Hope's Corner
Chapter One
Hurry. The crumpled brown grocery bag slipped an inch farther down her hip; sweat trickled along her brow. If only her hands would stop shaking. Blinking quickly, she willed back the tears. She would not cry.
A heavy weight brushed against her pant leg. Fear surged and her grip tightened. The ragged edge of a key sliced into her palm. Then she heard it; not the thump of human footsteps but a soft mewl. Peaches, the calico she’d rescued from a local shelter, had jumped from the porch railing and now circled her feet. Her forehead hit the cool glass window of the old wooden door. “Damn.”
This was ridiculous. No one pressed behind her. No stale hot breath bathed her neck. No icy fingers restrained her. Nothing chased her but her own fear. Her mind knew all this, and yet, she couldn’t stop the rising panic, the growing sense of danger anymore than she could stop Peaches from leaping onto the porch.
She’d moved home to Hope’s Corner, hoping, praying it would put an end to the daily torment. While she no longer suffered from nightly terrors, the occasional nightmare left her nervous, on edge, and downright petrified of her own shadow.
“Are you okay?” A distant baritone voice carried up to her.
The ebbing panic rose again, licking at her racing heart.
“Do you need some help?” The voice, a very masculine voice, moved closer. With his every step, the wooden porch groaned under his weight. When the heaviness of the bag she’d clutched to her side lifted away, she bolted back as though stung by a live wire.
“I noticed you seem to be having a little trouble with the lock.” The words were spoken softly, slowly. He’d taken a half step back. The corners of his mouth tilted in what he no doubt meant to be a disarming smile, but his piercing eyes studied the way she now pressed herself against the wall with an intensity that set her every hair on end. Still smiling, his hand stretched hesitantly forward. “May I try?”
Her grip tightened on the keys in her hand. The sharp stinging pain shot up her arm. She almost tripped over the cat now preening at her feet. The polite stranger, who had been casually holding her groceries and patiently extending his hand, wrapped his strong fingers around her arm to steady her.
“Careful.” His voice came out in a near whisper, the look in his eyes softer.
Irrational fear and panic in control—her throat tightened, she couldn’t speak, couldn’t find words. Keys still clenched in her hand, she raised her arm to him. As he pried her fingers open to retrieve them, she kept her attention on his face, watching every shadow, every nuance. Shock flickered momentarily in his eyes when he saw her grip had been tight enough to draw blood.
It was his grimace that brought her a slip of calm. She’d seen the pain in his eyes as he'd had pulled the keys away and stared at her bleeding palm. Nearly numb from head to toe, she watched him slide the key into the lock, turn the latch, and shove open the door.
Grateful she was able to make her mouth move, she mumbled, “Thank you”, yanked the keys from the lock, and hurrying inside, slammed the door shut behind her. Her back pressed to the door, she dragged in deep ragged breaths. Another surge of panic rushed through her. He still held her groceries.
***
Now what? He looked from the closed door to the bag in his arms and back again. He didn’t need a psych degree to know something had spooked that woman badly, and his offer to help her had done anything but.
“Jefferson Davis Parker, what are you doing growing roots on Pamela Sue’s porch?”
Good question. “She seemed to—”
“I thought I told you to be here at four? It’s only three o’clock. You’re early.” Etta Mae Parker stomped up her neighbor’s porch steps and snatched the bag from her son’s arms, cutting off his reply.
“A smart boy should be able to tell time,” she muttered, nudging him toward the porch steps. “You go on back next door. There’s fresh banana bread on the counter. I’ll be there in a minute.”
A smart man knew when to stand his ground and when to do as his mother told him. No one in Hope’s Corner could say Etta Mae had raised a fool. He was halfway across Pamela Sue’s front lawn before he heard his mother rap softly on the door.
“Pamela Sue. It’s me, Etta Mae. I’ve got your groceries for you, honey.”
