His Hope

2 - Expected or Unexpected

The bus bumped and jostled and jarred Hope until she wanted to scream. The first part of her trip had been by plane. Although she’d flown coach, it had been an enjoyable flight. There had been minimal turbulence. She’d had a window seat. The occupant beside her had been pleasantly silent. It allowed her time to reflect on the life-changing decisions she’d recently made. It didn't matter much now, however, if she was having trepidations. She had already closed the chapter of her life that was in the United States. She’d sold her family home, closed all her bank accounts and cancelled all her credit cards. Her only option now, was to move forward… to look to beginning anew in Guyana.

When she had landed in the country of her birth, the first time after several decades, she did not take the time to sightsee. She did not stop her momentum. To do so, would break her nerve and cause her to chicken out on what she had originally travelled for. She was not known for her bravery or adventurous spirit. In a nut shell, she was an on-the-shelf mousy frumpy woman. Her one claim to excitement was when she visited the Dominican Republic as a birthday gift to herself, the year she’d turned thirty.

Upon arriving in Guyana, Hope took a taxi from the airport to the wharf where she boarded a boat. After travelling for three hours by water, she finally joined a bus for the last leg of her journey.

She had been travelling for almost nineteen hours now and she was tired, sweaty and cranky. Next to her, fellow travelers, Mr. and Mrs. Williamson, spoke quietly to each other. When Hope opened her eyes, Mrs. Williamson said, "It’s a good thing you’re awake. We were just debating whether or not to wake you up since we're almost to the Rupununi Savannahs. My husband and I have done so much travelling over the years, I can map this route out in my sleep. Our town is Leguan, the county center, about two and a half hours past the Rupununi."

Mr. Williamson patted his wife's knee. "She knows, sweetie. This is probably the third time you’ve told her since we have started our journey."

"Oh, yes, of course. I guess the family curse of Dementia is finally catching up with me." Mrs. Williamson turned her attention back to Hope. "So what do you think of the interior you’ve seen so far? Do you have anything like it in the United States?"

Hope gazed out the window at the rolling hills covered with tall grass. She also noted the sandpaper trees (Curatella Americana), Ite Palm (Mauritia flexuosa), Awara Palm (Astrocaryum vulgare) and the Bulletwood or Balata tree (Manilkara bidentata), which the area was famous for. After receiving Mr Brandt’s correspondence, she researched what her new home would be. She remembered reading that there are more than one thousand species of plants - trees, grasses, sedges, woody herbs, climbers and vines in the southern Rupununi savannah. Finding it fascinating, she’d read every article, journal and report she could find. It had intrigued her to know one reason why so many different plants exist in the savannah is because there are a large number of habitat types – rocky outcrops (for example, Kusad Mountain), bush islands, open savannah, forests along rivers and streams, and wetlands. She smiled, "I’m sure there are probably parts quite similar to its plentiful trees and shrubbery. But this particular region is very different from where I lived in Chicago. Instead of an abundance of trees and wildlife, there was an abundance of buildings and people."

Mr. Williamson said proudly, "We've lived here for close to forty-five years and raised four sons and three daughters. Two of our boys stayed in Leguan, while the eldest one moved to Lethem and the youngest to Linden. Our daughters all married and are living in the capital city of Georgetown, which is why we travel there occasionally. Anyway, I can tell you one thing, no matter how far we roam, there is no place like home. Of course, I'm probably repeating myself, too, like my dear Millie."

Hope smiled at the friendly couple and glanced out the window at the dust stirred by the horses. I'd love to be able to say that about somewhere.

For the remaining hour of her trip, she tried to calm the flutters in her stomach. She was a sensible woman of a mature age, but her stomach was behaving like that of a young girl. Smoothing a hand over that wayward part of her body, she willed it to settle down, but her thoughts just stirred the flutters again. Perhaps she would regret her hasty decision to become a mail order bride when she met Mr Brandt. Maybe he'd be a frail-humped-backed old man with blood-flecked eyes and a bad temper; his children difficult to manage. If so, she could catch the next bus and return to the capital city before going home. Home? Where is home? I have no home. Even if I hadn’t sold the house, what would I have waiting there except endless days of misery? I want a family of my own. His is ready made. So what if he's ugly? I’m not much to look at either. Besides, he certainly sounds smart. And children can be taught proper deportment.

Mrs. Williamson spoke, "Hope, dear, you shouldn't chew your nails. You won’t have any left at the rate at which you’re going."

Hope jerked her hand back into her lap like an errant schoolgirl.

"So, you said you were visiting family?" Mr. Williamson prodded. "Ah, yes."

Mrs. Williamson interjected, "My husband can sometimes be nosy. It goes with the territory of being a doctor. He is used to asking questions and making a diagnosis. Don't answer his questions if you don't want to."

Hope wasn't sure how to respond and, thankfully, didn't have to. The driver yelled,

"The Rupununi Savannahs!" and steered the bus to the front of a rundown inn with hand-painted lettering proclaiming, Sleeping Inn. The conductor swiftly opened the bus door and jumped out to allow the occupants to pass. Hope waited for Mrs. Williamson to exit and then Mr. Williamson waited for Hope to step out.

She faltered as she got her land legs and glanced around the two dozen or so buildings. Pitiful looking town, she thought, not for the first time wondering what she’d signed up for. Scanning the entrance to the only inn, she saw a middle-aged man sitting on the steps. His smile showcased brown teeth. Remember, he's smart and has a ready-made family. Shyly, she returned his smile. Meanwhile, another man exited the inn with a shotgun strapped to his back. He tipped his hat and reached to adjust his private part in his pants.

