Abandon All Hope

by M. J. Schiller

  “Isn’t this nice?” Antonio said grimly. “The happy couple reunited.” He stared down into Chase’s still face. “Well, you wouldn’t listen when we hit you, maybe you’ll listen when—” Antonio made a move to kick Chase.

  “NO!” she screamed, falling to her knees at his side. “Please!” She sobbed. “Antonio, I’m begging you! I’ll tell you where it is.” Her shell-shocked eyes fell on Chase. “Please! Just untie me so I can help him, and then I’ll tell you right where to find it.” She peered up, her eyes wild with desperation.

  Antonio shrugged; tied or untied, she was no threat to five men. “Untie her.”

  As soon as she was free, she bent over Chase’s prone form, her shaking hands pushing the hair from his face.

  “Hope?” Antonio said impatiently.

  Without looking up, she said dully, “It’s in the paper towel holder.”

  “What?”

  “Back at my place!” she snapped. “I saw your men coming and I shoved it into the paper towel holder to hide it.”

  Antonio snapped his fingers and two of his men took off.

  Chase stirred.

  “Oh, God, honey! I’m so sorry.”

  “Nice of you to join us, Hatton,” Antonio commented snidely. “A murder/suicide is so tidy. Doesn’t leave any open ends.” He pulled a gun from his pocket and aimed it at the pair as Chase rose unsteadily to his feet with Hope’s help. “Just think of the headlines: ‘Rock Star And His Hope Found Dead.’”

  His sardonic laughter died on his lips when a loud, amplified voice cut through the stifling air. “Chicago PD. COME OUT WITH YOUR HANDS UP!”

  The only one aware of their impending arrival, Chase reacted faster than anyone else. When Antonio turned toward the door, he grabbed Hope’s hand and took their chance to run. Before anyone even knew they were missing, they were able to make it almost all the way to the edge of the stacks of crates. When Antonio realized they had scampered off, he took a shot at their fleeing figures. The bullet ricocheted off the corner of a box, splintering it and sending shards flying, but the pair had already turned the corner.

  As they raced among the rows of crates, they could hear gunfire and shouting from the front of the warehouse. They could also make out the pounding feet of a pursuer. Hoping to find an exit somewhere along the far wall, they were disappointed to discover only more pillars of crates leaning against it.

  Chase could hear someone getting closer. He glanced around feverishly and spotted the small windows near the top. “Up, Hope,” he said breathlessly.

  Without hesitation, she began to scramble up the boxes, and for a minute he was reminded of her lithe figure scaling the side of Mt. Lowe. She glanced back. “Chase?”

  “Keep going,” he ordered. She was an open target, and he wasn’t about to turn his back on anyone who might be gunning for her.

  She reached the top and peered down. “Chase! What the hell are you doing?”

  Putting off answering her, he responded, “See if you can get through the window and if you think I can.”

  As she obediently slithered through the window, he turned his ear again to the warehouse. Whoever had followed them was just feet away on the other side of the boxes. He could either expose himself by climbing up to Hope, or take his chances in a confrontation. He set his face grimly as he saw a shadow carrying a pistol on the side of a box.

  The man in the suit rounded the corner. “Where’s Hope?”

  “She’s gone,” Chase announced with a hint of triumph in his voice.

  “No matter,” he commented, waving his gun as if swatting at an annoying gnat. “We’ll get her. She’s a lovely girl, Mr. Hatton. You were very lucky to have her, but I’m afraid that relationship, and all others for that matter, is over for you.”

  “Listen,” Chase tried to buy some time, “there’s no way you’re getting out of here. You can leave now with just an attempted kidnapping charge. Why up the stakes to murder?”

  Before the man in the suit could respond, a box tumbled from atop of the stacks. In the split second it took to fall, the man looked up, hearing the wood creaking. Chase, too, sized up the situation and dived to the side. The heavy crate hit the man squarely and his gun went off.

  Hope half-climbed, half-slid down the tall pile of boxes. Hitting bottom, she came to Chase, as he slumped in a corner between the boxes and the wall.

