’, suga’?”

  “Umm… I don’t want to interrupt…” This causes them all to burst out in a fit of giggles worthy of any sorority.

  “No orgy is taking place, darlin’,” Bee says between giggles, causing JP to bark out in a robust bout of laughter. “Some of us may have been known to be promiscuous in our glory days…” Bee pauses to cut Reeree a knowing glance with a smirk on her perfectly painted lips. “But we are all a bunch of genteel belles from the low-country who are absolutely in love with this man’s talent.”

  “Well, he’s certainly not bad to look at either,” Geegee pipes in.

  “JP entertains us ole gals and lets us plunder through the artwork in the back,” Ceecee clarifies. “Makes us feel special.”

  I decide to follow and watch on as they ooh and aah photo after photo. They each select several pieces with JP making notes on an order sheet for each woman. Cash starts flying at this point. Cash! And lots of it!

  “You ladies don’t carry plastic?” I ask in amazement.

  “Not for this, suga’. Cash leaves no trail,” Veevee comments as she peels off several hundred dollar bills from a thick stash. “This way our husbands don’t precisely know how much our treasure hunts cost them.”

  “It’s easier to fudge the bottom line with cash exchange,” Beebee adds. This woman has such a sweet smile that just welcomes you to stare. I look around and find each perfectly styled head nodding in agreement.

  Wow. These women have really got this figured out. I watch on as JP gladly takes their cash and is flirting mercilessly with each woman. He gives each one a generous amount of his attention and they are eating it up. All I can say is the man is smooth.

  He’s in the midst of sweet-talking Beebee when she sighs dramatically as only a genteel southern belle can do. “To be thirty years younger.” She pats his lipstick stained cheek wistfully. I’m thinking about grabbing my camera when I remember my phone is in my pocket. I whip it out and snag several pictures of JP surrounded by the Gal Pals with a fist full of cash, lipstick smears marring his face, and a toothy grin. This would make a killer blackmail picture.

  “Oh, suga’, you just gotta send those pictures to me so I can put them on our Facebook page,” Geegee says.

  “Facebook page?” I ask.

  Geegee snatches my phone out of my hand. It looks like she is punching her contact information in my phone before passing it to the rest of the ladies so I guess they can do the same. These chicks type faster than a Red Bull-hyped teenager. No arthritis seems to be slowing them down.

  “Yes, darlin’. Don’t worry your little self about the wrong eyes seeing your photos. Our page is private,” Sheshe says. This chick is almost as tall as JP and he’s at least an inch or two past six feet. Sheshe has a hip swagger like nothing bothers her, and I can almost guarantee she was one of those sixties free-spirited hippies. She hands me my phone back and I find it alerting me that I’ve been invited to join the Gal Pals via Facebook. I hit the accept button and pocket my phone.

  “Okay, ladies. I’ll have Duke deliver you the goods this afternoon,” JP says as he ushers them back to the front gallery.

  “Make it Monday, handsome. We got plans for today,” Geegee drawls out.

  “Yes. It’s time for lunch and we are stealing Willow from you,” Bee adds as she wraps her arm around my shoulders once again.

  I glance at the clock. “But it’s only ten in the morning.”

  “Then brunch it is,” Ceecee sings out and adds, “HOLLA!”

  JP smirks in my direction. “As long as you promise to give Willow back.”

  “Can’t make any promises, honey,” Veevee practically coos. These broads just flirt with him shamelessly. It’s hilarious.

  Before I can agree or protest, these ladies have shuffled me right out the front door and down the street to the corner bistro. The host, who happens to be a young man, tries to put us on the patio. But the ladies aren’t having it. Leelee tells him we are all too delicate for today’s humidity. She’s the quiet, prissier one of the bunch. She even tou
ched up her makeup before leaving the gallery. The host seems to be working hard at reining in his frustration and gives in. He ushers us to a table in the very back of the restaurant. Shooting them a stern look, he reminds them they can’t get as rowdy as last time, making each one look a bit sheepish.

  As I sit down next to Ceecee, I lean over and ask, “What kind of ruckus did you chicks cause last time?”

  She waves her hand around as though she is trying to shoo the incident away. “Nothin’ much. Us girls wanted to have some fun and Mr. Stuffy Breeches didn’t appreciate it.”

  The host throws his two cents in. “Now you know darn well Truth or Dare is not an appropriate game in a public establishment.”

  “But—” Geegee begins but he interrupts.

  “Not how you gals play it.” He points at her and gives the entire group another stern look. I think that might be a warning to them. He hands out the menus and quickly retreats.

  As I study my menu, the group quietens down and I can feel these women’s eyes on me. I look up and sure enough, they are all studying me.

  “Suga’, you remind me of Tropical Barbie,” Reeree says with a warm smile.

  “Oh my. She most certainly does. I remember that Barbie. She wore the floral bathing suit with the big yellow flower in her hair.” Sheshe is nodding her head.

  “I believe I bought that Barbie for my daughter… Or was it my granddaughter…” Leelee ponders.

  “Where you from, darlin’?” Jeejee asks. I’m realizing they are only going to refer to me as darlin’ or suga’. I guess that’s better than the alternative—Weewee…

  I decide to get smart with the gals, just so I can get a rise out of them. Their laughter is so rich and makes me hungry for more. I pull out my best southern drawl and answer as I bat my eyelashes dramatically, “I’m just a genteel belle from the low-country.”

  They all roar in laughter and I join in.

  Ceecee shouts, “HOLLA!” Of course, everyone repeats it after her, including me.