Kitabı oku: «A Hopeful Heart and A Home, a Heart, A Husband: A Hopeful Heart»

A Hopeful Heart
&
A Home, A Heart,
A Husband

Lois Richer

Contents

A HOPEFUL HEART

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

A HOME, A HEART, A HUSBAND

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

Epilogue

A Hopeful Heart

Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on…. Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall He not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?

—Matthew 6:25-30

This book is dedicated to my grandpa John, and to Papa Richer. Both of them would have loved Melanie’s refreshing attitude toward seniors and her efforts to improve the lives of those spending their last years in a nursing home. To you who devote your days and nights to caring for someone’s spouse, mother, grandparent or friend, may I say “Thank you.” Your labors do not go unappreciated.

Chapter One

Melanie Stewart slipped out of her battered tan car and slammed the door shut, hoping it would catch.

“You’re doing fine, Bessie, old girl,” she murmured, patting the ancient car’s rusty fender. “I know. You need a paint job and new tires, but that will wait. It has to.”

She grimaced at the thought of the number of high-priority items on her to-do list that seemed to multiply daily. Oh, for a little spare cash!

“The love of money is the root of all evil,” she repeated to herself. “Remember that, and be glad for what you have.”

With a sigh, Melanie blew her auburn bangs from her forehead, resigned to both her penurious state and the blistering July heat.

“Just a few dollars would sure be nice, though.” She sighed, glancing heavenward. “Just a little spare cash could make a big difference to so many.” Unbidden, images of the residents at the Sunset Retirement Home—her residents—rolled through her mind. “Give me a sign, Lord, please,” she pleaded in a heartfelt prayer. “Just a little hint that better things are on the way.”

“Oh, Melanie!” Mr. Jones strode jauntily down the street toward her, whistling his usual happy tune as he pushed his delivery cart in front of Melanie’s redbrick apartment building. “Afternoon, Melanie, my girl.”

Fred Jones was a genial man who had been Mossbank’s special-delivery officer for twenty years. He knew everyone in town and most of what went on. Melanie had long ceased to wonder how he kept the residents and their stories straight.

“Hi, Mr. Jones. How’s your wife doing?” They exchanged the usual banter about the romance Melanie had helped along three years earlier. Then the older man thrust an ordinary white envelope with Official Notice stamped on the front of it into her hand.

“This looks pretty important, Melanie. Thought I’d better bring it over soon as you got off work. It was addressed to the nursing home, but I knew you’d be coming home about now. Sure hope it’s good news.” He grinned. “You’ve got a couple more wedding invitations, too. Reckon Cupid and you were real busy last winter,” he said teasingly, watching her face flush.

His wiry tanned hand offered the shabby clipboard for her signature.

Melanie shook her head at the suggestion that she was the local matchmaker. In Fred’s mind, the two latest invitations confirmed it, even if she hadn’t meant to get involved.

“All I did was lend a little advice,” she told him. When there was no response, she turned the plain white envelope over. There was nothing to identify it on the back. She peered at the strange letters on the front upper left corner—PJPB.

“Why do those initials seem so familiar?” she wondered. After a few moments of deep thought, Fred Jones answered her.

“It’s probably just another of those form letters announcing you have won an unbelievable amount of money.” He frowned. “Then, when you read the fine print, there is always a conditional if or possibly to free the sender of any misrepresentation.” He shook his head gloomily and watched while Melanie stuffed the envelope into the outside pocket of her tan leather bag. “Then again, maybe it’s a letter from an admirer,” he suggested slyly.

“Well, whatever it is, it will have to wait,” she told him tiredly. “I need a shower and some supper. Thanks anyway, Mr. Jones.”

Fred Jones grinned, waved his hand and strode off down the street to his next destination, still whistling, but this time it was “Here Comes the Bride.”

Lethargically, Melanie forced her tired feet up the three stairs and into the blessed coolness of the air-conditioned foyer. The elevator took forever, so she slowly climbed the stairs.

As usual, the events of her day threatened to overwhelm her and she forcibly thrust them to the back of her mind, refusing to allow herself to dwell on the sad situations she often handled as director of Sunset Retirement Home.

At twenty-eight, she had never become resigned to the plight of seniors forced to enter a nursing home when they could no longer care for themselves. Empathy of a world-weary foster child, no doubt, she derided herself.

Melanie spent every minute of her workday trying to make their lives interesting and enjoyable. In short, she hoped to allow the residents the freedom to live as they wished with help nearby when necessary. Since her childish dreams of husband and children had never been fulfilled, the small community of Mossbank, North Dakota, but especially the residents at Sunset, had become her special family.

Melanie placed the letter on the hall table just as the phone rang.

“Oh, hi, Mom.” She smiled at Charity Flowerday’s excited rush of words. “Yes, Mother. I’m perfectly fine.” She grinned at the familiar question. “I will eat supper, Mom. A lovely Chinese dinner that Shawna left for me. She’s gone out on another date, I think.”

“Aren’t you going out, dear?”

Melanie burst out laughing.

“Me? No way. I’m dead tired and I just want to relax.” She groaned inwardly. “No, Mother, I don’t know Judge Conroy’s grandson. You said he’s moved here?”

Melanie eyed her letter longingly, knowing that her adoptive mother took a special interest in each and every newcomer to their small, closely knit town and would relay every morsel of information she’d found out about this most recent arrival. It seemed Charity had found yet another homeless chick to spread her wings over. For her own sake, Melanie just hoped this grandson was happily married.

“No, I hadn’t heard anything, but then I don’t know Judge Conroy all that well. If his grandson’s been here for two weeks, I’ll probably meet him at church soon. If I ever get another Sunday off!” Melanie smiled at the abrupt change of topic.

“Yes, Mother, I know there are some good men in the world. I just haven’t met many of them, and those I think I might be interested in usually want my help to attract someone else.” She smiled at the volume of reassurances that issued over the phone.

“Listen, Mother, I was just going to start dinner when you called. I have to go now. I’m starved. Have a good time with Faith and Hope. Bye, Mother.”

The letter on the hall table stared at her all the while she ate her dinner. Knowing she could procrastinate no longer, Melanie finally carried her tea to the living room and sank into the depths of her overstuffed sofa. Yawning widely, she slit the slim envelope and drew out a single sheet of heavy white paper.

We are pleased to announce that M. Stewart of Mossbank, North Dakota, has been randomly selected by our computer as the grand prize winner of 50,000 in our recent Papa John’s Peanut Butter contest.

This will advise you that prizes will be awarded Thursday, July 15, during a televised announcement at WMIX-TV13. Please be at the station no later than 1:00 p.m. of that day. A company representative will contact you within the next few days to confirm your win and to give you additional information.

There was another paragraph offering congratulations and asking her not to talk to the press, but Melanie absorbed none of it. Her eyes read the words, but her mind couldn’t comprehend their significance.

She turned it over to check for the usual qualifying sentences and found nothing. There was only a scrawled signature at the end of the letter which was identified as the CEO of Papa John’s Peanut Butter. Stupidly, she stared at the embossed golden logo, afraid to believe it.

“He answered,” she muttered to herself, dazed. “I’ve actually won some money!”

Melanie read the wonderful letter three times before her mind acknowledged and processed the information, and then she let out an unbridled squeal of joy.

“A grand prize winner,” she mused, twisting one curling lock of her shoulder-length hair. “Thank you, Lord. As usual, Your timing is perfect. Maybe Mr. Henessey will get his wish after all. And of course, Mrs. Blair.”

One by one, the residents of the special-care home flew through her thoughts. Many of the seniors had little or no family nearby. Some, like Mr. Henessey, had very little money for things that would make his last few years so enjoyable. A windfall of cash would be just the thing.

When Shawna sauntered through the door three hours later, Melanie had finished drawing up her list of future expenses. She pounced on her friend eagerly.

“I won, I won,” she squeaked, thrusting the letter in front of Shawna’s sunburned nose.