  “Chase!” She bent down and they both looked at his bloody sleeve. A small, strangled cry of alarm escaped from her mouth.

  “It’s okay. I only cut it on the edge of a box. I’m fine.”

  He scrambled to his feet. The gun lay about two feet away from the mobster’s outstretched hand. The crate was broken open, resting on Antonio’s shoulder where he lay moaning, spilling its contents all over his back and the floor. They appeared to be bundles of some powdery substance, but Chase wasn’t sticking around to find out what it was. He hurriedly picked up the gun as he heard more feet approaching. Pushing Hope behind him, he backed them against the wall, the gun raised.

  “Drop it! Police!”

  Chase had never been so happy to comply with an order before.

  “Chase Hatton! What the hell are you doing here?” the officer asked, as his partner peeked around from the opposite corner.

  “It’s a long story, Officer.” Chase turned to Hope, grabbing her by the shoulders and leaning down to look her squarely in the eyes. “You’re okay?”

  She nodded dumbly and he pulled her into an embrace. They held each other for several moments without speaking, hearts still pounding in their chests.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  Chase was up to something. Every time Hope turned around he was either whispering with Hal, or was on some mysterious phone conversation he would label “business.” Funny business, she thought, but she didn’t pry. She did, however, observe.

  Things had wrapped up in Chicago quickly; Vasculli and his cronies had been sent to jail, and the story was splashed all over the front page of The Globe. But as far as she was concerned, she had left that life behind. She had been on the road with Chase for the past two weeks, enjoying every minute of it. She sat across from him now, at a Cleveland hamburger stand, sharing a plate of fries.

  “Have dinner with me tomorrow night at my parents’?” he asked abruptly.

  She paused, a French fry poised halfway to her mouth. “In Lincoln?” she asked, incredulous.

  “It is where they live. So, yes, that would be most convenient.”

  “What are you up to?” she asked him, waving her fry in circles in front of his face.

  He snapped at the fry with his teeth and ended up with half of it in his mouth. He leaned back in his chair, his arms behind his head. “Nothing,” he returned, the picture of innocence.

  She smiled at him, but then turned thoughtful. Her face became serious and she dropped her eyes for a moment, picking at the fries absentmindedly.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Hmmm…oh…nothing, really…”

  He pushed the hair back from her face, laying a hand easily on her shoulder. “It doesn’t sound like nothing to me,” he prodded gently. “Come on…”

  “It’s just…” She took a deep breath and tried to articulate her thoughts. “The last time I saw your parents, it was prom night. They were so happy. We all were so happy.” She faltered. As she struggled to put her thoughts into words he was reminded of the night he had found her on the swing set, torn up on the inside, and so vulnerable he wanted to just sweep her up in his arms. He rubbed her hand where it sat on the table and waited patiently.

  She looked up, staring off into the distance, squinting in the bright sunlight. “I don’t think I ever told you this, but I really love and respect your parents, as much for making you the man you are, as for their own special traits. Your dad was always so funny and kind and generous and sort of…wise…in an offbeat way. And your mom, she was just dynamite. Nurturing, but strong…easy to be with, both of them.” Her face, which had gone s
oft in remembering, clouded.

  “And?” He tried to softly nudge the words out of her.

  “I’m afraid, Chase,” she said in a rush. “Afraid of seeing the disappointment in their eyes.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  She smashed the end of a French fry down like she was putting out a cigarette. “My God, Chase, I hurt you. Your mom must hate me. I’d hate me if I were her. She should hate me.” She became increasingly agitated. “It was awful what I did.”

  “Hope! Honey, I explained it all to her.”

  “And she understood?”

  He could see on her face that she was letting herself believe it for a second. “Yeah,” he replied, trying to sound convincing, but his voice waivered. The fact was his mother had been quiet on the phone when he had talked to her about it.

  She flew out of her chair, standing behind it and gripping the top. “See, I knew it! She hates me and I can’t bear that, Chase. I really can’t.” She glanced around, realizing her voice had risen. But, as it was much later than the regular lunch hour, they were practically alone.

