Nurturing Hope Read online

  A NineStar Press Publication

  www.ninestarpress.com

  Nurturing Hope

  ISBN: 978-1-64890-532-2

  © 2022 Kara Ripley

  Cover Art © 2022 Jaycee DeLorenzo

  Published in August 2022 by NineStar Press, New Mexico, USA.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any material form, whether by printing, photocopying, scanning or otherwise without the written permission of the publisher. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact NineStar Press at [email protected].

  Also available in Print, ISBN: 978-1-64890-533-9

  CONTENT WARNING:

  This book contains sexually explicit content, which may only be suitable for mature readers. Depictions of drug/alcohol use/addiction, guns, incarceration, past trauma, racism, racial violence, torture (mention of), war

  Nurturing Hope

  Kara Ripley

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Author's Note

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Bibliography

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  For Steph, who made me believe in the kind of love found in books.

  Author’s Note

  I spent more than two and a half years researching, writing, and editing this book and so, dear reader, please know that it was close to completion before the bush fires once again ravaged my Australian home. Before COVID-19. Before George Floyd. Before Australia had its own Black Lives Matter protests. How quickly the world changes. And how much the world, sadly, stays the same.

  Though this is a novel, a work of fiction, the story takes place in a world with a very real context. As such there are some things you need to know about me, the writer of this novel.

  I am, like my character, a foster carer.

  I do, like my character, have endometriosis.

  However,

  I am white.

  I am middle-class.

  I am not an American.

  I have never been personally hurt by the truly insidious horrors of racism.

  I have been complicit in upholding white supremacist systems.

  I want to do better.

  I know I will make mistakes.

  Writing this book has sent me deeper into myself, my white privilege, my white exceptionalism, and my white silence than I ever could have predicted. When I started, I knew that diverse characters were integral to interrupting white centrism in popular culture. I knew that I wanted to do the best I could by my readers, but also by the communities and people who have inspired both my reflective journey, and the writing of this story. But I had no idea how much I didn’t know. That I could never know. I didn’t realize how many mistakes I had made and how far I had to go, and will always have to go.

  Some of my early readers, including those who work in publishing, suggested that I re-write half of this book from the point of view of Soledad. They told me that she, a Latinx police officer, was such a fantastic character with such an amazing life experience that readers would be frustrated not to hear from her more directly. While I was ecstatic to hear such positive feedback about a character that I had tried so hard to build into an authentic and rich personality, I am sorry to tell those readers that I chose not to do this.

  Soledad Reyes, a woman of colour, a member of a police force deeply entrenched in systemic racism, who is also a lesbian, is the daughter of trauma survivors. She is a force for change and a complex woman of such strength that I could only hope to one day be even ten per cent as resilient as she and her family would have had to have been. As my friend, Claudia, who shares a few of these experiences and who helped me so much with this book, has been.

  Though sensitivity readers have told me that it is not unacceptable for white writers to work from the point of view of a person of colour, as long as they have thoroughly and suitably researched real-world experiences for that group and sought the assistance of professional sensitivity readers, it didn’t feel right. There are mixed opinions and experiences in this area and, in danger of being a coward, I took the ‘safer road’. And so, this story remains firmly set in the voice of Desiree, who, like me, will never stop learning how to disrupt the white supremacy she has benefited from her entire life. Instead, I will seek out and read more fiction and art created by people of colour rather than trying to write it through eyes I can never understand. I hope you will do so, as well.

  You may be wondering why a fictional novel, a book that is ultimately a lesbian romance, includes a bibliography. It is important to thank and acknowledge the writers, producers, journalists, historians, and commentators who have contributed to the growth of this book, and my own internal reflections. Many of these people have been subjected to unacceptable racism, both overt and aggressive, as well as the more sinister modernized forms of racism, such as microaggressions and institutionalized white privilege. The fact they have risked so much to share, to teach, is not only admirable, it has been dangerous for them, and as a benefactor of their work, it must be acknowledged.

  Lastly, I want you all to know that I intend to take responsibility for any mistakes I have made in this story and in my life. Though I have tried hard to research, to learn, and to refine this book as a result of what I have learned, I know that interrupting racism and becoming a genuine ally is life-long work. Diverse characters are important. Breaking white silence and white centrism is important. It must be done, and it is up to every person who benefits from racist systems to do so. But I own my mistakes. Please, though I do not expect the emotional labour of people of colour to correct what I have misunderstood or misrepresented, I appreciate and accept any criticism that may come my way. Those mistakes are my own. Lay them at my feet if you will. I want to do better. I need to do better. I will work to do better.

