Unwrapping Hope Read online

  The Second walked out of the office, leaving Spence alone with his shame. First, not entrusting his efforts to the Lord’s will for his life and his family’s future.

  Then there was Phoebe.

  Why would she tell you her deepest and darkest secret?

  He saw himself marching away from her at the river. When she did tell him her secret, his feelings had been all that mattered. Where was the sympathy and compassion his grandfather had seen in him? The understanding?

  I’ll never let you fall.

  What a liar he turned out to be.

  The pounding in his head grew stronger and steadier. Not only had he let her fall, he had tossed her aside. He had broken her trust.

  He’d acted in as spoiled and untrustworthy a manner as she’d expected to receive from him, thinking only of his hurt feelings and his family’s reputation.

  Douglas Alder had nothing on Spencer Fanning Newland the Third.

  He locked his office door, then reached into the drawer of his desk, pulled out the Bible he kept there, and turned to the chapter his grandfather had referenced over and over. He paid special attention to the words that spoke loudest to him.

  “And lest I should be exalted above measure through the abundance of the revelations, there was given to me a thorn in the flesh, the messenger of Satan to buffet me, lest I should be exalted above measure.”

  Lest Spence should exalt himself.

  For years he had let an emotional wound fester until he relied on his own efforts and his own ideas to prove his grandfather wrong. Rather than relying on God, he had put his trust in exercise, diet, and determination. Yes, he’d gained physical strength, but he still suffered from headaches. His thorn in the flesh?

  “Therefore, I take pleasure in infirmities, in reproaches, in necessities, in persecutions, in distresses for Christ's sake: for when I am weak, then am I strong.”

  He had never considered his infirmities in a positive light or used them to glorify Christ. How could he call himself healthy—strong—when his faith in his Lord and others proved weaker than his body when at its frailest moment?

  “My grace is sufficient for thee: for my strength is made perfect in weakness. Most gladly therefore will I rather glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”

  Spence read the entire chapter three times and confessed his foolish actions, his lack of faith and compassion, and his self-centeredness and vanity in thinking he knew best. He truly was a weak man.

  Be my strength, Lord, and never let me exalt myself over You.

  Perhaps he couldn’t admit to taking “pleasure in infirmities,” but discovering the truth about himself might make them more bearable.

  PHOEBE STOOD AT THE back door of S. F. Newland’s and Company, paying little heed to the tiny flakes of snow that drifted onto her head and shoulders. Every inch of her wanted to spin around and run back home.

  She had hoped to hear that Spence forgave her and could overlook her past to preserve what had become a growing friendship between them. The silence in the last two days disconcerted her.

  The longer she’d lingered at the river after he’d left, the harder she had cried out to be delivered of the bitterness she’d harbored in her heart since learning of Douglas’s hoax.

  Over the years, she had transferred that bitterness to other men she deemed in a position to do something similar to her or another woman. In getting to know Spence, God had shown her the error in her thinking. She had no right to permit her fear and prejudice to cause her to crush the innocent as she once was crushed.

  Instead of God turning a deaf ear to her pleas, she had turned a deaf ear to Him and His desire that she see how she’d shriveled into a sour and cynical harpy when in the company of certain people.

  Phoebe turned the knob and entered the building. For the past two days, she had waited for word of her dismissal. Without an official notification of termination, staying home would only add fuel to the rumors. However, stepping into the building opened her up to ridicule and speculation from the other employees and, no doubt, customers. It was the type of humiliation she had tried to avoid for five years.

  She rode the elevator to the fourth floor, deposited her coat and hat in the salon, then rode in the cage back to the first floor. During both trips, the elevator operator, always courteous in the past, avoided conversation and eye contact with her. She considered it an overture to the rest of her day.

  As Phoebe crossed the floor, Claire and Roslyn met her halfway to the piano. Most of her Widow’s Might friends had visited her home to express their concern and encouragement. Though they never asked for details, she couldn’t bear to have them think poorly of her and had provided her side of the story. Without those friendships and their prayers, she might still be lying in bed feeling sorry for herself.

  Claire wrapped her in a hug right in the middle of the store. “I’m glad you haven’t let Miss Davidson scare you away.”

  The show of support settled Phoebe’s nerves like nothing else. “Not yet.”

  Roslyn’s firm grip added additional comfort. “If anyone gives you trouble, let me know.” She winked. “We outcasts need to stick together.”

  “You’re no outcast, Roslyn. What happened wasn’t your fault.”

  “It was. More than you know. I can say I didn’t steal the store’s money. I can’t say I didn’t drive Gil to it.” Roslyn sighed. “We never belonged together.”

  With the revelation by Mary Alice, Phoebe hadn’t told Spence about possibly seeing Gil Malone. Instead, she’d told Claire, who’d passed the information on. The police had searched, but they had found no clues to the man’s whereabouts.

  “Thank you. Both of you.” She swiped at the moisture that leaked from her eyes.

  Roslyn pulled out a handkerchief and handed it to her. “I owe you one.”

  Phoebe glanced toward the front of the store where the piano waited for her...if Spence hadn’t moved it back to his house.