Hope retied her headscarf and opened her umbrella against the early afternoon sun. The conductor handed her suitcases to the driver from the grill located on top of the bus and it thudded to the ground. Next, he dropped her small carry-on and the grizzled man below caught it and set it at her feet. "There you go, ma'am."

"Thank you," Hope said politely, giving him a tip for his assistance.

Before she could gather her wits about her, the driver and his bus conductor were already climbing back onto the bus. With a toot of the horn, they drove off circling before driving behind the inn to park. They would spend the night then make the return trip early in the morning.

Hope glanced at the blacksmith's shop next to the stable and noticed a long-legged man leaning against the siding. He held his cowboy hat in one hand and lazily watched the bus occupants. Even from a distance, she could see he was lean and broad shouldered, with black hair cropped low to his scalp. She immediately dismissed him as her potential husband; he was too young and too handsome.

She turned her attention to another man exiting the general store next door to the inn. Maybe that's him, she thought to herself. The man wore a long sleeved blue shirt tucked into faded black jeans. He looked hot but distinguished in a countrified way. He was very short, but carried himself proudly and had a pleasant, boyish countenance for a man probably in his forties. Please God, let that be him and not the one with the brown teeth or the one with the gun.

A voice spoke from behind her, "Miss Walcott?”

Hope turned and stumbled backwards. The lean cowboy from across the street— with eyes that she could now see were the lightest colour brown – the same shade as rich honey— reached out and caught her by the shoulders before she fell on her backside.

"Y-yes?"

"Ma'am, I'm Dexter Brandt."

She didn’t know exactly what she’d expected when she’d Answered Dexter Brandt’s advertisement for a Mail Order Bride. But she never once considered he would be of a different ethnic group or that he would be so young and handsome. She was now plagued with new fears, namely, whether or not Mr Brandt would want to return her ‘to sender’ having finally seen her and if he didn’t, would she be able to relate to his family.

The flutter in Hope's stomach returned with full force and made its way into her throat so that she couldn't squeeze a word out. Leave it to her to act like a virginal school girl during their first official meeting. Only one of those things was true. God help her.

* * *

Brant held the woman's shoulders until she was steady on her feet again. Hell, he hadn't meant to startle her. Her eyes had widened like she was looking at a monster or a potential r****t/serial killer.

Jeez, what have I gotten myself into? He thought. That was quickly followed by, ooh, she’s Afro-Guyanese. I hadn’t given her race any consideration when I invited her out here.

Dexter wasn’t racist. He held no prejudices against the other ethnic groups in the country. His beautiful country boasted of having six ethnic groups. However, he did have to admit to himself that he hadn’t had much interaction with the other races. He pretty much kept to himself, his farm and his family. Time would soon tell how he and Miss Walcott gelled together.

The woman recovered quickly and stepped backwards. "Yes, I'm Hope Walcott. I'm pleased to meet you, Mr Brandt."

For a second they stood in awkward silence appraising one another, but that was broken when a full-figured older woman approached. "Well, Hope, I see your man's here for you. My, my, but aren't you a fine looking young man? My name is Mrs. Millicent Williamson, and Mr. Jacob Williamson–" she pointed to a portly gentleman stepping onto the inn entryway, "–and I joined the bus yesterday at the Bartica bus park with Miss Walcott. We had a delightful journey. Hope is so mannerly and well educated." Mrs. Williamson glanced back at her husband. "Looks like Mr Williamson is motioning me over." She turned and embraced Hope. "Well, you know we live in Leguan. All you have to do is mention our name to any of the locals and they'll direct you to our home. If you and your man are ever in our part of the country, please look us up. Goodbye, honey."

"Goodbye, Mrs. Williamson. Thank you for your kindness and company throughout the trip."

Brant nodded politely to the woman as she turned to leave. He glanced at the large suitcases beside Miss Walcott. "Ah, my horse cart is next door. I'll be right back to load your belongings."

"Thank you, Mr Brandt."

Brant walked to his horse, berating himself for his stupid idea of advertising for a bride online. He should have just waited until someone suitable settled in The Rupununi. Yeah, right. Like eligible women ever come to The Rupununi.

Untying his horse, he jumped into the driver's seat and urged them forward. He groaned; Hope Ann Walcott looked like what she was—an old maid schoolteacher. Her headscarf was not doing her any favours as it only served to draw attention to her high forehead, wide nose and plump lips. Her features were only softened by her rounded cheekbones. When she'd compressed her lips, she'd looked like a teacher about to scold a wayward child. He pulled the cart next to her luggage and wished he'd never responded to her email. He knew his children needed a mother, but judging from her appearance, he was about to make a huge sacrifice for them.

"Hey, Dex," brown teeth Eddie called from his usual place on the hotel railing.

"Yeah, Eddie?"

"You need help getting all those bags onto the cart?"

"Nope, I’ve got it." He set the carry-on up front of the cart, and then reached for the other suitcases. Jeez, what'd she pack—furniture? He hoisted them one by one until he was done. By his count, there were six in total. He didn’t think his house had enough closet space to accommodate this many clothes.

She gave him her best schoolteacher look as he reached to encircle her waist. She wasn't petite like Margret. The top of her head reached his chin and he could feel curves in spite of the jacket and blouse she’d paired with a long flowing skirt. Glancing at Miss Walcott's profile, he could tell she was blushing. Due to her ebony complexion, he could not be sure, but if her downcast eyes were any indication, she was blushing.

Dexter circled the cart and scolded himself. Great, he’d got himself a middle-aged, virginal school teacher. What was he thinking?

God help him.