Lauraine Snelling Read online

  “You tried canvassing the studio cattle calls?” Julia didn’t know much about Hollywood terminology, but she knew that when a movie needed to cast minor parts and extras, the studio people put out a general casting call, which ran in various daily industry publications.

  “Yep. There’s a big one next week for a new Brad Pitt film. If she’s in town, I’d think that would be one she wouldn’t miss.”

  “She’s probably like every other young aspiring actress and thinks someone is going to see her walking down the street and say, ‘Ah, you’re the one I need.’”

  “That does happen, Julia. It happens all the time, but not for Brad Pitt films or any other respectable film.”

  Julia gasped. She knew what he was referring to, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it. She closed her eyes, sorting through her mind to come up with any other avenues to search, and she couldn’t think of a thing. “Well, keep looking, please, and let me know if you come up with anything new. We’ll do a retainer.”

  “Sorry I haven’t been much help.”

  “Two weeks isn’t a long time. Thanks for calling.” She hung up and leaned back in her chair. Two weeks wasn’t a long time, unless you were on the streets with no safe place to sleep and you hadn’t eaten. Dear God, watch out for her, please keep her safe, and let us find her somehow.

  Julia worked out at the local club, dealt with her clients, and had dinner with Glen—always with thoughts of Cyndy hovering at the back of her mind. Glen accompanied her to church on Sunday. During the sermon, she saw herself carrying her granddaughter to the altar and laying her down, but when she tried to leave the burden there, she couldn’t. I know You are watching out for her, Father, but I can’t seem to leave her in Your hands. She felt like a small child who wanted to share her favorite toy, but as soon as she turned away, something compelled her to grab it back.

  She felt a presence beside her and turned a tear-streaked face to see Glen gazing at her, utter compassion glowing from dark eyes that were shaded by bushy eyebrows.

  He has Jesus eyes. The thought made her want to throw herself in his arms and cry out her fears against his broad chest. Her hand sought his, and its warmth brought her comfort. She turned her gaze back to the rugged wooden cross that towered behind the marble altar, and she knew she was far from being alone in her search for Cyndy. When the choir began singing, Julia threw herself wholeheartedly into worshiping God, who promised to always be there—and to send help.

  Later, during dinner, Glen rubbed a spot on his jaw line while he listened intently to her list of attempts to locate Cyndy. He made a couple of suggestions, only to be met with, “We’ve already done that.”

  “Then it looks to me like you’re doing all you can. It’s time to let God do His job.”

  “I keep telling myself that, but the telling is always easier than the doing.”

  “You have circles under your eyes.” He stopped her restless hand with his.

  “You’re not supposed to see them. Lancôme promised me that their concealer would hide them.” She made a good attempt at a smile that would pacify him.

  “You’re not sleeping, and it looks to me like you’re not eating either.” He nodded to her plate, where she had been moving bits of chicken around rather than eating it.

  “You see too much.”

  “That’s what friends are for. Finish your dinner, and let’s go for a drive. I need to go look at a piece of property.”

  “Are you buying or selling?” She obediently took a bite and chewed. The chicken Marsala was delicious, and suddenly she was hungry. She finished the penne pasta and the crunchy roll, and drank her coffee, listening to him describe the lakefront property, asking the appropriate questions and enjoying the sound of his voice.

  Two days later, Fred the private investigator called. “I have good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

  “The good. I could use some good news right about now.” She’d spent the morning in court, watching as a well-prepared radiologist was awarded custody of his children and the family home in a decision that should have gone to the wife. Julia hated to lose any case, especially when the man had squirreled away assets in advance and had the soon-to-be-trophy wife waiting for him.

  “I got a call from a young woman who had seen Cyndy’s picture.”

  Julia’s heart started to race. “Thank God.”

  “Well, yes, but … ”

  Her mind leaped ahead, and she began to shake. “Go ahead.”

  “She said Cyndy had been her roommate.”

