Rich in Hope (Richness in Faith Trilogy Book 2)

by Lindi Peterson

  I look closer. A green eyelid? Really?

  I shiver as the eye seems to be staring straight back at me.

  The little white light at the top of the eye, not quite a pupil, but probably a reflection, adds an interesting aspect to the creature.

  “Boo.”

  I jump at Stephen’s voice. “What did you do that for?”

  Chuckling he answers, “Couldn’t resist. You were trance-like.”

  “I was taking your advice. Trying to see the picture as ‘more than a lizard.’”

  He nods. “Cool. What do you see?”

  I cautiously peer closer at the screen, the essence of Stephen Day engulfing the nonexistent space between us. I mean this guy is all male. Rugged yet classic. Manly yet sensitive.

  Hot yet cool.

  Really, how he can be all contrasts is hard to grasp. Contrasts that complement each other, no less.

  I don’t dare look at him, so I lean in even closer to the camera screen as if that will stop any wayward urges I have. “I like how his body color fades into that yellowish color. And those darker spots on his back are almost invisible. You can barely see them.”

  “Yeah. It’s a decent shot.”

  I switch my attention to Stephen. “Decent? You said he was across the pool. You must have really zoomed in.”

  He shrugs. “That’s what a good camera does.”

  I like how he doesn’t give himself too much credit. Katherine is the same way. Humble. “I think whoever is behind the camera has a lot to do with it, too.”

  “I’ve been shooting so long it’s like second nature to me.”

  “Do you ever take pictures of people?” I ask, trying to keep the hopeful tone out of my voice.

  “Not professionally. Only wildlife.”

  I smile. “Ha. I know some people who would qualify as wildlife.”

  The sound of him chuckling soothes me.

  “Me, too.” He drapes the strap back around his neck.

  He stands.

  He’s leaving.

  I wish I could say I was glad, but I can’t fully go there.

  “I need to work for a little while. Make sure I still have a job when Gary finds out we’re not engaged.” He makes it a point to stare at me as he says the word “engaged.”

  He strides into the house leaving me in the wake of his essence and aura. I lie back down on the lounger and try to settle in. Relax.

  But it’s hard, knowing Stephen is right inside the door.

  I’ve been around a lot of men in my life. I’ve been around a lot of photographers in my life.

  But I’ve never been around anyone who’s made me feel on edge like Stephen does.

  Adjusting my body, I try to get comfortable. Even though the air is warm for December, lying here under cover, the breeze chills me from time to time.

  I rub my arms forcing away the chill bumps.

  At least I think they’re caused by the air. I refuse to believe they are caused by anything else.

  Namely Stephen.

  Another chill. I rub my arms again, this time with more drama. Like I mean it.

  To say my first day in seclusion isn’t going as planned is an understatement. Peace and solitude have been shattered by the presence of Stephen and my attempt at helping him. My mind can’t begin to process what I’m to make of my life because he keeps intruding.

  Literally and figuratively.

  I once again shift my weight. You’d think that chaises with cushions this thick and soft would be comfortable.

  Especially surrounded by this setting.

  This backyard is perfect for my intended purposes of hiding out. Tall, leafy trees and lush bushes create a safe haven, unable to be viewed from neighboring homes. Being located on a bay there is a nice breeze, which keeps the air moving.

  The pool, the pergola and other furnishings only enhance the relaxing feeling.

  Almost like a spa.

  This would have been the perfect spot to launch my new venture.

  “MY MOM ASKED me to bring these to you. The man just brought them.”

  My eyes snap open at the sound of a young voice. I look to my left to see a huge vase of red roses. White baby’s breath and green sprigs of some sort mingle with the deep red hue of the buds that haven’t opened all the way.

  Small, chubby, tanned fingers, turning deep pink at the ends from the pressure of holding the vase, I guess, grip the clear vase. The nails are short, probably bitten off, but clean. I sit up from my lounging position. “Why, thank you.” I take the vase from the child.