Her roommate was cool and efficient, well used to Melanie’s bursts of excitement. Calmly she laid her jacket and purse on a nearby chair, wished her gaping date a good evening and closed the door on him firmly, then reached for the letter. After a careful scrutiny, she grabbed Melanie and they danced giddily around, laughing hilariously.

A week later, the thrill of excitement had not diminished as Melanie found herself ushered into the makeup room of WMIX, a Bismarck television station that specialized in North Dakota’s news events. Melanie sat nervously while a teenage girl applied a thick layer of shadow and mascara. She felt butterflies dance an entire ballet through her midsection. Finally, eons later, a short, frumpy woman bustled into the room.

“M. Stewart?” Accepting the nod, the older woman wrapped her vivid purple nails around Melanie’s arm and led her through a maze of corridors to a busy sound stage.

“Now, dear,” she said over her shoulder, “we’ll be broadcasting shortly. Don’t move from this spot. When it’s your turn, I’ll be here to guide you on.”

Like a plump, busy robin, the woman in the bright red shirt whisked through the menagerie of sound men, cameras and directors to the booth across the room.

From behind the curtain, Melanie saw part of the stage setting. A huge structure meant to represent a peanut butter jar full of gold coins sat front and center with the famous glittering golden letters PJPB on its side. Standing beside it was a man Melanie identified as Papa John, clad in his white shirt, bow tie, blue jeans and red suspenders. Snowy white hair looked exactly as it did on the commercials that flashed across the television screen every night.

In the last forty-eight hours, Melanie had spent valuable hours at work wracking her brain, trying to remember entering any contest to do with Papa John’s Peanut Butter. Nothing specific came to mind, but then she had been in such a fog during a particularly low period in her life a few months ago. Right after poor old Mrs. Peters had passed away.

Suddenly the announcer’s voice penetrated her thoughts.

“The winner is M. Stewart!”

Melanie felt a hand on her back propelling her forward. As she moved toward the grinning announcer, she noticed a tall, dark-haired man moving from the wings on the far side of the stage. Slim and muscular, he exuded the very essence of a man-about-town. He had rugged, chiseled features and the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

And those eyes were fixed firmly on her!

Melanie gave herself a mental shake and focused on the task ahead. Nervously, she wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt before moving to stand beside the announcer.

“M. Stewart,” he boomed in his loud, TV personality voice.

“Yes,” Melanie answered, and then heard a yes from directly behind her. Turning her head, she found those deep blue eyes glaring at her.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I think he asked for me.” Low and rumbling, his voice rolled past her left ear as the man carefully but still rudely elbowed his way past.

“But my name is M. Stewart,” Melanie insisted, wondering if the whole thing was a hoax. The announcer was obviously at a loss as he turned his perfectly groomed head from one to the other.

“I’m Melanie Stewart.” Melanie was so nervous her voice slipped out in a soft squeak that no one seemed to hear.

Finally the director hissed from his seat in the sound room. The words were audible over the whole stage. “Do something!”

“I’m sorry, folks,” the announcer said slowly, “but there seems to be a bit of a mix-up here. Our winner of the Papa John’s Peanut Butter contest is M. Stewart. Sir, may I have your full name, please?”

The handsome interloper gracefully inclined his head as he stated clearly, “Mitchel Edward Stewart.” His glittering blue eyes dared Melanie to top that.

“And you, miss. Your name is?” The microphone was stuck in her face, and Melanie forced a tight rein on her temper as she answered.

“Melanie Clarice Stewart.”

“Well, isn’t this great. Are you two married?”

The stranger’s dark head shook adamantly, his blue eyes hurling daggers at Melanie.

“I am not married and I have certainly never met Miss Stewart,” he said, arrogantly dismissing Melanie’s presence with a brush of his hand. “I was advised by telephone that I had won a contest and that I was obligated to be here today.”

Melanie’s simmering temper flashed to the surface. Not so fast, she thought, and tugged the rumpled letterhead from the pocket of her skirt, intent on wiping the smugly satisfied look from Mr. Mitchel Stewart’s handsome countenance.

“I received this letter by special delivery,” she said, waving the letter for all to see. Heat flooded her face as she stared into mocking blue eyes.

“I was to receive a phone call with further instructions, but—” She paused for effect. Her tone was acidic in the extreme. “Apparently, that went astray.”

Mitchel Stewart looked stunned at her words. Obviously he thought she was faking. Anger rushed through her as Melanie remembered all the things 50,000 could provide for her friends. There was no way this man was going to do her out of what was rightfully hers. She couldn’t afford to let Mr. Pushy M. Stewart push her out of the running. If his name really was Stewart!

Just then, Papa John stepped into the spotlight. Taking the mike from the dumbfounded announcer’s hand, he spoke into it in the soft, musical drawl known throughout North America.

“Now, folks. It looks like there’s been some sort of mix-up here today. According to my information, our winner, M. Stewart, lives at 300 Oak Street in Mossbank, North Dakota.”

His weathered face studied the two. Melanie spoke up.

“Yes, well, I work at that address. It’s a nursing home. Sunset Retirement Home.”

Clearly, Mitchel Stewart was not to be outdone. He stepped forward.

“I am also employed at 300 Oak Street.”

Her anger grew as she glared at him, her eyes narrowed and searching. How could he do this to her? He was lying. She knew it. She knew all the tenants in the home, and she knew the employees, as well. He wasn’t one of them.

“I started two weeks ago.” He said it triumphantly, as if this was a game of one-upmanship. Melanie fumed.

“This sure is a puzzler, folks.” Papa John scratched his head, obviously considering the next step.

One of the most popular television stations in North Dakota was broadcasting a lot of dead air, which was certainly not good for business, but it seemed no one could think of anything to say. Finally, the announcer stepped forward and spoke directly to the camera.

“Ladies and gentlemen, you have watched a newsmaking event on WMIX tonight. We apparently have two winners in the Papa John’s Peanut Butter contest, both named M. Stewart and both living in Mossbank and working at 300 Oak Street.” He smiled fatuously at both of them before glancing at the camera. “Keep tuned, and WMIX will keep you up to the minute with events as they happen.”

As he gave the familiar station call letters, Melanie drooped with fatigue. Papa John moved to brush a gentle hand over hers.

“I’m real sorry about this, miss,” he apologized. “I don’t know what happened. There must have been some error. The selections were made by computer.” Papa John grinned at her. “Couldn’t have picked a better station, though, could I? WMIX. Mixed up, they should call it.”

Melanie smiled weakly.

They both turned at the throat-clearing sound from Mitchel Stewart. The dark-haired man had absolutely no manners, Melanie decided grimly. He stood peering down at both of them, eavesdropping on their conversation without any compunction. She turned her back to him deliberately as Papa John spoke again.

“I’m sorry about you, too, Mr. Stewart. I promise you that I will get this straightened out and let you know as soon as I can. Thank you both for making time to come down.” The old man reached into his shirt pocket for a scrap of paper and a pen.

“Where can I reach you during the day, Miss Stewart?”

Melanie shuffled through her purse for a business card. She tried to ignore the tall man directly behind her.

“I am the director of care at Sunset,” she told him, keeping her voice quiet.

“That’s the one attached to the hospital,” Papa John said, scribbling in odd, unreadable ink strokes. “I know about it from friends.”

“Here’s my address,” Mitchel Stewart announced gruffly, unasked. “I’m often at the hospital, but I’ll give you my card with office numbers.” Trust him to butt in, Melanie thought.

A lean, muscular hand proffered a crisp white business card. His fingers were long and well cared for. The hands of a surgeon, Melanie guessed. Surgeons were usually arrogant. She turned to leave the two men.

“I have to get back to work,” she murmured. “Nice to meet you, Papa John.” Melanie glanced at the interloper, nodding dismissively.

As she strode out of the building, she wondered what would happen next when strong fingers closed about her arm.

“I’ll walk with you,” that firm, bossy voice declared. “If you don’t mind, that is. It seems we have something in common besides our names.” He smiled that thousand-watt grin that made her pulse flutter. “I didn’t realize you worked at Sunset. Guess I didn’t notice you.”