  “Hope,” he said, shifting to rub the back of her thigh and pulling her between his legs, “I love you. And whatever hang-ups my mom may or may not have, she’ll just have to get used to it, because I’m not letting you go this time.”

  Slowly, a smile edged its way across her face. “How did I get this lucky?” She caressed his face and kissed him sweetly. “I love you, too, Chase. And I’m not going anywhere.”

  He smiled brightly. “You’ll come to dinner, then?”

  She hesitated. “What’s on the menu?”

  “I asked Mom to make fried chicken and mashed potatoes, and she said she was going to make an apple pie—”

  “You had me at fried chicken.”

  “Good.” He stood to give her a squeeze.

  * * *

  They pulled into the Hattons’ driveway. The shadow of the house fell across them as they got out of the car, the lawn dappled by the huge elm tree that still stood sentinel. Hope looked at the house with a sigh. It hadn’t changed. God, how she had missed this place! She saw herself playing catch with Chase on the front lawn, running to glide along the Slip and Slide, tossing the Frisbee, and she could almost hear the laughter coupled with the tick ping of the table tennis ball as it bounced from side to side.

  “Hope?”

  “Huh? Oh.” he stood with his hand stretched out to her. She took it briefly, and then slid an arm around his waist, laying her head for a second on his shoulder.

  “Wait. Before we go in.” She jerked her head in the direction of a knotted hickory down the lane. “For old time’s sake?”

  He grinned and they both broke into a run. He admired the fluid way she still ran, hair streaming behind her, elbows keeping rhythm with her feet. They reached the tree at the same time, both running a hand along its rough bark as they passed and then bending over with their hands on their knees, gulping in air and laughing brokenly.

  “Ha! Not quite as easy as it used to be.”

  She shook her head with a smile, still winded, and he threw his arm over her shoulder. “Come on,” Chase said tenderly, “let’s go inside.”

  * * *

  “Hey, Mom!” Chase gave her an enthusiastic hug and a kiss on the cheek, and then stepped back next to Hope who hadn’t moved much past the door.

  “Look at you,” she said, ruffling his hair playfully and fighting back the tears of joy. “Hope, welcome home.” Her words were kind, but Hope noticed she couldn’t keep the coolness out of her voice.

  “Thank you for having me, Mrs. Hatton. It’s good to see you again.”

  Before the awkward moment could extend any further, Chase’s dad came bounding down the stairs. “Well-l-l, look what the cat dragged in! Hey, Chase.” Greg Hatton clapped his son on the back and shook his hand warmly. “Hope.” He swallowed her in an embrace. “So good to see you!” His sincerity brought a genuine smile to her face. “You look fantastic! Not quite the girl who used to race you across the field,” he added, elbowing Chase in the ribs with a grin.

  “No,” he agreed. “But she did just give me a run for my money a second ago.”

  Greg stepped forward and took both of Hope’s hands in his and kissed her cheek.

  “Well,” his mom said with forced gaiety, “who wants some fried chicken?”

  “I do!” they all answered at once.

  She laughed. “All right, then. Let’s eat.”

  The meal passed pleasantly enough with Mr. Hatton asking numerous questions about Hope’s adventures in Chicago and her photography.

  “I’m trying to put a portfolio together to present to galleries in hopes maybe one day someone will allow me to have a showing.”

  “As soon as someone sees her work, they’re going to snap her right up. She’s unbelievably talented,” Chase commented.

  “You may be a bit biased.”

  “I’d love to see your work,” Chase’s father interjected.

  “I have some photos out in the car I could bring in after dinner.”

  “I have plans for after dinner,” Chase said mysteriously.

  “You do?” Hope studied him with a smile, but his face didn’t reveal anything. “You know,” she mentioned between bites, “Chase is pretty talented along the photography line, too. Have you seen the pictures he’s taken at the beach?”

  “No,” Mr. Hatton replied, raising an eyebrow in his son’s direction.

  “He’s got an excellent eye.”

