A Reason for Hope

by Kristin von Kreisler

Genres: Women's Fiction

Synopsis

A heartwarming and uplifting story of healing, courage, love—and one irresistible yellow Labrador retriever—from the bestselling author of An Unexpected Grace and Earnest.
 
On San Julian Island, across Puget Sound from Seattle, Tessa Jordan works as a bookmobile librarian, recommending books and poems to her patrons. In her spare time, she cares for a colony of feral cats. But Tessa’s simple, satisfying life is shockingly upended after she meets Nick Payne, a respected community leader, and he invites her to dinner.
 
Far from a pleasant first date, Tessa’s evening with Nick leaves her feeling confused and upset. After deep soul-searching, she decides to step forward and accuse him of assault. Her distress grows when local prosecutor Will Armstrong declines to pursue her case, citing lack of evidence. Her main solace is Hope, a courthouse dog, trained to comfort victims through the difficult judicial process. As she lays her head in Tessa’s lap, her gentle brown eyes seem to say, Don’t worry. Everything will be all right. 
 
Will, who is Hope’s primary handler, longs to get justice for Tessa, yet knows how rocky the path will be. It’s Hope who, true to her name, shines a bright ray through the darkness. With Hope by their side, Will and Tessa find surprising strength in each other as they learn just how resilient a heart—whether human or canine—can be.
 
“Von Kreisler shows how the love between a dog and a person can prove transformative.”
 —Modern Dog Magazine
 
“Von Kreisler writes masterfully about heartbreak and redemption.”
—Helen Brown, New York Times bestselling author of Cleo
 

Release date: December 28, 2021

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 256

Sample

April 2014

“Here’s your breakfast! Come and get it, sweet kitties!” Tessa called.

She didn’t have to wait long. In the April sunshine dappling the forest floor, wary eyes peeked from behind trees and under bushes, and noses twitched at the delicious smells emanating from her wicker picnic basket. The feral cats now knew that they were about to dive into shredded sautéed chicken and chopped hardboiled eggs sprinkled over their favorite homemade kitty kibble. Their chorus of meows demanded, Hurry! Feed us!

Tessa quickly counted the cats, as she always did at feeding time. Six of her seven had shown up—Dickens, Alcott, Wharton, Melville, Fitzgerald, and Austen—but Bronte, a silvery, ladylike part-Siamese, was missing. A contemplative sort of cat, she enjoyed climbing madrone trees and gazing at the Olympic Mountains or meditating on the sun rising over firs. She had never strayed much till Tessa had recently trapped her and Dr. Vargas had spayed her. Now exceedingly mistrustful, Bronte began to wander.

Without breakfast, she’d be hungry. Tessa mentally begged her, Please, come home tonight for dinner. No one will hurt you. I promise. Feral or not, the cats were her family—and a family among themselves. She often found them grooming one another, going off on expeditions together, and lying side-by-side in the sun.

She set her wicker basket on a cedar stump and pulled out a stack of aluminum pie tins. At each of her feeding stations, she exchanged a food-encrusted pan for a clean one, and she spooned out breakfast. Knowing the kitties would not come near if she stayed too close, she moved a respectful two car lengths away. In seconds, the cats dashed to the food, and the forest filled with smacking sounds.

“You be safe,” Tessa told the cats as she did at every feeding time because they were vulnerable in a perilous world. Coyotes, eagles, dogs, moving vehicles, and cruel people could injure or kill them. They could eat a poisoned rat or sneak into a garage and lick antifreeze off the floor—and die. No wonder the cats were cautious. They had to be, to survive.

From a gallon milk jug, Tessa poured fresh water into the cats’ community ceramic bowl, which was large enough for a goldfish school. “See you tonight,” she called. Usually, she stayed to watch the kitties eat, but today she hurried across the field to her cottage to finish an important task. As she walked, she thought, If only Bronte will be safe.