  “Had been?” If this was the good news … “And the bad news?”

  “Cyndy left LA and headed north to San Francisco. Someone promised her a screen test. That’s all I know.”

  “When? When did she go to San Francisco?”

  “Two weeks ago. My contact said she’d call again if she hears from Cyndy.”

  Feeling a little lightheaded, Julia sat back. “At least I know she’s alive. Did the woman give any more information?”

  “Only that Cyndy had been trying really hard to make it in the entertainment industry.”

  “Did she say what Cyndy was living on?”

  “No, but I have a feeling my contact was the one providing the room and board.”

  “Did she ask you for money?”

  “Not in so many words. I have her phone number, and she said she would be glad to talk with you.”

  “Wonderful.” Julia took down the information and, after thanking Fred, hung up. Some news, not what she’d wanted, but anything was better than nothing. At least Cyndy was seen alive and well two weeks ago.

  What now? she wondered. Hire another PI in San Francisco? Or go there herself? She studied her calendar. After this next court date, cases could be rearranged, reassigned.

  Once that was taken care of, she could take a leave of absence and continue the search for her granddaughter on her own.

  San Francisco

  Hope Benson, the director of a woman’s shelter known as J House, stared at the faded brick edifice that once housed a thriving congregation, which had since moved to the suburbs.

  “If only it could look as friendly on the outside as it feels on the inside,” she said, shaking her head. On the upper walls, the bricks were hidden beneath a black frosting of neglect. Lower down, within reaching distance, layers of spray-painted graffiti had been scrubbed off until the terra cotta skeleton glowed orange in the morning light.

  Hope and Adolph, her eighty-three-pound Lab-shepherd-something cohort, had just finished power-walking the sun up. Now it was time for coffee and a shower, or a shower and coffee, the order depending on how badly her husband Roger’s back ached from the previous night’s horizontal torture.

  Roger had threatened to sleep on the futon, but that hard surface gave him a headache fit to lift his thinning hair right off his scalp. During his days as a police officer, he’d learned the hard way that spines and slugs didn’t go well together, that is human spines and 9mm slugs. Though he complained very little, Hope knew he suffered a great deal. If only there was something that would give him relief, something she could do to help him.

  Hope was forever if onlying. If only she could do more to help the women who came to the shelter. If only she had more time to spend with the children. If only she could find more resources to support the shelter. Hope sighed as she continued around the building to enter the private quarters by the side door. If only God had given them children of their own.

  “Buenos dias, Miss Hope.” Celia, Hopes kitchen and front-desk assistant, greeted her. Celia was kneeling in front of the south-facing cold frame, where she was starting cabbages for the fall planting. Once a hard-core delinquent, the woman now took all her anger out on the compost pile.

  “Good morning to you too. You’re out early.” Hope had discovered that for many—even the most desperate—gardening was an outlet that promoted healing.

  “Bad dreams,” Celia replied as she tenderly transplanted a seedling fr
om the tray she had started under lights in the pantry. “Adolph, get away.” Adolph loved Celia and licked her every chance he got. Celia wiped a sloppy kiss from her cheek, leaving bits of soil on her olive skin. “Ugh. I hate it when he does that.”

  Hope tugged on Adolphs leash. “You got enough there to plant an acre.”

  “I know. Who would’ve thought so many would make it this far? I’ll take out every other one later and throw the greens into the soup pot.”

  Celia’s gap-toothed smile reminded Hope that she needed to hassle Social Services to get dental help for several of her girls, but primarily for Celia.

  “See you later.” Hope bent to give the woman a pat on the shoulder. “Come on, Adolph.”

  “Oh, wait a minute,” Celia called. “That sleaze-ball lawyer called.” She rocked back on her heels and swept away a neon-blue lock of hair with the back of her hand.

  Hope stopped with a groan. “Again?”

  “Told ’im you call back when you come home from South America.” Her twittering laugh followed Hope inside.