Egotistical male, Melanie decided and tossed her gleaming curls. Her normally clear skin flushed with irritation in the bright sunlight. That was just what every woman wanted to hear—that she had been overlooked.

“Oh, no, I don’t mind at all,” she said with a touch of sarcasm. “Please feel free to tag along.”

She was not a small woman, but Mitchel Stewart seemed to tower over her. Even with three-inch heels, her five-foot-five-inch stature seemed small and ineffective beside his height. She felt as if she was losing the upper hand in every confrontation with him.

She glared at him, tugging her arm out of his grasp as she stepped back, her body language telling him clearly not to invade her personal space.

“I don’t appreciate being accosted in broad daylight, Mr. Stewart,” she said through clenched teeth.

“Oh. Sorry. Do you appreciate it more after dark?” he quipped, grinning. “It was a little joke,” he said, his smile noticeably drooping.

“Very little.” Melanie was not amused. “I expect surgeons are so used to getting what they want, they never think of anyone else’s wishes.” Her normally calm, even tones were scathing.

“I expect they are.”

He was trying to mollify her. She could hear it in his voice.

“You admit it?” Her dark eyes opened wide in disbelief. His impudence galled her.

Mitchel wasn’t sure exactly what was going on. He had been aware of her dislike. It emanated from every pore of her well-shaped body. But right now it was as if there was another conversation going on. One that he knew absolutely nothing about.

He studied her small, tilted nose. It fit perfectly with her high-and-mighty attitude. The original attraction he had felt onstage had not abated. For some reason her dislike drew him like a magnet. He wondered if she would consider…Well, why not forge ahead?

Turning quickly, Mitchel folded her arm in his and began striding toward the parking lot. Perforce the lady had to follow, although not happily.

“Will you stop dragging me about?” she demanded. As she tried to push his muscle-hardened body away, her heel caught in a metal grating. Mitchel caught her as she swayed.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he said, smiling sympathetically. “All I wanted was to help you to your car and ask you out for dinner. I wasn’t expecting you to fall into my arms.”

Melanie pursed her lips and refused to rise to the bait. He was too infuriating. Instead she walked away.

“Where are you going?”

She pointed her finger at the tan beater parked haphazardly in a stall just six feet away. His black eyebrow arched quizzically.

“Vice-president, Communications?” Mitchel’s gleaming dark eyes frowned at her. “I thought you said you worked at the retirement home.” Clearly puzzled, he stared at her for several moments before his face darkened ominously.

“I get it,” he announced, teeth bared. “It was all just a ruse, wasn’t it? Just for the money. Well, I’m not going to be part of your little con game.” His glittering sapphire eyes stared at the placard in front of her car. “Goodbye, N. Landt.”

He turned on his heel and strode furiously away, shoulders stiff with anger.

Melanie sighed, resigned to her fate. “It has been a difficult week, Lord,” she mused. “Today isn’t going so well, either. And it doesn’t look like things will be improving anytime soon. I know I can’t understand everything You do, so could You just help me get through today?”

Sighing, she fished her key ring out of the leather shoulder bag and unlocked the car door. Gently she eased herself into the car, glumly grateful that she’d made it through this far. She would probably drive to the home, enjoy a cup of fresh coffee and get down to what she knew best.

A light tapping on her window roused Melanie from her thoughts. Turning, she saw a tall blond Adonis dressed in an elegant black three-piece pinstripe standing outside her car. She rolled down the window.

“Yes?”

“I’m terribly sorry,” he apologized, flashing a movie-perfect smile, “but you are parked in my spot. I’m Neal Landt.”

It was too much. Melanie burst into laughter, paroxysms of hilarity shaking her narrow shoulders.

“I’m very sorry,” she apologized as concern etched itself on his worried face. Quickly she explained the reason for her visit. “I was so afraid I’d be late, I pulled into the first empty spot and rushed into the studio. I’ll move right away,” she promised.

Melanie flicked on the car’s engine and waved at the bemused young man staring after her. When she glanced back, Neal Landt was scribbling furiously as he leaned against his silver-gray Jaguar.

“I’ll probably get a ticket for parking in his spot, the way today is going,” she muttered, and tried to ignore the pain pulsing through her puffy ankle.

“Once I get to work,” she promised herself. “I’ll be okay then. In fact,” she muttered in frustration, “the whole day would have progressed very well if I had just ignored the stupid letter and gone straight to work in the first place.”

There are no free lunches, she remembered Charity lecturing. Whatever you get in this life is exactly what you’ve worked for, dear. There’s no such thing as something for nothing.

“As usual, you are always right, Mother,” Melanie lamented sadly. “Especially today. But oh, what we could have done with that prize!”

It really was too bad the ill-humored Mitchel Stewart had not been able to see the funny side of this whole situation, Melanie thought, her lips tilting up as her mind replayed the scene. Humming loudly, she pulled into traffic and headed for Mossbank, confident that a return to routine would put her on track.

The mass of paperwork beckoned, and Melanie knew she would have to tackle it soon, but there was one duty she couldn’t neglect in her daily ritual. Anyway, she didn’t want to. She enjoyed it too much.

Quickly she slid out of the navy suit she had worn for her television debut and into the spare pink uniform she kept for just such occasions. She surveyed herself in the narrow mirror she had hung on the back of her door.

“Oh, lovely.” She grimaced, noting the caked lines of eye-shadow and heavy red lipstick. “Wait till the candy stripers see you in this getup.”

She grabbed a brush and tugged it through her dark russet curls, allowing them to fall to her shoulders. A few tissues and some cream took off the goop they had plastered on her at the studio, and she cleansed her skin well before applying a light touch of blush and a hint of mascara. She hated a lot of makeup, and anyway, she never remembered to renew it.

Satisfied, Melanie walked out the door and into the group of residents gathered outside.

“Mrs. Christie.” She smiled, gathering the woman’s blue-veined hands in her own. “I do believe it’s a special day for you today.”

The toothless old woman squeezed Melanie’s hand tightly and nodded. Tears of happiness pooled at the corners of the weary, wrinkled eyes.

“My grandson is coming,” she whispered as if afraid to say the words aloud. “He’s bringing his fiancée. Isn’t it wonderful?”

“Yes, it is.” Melanie smiled at her. “And you look lovely,” she told the elderly woman sincerely.

Each resident had something special to say to her, and Melanie allowed them to speak freely. It was so important to them, this time of sharing. Many felt neglected and alone, and they needed someone to listen. It mattered not that she had heard these same stories a hundred times before. What was important was the telling, recalling the happiness of the past. For many it was their only pleasant time in an otherwise bleak existence.

Except for Mrs. Rivers.

“Good morning, Nettie. You look lovely today. As usual.”

The old lady sat silently staring out the window, her hands full of contest entries, which she shuffled from one hand to the other. She refused to answer any of the questions Melanie asked. Contrary to the administrator’s evaluation, Melanie believed the older woman could understand everything that was said to her. It was merely a problem of finding the right subject or the right person to get her to talk. And heaven knew, Melanie had tried quite a few. Today nothing seemed to budge the woman out of her self-imposed silence.

“Well, Mrs. Rivers, I hope you have a good day today.”

Because the stack of work still had to be dealt with, Melanie finally gave in. It was now or never. She returned to her desk, sat down and immersed herself in work, tuning out everything but the unfinished schedules and part-time applications that needed immediate attention.

A disturbance in the outside office alerted her to the possibility of trouble sometime later. Raised in anger, the voice barely carried through the strong metal door. Melanie dropped her pen to listen.

It was a man’s voice, she decided. Rather low, but obviously furious. She grinned when Bridget attempted to intercept the flow of angry words with little success.

When her focus would not return, Melanie finally gave in to curiosity, grimacing as she stood. She would settle this and then it was back to the grindstone, she promised herself. No sidetracking.

As she opened the door, a familiar voice ranted at Bridget.

“It’s a hospital, for heaven’s sake. We can’t have people wandering around in areas they shouldn’t be, looking for lunch. Someone will get hurt. Don’t you feed these people regularly?”