At Tessa’s cottage door, she paused, as she always did, to touch the tiny brass hand she’d bought at a garage sale and nailed to the wall. The hand was shaped like a policeman’s, held out palm forward to say Stop! It was meant to keep evil from sneaking into the cottage or barging into Tessa’s life. She liked to think that it would make intruders, thieves, or assaulters take their business elsewhere.

Inside, she passed her faithful Bentwood rocking chair, in which she read all winter by her wood-burning stove. She went straight to her desk, a thrift-store antique with an iron key for the side drawer’s lock and legs that curved out like a slew-footed tiger’s. As she booted up her computer, she smiled to herself. She pulled her chair up to her desk and settled her fingers on the keyboard.

Name: Teresa Jordan. Call me Tessa.

Where she lived: San Julian Island. Population eight thousand, about fifty years behind the rest of the world, across Puget Sound from Seattle.

Occupation: Librarian. In my bookmobile, whom I named Howard, I travel to out-of-the-way communities all over Nisqually County. And amateur literary psychologist. I recommend books and poems to help my patrons with their problems.

Hobbies: Tending feral kitties. I know what people say about crazy cat ladies, but I am nothing if not honest about it. Reading just about anything. Walking beaches. Baking pies. Every Sunday I also bake bread and make soup with my garden’s veggies.

A phrase that described her physical appearance: How am I supposed to judge that myself? she wondered. People tell me that I am pretty, and that my face lights up when I laugh. Her dark hair had a touch of auburn in the sunshine, but it frizzed in the rain. And though she was average height and slim, she could lose an inch around her hips. But never mind about pluses and minuses. She typed, “reasonably attractive.”

Her age: “Well, go ahead and admit it,” she mumbled to herself. She answered, thirty-six—not that she was anywhere near over the hill. But her mother had started reminding her that she was running out of time to find a husband. What, ten years ago? Not exactly a confidence boost. When she broke up with her fiancé two years ago, she’d been more worried about her mother’s reaction than her own sense of loss.

Tessa glanced around her cottage at the dried hydrangeas in her copper vase, the crowded bookshelves, and the knitted afghan draped over her sofa’s arm. As cozy as she’d tried to make her home, sometimes it felt lonely when she returned from work and no one was around. When Tessa’s father had drowned in a sailing accident off the Maine coast just weeks after she’d moved in here, she learned not just that life could change in a flash, but also that a crisis was harder to face by herself. Those lessons she was still trying to digest.

But, then, she reminded herself that she had her “people,” as she called her patrons, as well as her friends, the best of whom was Emma. Last week she’d urged Tessa to sign up for Northwest Singles. “You can’t sit home and wait for some delicious man to come along and ring your doorbell. You’ve got to gird your loins and put yourself out there.” Maybe so.

Tessa would let fate decide how lonely she’d be. She pressed “submit,” and her profile flew through the ether to NWSingles.com. To amuse herself, she scrolled through the site’s photos of men she might contact. One looked like a hamster was among his forebears. Another had leprechaun ears. Another had a bit of werewolf about him—his tensely closed lips could have been hiding fangs.

Oh, my. What am I getting myself into?

In Tessa’s one-room-plus-bath cottage, her “bedroom’s” desk and Murphy bed were along one wall, and her “living room’s” wood-burning stove, sofa, and chairs were in a corner opposite her “kitchen.” She stored dishes behind glass doors in a cabinet above the sink, and pots, pans, and cleaning supplies behind a chintz curtain under it. Next to her stove, a butcher-block table served for meals and a countertop.

With her NWSingles profile on its way to God knows where (possibly a werewolf!), she would make her weekly soup. She began chopping onions, and, as usual, her eyes stung and tears slid down her cheeks. To avoid those tears, she’d frozen the onion before slicing into it, turned its sliced side down on the cutting board, worn goggles, even kept a piece of bread in her mouth, as recommended in a cookbook. Nothing had worked.

Wiping her cheeks with the back of her hand, she put down her knife and crossed the room for a tissue. A ping sounded on her computer. Blinking against her watery eyes, she sat back down at her desk and found in her NWSingles message box an email from Nicholas Payne. San Julian’s Nicholas Payne? In yards all over the island, campaign signs urged people to vote for him for City Council in a special election this summer. His message to Tessa: “Meet up for a glass of wine? Planet of the Grapes downtown tomorrow @ 4?”