  “It’s still there, and we’ll be listening.” Claire patted Phoebe’s shoulder, then climbed the stairs to her station on the third floor.

  Like ants crawling up the back of her neck, the stares of various clerks and a few customers followed her to the piano.

  She sat on the small bench, her heart pinching a little at not seeing Spence along the way.

  God, I know you are listening. I believe this is what you want of me. Give me the courage to do it.

  Deliberately chosen, cheerful melodies lifted her mood. Once in a while, a store customer stopped to listen to her play. Some walked by with their noses in the air. Others seemed oblivious to her presence.

  Near the end of her two hours, Laurie Newland approached the piano and stood in the curve, as her brother had done so often. “Good morning, Phoebe. I’m glad to see you here. We weren’t sure you would come.”

  “I have a responsibility.” Phoebe continued to play “Silent Night.”

  Leaning forward and in a voice that commanded attention, Laurie said, “Please stop playing. I have something important to tell you. Spence’s office is empty. We can talk in private.”

  Phoebe rested her hands in her lap. Why would the Newland’s send the youngest member of the family to fire her? Was Spence still so incensed he couldn’t bring himself to be near her? What about his father?

  Once they reached the office, Laurie closed the door and gestured for Phoebe to sit in one of the chairs near the desk. She angled a second chair to face Phoebe. “I don’t know the details of what happened between you and Spence, but he’s had a rough few days, spending most of the time in his room with a migraine.”

  Phoebe’s shoulders sank. Had she caused his suffering? “I’m sorry. I never meant—”

  “Don’t be sorry. He said it’s given him time to think and pray. Actually, I think it was good for him.”

  Phoebe marveled at the girl’s impassioned viewpoint. “You told him that?”

  Laurie waved a hand through the air. “Yes,
but don’t think me heartless. He agreed, and he feels much better.”

  Not wanting to be caught in his office should he return, Phoebe said, “You wanted to talk to me?”

  “Spence received a telegram from Mr. Lark, requesting a visit.”

  “That’s good news, isn’t it? I know how hard Spence has tried to gain his support.”

  “There were no promises, but my brother told me he believes God opened this door and expects him to walk through it. Before he left, he arranged for Maura’s gift to be delivered to your house.”

  At least she had accomplished one thing. Maura would have a good Christmas. But even that was Spence’s doing.

  Laurie placed her hand over Phoebe’s. “Don’t be angry with him.”

  “I’m not.”

  Phoebe was angry at herself for her treatment of him.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The hack pulled up in front of a mansion on Prairie Avenue, and Spence peered out the window at the Romanesque architectural style of Clifton Lark’s house. Although Spence’s parents owned one of the largest and finest homes in Riverport, the corner towers and red stone facade of the Lark house outshone it from the basement up.

  With its prime location near downtown and the lakeshore, many of Chicago’s wealthy called the Prairie Avenue area home, evidenced by the structures he’d passed along the way. Down the street sat the mansion belonging to Marshall Field. While he was in the city, he planned to visit the man’s store—a scouting mission of sorts.

  The dregs of a headache still lingered, but try as hard as it might, the pain couldn’t conquer his exhilaration. He left the hack, opened the wrought iron gate, and sauntered up the wide steps to the front door as if he belonged. According to the telegram in his pocket, he did.

  A moment after Spence rang the bell, he was ushered inside by a butler who took his coat and hat, then led him to a sitting room with a roaring fire to sip coffee and wait for his host.

  What a whirlwind few days. Due to Lark’s telegram being misplaced by a telegraph clerk, Spence had a mere two hours to prepare in order to catch the train that would get him here in time for his appointment. He’d thrown a few clothes into a valise, along with a copy of the proposal he’d given Mrs. Lark when she’d visited Riverport.

  The whole time, Spence asked God to block his travel if the trip wasn’t in His plan.

  On the train, he’d prayed for direction in dealing with Clifton Lark. If the door to a partnership between them shut, he trusted God had a better plan. For the first time, he left the situation in His hands.

  Lark’s summons had come at an inconvenient time in his personal life. Would Phoebe forgive him for walking away from her at the river? For acting like that spoiled, self-centered man she had believed him to be? He hoped the letter of apology he’d written her would suffice until he saw her on Christmas Eve.

  Juliet Lark entered the room, and Spence bolted to his feet. She was young—about thirty-five—intelligent, mature, and thoroughly familiar with her husband’s business.

  “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Mr. Newland. Clifton is eager to meet you.”

  “May I ask what changed his mind about seeing me?”

  “I’ll let him explain.”

  Mrs. Lark led him to a room on the first floor, where a secretary sat behind a desk. The man nodded, then continued typing as she opened the door behind him.

  They entered an office with rich paneled walls. Dark curtains were drawn across the windows, and electric lights took the place of the sun to light the interior. A man about Spence’s father’s age sat at a round table to the right, opposite a large desk and bookshelves. When he saw them, he stood but remained in place.

  “Thank you for coming, Mr. Newland.” Dressed in a fine suit, and with thinning gray hair and a salt-and-pepper beard trimmed and neat, Clifton Lark resembled any other businessman of Spence’s acquaintance—with one exception. Haunted eyes darted to the door that his wife had shut with haste after she entered the room.