His tones were scathingly critical of her overworked staff, and Melanie surged forward, prepared to do battle.

“Dr. Stewart, we know exactly what we are doing in this facility. Perhaps if the medical staff in your hospital had enough sense to close the doors behind them, our residents would not wander into the hospital.”

Mitchel Stewart whirled to face her, his jaw slack with astonishment. He was as good-looking as Melanie remembered. Still formally dressed in the dark suit jacket and matching slacks, he exuded the posh doctor persona.

Only the tie at the neck of his pristine white shirt was loosened and slightly askew. Curling dark hairs peeked out from his throat. He looked every inch a playboy with his rumpled black hair and twinkling azure eyes.

“You!” he gasped, clearly shocked. “What are you doing here?”

“As I told you before, Dr. Stewart, this is where I am employed. Supposedly you are, also, although I must have missed seeing you around.” Melanie assumed a haughty look before demanding, “Is there anything else, Doctor?”

“I am not a doctor,” he told her loudly. “And yes, there certainly is. May I speak with you privately?”

“Not Dr. Stewart?” Melanie stretched her lips thinly, faking outrage. “You lied deliberately, to try to cheat me out of that money, didn’t you?” she accused, hands on her hips.

When a telltale flush of red covered his jutting cheekbones, Melanie felt deep satisfaction. Self-righteous and smug, she delivered the final blow.

“I don’t think I want to be part of your charade any longer, whoever you are.”

Turning, Melanie flounced into her office in high dudgeon, feeling a virtuous superiority. He had asked for it.

“We’re not quite finished, are we?” His deep tones rumbled over her left shoulder.

“I’ve said everything I’m going to,” she announced smugly and flopped into her desk chair.

“Good. Then you can hear me out.”

Chapter Two

“Ms. Stewart, it seems there has been more than one mix-up today.”

He had never before seen a woman so furious and yet so determined not to say a word, Mitch decided in amusement. He fully expected her to blow a gasket.

“What do you want?” Her low voice barely masked her frustration.

“Look, I came to say I’m sorry.” She looked slightly mollified at his calm, contrite tone, but the glitter of suspicion returned to her eyes when Bridget walked into her office with Sam Sinclair shuffling alongside her. Mitch ignored them.

“And I came to make sure you keep those patients out of the hospital. They could get hurt.” She had that look again.

“Ms. Stewart—Melanie—I’m very sorry I accused you wrongly earlier today. Please forgive me.” Deliberately, Mitch made his tones sweet as honey.

“Fine. You’re forgiven.” Her voice was frosty, unwelcoming, with a tinge of bitterness. “Now, please, will you get out of my office. Bridget, would you do the honors?”

Leaning back in her chair, Melanie glared at him. He watched her huge green eyes flicker with something like suspicion as she studied him. Mitch decided the faint pink of her uniform was certainly her color.

Her almost round face, with its dainty nose tipped at that disdainful angle, dared him to try her patience. Her mouth straightened into a thin, disapproving line.

Deliberately Mitch tamped his growing interest and firmed his resolve. He wasn’t here looking for a date. He was here to make restitution. Melanie Stewart was going to understand his concerns one way or another.

“Now, if we can discuss this rationally.”

“Oh, buzz off—” She stopped short of saying whatever else was on her mind, and Mitch almost laughed at the childish phrase.

Melanie was fiery and determined and willful, but she had a streak of decency in her that forbade the use of cuss words. It was unusual in this day and age and something he admired, Mitch admitted. But he wouldn’t tell her that just yet.

Stretching her long legs, Melanie deliberately ignored him. To Mitch, that was the final straw. He opened the door and ordered, “Look, just look.

“They’re wandering all over the place,” he told her, pointing toward one sprightly old gentleman dressed in an ancient green suit, which bore a striking resemblance to the apparel of a leprechaun. “This place is out of control.”

He watched as she spluttered angrily. But as residents watched, Melanie Stewart refused to acknowledge his tenuous grip on her small hand. Smiling and friendly, she greeted each one, losing the smile immediately when they passed.

“The hospital cannot afford to have someone injured or worse, simply because you allow these people to wander around at large. It’s my job to ensure we don’t get embroiled in any frivolous law suits.” He pulled her along behind him through the hallways, past the interested spectators gathered outside their rooms.

“You’re a lawyer?” The way she said his profession, Mitch figured it rated pretty low on her scale.

It also brought on another tirade.

“Of all the silly, idiotic, lying tricks…”

Mitch let her rant until they came to a tiny woman sitting quietly on a bench in the hall. Bending his lips to her ear, Mitch teased her.

“If you scare these folks into thinking you’re having a conniption fit, they are going to get worked up. Just relax, will you?” He breathed in the soft, light fragrance she wore, enjoying its teasing allure.

“Conniption fit? I haven’t heard that phrase for years!” She frowned at him. “Anyway, Mrs. Rivers never says anything.”

As they drew nearer, the little woman murmured something. Melanie stared in amazement. In two years, Mrs. Rivers had never been heard to utter more than one word. Suddenly, at the sight of this lawyer, she was speaking?

“I beg your pardon,” Melanie said, hoping the old lady would repeat herself.

The woman’s bright gray eyes were riveted on them, and she spoke louder.

“It’s so romantic,” she breathed. “Just like a knight in shining armor. Oh, Melanie, at last you have found your true love.”

Mitch bowed as low as possible, a huge grin crinkling his smug face. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Turning, he marched Melanie back through the office to her inner sanctum, then gently pressed her stiff, angry body onto the leather couch. As he moved to stand, Mitch gently drew his lips across her soft, angry ones.

“Maybe she’s right, Melanie.” He grinned cheekily before tossing his jacket across his arm and moving to the door. He slid his dark eyes over her once more before murmuring, “We’ll see.” The door closed softly on his laughing face.

Melanie hissed with frustration through tightly pursed lips. “No, Mr. Know-It-All Stewart, we definitely will not see.”

Her hand swiped across her mouth as she tried without success to erase the feel of his seeking mouth. She clenched her fist as the pool of awareness in her middle refused to go away.

“Cad. Liar. Overbearing male. Rude. Pushy. Thief…oh!” There simply were not enough words, she decided.

“Talking to someone?” Shawna poked her head around the door. “I thought I heard someone calling names.” She grinned, eyeing her friend’s heightened color.

“Could be,” Melanie answered, forcing a smile. “The way today’s been going, anything might happen.” She looked at her roomie curiously. “What are you doing here?”

Shawna unpinned her glistening hair and shook it free of her confining nurse’s cap. She wasn’t wearing scrubs, Melanie noticed.

“Not operating today?”

“Oh, Mal is late again. You know, it’s getting so that the man never manages to arrive in the operating room until at least an hour after his scheduled time.” Mal was her pet name for a doctor on staff she particularly despised. Short for malpractice.

“Doesn’t that sort of throw things off?” Melanie knew enough about the tightly funded medical world to know that time is money, especially in an operating room.

“Oh, yeah,” Shawna agreed. “And I can tell you that the other doctors are getting pretty tired of hanging around waiting for him to get his act together.”

“Did you pick up your check?” Her eyes were big and round with excitement. “Can I see it? The money, I mean.”

Melanie sighed deeply. “I didn’t get the money.” When Shawna’s jaw dropped open, Melanie’s hand went up, forestalling her comments. “It seems that two invitations went out, both of them to an M. Stewart. Unfortunately there were two M. Stewarts in attendance. One Melanie, one Mitchel. He just left.”

The paging system interrupted her.

“I’ve gotta go. Mal must be here. Why now?” Shawna muttered in frustration. “I can’t wait to hear more.” Stuffing her long hair under the cap, the operating room nurse left in a flurry, looking model perfect.

It didn’t matter how much she tried after that, Melanie could not concentrate on the job. Part of it was her own fault, she acknowledged bitterly. But most of it was due to a certain lawyer and she put in time without accomplishing much.

“I’m calling it a day, Bridget. Can you handle everything?” Melanie watched as Bridget nodded, her face lit with a huge grin. “Don’t mention him,” she ordered grimly. “This is all his fault!”