  Hope leaned over to remove Adolphs leash. So what did the creepy lawyer want now? she wondered. She felt the urge to call him one of the names she’d used so freely before she became a warrior for her Lord, instead of a profitable lay for her warlord. She overrode the temptation, knowing full well that once she used that language again, she’d be using it on a regular basis.

  The smell of fresh coffee told her Roger was up. She poured herself a cup and walked out of the kitchen and down the hall to the office-turned-exercise-room. “Hey, mon, thanks for the java.” She lifted the cup in salute.

  “Uhh.” He carefully settled the bar onto its rack with a click. He lay there, broad chest sprinkled with gray swirls rising and falling while he caught his breath. “How was your walk?”

  “Edie, mon. Be warmer in Jamaica.” She often reverted to her native brogue just for the fun of it, but these last few days, the desire to revisit the islands of her birth had been nagging at her. Must be the travel article she’d read in Sunday’s newspaper.

  Roger laughed and sat up. “There’s a new girl coming.” He wiped his face with a towel, then draped it round his neck. “Ten o’clock. Some of the guys at the precinct thought we might be able to do something for her.”

  “Do you know anything about her?” Hope asked, her brogue giving way to her business voice.

  He shook his head. “Not much. She’s a prostitute who got caught up in last night’s sweep.”

  Hope held her coffee close to her chest and savored the warmth. She dealt with girls and women coming to the shelter from all walks of life, but the prostitutes were the ones she had the most compassion for and related to the best. “How old?” Hope leaned against the doorframe.

  “Sweet sixteen.”

  A sixteen-year-old prostitute had stopped being sweet a long time ago. “I’d better hurry up and take my shower.”

  With Adolph lying on the floor watching her every move, Hope braided her wet hair to counteract the curl. A few months ago, she had stripped the black out of her hair and dyed it a lighter color. The orangy result, while not exactly what she’d been striving for, was striking, and a near match for the freckles that dotted her broad nose and high cheekbones. Her café-au-lait skin tone came from the mix of African Jamaican via her father and Caucasian from her mother.

  Roger came up behind her as she brushed her teeth, nuzzled a kiss on the back of her neck, and crooned, “Have I told you lately that I love you?”

  She spat toothpaste froth into the sink. “How much is lately?”

  “Always the wise guy.” He slapped her gently on the rear and turned on the shower.

  Glancing in the mirror, she flinched at the scar on his back. No matter how often she saw it, she could not keep from shuddering, at least inside. A perfect body, a perfect career, destroyed in seconds by a bullet.

  “You want breakfast?” She raised her voice over the moaning water pipes.

  “I already fried some bacon and onion. By the time you scramble up some eggs, I’ll be ready.” Roger was known for fast showers.

  Hope dressed in khakis with a woven belt, tucked in a collared polo shirt, and, already on the move, slid her feet into well-worn huaraches. Once in the kitchen she let Adolph out into the walled garden with Celia, then went about fixing the rest of their breakfast. Humming the tune Roger had started in the bathroom, she took the grated cheese from the fridge and added it to the frying pan of scrambled eggs.

  Adolph whined outside the back door to be let in.

  “What, did Celia run you off again, or did you smell breakfast?” she asked as she held the door open for him.

  Tail wagging, Adolph walked past her, sniffed at his dish, raised his head to check the air for flavors, and, tongue lolling, stopped in front of the stove.

  “Yours is in your dish.”

  His tail thwacked across her knees, as if to say, “I don’t want what’s in my dish. I want what’s on the stove.”

  Hope shook her head. “I don’t care how much you wag. The vet said dog food only.”

  Adolph sat down and scratched his ear with a back foot, the foot thumping on the floor practically rattling the windows.

  Just as Hope was putting the plates on the table, Roger entered the kitchen. “Perfect timing.”

  Hope nodded toward Adolph. “Tell your four-footed friend that table scraps are no longer his divine right.”

  “Sorry, Adolph, the boss has spoken,” Roger said, his voice grave.