  Lark blinked away whatever troubled him and gestured to the familiar object on the table. “I want to thank you for the cigar box.”

  The gift had begun as a well-meaning bribe, but today Spence could truly say it was his pleasure to make it for the man. “You’re welcome, sir.”

  “Please have a seat.”

  Spence joined him at the table.

  “You and your family impressed Juliet during her visit last month. She told me Newland’s department store and its owners met all her expectations.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Lark.”

  Even with the lighting from various lamps and wall sconces, Spence longed to pull back the heavy curtains and expose the room and everything in it to the sunlight.

  “I’m sure you’ve wondered why I sent my wife last month and didn’t come myself,” Lark said.

  “To be honest, yes, sir.”

  Lark glanced at his wife, who nodded. “The truth is that, for the past year, I’ve rarely left this house.”

  In Spence’s experience, there was only one reason a person would be confined to his home. “You’re ill?”

  “In a manner of speaking. Are you familiar with agoraphobia?”

  “Agora...”

  Mrs. Lark pulled up a chair next to her husband and placed her hand in his. “It’s a mental condition, Mr. Newland. Several months ago, the doctors diagnosed Clifton as suffering from it.”

  A mental condition? Had he tried to enlist the aid of a lunatic?

  “There’s nothing to be afraid of. Agoraphobia causes a terror of certain locations or situations. It keeps the patient from leaving a particular space or circumstance in which they feel safe. In my husband’s case, it’s this house.”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “Few people do. We try to protect him from those who wouldn’t understand.”

  For some reason, they had decided he would. He turned to her husband. “Why tell me?”

  “Your gift and Juliet’s report intrigued me, so I made inquiries into you and your family. From it, I learned of your childhood difficulties.”

  Spence bristled. His past wasn’t a secret, but he’d worked hard to prove...

  No need to stroll that path again.

  “You know what it’s like to want to take part in the world and be unable to do so.”

  “Yes, sir. I do.”

  “I hope you can also understand that my condition is something I prefer to keep from the public.”

  Not only would it open up Mr. Lark’s character to ridicule, but news such as this could have a detrimental effect on his finances. “No one will hear it from me.”

  The man opened the cigar box. “I realize your goal was to attract my attention with this, Mr. Newland, but you have a gift—a God-given one.”

  Spence was realizing all the gifts lavished on him during his lifetime. A close family. The joy of music. Financial advantages. The strengthening of his body. Most importantly, the gift that would endure throughout all eternity. An everlasting gift of hope given by the One whose birth they prepared to celebrate.

  Perhaps soon he would count two more—a woman whose frost had begun to melt and a little girl with a sunshine smile.

  They spoke of one topic after another, none of them involving the financing of five-and-ten-cent stores. The man’s intelligence and sense of humor shone through the conversation, undamaged by his illness.

  The clock on the wall chimed.

  “Mr. Newland, I apologize for monopolizing the conversation for over two hours.”

  When Clifton Lark rose, Spence interpreted it as a signal to leave, and rose also. “Not at all. This has been a pleasure. Thank you for inviting me.”

  Mrs. Lark asked, “Won’t you stay for supper?”

  “If you’ll forgive me, tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I’d like to be in Riverport.”

  “Of course. You want to be home with your family.”

  And others. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Thank you for coming. It i
sn’t often I interact with strangers these days. Learning about what you went through as a child and have accomplished as a man has given me a more optimistic outlook.” Mr. Lark walked with him toward the door and stopped a few feet away. “About your new stores—your proposal makes it difficult to say no, but until I can defeat this fear and see to my mental fitness, my doctors have advised that I not undertake any additional burdens.”

  “I understand.” Spence shook the man’s hand. He turned to go, then stopped and faced his host. “Sir, I urge you to not make my mistake and take your healing onto yourself. I’ve only begun to understand that God works for His glory even in our weaknesses.”

  Lark responded with a slow smile. “I do have something for you before you leave.” He pulled a sheet of paper from his waistcoat pocket. “This is the name and address of a close friend who lives down the street. He’s a good man, trustworthy and generous. I took the liberty of discussing with him your plan for the five-and-ten-cent stores. He’s interested in talking with you at his office this afternoon. I would suggest you see him before you return to Riverport.”

  Spence stared at the sheet of paper Lark held out. His eyes widened at reading the name. The friend was no insignificant businessman.

  Chapter Eighteen

  The stranger on Phoebe’s porch held a large wooden box. “Mrs. Crain? I’m Eugene Henry. Mr. Newland sent me.”

  The dollhouse. Phoebe stared at the box. It was the only thing she’d thought she would ever want from Spence, because it would make Maura happy. After only a month, she wanted much more from him. She wanted her own chance at happiness.

  “Please bring it in, but quietly. My daughter is helping her grandmother in the kitchen, and I don’t want to attract her attention.” She led the way to her mother’s bedroom. Hopefully, Maura wouldn’t find it there. “You can leave it in that corner.”

  He placed the box on the floor. “Is this where you want the other one?”

  “Other one? I’m not expecting anything else.”

  “I have a second box on the wagon.”