Tessa expected a leprechaun or hamster, but Nick Payne? His bio said he was the forty-two-year-old Rainier College professor she’d read about in the San Julian Review, and he enjoyed sharing a good bottle of wine with friends. She studied his online picture: an honest face, a neck as sturdy as a marble column, intense gray eyes behind his horn-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a black turtleneck, and his dark, layered hair was mussed just enough to keep him from looking stiff.

Scarcely believing her beginner’s luck, Tessa replied that she’d meet him tomorrow, and she gave him her cell number in case of a last-minute change of plans. “We’ll probably recognize each other from our NWSingles photos, but just in case, I’ll be wearing black jeans, a blue sweater, and a scarf with butterflies printed on it.”

Two minutes later, another ping. “I’ll be easy to recognize by the red carnation in my teeth. (A joke!)”

Tessa fired back, “LOL!”

In Planet of the Grapes, 1950s stools that looked like chrome mushrooms were the only seating option, at wooden tables that had seen better days. “Question everything” had been chiseled into the table where Tessa waited by a window. Someone had stuck plastic flowers in a wine bottle for the centerpiece and nailed old out-of-state license plates to the wall behind her for art.

According to Nick Payne, who arrived ten minutes late with no carnation in his teeth, Planet of the Grapes’ selection of wines was exceptional. At the bar, he ordered a premium 2006 merlot for himself and a special Italian zinfandel for Tessa and brought them to the table in mismatched glasses. “Your zin is going to explode a cherry fruitiness. It has a smoky finish, and its high acidity makes it taste bold,” he said.

Tessa took a sip. No fruity explosion—in fact, no explosion at all, as far as she could tell—though if she let loose her power of suggestion, she might detect a tiny whisper of cherry. And as for a smoky finish? She wouldn’t know one if she shook hands with it. But she simply nodded and smiled as she put down her glass. “It’s great! Very bold!”

“I knew you’d like it.” He glanced around the room as if looking for prospective voters. Then he fixed his eyes on Tessa.

He was even more attractive in person than in his photos on NWSingles.com and “Vote for Nick Payne” signs. He exuded confidence—even boldness, as evident as the high acidity was supposed to make Tessa’s zinfandel. She thought he was the kind of man who took command, and that seemed good to Tessa because, though determined, she was gentle and quiet—and, as everybody knew, opposites attracted.

“Okay, let’s play ‘Get to Know You’ for ten minutes so that part’s out of the way,” Nick said.

“Don’t you always keep getting to know somebody? I mean, isn’t it an endless process? Ten minutes isn’t long enough.”

“Tessa, you’re splitting hairs.” Nick’s chuckle was as smooth as melted butter, and she liked that he had used her name. She also liked the lock of hair that fell onto his forehead when he leaned toward her as if he wanted to get closer, attentive to her every word.

“All right, then.” Tessa smiled. “I’ll ask you questions. Where are you from?”

“Chicago. I came out here when Rainier College offered me a great job,” Nick said.

“Family in Chicago?”

“My mother.”

“How’d you get to San Julian?”

“I was dating someone here.”

“I saw online you’re a professor. Do you like teaching?”

“Yeah. I do. I like sharing all I’ve learned and helping the kids.” He chuckled again. “I say ‘kids,’ but a few are older than I am.”

“People go to college now at all different ages,” Tessa said.

“True,” Nick said. “I like the older students best. They get my jokes.”

“So why are you running for City Council?”

“To serve the community. That means more to me than anything. I’ve always felt I was put on earth to help people.”

He cares about the world. Tessa pressed her heels against her chrome stool’s base.

“Enough about me. My turn.” Nick’s gray eyes on her were mesmerizing. “Your questionnaire said you were a librarian. That can’t be true.”

“Why not?”

“You don’t look like one. You don’t have thin lips or a bun with chopsticks stuck through it.”