  Just as Hope sat down, the phone rang.

  “Let the machine pick it up.” Roger bowed his head. “Father God, we thank Thee for food, for home, and a work that we pray always honors You. Amen.”

  Hope raised her gaze to look at the man across from her. Succinct and to the point, that was Roger. Thank You, Father, for this man. Thank You for his love and for his strength.

  She’d taken two bites when Celia knocked on the back door and entered before they could invite her. “They’re here early.” Hope groaned, took another bite, and put her napkin on the table.

  Roger put his hand over hers, staying her. “They’re early. They can wait. You eat.”

  “Yes, dear.” Hope smiled. His thoughtfulness always stirred a warm glow around her heart.

  “Now, that’s a first,” Celia said beneath her breath, then poured herself a cup of coffee. “You want me to get started on the paperwork?”

  Roger spread grape jam on his toast. “No, they said ten, and it’s only eight thirty. They’re going to have to learn that we have lives too. Have you had breakfast?”

  Celia shook her head. “I ain’t hungry.”

  Adolph plunked himself down beside her, his head just beneath her fingertips. When he didn’t get the ear scratches he was hinting for, he lifted his head and whined.

  “You surly mutt.” Celia’s fingers tapped the top of his head. “So what’s on the list for today?”

  Hope thought while she ate her eggs. “The duty roster needs to be updated to work this new girl in. Someone needs to go to Costco. And the checklist needs to be gone over for the market tomorrow.” She paused, glanced at the clock, then at Roger. “We need to see if Starshine is back. I’d like to talk to her if she’s in. Oh, and I have a meeting with Peter Kent at eleven thirty, and you”—she looked at Roger—“have one this afternoon at … ”

  “Two o’clock,” he supplied. He glanced at his watch. “I’ll do the Costco run first thing this morning.”

  Celia ignored Adolphs whines for more pats. The dog was never satisfied. “And I’ll do the roster, call Starshine, and go over the market checklist.”

  Hope’s thoughts were already elsewhere. Intake was always Hope’s department. Please, God, let this child be clean. While she knew the prayer was pretty hopeless, she nevertheless lived up to her name—and hoped.

  Casa de Jesus started as a dream in Hope’s heart after she gave her life to her Savior. It became a reality thanks to a grant from an unknown
benefactor that covered purchasing the building. Money came in from several sources: her church gave her a small budget for daily expenses; the Saturday Market, held in what used to be the church’s parking lot, brought in money through space fees charged to the vendors and through the sale of deep-fried dough called elephant ears, chai, and coffee to the shoppers. A good portion of their budget came from Social Services.

  Still, they struggled to keep the doors open. Every day brought a new challenge that tested Hopes creativity and her resourcefulness.

  After breakfast, Hope and Roger worked side by side to clean up; then they were off to their individual duties. It was a little after nine when Hope left the kitchen. She waved to the two girls cleaning the common area as she headed toward her appointment.

  “Good morning, Officer Langley.” Hope reached out and shook the young woman’s hand. They had met before under similar circumstances and had found that they shared a common goal, helping the girls and women get off the street and into a safe environment.

  “Sorry to spring this on you,” the officer said, “but you know how things are … ”

  “Could you use a cup of coffee?” Hope asked.

  “No thanks. Celia kept our cups full.”

  Hope smiled at the girl sitting beside the woman in uniform, then extended her hand. “Hi there, I’m Hope.”

  No response from the emaciated teen dressed in black leather short shorts and a black bustier that only emphasized a flat chest. She wore four-inch spike heels and fishnet stockings that had seen better days. Her bleached blond hair had been teased to near extinction, and her long jagged bangs fell like a curtain over her eyes.

  As she did with all the young girls who came through the doors of J House, Hope wanted to tuck the hair behind this girl’s ears, wash her face, and hug her close. It was the unfulfilled mothering instinct in her coming out. She longed for children of her own but had been told she would probably never conceive because her internal damage was too extensive.