  I hear the sliding door and look that way, catching a glimpse of Teresa walking into the house. Maybe this is her daughter?

  As beautiful as the roses are, I can’t take my gaze away from the little girl. Probably about seven years old, deep, shiny chestnut-colored hair frames her face. Thick bangs, cut severely even, hide her forehead. Her eyelashes are just as thick, framing brown eyes.

  Her face is round, her body a little rounder and her smile, huge.

  “Thank you.” She wiggles her fingers. “They were heavy. But they smell good.”

  I gently sniff. They smell like a typical rose. Nothing special in my opinion. But then again, I’m not an impressionable young girl anymore.

  “Oh, yeah. Here’s the card.” She pulls a small white envelope out of one of the pockets on the front of her red and white candy cane striped dress.

  “Thank you.” I know who the flowers are probably from, therefore I have no desire to read the card. At least not right now.

  I keep staring at the girl who keeps staring at me. Kids are so honest I know any moment she’s going to ask me what happened to my face. Especially since her gaze doesn’t seem to move from it.

  “I’m Jenny. What’s your name?” Might as well give her segue.

  “My name is Phoebe.”

  “Wow. A really grown-up name for a little girl. I know a girl in New York. Her name is Phoebe. Her friends call her Pheebes.”

  “I don’t have any friends.”

  Sadness jolts through me, stirring unpleasant memories. Her confession mirrors my life as a little girl. I balance the vase on my thigh, wanting to reach out to Phoebe. But my hands continue to grasp the vase as I realize I don’t have a response. “Do you go to school?” is all I can come up with.

  “Yes. Do you?”

  I shake my head, wondering at her question. “No, silly. I’m too old for school.”

  She tucks her head down. “I’m sorry.”

  Steadying the vase with both hands, I want to tilt her chin up. Did my words cause that sadness? “There’s nothing to be sorry for. Okay?”

  She nods her head, still staring downward.

  With an intake of breath, and a subtle approach, I look for tears. Relief waves through me as I don’t see any on her face.

  “Everything’s okay, right?” I ask.

  “Yes,” she answers. “Your voice is pretty.”

  I guess since she can’t say that about my face, saying it about my voice is the next best thing. “Thank you. I don’t believe I’ve ever had anyone tell me that before.”

  “You sound,” she tilts her head pensively, her gaze now focusing upward, as a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Like you have blonde hair.”

  Puzzled at her obvious statement, I look at her. She’s much too young to grasp the blonde joke thing, isn’t she? What does she mean I sound blonde?

  “I guess, since I sound blonde, it’s a good thing I have blonde hair, isn’t it?”

  “Yes.” She smiles, then reaches for me in a swift movement. Her unexpected gesture catches me off guard and I flinch. In that moment my grip on the vase loosens, and it tumbles to the patio. The unmistakable sound of glass hitting the tiled patio shatters the air.

  Phoebe starts to cry, and I notice she is trembling.

  “It’s okay, Phoebe. It’s not your fault. Are you hurt? Did the glass cut you?” I look down at her short legs, but they seem to be fine. She seems to be
fine except for her crying.

  Her shoulders tremble with her cries while her head shakes back and forth and she doesn’t budge.

  “Honey, really, there’s nothing to cry about. It’s just a vase. Replaceable. No damage done. If you can back up carefully, then you can go get your mom.”

  She continues to shake her head. Has the child never seen broken glass before? Or does she really think it’s her fault and I’m mad?

  I’ll admit to not being around kids much, but little Phoebe and I are truly off to a rocky start.

  And honestly, it’s about to become a little rockier if she doesn’t cooperate. It’s now obvious no one heard the crash, and I’m stuck.

  “Honey,” I say again, because right now, at this moment, her name does seem too big for her, “You need to get your mom. Or Stephen, okay?”

  “I can’t,” she manages between sobs. “I’m scared.”

  I take a deep breath, trying to control my impatience. “There’s nothing to be scared about, Phoebe.” I switch tactics and use her grown-up name. Maybe she’ll act in a grown-up way. “But we need someone out here to help us. As you can see, I’m barefoot and there’s too much broken glass for me to maneuver through.”