“That’s an old stereotype!”

“And your hair is pretty hanging down like that.”

The compliment boosted Tessa’s confidence. “I’ve been a librarian for ten years. I drive the county bookmobile. I’m surprised I’ve not seen you before.” He was the kind of man she’d definitely remember.

“I get most of my books at the college or order them on Amazon.”

“What do you like to read?”

“History. Politicians’ bios. Novels.”

“Favorite novelist?”

Nick looked like he was mentally sifting through a list of names. “Definitely Hemingway. I like his spare prose.”

“Didn’t you love For Whom the Bell Tolls?” Tessa asked.

“And The Sun Also Rises.”

Nothing better than talking books, Tessa thought.

They talked books and politics while more than an hour slipped by. Nick licked his lips. “Hey, listen. Next Saturday my brother and his wife are coming over for a barbecue. You want to join us? I want you to meet them, and I have a great wine you should try.”

When Tessa’s face warmed, it wasn’t from the zin. Today isn’t going to be a one-off. Another date so soon! “I’d love it.”

She thought, Thank you, Northwest Singles, for a match beyond my wildest dreams. She’d never have believed that the Internet would lead her to Nick Payne.

It was the gorgeous kind of April day that Will had waited for all winter. The sky was as clear a blue as was allowed on the earth, his apple and plum trees were blooming their heads off, and the birds were belting out songs they’d repressed for dreary months. The air smelled of spring, everything fresh and green, including the knee-high grass that Will was mowing in the three-acre field next to his rickety Victorian farmhouse.

Last year, he’d bought his nearly new drivable mower for fifty-five dollars at San Julian’s Rotary Auction, to which island citizens donated unwanted items. Somebody must have died or downsized from house to condo to have given away such a steal. It had already saved Will scores of sweaty hours.

Hope rode behind him on the covered grass-collection trailer, which she loved even more than picking blackberries with her teeth and licking peanut butter off a spoon. As Will turned the mower for another pass across the field, she gazed into the distance as if she were surveying her kingdom, the mower her gilded coach, and Will her minion in black livery and polished boots.

Will slowly worked his way over to the deer fence he’d put up to corral Hope, and he checked his watch. Damn. He had to get the grass cut before summer came and dried it out—one match, and his neighborhood could go up in a blaze—but he had no time to finish today. Because of his job, there was never enough time for all he had to do, including repairs on his house before it gave up and fell in around him. He could count on one hand the weeks in the last year when he’d worked only forty hours.

This very afternoon, piled on his kitchen table, were tasks he had to finish before jury selection in the morning. He’d be up till after midnight, combing one last time through the jury list, snooping on the social media of prospective members, pre-ranking them. Tomorrow he’d brace himself for what some said to weasel out of serving: “Based on my religion, I believe that only God can judge someone.” “I don’t believe in the criminal justice system.” “If that man is here in this courtroom, he must have done something.” No excuse was too lame. Will had heard them all.

“Ready to call it a day, Hope?” he shouted back to her over the mower’s roar. If she could speak, her answer would have been an emphatic “No!” Instead, she relied on body language to convey her opinion, which she gave with her tragic look—her posture drooped, her forehead rumpled, her moist eyes averted as if she could not bear to look directly at someone who could be so cruel. Had he no understanding of a dog’s need of sunshine?

Will wasn’t ready to leave the field, either. He could have used an afternoon off. Nevertheless, duty-bound, he headed back to the barn.

When he turned off the ignition, Hope, who forgave anyone anything, leapt to the concrete floor and began to patrol for interesting objects to sniff. Will pushed his sunglasses to the top of his head and picked up his plastic water bottle. As he climbed off the mower’s seat, he heard scratching sounds in the loft, where he stored his college trunk and old kitchen chairs that should go to this summer’s Rotary Auction.

He stopped, craned his ears, listened. More scratching. Hope looked up at the loft, then back at him as if she, too, believed something was amiss. Her worried eyes unambiguously declared, A vagrant in our midst!