The door inched open slowly. From his mother’s walkway he could barely see wisps of long blond hair peeking through the narrow space as his mom handed over the bag.
Images of an angelic face with button-round bright blue eyes gripped in terror flashed through his mind. Possibilities of what put that fear there in the first place raised his hackles.
He wasn’t a violent man. It wasn’t part of his job description. But his fists clenched shut with wanting to beat sense into whoever had put that fear in those angelic eyes. One more reason why he knew it was time for a new career.
***
“Here you go, sweetie.”
“Oh, Etta.” Pam took a deep breath. Had Etta witnessed the entire scene? Once again she’d made a fool of herself. She’d thought it would be different here, better, easier. “I’m so sorry.”
“Nonsense, dear. I made some banana bread. Why don’t you put your groceries away, and join Jefferson and me for some coffee.”
“Jefferson?” Oh no. “That wasn’t—”
“Yes. Nice boy when he’s not scaring the bejesus out of my new next-door neighbor.”
Oh, God, she’d just acted like a first-class nutcase and slammed the door on Etta’s son—Pastor Jeff. “I don’t think this is a good time, Etta.”
“Of course it is. You take all the time you need. I’ll go make sure he leaves us some bread.” With a wave of her hand, Etta smiled and scurried across the lawn to her own house.
“All the time I need,” Pam muttered as she sank to the floor beside the closed front door. “And just how much time is that, Etta? How much time?”
As if saying, “Enough already,” Peaches stepped onto her lap and, with precise aim, flicked her tail, clipping Pam square in the nose.
A heartfelt burst of laughter escaped. “Right.” Scooping the cat into her arms, she nuzzled her chin across the soft silken fur and took a deep breath. “I can do this.” She set Peaches back down, picked up the grocery bag, and pushed to her feet.
Peaches trotted ahead, her tail held high like a parade flag. Following her cat’s example, Pam squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and marched into the kitchen. A few minutes to put away the groceries and she’d be ready.
She wouldn’t let that bastard win.
Hurry. The crumpled brown grocery bag slipped an inch farther down her hip; sweat trickled along her brow. If only her hands would stop shaking. Blinking quickly, she willed back the tears. She would not cry.
A heavy weight brushed against her pant leg. Fear surged and her grip tightened. The ragged edge of a key sliced into her palm. Then she heard it; not the thump of human footsteps but a soft mewl. Peaches, the calico she’d rescued from a local shelter, had jumped from the porch railing and now circled her feet. Her forehead hit the cool glass window of the old wooden door. “Damn.”
This was ridiculous. No one pressed behind her. No stale hot breath bathed her neck. No icy fingers restrained her. Nothing chased her but her own fear. Her mind knew all this, and yet, she couldn’t stop the rising panic, the growing sense of danger anymore than she could stop Peaches from leaping onto the porch.
She’d moved home to Hope’s Corner, hoping, praying it would put an end to the daily torment. While she no longer suffered from nightly terrors, the occasional nightmare left her nervous, on edge, and downright petrified of her own shadow.
“Are you okay?” A distant baritone voice carried up to her.
The ebbing panic rose again, licking at her racing heart.
“Do you need some help?” The voice, a very masculine voice, moved closer. With his every step, the wooden porch groaned under his weight. When the heaviness of the bag she’d clutched to her side lifted away, she bolted back as though stung by a live wire.
“I noticed you seem to be having a little trouble with the lock.” The words were spoken softly, slowly. He’d taken a half step back. The corners of his mouth tilted in what he no doubt meant to be a disarming smile, but his piercing eyes studied the way she now pressed herself against the wall with an intensity that set her every hair on end. Still smiling, his hand stretched hesitantly forward. “May I try?”
Her grip tightened on the keys in her hand. The sharp stinging pain shot up her arm. She almost tripped over the cat now preening at her feet. The polite stranger, who had been casually holding her groceries and patiently extending his hand, wrapped his strong fingers around her arm to steady her.
