Stalked. Beverly Long
a man took lightly. Mack looked around the yard. The cabin was coming along nicely. Somebody else could lay the floor and get the bathroom finished. If he babysat Hope for ten days, there’d still be plenty of time to paint and get the yard cleaned up. There was really no good reason to turn down Bing.
“Okay. I’m in,” Mack said.
Hope watched the seconds tick by on her bedroom clock. Her curtains were open and she could see the sun high in the blue sky. Clouds would likely roll in later, if the weather forecaster on the news was to be believed. They were calling for showers around dinnertime.
She waited another ten minutes, then rolled out of bed, did twenty minutes of yoga, showered and pulled her still-wet hair back into a low ponytail. She dressed casually in black ankle pants and a gauzy royal-blue-and-black shirt. She slipped her feet into her favorite one-inch heels, perfect for walking around the city.
Which she did most afternoons.
Because strolling around New York was like nails on a chalkboard to her father and that made all the effort very worthwhile. Archibald Minnow was embarrassed that his daughter was without purpose. That’s how he’d described her in a recent magazine article that had come out shortly after the People article. She couldn’t even remember which magazine because he did so many interviews. Blah, blah, blah. The church this, the church that. He’d have tried to avoid questions about her. But in this instance, they must have pressed and he had to offer up something. My daughter is a woman without purpose. I pray for her daily and am confident that she will find her way. Now can we talk about the money we need to keep this machine running?
Although he’d never really say machine. Nothing quite so crass. He’d say all the right words. And the money would flow in.
And the cachet of the small-town preacher who had caught the attention of the right people at the right time and made it big on television would continue to grow. Archibald Minnow hadn’t been an overnight success but pretty darn close. A meteoric rise, some said. From unknown to household name in just a few years.
And everybody who didn’t roll with him got rolled over. Most got on board willingly, gleefully, praying for space inside Reverend Minnow’s magic bubble.
Hope didn’t believe in magic bubbles, and she’d stopped believing in her father a long time ago.
At a very disrespectful and slothful one-fifteen in the afternoon, Hope walked down the curving staircase. When she passed the kitchen, she stuck her head in. Mavis Jones stood at the kitchen sink, washing up a few dishes, likely from the lunch that she and Hope’s mother had shared.
“How’s Mom?” Hope asked.
“We played five holes of golf today before we took the cart back to the clubhouse. Not bad given that this was the first time we’ve been out this spring.”
“Not bad at all,” Hope said. Especially since her mother hadn’t felt well enough to play at all last year. Radiation and chemotherapy had robbed her mother of many of the things she loved. It had been a very ugly time. Thank goodness that Mavis, who’d been her mother’s friend for over forty years and widowed several years ago, had been there to help. Hope didn’t know what they would have done without her.
“Hopefully you’ll get a full nine in soon. And the day she walks eighteen holes, I’ll dance naked in the street. Or something like that,” Hope said, winking at Mavis.
“Me, too. Except who would want to see this old woman and all her sagging and jiggling parts?”
Mavis wasn’t kidding anybody. She was still an attractive woman. “You sag and jiggle less than lots of thirty-year-olds,” Hope said. “You know that.”
The woman shrugged but looked pleased. “You want me to bring you some coffee on the veranda?” she asked.
“I’ll get my own coffee,” Hope said, walking into the kitchen. “You know you don’t have to wait on me.” She poured a cup and stuck two pieces of bread into the toaster. Once they popped, she spread the peanut butter on thickly, slapped the pieces together and wrapped her breakfast up in a napkin. “I’ll see you later,” she said.
When she opened the French doors to the veranda, the warm sun hit her face. Spring had come early this year to the east coast, and flowering shrubs had been in full bloom for weeks. The gardeners had planted annuals in the big urns that flanked the doorway and vines were already starting to trail down the sides.
She walked across the red brick and pulled out a chair. She put her toast and coffee down on the glass-topped table and sat in the sun, facing the heated lap pool that had been opened for the season just the week before. This was normally her favorite time of the day. She loved the solitude. Her father would be working and her mother resting.
But today, her quiet was infringed upon by voices. Men’s voices. She stood up, shading her eyes against the glaring sun. Her father was in the yard, well beyond the formal garden area. He wore casual clothes, as if he hadn’t yet gone into work. Next to him she recognized Bingham Trovell. Uncle Bing had brought her gifts from all over the world when she was a child. And he’d always had time for a story. To read one, to tell one, to laugh about one.
She didn’t recognize the third man. He was dressed the most formally, in dark slacks and a light-colored sports jacket. He was too far away for her to make out his face.
Likely a potential donor. Poor Uncle Bing. Somehow he’d gotten sucked up into the appeal. Her father rarely gave tours of the grounds anymore, so this guy had to have enough bucks to make that happen.
They were walking toward the house. She got up and grabbed her toast and coffee, intending to leave before they saw her.
But her mother stood in the doorway. Still beautiful at 67, the former Miss Texas had put on at least five pounds in the last month. She was still way too thin but Hope was grateful for every ounce.
“Hi,” Hope said. “I hear you played golf this morning.”
“Yes, it was fabulous. Is that your lunch?”
Hope looked at her toast, still wrapped in the paper napkin. “Brunch. I’m going to eat inside today,” she said. She waited for her mom to step aside. But the woman didn’t.
Hope looked over her shoulder. The trio was closer. “Excuse me, Mom,” she said.
“Do you have a minute?” her mother asked. “Your father and I would like you to meet someone.”
“I was on my way out,” Hope lied.
“Please.”
Hope sighed. She couldn’t say no to her mother. “I just have a minute,” she hedged.
Her mother nodded and looked past Hope. “Hello, Bing,” she said. “You’re looking well.”
“And you, Patsy.” Uncle Bing took the last three steps, leaned in past Hope and kissed her mother’s cheek. “You look radiant.”
Then Uncle Bing turned to her and hugged her hard. “Good to see you, Hope.”
Her father stepped close, in a Prada shirt, khaki shorts and deck shoes. At 67, he still had a full head of hair that he kept brown with some regular help from his hairdresser. He was trim, had all his own teeth and a good smile to show them off.
The camera loved him. And contributions from female fans almost doubled those from males.
As usual, he nodded in Hope’s direction but didn’t speak. Instead, he pulled out chairs at the table and motioned for them to take one. Her mother sat.
Hope checked out the stranger. Up close, she could tell that his clothes were expensive. He wore them with a casual elegance. His short hair was dark, with just a thread of silver at the temples. He was very tanned, very fit.
She wished he’d take his sunglasses off or that she’d