Melanie strode out the door, then turned.

“And don’t call my mother,” she ordered wrathfully. “All I need are the fearsome threesome hanging around trying to nurse me through this illness.”

“Melanie! You know Faith and Hope and your mother only want to help. Why, I’m sure if they knew about that handsome man that just left, they’d be very pleased.”

“Considering that they’ve been trying to marry me off for years, I suppose so.” Melanie grimaced. “My mother was even trying to set me up with Judge Conroy’s grandson the other day.” She shook her head in dismay.

“Yes, but—”

“I have to go home, Bridget. My feet are killing me. See you tomorrow.” Melanie left, winding through the maze of curious and grinning residents to the parking lot.

“Lawyers!” One last epithet and she was finished thinking about Mitchel Stewart, she decided.

“But they said he was dead! Killed in action.” Hope stared at her two best friends in agony. “I pleaded and I begged them to check again and again, but they said they were sure.”

“Hope, dear, God still works miracles,” Faith murmured, patting the pale, smooth hand. “And He is the final authority. Just calm down and let us think this through.”

Charity peered at the two women sitting in her living room and wondered if it was true. Had Hope’s fiancé returned from the dead after nearly twenty-five years?

“How did you find all this out?” she asked. “Did someone from the government phone you, Hope?” She remembered the television clip from last evening. “I have heard that they are still finding some MIAs. Perhaps Jean was one of those?”

Hope shook her blond head, dazed.

“No, I don’t think so. The lady who phoned said he’d been quite ill. Apparently, during a high fever, he mentioned my name. Lately someone’s been searching for him. She asked me all kinds of questions, Faith. Strange questions.”

“Questions? Oh, piffle!” Faith’s normally sunny face was dark with foreboding. “What kind of questions?”

“Oh, if I was married now. And the year Jean disappeared. If I’d ever heard from him while he was in Vietnam. Things like that.”

“There have been some private efforts to investigate claims about MIAs,” Charity murmured, watching her friend’s sad face. “Perhaps that’s it. Maybe a family member?”

“Charity, he didn’t have any family. And besides—” Hope winced “—Jean wasn’t missing in action. They said he died!” Her voice was full of remembered pain. “How could they make a mistake like that?”

“We don’t know, dear. Perhaps we never will. But God knows. And He will use this to bless you, you can be sure of that.”

Hope’s unlined face was haggard as she stared at her closest friends.

“I don’t know what to do,” she confessed wearily. “I don’t know where to turn.”

“Well, I do,” Faith declared firmly. “First we turn to the Lord, and then I’m going to give Harry Conroy a call. He’s got contacts in Washington. Maybe he can find out something.”

“You don’t have to phone him, Faith. He’s coming over for dinner. And bringing his grandson.” Charity smiled slyly. “Melanie’s coming, too. Why don’t you both stay? Maybe we can figure something out together.”

“I can stay.” Faith beamed happily, clapping her hands. “I just love fried chicken. And Arthur’s away in Denver at that conference.”

“Fried chicken,” Hope murmured, a look of faint chagrin on her face. “Very well, I suppose one high-cholesterol meal won’t hurt. Thank you, Charity. In fact, I’ll help you. I can make a salad.”

Charity peered at Faith with a look that asked the other woman for help.

“That’s a good idea. A nice fresh green Caesar salad with croutons and cheese and lots of dressing. But first we pray,” Faith ordered, and led off a heartfelt plea to her heavenly father.

After twenty-three laps, Melanie was definitely winded, but after thirty-two she was relaxed. The huge pool area was one of the apartment’s perks she really enjoyed. Some people jogged, and some did aerobics. Melanie had always preferred swimming.

Slowly, she pulled herself out and walked the few steps to the whirling hot tub. She never could stand the overpowering temperature for very long, but it soothed and rejuvenated like no other remedy for stress. Eyes closed, she reclined and let the bubbling waters do their work.

“Miss Stewart, how nice to see you again.”

Melanie blinked, almost believing the man standing in front of her was a dream. Goodness knows, he was certainly dream material. Tall and dark, clad in a black swimsuit, he exemplified male macho.

Melanie gulped as she moved her gaze from his strong, muscular legs to his lean hips and tapered waist, across the broad expanse of his golden chest covered in fine whorling black hairs to his sharply featured face. He was hunk material, all right, she told herself, trying to calm her thudding heart.

The time since their last meeting had not dulled her irrational attraction to him in the least.

“Mr. Stewart.” It was a miracle anything emerged from her parched throat. For the life of her, Melanie couldn’t think of a thing to say.

“Still mad, huh?”

Grinning, Mitchel Stewart walked to the edge of the pool and dove into its still waters. The ripples that spread seemed amazingly like those circles of excitement that rippled through her. She watched him swim with even strokes, broad shoulders and muscular arms cutting cleanly through the water.

Melanie gave herself a mental shake and turned her eager eyes from watching his graceful form. Instead she sank deeper into the hot water, hoping it would ease new tension. She closed her eyes and deliberately blanked out his presence.

“May I join you?” The question was perfunctory. Mitchel Stewart didn’t bother to wait for an answer. He sank down beside her, his thigh brushing hers. Melanie edged away, giving him more room.

His dark eyes twinkled at her as he spoke.

“Okay, you win,” he declared. “I think you have sufficiently paid me back with Mrs. Strange and her daughter.” A rueful look passed over his face. “Some would even say you’re points ahead.”

Melanie burst out laughing. Agatha Strange was a lonely old soul whose fondest wish was to have her spinster daughter married before the old woman passed on, as she phrased it. When Mrs. Strange had come to her with a problem about her will, Melanie’s plan had hatched. Who better to handle the old girl than attorney extraordinaire Mitchel Stewart? Gleefully, she had told the elderly woman about Mitchel, while managing to imply that he was single and desperately looking for love.

Throughout the week, bits and pieces of their exchanges had been relayed to Melanie until even she felt sorry for the man. Deidre Strange, the daughter, was at least twenty years older than Mitchel and about sixty pounds heavier. Truly, a perfect match.

His big blue eyes gazed woefully into hers.

“Could we please start again?” He sounded like a little boy trying to atone for stealing the last chocolate chip cookie. Melanie couldn’t help it, she grinned. He thrust out one large, tanned hand.

“Mitchel Stewart. Mitch to my friends. Just moved into the building.” He began to list his many attributes. “Single, good health, age thirty-two, six foot four, one hundred eighty-five pounds, legal counsel to corporate accounts.” His bright eyes sparkled mischievously. “Same information I gave Mrs. Strange.”

Giggling, Melanie shook his hand as she answered.

“Melanie Stewart, no age and definitely no weight.”

“Okay.” He dragged the word out. “So, Melanie, what’s your favorite food?”

She joined in the game easily enough. Mitch appeared to hold no ill feelings, and she had more than paid him back for his high-handedness.

Besides, she was a little embarrassed at her behavior. Her temper had always been a sore spot. Whenever she lost it, she invariably regretted her lack of control. Maybe she could redeem herself. She focused on the conversation.

“Chinese, especially the vegetables. What’s yours?”

Mitch lounged comfortably beside her, his long legs stretched out. Dark head tipped back, he thought for a few minutes before answering. “Food.”

Melanie frowned. “Pardon?”

“I like just about everything as long as someone else cooks it.” His mouth slanted mockingly as he leered at her. “I can make a mean raspberry punch, though.”

“Oh. Well, good,” Melanie answered lamely, refusing to acknowledge the spark of awareness that flew each time he brushed against her.

It was the heat, she told herself. She should never have remained in the Jacuzzi for so long. The reason she had, of course, was her swimsuit.

It had been a lapse in judgment. She knew that. Her bust was too full and her hips too round to wear something this defining. Nevertheless, the heat was unbearable, and she had to leave. Now!

“Excuse me, I have to get out.” Melanie moved slowly and calmly up the stairs, aware of his eyes on her legs. Once out of the heat, she could draw cooling air into her lungs. She reached for her towel and quickly tugged it over her shoulders, trying to ignore him as he sat there watching her.