“Careful.” His voice came out in a near whisper, the look in his eyes softer.
Irrational fear and panic in control—her throat tightened, she couldn’t speak, couldn’t find words. Keys still clenched in her hand, she raised her arm to him. As he pried her fingers open to retrieve them, she kept her attention on his face, watching every shadow, every nuance. Shock flickered momentarily in his eyes when he saw her grip had been tight enough to draw blood.
It was his grimace that brought her a slip of calm. She’d seen the pain in his eyes as he'd had pulled the keys away and stared at her bleeding palm. Nearly numb from head to toe, she watched him slide the key into the lock, turn the latch, and shove open the door.
Grateful she was able to make her mouth move, she mumbled, “Thank you”, yanked the keys from the lock, and hurrying inside, slammed the door shut behind her. Her back pressed to the door, she dragged in deep ragged breaths. Another surge of panic rushed through her. He still held her groceries.
***
Now what? He looked from the closed door to the bag in his arms and back again. He didn’t need a psych degree to know something had spooked that woman badly, and his offer to help her had done anything but.
“Jefferson Davis Parker, what are you doing growing roots on Pamela Sue’s porch?”
Good question. “She seemed to—”
“I thought I told you to be here at four? It’s only three o’clock. You’re early.” Etta Mae Parker stomped up her neighbor’s porch steps and snatched the bag from her son’s arms, cutting off his reply.
“A smart boy should be able to tell time,” she muttered, nudging him toward the porch steps. “You go on back next door. There’s fresh banana bread on the counter. I’ll be there in a minute.”
A smart man knew when to stand his ground and when to do as his mother told him. No one in Hope’s Corner could say Etta Mae had raised a fool. He was halfway across Pamela Sue’s front lawn before he heard his mother rap softly on the door.
“Pamela Sue. It’s me, Etta Mae. I’ve got your groceries for you, honey.”
The door inched open slowly. From his mother’s walkway he could barely see wisps of long blond hair peeking through the narrow space as his mom handed over the bag.
Images of an angelic face with button-round bright blue eyes gripped in terror flashed through his mind. Possibilities of what put that fear there in the first place raised his hackles.
He wasn’t a violent man. It wasn’t part of his job description. But his fists clenched shut with wanting to beat sense into whoever had put that fear in those angelic eyes. One more reason why he knew it was time for a new career.
***
“Here you go, sweetie.”
“Oh, Etta.” Pam took a deep breath. Had Etta witnessed the entire scene? Once again she’d made a fool of herself. She’d thought it would be different here, better, easier. “I’m so sorry.”
“Nonsense, dear. I made some banana bread. Why don’t you put your groceries away, and join Jefferson and me for some coffee.”
“Jefferson?” Oh no. “That wasn’t—”
“Yes. Nice boy when he’s not scaring the bejesus out of my new next-door neighbor.”
Oh, God, she’d just acted like a first-class nutcase and slammed the door on Etta’s son—Pastor Jeff. “I don’t think this is a good time, Etta.”
“Of course it is. You take all the time you need. I’ll go make sure he leaves us some bread.” With a wave of her hand, Etta smiled and scurried across the lawn to her own house.
“All the time I need,” Pam muttered as she sank to the floor beside the closed front door. “And just how much time is that, Etta? How much time?”
As if saying, “Enough already,” Peaches stepped onto her lap and, with precise aim, flicked her tail, clipping Pam square in the nose.
A heartfelt burst of laughter escaped. “Right.” Scooping the cat into her arms, she nuzzled her chin across the soft silken fur and took a deep breath. “I can do this.” She set Peaches back down, picked up the grocery bag, and pushed to her feet.
Peaches trotted ahead, her tail held high like a parade flag. Following her cat’s example, Pam squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and marched into the kitchen. A few minutes to put away the groceries and she’d be ready.
She wouldn’t let that bastard win.
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