  Chapter One

  CALIFORNIA

  2019

  THERE ARE A lot of things I love about living in Sacramento. For a start, there’s enough distance from Silicon Valley that I can actually afford rent. Having grown up in one of the less-appealing suburbs of San Francisco, being able to get a place with a bathroom built for actual human beings and a little yard space is a nice change from the sardine box I’d shared with my parents and sisters.

  Then there’s the aesthetics of the city. Driving beyond the stoic government buildings and office spaces, citrus trees line the streets like scented sigils and neat, paved driveways stretch up to meet welcoming houses. The whole place has a real sense of home about it, the kind of comfort and connection that can only come from a well-organized city with a steady rhythm of activity.

  I’ve got routines, things I do to provide structure to my life. Early on Sundays, before I dig into my work for the day, I take my teenage foster daughter to the Farmer’s Market and we wander through stalls that sell the best fresh food California has to offer. Strawberries. Beets. Eggs. All of it delectable. Hope says she hates our weekend excursions, but I think I’m gradually wearing her down, convincing her that maybe she isn’t allergic to peaches, tomatoes, and fresh air after all.

  Given the nature of my work, with most of my time spent in an office chair staring at a computer screen, getting outside, whether to the market, to the gym, or, like today, to an off-site job, was normally a real joy.

  I grimaced as I scanned yet another useless street sign. I normally love driving around Sacramento. But I don’t love being lost when I’m meant to be at a job site taking photographs.

  “Where the heck is this damned street?” I yelled at my steering wheel, which obstinately refused to help. Surely cars should be advanced enough to get me where I need to go. I mean, it’s the twenty-first century and that’s a basic part of the job description for a vehicle: taking me from one place to another.

  “Turn left here.” The assertive New Yorker who voiced my GPS had never annoyed me more.

  “There is no left!” I waved toward the sidewalk to prove my point. I was already fifteen minutes late and the car’s navigation system wasn’t doing me any favors by insisting I drive straight into some poor family’s front lawn.

  I’m not always this irritable, honest. Most of the time, I’m fairly calm. But today was not my day.
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  “Does this place even exist?” I drummed my fingers against the gear shift. “This is your fault. Why can’t you find Morts Road? What am I even paying you for?” I shook my head. “Meet Desiree Adler folks, the woman who drives around yelling at nobody.”

  The fact I was arguing with a piece of software didn’t deter me from swearing at her repeated instruction. It felt like whatever could go wrong that morning, had gone wrong.

  My water heater, after weeks of whining and moaning every time someone took a shower, made a valiant last stand before finally dying in a cacophony of hoots and whistles. Of course, this happened before I needed to rinse the conditioner from my hair.

  Let’s not even talk about what our ten-month-old Labrador did to my new jeans while I finished off my ice-cold shower. I’d planned to wear those jeans to the blind date my sister Clara had lined up for that night. It took about sixty minutes of throwing clothes about my bedroom to finally decide on a suitable replacement outfit, and even then, I settled for something that looked kind of ordinary because I was sick of trying things on.

  Ginger Snaps—I let my boss’s son name the dog—may be freaking adorable, but she’s also a menace.

  So, given the first two hours of my day had already been pretty crappy, when the police lights flashed red and blue in my rear-view mirror, you can imagine the whole new level of obscenities that escaped my mouth. But, if you can’t, it was something like this: “For fucking fuck’s sake. Just fuck right off, fucking fucker.” The Monty Python team would have been proud.

  Shaking my head, I flicked on my turn signal and pulled over. I sighed as I tapped at the steering wheel. I wasn’t sure what I had done but between arguing with the GPS and rolling my eyes at non-existent roads, I certainly hadn’t noticed myself speeding or going through a red light. Maybe the cop needed to meet some quota for random breath tests. I just hoped he was quick about it. My boss was not exactly going to get happier the later I was.

  I glanced in my rear-view mirror and nearly spat out the gum I’d been chewing. The cop wasn’t a he. It was a she, and I started to wonder if she’d gotten lost on the way to the audition for a blockbuster film.

  There’s no way a police officer, on an average day at work, should be allowed to be that attractive. As she sauntered toward me, I watched her move in line with my side-view mirror. The officer had a dark beige complexion and long, black hair pulled into a tight and high ponytail. Intelligent brown eyes rested between slightly arched eyebrows and an aquiline nose that complimented the delicious seriousness of her face. It wasn’t normal for a real-life human being to be so beautiful.

  I couldn’t be sure if I hated her for being stunning, or if I wanted her to show me how her handcuffs worked. A confusing thought, given the way my palms always turned clammy whenever cops were around.

  Knock knock.

  I started. I hadn’t realized she was directly next to my car now; I’d been too busy salivating like a teenager and momentarily switched off from reality.

  I grinned awkwardly as I held the button to lower the window. As the tinted divider between us retracted, I cleared my throat. “Is there an officer, problem?”