“Did I drive you out?” His eyebrows tipped downward.

“Oh, no.” Melanie cinched her towel a little tighter across her shoulders. “I just can’t take the heat.” Her face flooded with pink. She rushed to correct herself.

“Of the pool. I mean, the Jacuzzi. After a few minutes, the heat really gets to me.”

Mitch knew what she meant. The heat was getting to him, too. He could feel it frying his brain to mush as he admired the lovely Melanie.

He’d seen far skimpier suits on many of the local beaches, but nothing that looked as elegantly attractive as this. Mitch decided he much preferred it over the pink uniform she had worn the other day. Her long auburn hair was curling wildly around her shoulders and face, hugging the wide cheekbones and delicately arched brows.

Flushing brightly, Melanie turned her back to him to gather her belongings. As she did, her towel slipped to the floor.

What was wrong with the men in town, he wondered, watching her. The woman was gorgeous, and apparently had brains, too. Yet here she was, spending her evening alone. Idly, he wondered if there was someone special in her life.

Mitch watched her pull on a white terry covering that just grazed her thighs. When the heat began to addle his brain, he moved out of the swirling hot tub to tug on the baggy jogging pants he had tucked into his sports bag. Something was definitely going on between them, he decided, some spark of interest he’d noticed from the first. And despite his best intentions, he was going to investigate the fiery redhead.

“How about going to dinner with me?” The phrasing wasn’t the greatest, he decided, but it was hard to make sense when your brain was the consistency of mashed potatoes.

She was slipping on shorts, and at his question, Melanie stood stock-still, perched like a startled flamingo on one leg. Her tousled hair tumbled around her face, huge green eyes questioning. She had a fresh, clean-scrubbed look he found very attractive.

“I don’t—”

He cut her off before she could refuse.

“Please,” he cajoled, tugging on a shirt. “You would really be doing me a favor.” He tried to look forlorn and alone. “I just moved the last of my stuff in and I can’t possibly do any more hard work today. I deserve a break. Please?”

She looked at him steadily, obviously gauging just how reliable he was. He was surprised himself at how anxious he was to get to know her better.

“All right,” Melanie agreed finally. “But I think you’d better come with me. I agreed to have dinner with my mother tonight.” If she thought she would turn him off by introducing her mother, she had been dead wrong.

“Is she a good cook?” Mitch asked warily, watching her gather her belongings.

“The best. You may need to do a few more laps when you’re finished.”

He looked affronted as he pulled on his clothes. One hand patted his washboard-flat stomach experimentally.

“I could stand to gain a few pounds. You think?” He cocked his head with that little-boy grace she was coming to recognize.

“No comment.” Melanie giggled and went out. “I’ll meet you downstairs in half an hour. Don’t be late.”

He wasn’t late, but she was there before him, tapping one foot impatiently against the marble floor.

“I wondered if you’d changed your mind,” she murmured, tossing her hair over her shoulders. Melanie stepped through the door and began to stride down the street. Mitch was forced to hurry to keep up with her.

“A woman who’s on time,” he muttered, huffing as he marched beside her. “Who would believe it?”

“Quite a few people, actually. It’s just one of my failings.”

“Why are we running when we could have taken the car?” Mitch panted, half-walking, half-jogging across the street.

“We’re not running, we’re walking. My mother lives only three blocks away. There’s hardly any point in driving. Besides—” she grinned at him pointedly “—it’s good exercise.”

“I prefer swimming.” He breathed, trying to look macho while his lungs burned. To his disgust, Melanie seemed totally unaffected by the speed race.

“Most out-of-shape people do prefer exercise that isn’t weight bearing,” she murmured without losing a step.

“Now just a minute! I am not—” Mitch felt himself collide with the pavement at the same moment his temperature hit boiling. There was a web of stabbing pain radiating from his left knee, and his pants were torn.

“Now look what you’ve done,” he said furiously as he stood with some difficulty, pushing her helping hand away. “I’m not going out for dinner looking like this.”

Her green eyes flashed with something he might have thought was sympathy. Except for her next words.

“Mm, lack of coordination, too. Don’t ever take up jogging, Mr. Stewart. You’re not the type.”

“I don’t think we have to worry about that,” he said through clenched teeth as he brushed bits of gravel from his palms. “And I am not uncoordinated! If you didn’t insist on making this the Indy 500…”

“Oh, now it’s my fault! If that isn’t just like a man! Blame it on me because I keep in shape and you don’t. As if I or anyone else could make you exercise more. Men!” She spat the word with a telling glance that relegated him to one of the lower subspecies in the universe.

Mitch smiled grimly.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, limping at a pace that was still far too fast but considerably slower than her former fifty knots. “But I am a man. I wouldn’t have come with you if I had known you hated men.”

“I don’t hate men,” she said in exasperation. “I quite appreciate them.” Her eyes flickered and he wondered if he could call that stretch of her lips a smile. “Some of you are even quite useful.”

It was a put-down, sure as anything, and Mitch refused to let it pass.

“I think I understand why you’re not, er, out tonight,” he murmured under his breath. “You’re a man-hater.”

She stopped so quickly he crashed into her, the breath wheezing out of his chest at the contact. Melanie Stewart was mad. He could see it in her glinting green eyes. He could feel it in the tingle of electricity that pulsed through the air around them. But what really gave away her emotional state were the small, pointed fingernails buried in his arm.

“I am not stupid,” she enunciated. “You think that if you make all these ridiculous accusations, I’ll forget you’re trying to swindle me out of that money, don’t you? Well, Mr. Mitchel Stewart, or whatever your name is—” she snorted in pretended amusement “—it’s not going to work.”

Carefully, with extreme patience and not a little wincing, Mitch removed her talons from his shirtsleeve.

“I don’t know why you keep saying that,” he muttered fiercely. “My name is Mitchel Stewart. And I am not trying to swindle anyone out of anything.” He peered at her, noting with interest the high spots of color on her cheeks. “Why is getting this money so important to you, anyway? Do you need cash that badly? I know the bank manager,” he said, frowning at her rising color. “There’s no need to be embarrassed about needing some help.”

Melanie flushed more deeply. Her hands were balled into fists, but she raised her chin defiantly while her eyes hardened to cold intense chips of emerald.

“I don’t want it for myself,” she enunciated clearly. “I want to use it for some friends. They deserve to have some comfort in life, and this is my one chance to give it to them. If you hadn’t interfered, I would have the money by now and I’d be able to take care of them.”

“I might have a perfectly good use for that money myself,” he told her angrily. “Someone I care about very much could use that cash right about now.”

“May the best woman or man win, then.” Melanie snapped open a black wrought-iron gate with one hand and stepped through. “Well, are you coming or not?”

“Yes.” He sighed. “I’m coming. And I still think you dislike men.”

“No, she doesn’t,” a bright voice chirped. “Piffle! Melanie is just one of those modern career girls who put most of their energies into their work. When she gets married, she’ll bury herself in that, too.”

Mitch glanced up to see Faith Johnson’s beaming face.

“Oh, hello. I didn’t know you’d be here tonight.” He grinned happily, pleased to see the beaming older woman. “Melanie didn’t tell me.”

“Melanie didn’t know,” his companion muttered. She glanced from one to the other. “Do I take it you two know each other?”

“Of course we know each other. I was here for dinner last week with my grandfather. Wait a minute!” He stared at her as the pieces began to fall into place. “You mean Mrs. Flowerday is your mother? But your names—”

“Are different because Melanie is adopted. My own very special daughter.” Charity hugged the slim form to her ample bosom and patted Melanie’s back. “I’m so glad you could come, darling. And you brought Harry’s grandson! How marvelous. Do come in.”

“Actually I’m her foster daughter. Harry’s grand—” Melanie whirled to stare at Mitch, her eyes wide with dismay. “You mean you’re Judge Conroy’s grandson?”

Mitch bowed at the waist.

“The one and only.”

“Oh, no.”