“Please, don’t let it be a rat,” Will muttered. It was the last thing he needed. He didn’t have time to deal with it.

“Welcome,” Nick said as he helped Tessa remove her corduroy coat. In the manner of a gentleman, he worked it onto a wooden hanger and left it in his entry closet. “Any trouble finding my house?”

“Your directions were perfect,” Tessa said. Kind of like you are, if you want to know the truth.

All week, she’d eagerly anticipated seeing Nick again. This evening, he was dressed in dark slacks and a pale blue shirt that complimented his gray eyes and draped over his chest like silk. It was as elegant as you’d ever find at a barbecue, and she felt a little frumpy in her denim leggings and long-sleeved striped T-shirt.

She handed him a cherry pie in her wicker basket. “I made our dessert.”

His smile revealed even, white teeth. “This is a definite step up. All you were going to get from me was some rocky road ice cream.”

“Cherry pie à la mode would be good.”

“We’ll see what we want later,” he said. “For now I’ve got some sorry news.”

“Oh, no.” But then Tessa thought the news couldn’t be too sorry. Maybe the power was out, and he had an electric stove, and all they’d have to eat was barbecue and cherry pie and rocky road.

“My brother cancelled on us. A tenant started a fire in his rental house in Ellensburg. He and his wife had to race over there to meet with the insurance people.”

“That’s a shame,” Tessa said. “I was looking forward to meeting them.”

“And they, you,” Nick said, as if he’d told them all about her. “They’ll be back next week. We can always get together with them later.”

A hint about a future!

“Hey, you up for a tour?” Nick asked. “I’ve put a lot of sweat equity into this house.” When he took Tessa’s hand, a tingle traveled to her elbow. He led her into his living room, which was bigger than her entire cottage.

It was masculine and as elegant as his shirt—hardwood floors, neutral colors, a leather sofa facing two matching leather chairs in front of a granite fireplace—all tasteful, subdued. In his study was more leather furniture and floor-to-ceiling shelves crammed with books that Tessa itched to peruse. But Nick hurried her off to his sleek, modern kitchen, all black granite and stainless steel. He pulled a fire-engine red towel off the rack and joked, “My one bow to flamboyance.”

“Your house belongs in Nisqually Life,” she said, because the magazine featured the lifestyles of influential people. “It looks like you had a decorator.”

“I consulted a friend sometimes.”

Nick took her hand again and led her through a sliding glass door onto a deck. His garden was immaculate—emerald green grass and beds of sword ferns in front of carefully pruned rock rose bushes. Someone had pulled every weed that had dared show its face.

“Here. Sit.” He gestured to a chaise lounge with a black canvas pillow, where Tessa could extend her legs and lean back, relaxed. “I’ve got it all warmed up for you.” He pointed to flames hissing from a gas stainless steel heater nearby. “How about some wine?”

“What kind did you choose for me this time?”

“Wait and see.”

While Tessa waited, she studied the exterior of Nick’s house. It had two stories, and she noted that he must be playing the gentleman, not taking her upstairs—a sign of his respect for women. The exterior color was a soft, dove-breast gray. Was the friend he’d consulted a former girlfriend?

“Here you go.” Nick handed her red wine in a large glass, the kind that made her want to plink her finger on the crystal and listen to the ring. “It’s Petite Sirah. It’s got blackberry and sugarplum notes—and plenty of antioxidants. They’re a good excuse to drink all you want.”

Nick pulled up a deck chair close to Tessa and rested his tasseled loafer on the chaise lounge’s wooden edge. He was drinking the same Petite Sirah that she was, he told her—a new kind he just found through his wine-tasting club. “To your health,” he said, and they raised their glasses in a toast.

Tessa took a sip. She couldn’t detect blackberry, and she didn’t know what a sugarplum tasted like, so the Petite Sirah’s notes whizzed by her. But it felt good to be here with Nick.

“Your garden is lovely. I don’t see how you ever get yourself to leave here,” Tessa said.

“I hike a lot. Yesterday after my classes, I walked a be. . .