  Glancing down, I notice little red marks on my legs. Funny, I feel no pain, but the evidence is clear that little glass shards have embedded themselves in my legs. My perfectly white, unmarred legs.

  “I can’t.” She continues to cry.

  “Of course you can.” My tone is stern. Sterner than I had intended. Resisting the urge to wipe my hand down my leg I’m sure has put me on edge.

  “No.” She swipes her hands across her eyes. “I can’t see.”

  I close my eyes, before glancing upward. Like looking up will magically fix this situation. My frustration level creeps up as each moment passes. I guess I don’t have the patience for kids right now. It’s a good thing I don’t have any. “If you calm down and quit crying, you’ll be able to see. Now calm down.”

  She shakes her head back and forth. “It won’t help me. I’m blind.”

  BREATHLESS

  I’M BLIND.

  Her words rush through my mind, and at first I don’t think I hear her correctly. I want to think she’s being overly dramatic, but her blindness settles on me like a perfectly fitted dress.

  But it doesn’t feel nearly as good.

  They smell good.

  Your voice is pretty.

  You sound like you have blonde hair.

  I lean over, pulling her shaking body into my arms, ashamed that it took her blindness to soften my heart.

  The minute my arms wrap around her, she climbs onto the chaise, into my lap. I smooth her hair, rub her back, not knowing what else to do.

  “Phoebe?”

  At the sound of her mother’s voice, I feel Phoebe stiffen.

  “Phoebe, did you drop Ms. Harris’s flowers?”

  I look up at Teresa who stands surveying the scene. I know exactly what she is thinking. She doesn’t appear angry, just sad.

  “Teresa, Phoebe didn’t drop the flowers. I did.”

  Teresa places her hands on her hips and gives me an I-know-you’relying look. “The truth?” Her tone and expression say she’ll accept nothing less.

  Phoebe reaches out her arms toward her mother. “Mommy.”

  I let go of my grip on Phoebe. Teresa leans over and helps Phoebe down, steering her clear of the broken glass.

  “The truth is Phoebe brought the flowers to me. I tried to balance them on my leg, and it didn’t work out too well.”

  Teresa is holding Phoebe’s hand but looks at me with a still unbelieving expression on her face.

  “I swear that’s the truth.”

  I don’t mention that Phoebe’s gesture startled me.

  Was she trying to “see” me?

  Teresa motions to the broken glass. “Okay, then. I’ll be right back to clean up this mess.”

  Teresa and Phoebe start to leave. “Bye, Phoebe.”

  “Bye.”

  Her little voice is like cold fingers walking up my arms. I look around once again for my flip-flops. As I do I notice the card that still sits unopened on the chaise. Probably from Jeff.

  Jeff.

  I’m surprised I can remember his name after meeting Stephen. I slide my finger under the flap and pull out the white card edged in gold. Very fancy and elegant. So unlike Jeff.

  If you ever need anything from us, Jenny, please let us know. Sandy and everyone at The Beautiful Agency.

  Waves of relief and disappointment mingle along with a sense of foreboding like the blood-red roses lying on the sandstone-colored tile amidst the broken glass.

  Being very careful not to move my feet, I reach down and grab a couple of the flowers which managed to escape the shards of the clear vase. I look them over, perusing the outer layer of softness. Beads of water cling to the petals as if that alone can help them survive.

  “What happened?”

  The flower loses its ability to hold my attention as the voice of Stephen reaches my ears. “There was an accident with my flowers.”

  “The dumped boyfriend trying to change your mind?”

  I smile. “He dumped me. So, no.”

  The look on Stephen’s face can only be described as surprised. I guess I’m surprised he’s surprised. I mean, who could blame Jeff? Who wants to date a girl with a huge scar?

  On her face.

  “I just assumed you were the dumper, not the dumpee. Stupid guy.”