No one else heard the softly breathed moan, Mitch was sure, but he did. And he didn’t like it. The female of the species generally appreciated his company. But Melanie Stewart was looking at him as if he was a worm crawling out of the woodwork.

“You knew all about this, didn’t you,” she asked angrily. “You’d think you would know better than to fall in with the fearsome threesome’s plans.”

“I don’t have a clue—”

“That’s for sure,” she said, her eyes shooting daggers at him. “Try to act normally. And if you don’t make any waves, we may just get out of this early enough to nip their matchmaking in the bud.”

She stomped away to talk to the two other women seated in Charity’s living room. Mitch shook his head in confusion and headed for the nearest easy chair, only remembering as he sat that this particular chair had a bad spring.

“Oof!”

“Did you say something, boy?” His grandfather emerged from the kitchen chewing on a bit of meat.

“No, Gramps. Well, yes, actually, I said it was good to sit down.” Mitch watched as everyone turned to face him. “I meant after the walk over. You know, in the heat and everything.” Why were they all staring at him as if he had two heads?

His grandfather looked at him pityingly, eyeing the tear at his pants with some disfavor.

“Practice not doing too well, son?” He reached in his pocket, and Mitch cringed, remembering the habit from long ago. Before the older man could pull out his wallet, Mitch launched into speech.

“No, it’s going really well. The hospital was a good start, and I’ve found a number of new clients this week.”

Judge Conroy shook his head.

“Then why wear those things? Doesn’t look too good for an up-and-coming young lawyer.”

Melanie laughed her light, bubbly laugh, which Mitch hadn’t heard for ages.

“He kissed the pavement on the way over here. Tore his pants and cut his knee.” She grinned at the judge and winked. “Out of shape, I suspect.”

“I am not out of shape.” Mitch glared at her, gritting his teeth. “I tripped. It happens to lots of people.”

“Oh, my dear! Let me see,” Hope murmured, scurrying over to check the skin of his knee. “Come along, Mitchel. That needs cleaning.”

The older woman had him firmly by the arm, and there was nothing Mitch could do but follow meekly. She plunked him on a chair and rolled up his pant leg efficiently.

“I remember this from my teaching days.” Hope smiled. “How many Band-Aids did I use during those thirty years, I wonder? And the iodine!”

“I, er, I don’t think I need iodine,” Mitch murmured, trying not to remember his past and how that stuff stung. “Really, it’s fine.”

Hope looked at him with a knowing smile. “It’s all right,” she whispered, patting his hand. “Nowadays, the new stuff doesn’t hurt nearly as much.”

Mitch subsided, feeling a fool. He sat meekly as she dabbed and cleaned and bandaged him until he looked like a trussed-up turkey. His pant leg wouldn’t go over the massive bandage she had applied, so Hope Langford carefully cut it off, leaving him with one short and one long leg.

He stared at his legs, aghast at the sight of his mutilated trousers. He had never been so thoroughly humiliated in his entire life, and the evening hadn’t even begun yet.

“Well, you couldn’t very well wear them to work with a patch in the knee,” Hope told him kindly, her blond head tipped. “This way you can get the other leg cut off and make shorts out of them.” She waved the scissors thoughtfully. “Would you like me to do it?”

“No, thanks anyway,” he said, backing out of the room. “You’ve done a wonderful job, though.” Of ruining his only pair of designer pants, he added under his breath.

Mitch turned carefully to go to the living room and found Melanie in his path, her gaze wide with disbelief as she studied him. Her mouth tilted in a slash of amusement, and her eyes sparkled with delight.

“Don’t say a word,” he warned her menacingly. “And if there’s anyone who’ll be leaving early, it’s going to be me.”

“How the mighty are fallen.” She giggled, walking behind him as he limped to his chair. Her face cracked up when he jerked upward as the metal prong stabbed him in the rear again. “Shall I call Aunt Hope for you, Mitch?” She chortled.

“Oh, go away,” he told her miserably. His eyes moved to the seniors huddled over the pictures on the coffee table. “What’s going on there?”

“Oh, that. Hope has just received word that the man she was engaged to years ago may not have died in the Vietnam war, as she was told. My mother wants Judge Conroy to help them check into it.” Melanie’s face was sad. “I feel bad because Hope never forgot Jean.”

“But where on earth has he been?”

“I don’t know,” Melanie told him. “Let’s listen in and see what we can find out.”

“But if he wasn’t killed there, why did they think he was?” Hope demanded. “There must have been some proof of identity.” She glanced at the judge for confirmation.

“I don’t know, dear,” the old man murmured, covering her hand with his tenderly. “But I’ll do everything I can to help you find out.” There was a silence while everyone considered the implications.

Moments later the two older ladies went with Melanie into the kitchen and Mitch, his grandfather and Hope sat in the living room. It seemed the other two had forgotten him completely, so Mitch listened to their conversation unashamedly.

“Do you still have feelings for this man, Hope?” his grandfather whispered, his salt-and-pepper head bent near hers.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what I feel anymore. Everything has changed, moved out of its familiar pattern. I just wish I knew for sure whether or not Jean was alive.” She stared at the old pictures with tears in her eyes, her face a study in contrasts.

“All those years ago I just gave up,” she whispered regretfully. “Maybe, if I had kept searching, Jean and I would have had a future together.”

Judge Conroy patted the soft white hand with affection.

“It’s in His hands,” he murmured comfortingly. “Let’s leave it there while we do what we can, my dear.”

As he sat at the dinner table, munching on wonderful home-cooked fried chicken and the smoothest mashed potatoes he’d ever eaten, Mitch studied each person carefully.

His grandfather sat next to Hope, and he was paying an inordinate amount of attention to the woman, Mitch noted. They were laughing about the good times they’d shared and their plans for the seniors’ retreat at Lucky Lake.

Hope Langford was a beautiful woman, with her smooth blond hair and clear blue eyes. She was quiet but thoughtful, replying to the comments only after she’d carefully considered her responses. Which was totally unlike her friend Faith, who seemed to bubble with excitement. Mitch knew that the older woman had recently been married, so perhaps that explained her effervescence.

Charity Flowerday sat next to him, insisting that he try seconds of everything and teasing him about his good appetite. But it was her arthritic hands that he noticed most. Although they were bent and worn, they expressed her tender concern in a thousand different ways. She ruffled his hair affectionately, offered a friendly pat to Faith’s shoulder, soothed Hope’s fears and pinched Melanie’s ear. And all with those deformed hands.

And Melanie? Beautiful, remote Melanie sat silent in her chair, watching the other members of the group with love shining in her eyes. Mitch could see the pleasure she took in their company, the careful concerned way she rushed to help her mother, sparing her unnecessary labor.

And later, as they sat around singing old songs, it was Melanie who played for them. Tunes that Mitch recognized from his grandfather’s era flowed easily through her fingers as they rippled lovingly over the notes, her voice blending in with a rich, deep harmony.

They’re like her family, he thought. That’s why she works with old people. A big, happy family that cares and shares their lives with each other.

It was something he’d never known and always thought he wanted. It was something he intended to find out more about, Mitch decided firmly.

With the help of Miss Melanie Stewart, of course.

Chapter Three

Once his knee had healed, the pain of embarrassment had passed and he’d purchased a new pair of pants, Mitch asked Melanie out for dinner. Chinese food. They sat across from one another in one of the local cafés without speaking as they waited for their meal of stir-fried Chinese vegetables and the deep-fried shrimp he’d insisted on. He figured Melanie could think of nothing to say—unlike their past encounter. Her fingers rolled the edge of her napkin. She took a sip of water.

“I like your dress.” Mitch’s low voice cut into her thoughts. His magnetic dark eyes gleamed in appreciation at the sweetheart neckline and fitted waist. “Green is certainly your color. That swimsuit was a knockout on you.”

Blushing profusely, Melanie thanked him before hurrying to change the topic. “Have you heard anything from the contest people yet?” she asked.

Once more that wicked grin flashed at her, and once more her pulse started that rat-tatting that Mitchel Stewart always seemed to cause.

“Nope, not a word. Maybe they’ll decide not to award it or to draw again. How did you enter?”