  “Yes, he does.” Hope caught the wink Chase’s dad gave him.

  Chase laughed, and then looked over at his mom accusingly. She had not entered into the conversation all evening.

  She shrugged and silently mouthed, “What?”

  After they had cleared the table, she finally spoke up. “Hope, could you please help me hang the laundry on the line?”

  “Mom, I’ll help you with that.” Chase made a move to take the laundry basket from her.

  “No, Chase.” She put a hand on his. “This will give Hope and me a chance to catch up.”

  He paled. “I don’t see why I can’t help you two—”

  “That’s all right. I’ll help your mom.” Hope spoke with quiet resolve, like a person walking into an audit, resigned to her fate.

  When the two women went outside, Chase and his father moved to the window over the sink to watch them.

  “I didn’t know Mom used the laundry line,” Chase said thoughtfully.

  “She doesn’t.”

  Chase looked at him in alarm and made a move toward the door. His father put a hand on his arm. “Trust your mom, Son.”

  They continued to stand, leaning on the counter and peeking out the window. After a few minutes, his dad noted, “She has nice smelling hair.” When Chase turned to look at him quizzically, he elaborated, “Hope. Hope has nice smelling hair.”

  Chase smiled slowly. “That’s an odd comment.”

  His dad shrugged, returning his gaze to the window. “I’m an odd fellow.”

  “I’ll say.”

  Greg Hatton punched his son’s arm, and they continued to watch in silence.

  Hope followed Mrs. Hatton grimly. A warm, gentle breeze blew through the trees, lifting the fresh scent of laundry detergent into the air, belying the tension between the two completely. She knew the older woman was still angry with her, and she couldn’t blame her. She would take any criticism headed her way; she deserved it. They stood on opposite sides of the clothesline, the basket in the soft, green grass near their feet.

  “Hope…I’ve been trying to figure out what to say to you all during dinner.” She paused and Hope waited nervously for her to continue. Mrs. Hatton removed clothespins from a baggie she had brought with her, clipping them on the line near the end, as she spoke. “I am glad to see Chase so happy with you. But there was another time he was happy with you, and things didn’t turn out so well.” She paused, her hands hovering near a clothespin, her eyes on Hope’s
.

  “Yes. You are right. And I made a mistake then. I won’t make that mistake again. I love Chase, Mrs. Hatton. I always have. He makes me feel happy and warm and secure. You raised a good man, and I am grateful to you for that.”

  “Thank you,” Mrs. Hatton replied, taking another clip and moving down the line.

  “I should have believed in him more. I shouldn’t have let my mom convince me to move away with her that night. But when I saw Susie McNamara kiss him…” Hope became upset and this time it was Mrs. Hatton’s turn to wait while Hope regained control. She stretched a sheet over the line as Hope talked, taking them from the basket one by one. “I know now I misread the situation, but taken out of context, the kiss, the conversation about her pregnancy, it was very convincing evidence he had cheated on me, and was in fact, still cheating on me. I was devastated. I was eighteen. And I had always felt unworthy of Chase. He was so good, and I was…uncertain of whom I was. I’m not any longer. I know it must have been difficult for you to watch him suffer, and I can understand if you never want to forgive me.” She teared up again. “All I can say is I’m sorry. So sorry! I was young and foolish. I should have given him a chance to explain himself. Instead, I ran away. But I love him and I’d do anything to have a chance to prove that to him, and to you.”

  The basket lay empty, the sheets strung in a neat line across the yard. Hope picked the empty basket up and rested it on her hip. Mrs. Hatton watched her thoughtfully as Hope turned to head back inside.

  In the kitchen, the men hastily began scraping dishes into the sink, pretending they had not been watching the entire time.

  When she came through the door, Mr. Hatton called out, “Hope, why don’t you show me those pictures now?” He threw an arm over her shoulder and started to walk with her out to the car.

  “What about the dishes?”

  “Don’t worry about that. We’ll get them later. I’m really anxious to see your work. I’ve always been interested in photography myself.”