  She looked at me quizzically. “Excuse me?” Her voice was rich and velvety, like someone who narrated nature documentaries. Look out, Richard Attenborough. Or was it David Attenborough? I always mixed up the Jurassic Park guy with the nature guy. When I failed to respond, she asked for my license and registration and, fumbling with the glove compartment, I retrieved the documents.

  Focus, Desi. You’re about to be fined or arrested or something. Don’t act like you’re unstable.

  I held my hand to my chest and coughed, though I had no real need to, then tried again after she’d checked my license. “What have I done wrong?” The question sounded more abrasive than I’d meant it to, and the narrowing of the police officer’s eyes was a clear sign she hadn’t appreciated my tone. Still, it was the best I could manage. A police stop from years ago, albeit very different to this one, had left me forever unsure about where a simple interaction with a cop might lead.

  The officer pulled a set of aviator sunglasses from her shirt pocket and slid them on as though preparing herself. Then, she retrieved a hand-held device from a pouch on her belt and started tapping, looking at the screen as she spoke again. “You were traveling thirty miles per hour in a twenty-five zone and changed lanes without signaling.”

  The steering wheel squeaked a little, drawing the woman’s eyes to my white-knuckled fingers.

  “Are you sure?” I asked through gritted teeth. A couple stared as they strolled hand-in-hand along the sidewalk, obviously slowing down to try to work out why I’d attracted the attention of a cop.

  It truly was turning out to be an increasingly shitty day.

  The officer used the tip of her index finger to drag her sunglasses down her nose, like something out of a Michael Jackson music video. She considered me over the top rim as she spoke in a highly professional tone. “Are you suggesting I’ve invented a traffic infringement, ma’am?”

  Ouch. The way she’d said ma’am was not what I’d had in mind when I’d considered the handcuffs earlier. I wanted to get away. It had been a long time since I’d had any interactions with a police officer, and though this was unlikely to end as badly as the last incident had, my nerve-endings tingled with suppressed concern.

  I dropped my head as I let out an exasperated sigh. “No, Officer. I would never suggest such a thing. Can you please issue my ticket so I can get to work?”

  She planted a hand against the window frame and leaned forward, enough that I could see most of my face in her sunglasses. I realized then my hair was disheveled and I’d left the house without a scrap of make-up on. I looked like I’d gotten into the car immediately after falling out of bed, without so much as a glance at a reflective surface.

  “I can imagine your job must be important.” The playful curl of her mouth made it clear she was mocking me a little, though she somehow managed to do it whilst maintaining a degree of stoicism.

  The officer’s perfume reminded me of cherries, but that didn’t diminish the heat of frustration creeping up my neck. I needed to get moving; real estate photos didn’t take themselves and the owners wouldn’t be happy about being asked to stay away for even longer. My stomach fluttered as I eyed the clock in my dashboard.

  “I’m sorry.” I dropped my gaze to my lap and tried to check my attitude, the one that had been simmering all morning and wasn’t this woman’s fault. “I know I’m not exactly saving lives or anything. I know that, but I would appreciate being able to make my appointment. I fully accept that I’ve done the wrong thing.”

  The police officer stood straight, her muscled arm falling to her side. “Name, please?”

  Hadn’t she noted that from my license? Was her memory worse than mine? “Desiree Adler.”

  An inexplicable sort of recognition flashed in her eyes, but it disappeared so quickly that I questioned if she’d reacted at all. Without speaking again, the police officer walked to the rear of my car and took note of the plate number, though I could have sworn she’d already done that before even leaving her own car. I know my understanding of police procedures is based more on trashy television than reality, but something seemed off.

  When she returned, the clock in front of me ticked over again.

  “Can I go?” I regretted the acerbic question as soon as I’d said it, having failed my self-imposed test of restraint. I promise I’m not always this much of a grump, but I hated being late, and police officers aren’t exactly my favorite people after what happened to Jason.

  She sighed, her thumb hooking around her belt. Her fingernails were short, but well-groomed, unlike my horrible chewed-on stubs.

  I tried to silently retract my curt question, but I suspect the actual expression looked more like a grimace. On top of my anxiety about being over half an hour late for work, I was also suddenly worrying that the boots I’d picked out for that night’s blind date made me look like a wannabe Spice Girl. A fine time to indulge in such inane thoughts.

  “Again, I apologize,” I said. “It’s been one of those mornings.”

  She pushed her sunglasses to the top of her nose and, without a word, slipped her tablet into its pouch. I couldn’t blame her for ignoring the apology. Even I wasn’t all that convinced, though I was sorry. This woman was doing her job, preventing accidents by enforcing the law, but even though the logical part of my brain knew that, the childish part of my brain that hated to lose an argument wanted to keep baiting her, to have the final word.