  One of the water drops slides down the petal of the flower bud, leaving a shimmering trail. The drop reaches the end and disappears, no longer existing.

  At least not in the form it had been.

  Am I like that drop of water? Is Stephen’s house my shimmering trail?

  And when I drop off, will I disappear?

  Beautiful still feels bad for not renewing my contract. Like a dozen red roses will make up for ditching me in my time of need.

  “Mr. Day.” Teresa walks towards us loaded down with the paraphernalia to take care of the flower disaster. “I’ll clean this up now.”

  “I’ll help you in just a minute.” Stephen leans over. “Jenny, grab my neck.”

  Before I can protest, I’m in his arms, nestled against his chest. My pearly skin appears almost translucent against his deeply-tanned skin. I spy my flip-flops under the far end of the lounge chair.

  I don’t mention them.

  Instead I squeeze my fingers around the two roses I am holding, then wince as I feel a thorn prick through my skin.

  Blood oozes across my index finger.

  The pain of the thorn and the sight of blood pale in comparison to the feel of Stephen’s arms as they carry me away from the broken glass.

  Suitcases, mirrors.

  Now me.

  I wonder what other loads Stephen carries around?

  The mysterious ones I can’t see.

  Leah?

  He crosses from the patio into the kitchen. “I think I can walk now.”

  He stops, setting me down next to the barstool. “Have a seat. Let’s take care of that blood on your legs.”

  With one hand still clutching the roses I place my other hand on the counter, steadying myself from the empty feeling of not being in his arms.

  The air conditioning seems to be working overtime now. I settle onto the bar stool, the same one I started my morning on.

  Stephen kneels down. His palm cups my heel as the fingers of his other hand slide up and down my leg, his hot touch a jolt to my nerve endings.

  All of them.

  “You could always be a foot model.” His gaze never leaves my foot. “Your feet rock.”

  Since he’s not looking at me, I’m not sure if he’s serious or not. “Nobody’s feet rock. Feet are ugly.”

  “I disagree. There’s beauty in everything. I’ll be right back. Don’t move.”

  Chills replace his warm touch as Stephen leaves. I try not to cringe at the sight of the small,
red marks, mostly around my ankles and lower-calf area.

  Surely they won’t scar.

  That’s what I said about my face.

  I set the roses on the island. Maybe Stephen or Teresa can point me in the direction of a small vase. Why I want to hold onto the two reminders of an aspect of my life that will never be the same, I have no idea.

  But I do.

  Stephen returns with a cloth, a tube of something and a box of Band-Aids. He runs the cloth under water, and as he wrings it out, I can see steam rising from the white material.

  “Here we go, Cheetah.” Crouching down in front of me, he gently wipes each red mark with the cloth. I honestly don’t know when I’ve been more aware of a man.

  Men have been the center of my existence. Male photographers, male makeup artists and really manly guys who can work miracles with my hair. Guys who not only design my clothes but have helped me dress for shows.

  Guys who have had their hands all over my body positioning me for just the right shot.

  Move your body to the left, Jenny. More, Jenny, like this.

  They thought nothing of ambling over, their hands helping to maneuver my body where they wanted it.

  Stephen’s touch is different. Nothing mechanical or clinical about it. It’s caring, gentle.

  “These little nicks aren’t bad. You don’t even need any Band-Aids. I’ll just rub a little ointment on them for now.” He grabs the salve and opens the tube.

  “Okay.”

  I now know how the potted plants felt on the terrace as he perused them for any and all signs of dead foliage. Meticulous could be his middle name. His touch leaves me breathless.

  Anxious.

  I have to focus somewhere else. The white cloth with its pinkish-toned smears sits on the island. I grab it and wipe the tip of my index finger.

  “Red roses, the symbol of love, can be dangerous.” Stephen caps the tube of salve.

  My body tenses. “In this case it’s no love lost.”

  “So if it wasn’t the ex-boyfriend, who doesn’t love you anymore?”

  “My modeling agency. They’re not renewing my contract.”

  “Because?”

  “You have to ask?”