“I don’t know.” She laughed—that light, tinkling sound he had come to associate with her. Shrugging, she confessed, “I don’t even eat the stuff.”

“What?” He gave an exaggerated gasp before he admitted, “Me, neither.” His forehead was furrowed in thought. “How do you suppose they got our names, then?”

Melanie blushed again, and he wondered why. Gazing at her hands, she explained.

“A few months ago I was really down. One of our residents had died unexpectedly, and I…I was sort of depressed.” Her green eyes were filled with sadness as she stared ahead. “Mrs. Peters was so lonely, you see. Her kids never came to see her except on a duty visit at Christmas that lasted all of five minutes. She needed to talk to them and feel that they still cared.” Melanie heard her own voice harden.

“Apparently, all they needed was the check she always handed out. When she died, I phoned them and they were there in thirty minutes. Yet when she had been asking to see them only one week earlier, no one had the time to get away.” Melanie waved across the table as she tried to help him understand.

“I remember the last thing she said to me. She wanted to buy a new dress,” she told him sadly. Mitch’s warm brown hand was wrapped around her clenched fingers. She glanced at him sadly. “She got her dress, but it was too late.”

They sat there quietly eating the delicious food. Mitch had done nothing more than listen, but somehow his quiet strength helped, and after a minute or two she continued.

“Anyway, I was working with Mrs. Rivers by then and she was entering these contests. I thought, why not throw in a few of my own entries. Maybe a windfall of some kind could take some of the sting away and provide at least some of the essential equipment that so many need.” She grinned self-deprecatingly. “That’s been a hobbyhorse of mine for a while now.”

“Why don’t your pals just buy what they need? Surely some have money?”

Mitch’s question was legitimate, and she tried to explain the ways of those greedy families she had become familiar with.

“Well, many of them do have some assets when they enter the residence and they do get the help they need, as well as visits from caring families. But some of these folks are not mobile, and it’s difficult for them to do their banking. Usually the family takes it over, and when they see how expensive it is to look after Grandma or Grandpa, many begin to resent every dime they lose.”

“But the money isn’t theirs,” Mitch protested indignantly.

“I know, but when you begin to think of something as part of your inheritance…” Her voice died away. “Mr. Harcourt is one of those fellows who is quite capable of operating a motorized cart. It would get him out of the residence and to coffee with his friends. He’s not wealthy and his family think it’s a silly, wasteful expenditure, and so he sits, day after day, gradually growing more depressed.”

The conversation had become dull and gloomy, and Melanie suddenly felt guilty for dumping all her problems on him.

“I’m sorry. This isn’t a very happy subject, and I tend to harp.” She smiled at him, trying to lift the tension. “Exactly what kind of law do you practice?”

He knew she was trying to lighten the atmosphere, and he went along with it. “Corporate. Litigations are my preference, although I do agreements for sale, probate wills, boring stuff like that.” He grinned that sexy smile again, and Melanie felt her spirits lift.

“Do you ever practice family law?” Her inquiry was innocent enough, but his reaction was totally unexpected.

“No.” Curt and abrupt, his answer did not encourage speculation.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean…”

His charming smile was once again in place, a facade he hid behind, Melanie suddenly realized.

“I hate that end of the business,” he told her. “Men and women who swore to love each other suddenly become bitter enemies, each trying to outdo the other in nastiness. Pulling children’s lives apart so they can hurt each other.” He shook his dark head. “I won’t be part of that.”

Melanie heard the underlying hurt and suspected that Mitch had been a product of just such a scenario, perhaps as a small child. He wasn’t talking about it.

“Don’t you want to get married yourself? Have a family someday?” She studied him curiously, noting the flush on his high cheekbones.

“No. Well, yeah. Maybe. I’m not really the type.” The words spilled out helter-skelter, and he frowned. “If I ever did, I’d go into it with a no-escape clause. So far I haven’t found anyone I want to be tied up that tightly with. What about you?”

“I always thought love and marriage would just happen, but lately work takes up more and more of my time, and truthfully, I just don’t know how I could fit a family in with that.” She grimaced. “Those residents are important to me. I don’t know if I could give them all up for a mere man.” She grinned teasingly.

“We’re not going into that man thing again, are we?” He groaned. “I already apologized three thousand times.”

“And that’s not nearly enough.” She smiled.

“You should talk! You called me out of shape, remember?”

“And?” She raised one eyebrow meaningfully. “If the shoe fits…”

“Time to go,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Before war breaks out.”

Melanie gratefully picked up her purse and moved to the door. She felt like a liar, because she knew she’d give up her so-called career in a minute for a loving husband and the warmth and comfort of a family of her own.

As they strolled along the street, Mitch took her hand in his and drew it through his arm.

“I think we’ll make good neighbors.” He grinned at her. “The really neighborly thing to do would be to invite me in for coffee.”

The hint was hard to miss, and surprisingly enough, she didn’t want to bid Mitch good-night just yet.

“Well, since you did take me out for dinner, I suppose it is the least I can do.” Melanie deliberately made the invitation as unappealing as possible, pretty sure he would jump at it. She didn’t want to seem too eager, after all!

They sat among the flickering candles on her patio, sipping the rich Colombian brew Melanie favored. In the dark, it seemed easier to talk.

“My mother often let me stay up in the summer and have chocolate milk on the porch. This reminds me of those times.” Her voice was soft and filled with memories, and Mitch seemed loath to break the spell of quiet contentment.

“She probably wished I’d go to bed, but she and Hope and Faith never tried to talk me out of my daydreams. I will always be thankful for their love and care. I guess that’s why I choose to work where I do.” She smiled happily. “Seniors have so much life and love and knowledge to contribute, if only someone would take the time to listen.”

“You were lucky,” he told her. That hard tone had frozen the emotion in his rumbly voice. “Some kids never get the chance to experience any of that.”

“But you had your grandfather. Didn’t you ever come visit?” Melanie searched her mind, trying to remember Mitch from some foggy distant encounter.

“Not very often. We lived too far away, and my parents couldn’t afford it. Gramps came to visit us once or twice a year for a week or so, but that’s all. After I was on my own, I’d come out as often as I could get away. We kind of developed a bond then.”

Melanie could tell the subject was closed, but she longed to ask him about his childhood, his parents, his background. One minute he was so charming and friendly, and the next he had closed up like a clam, cold and hard.

Soft music flowed on the evening air as someone on another patio below them enjoyed the cool evening air.

“Do you dance?” he asked suddenly.

Melanie stuttered over her answer. “Not very well. I, well, it’s been ages, and…”

Tall and dark in his denim shirt and pants, he stood before her. She tipped her head to look at him.

“Don’t tell me you’re uncoordinated, Melanie, or I will be forced to make some remark that will draw the battle lines between us. Again. May I have this dance?” he asked. His eyes glinted in the candlelight. “I have to get my exercise, you know.” And then Mitch tugged her gently from her chair without waiting for a response. “Here, put your arms around me like this.”

Melanie let Mitch push her bare arms around his neck and then stood silent while he wrapped his around her slender waist. She was nervous and sure he knew it.

“No fancy moves,” he reassured her. “Just swaying to the music.”

They swayed gently, moving slowly to the music. As he held, she was aware of his warmth and strength, the spicy scent of his cologne and the momentary brush of his beard-roughened cheek on her own. Her skirt swished around her legs as his foot grazed hers. It was wonderful and exciting, and yet they did nothing but move leisurely around the tiny terrace.

She was relaxed, Mitch knew as he inched one hand a fraction lower on her hip. It felt so good to hold her like this, close but not too close, her soft presence filling the night air. His chin fit perfectly on top of her head, and he could just catch the soft, intriguing scent of her perfume. Against his neck, her silky hair caressed and enticed him. He bent his head and pressed the tiniest kiss to the soft skin of her collarbone.

Melanie Stewart was every inch a woman, soft and curvy, yet caring and concerned. She interested him. No one had ever said the things she had and been allowed to get away with it, and yet this fiery woman continued to hold his attention.

“What did you think of Hope’s problem?” he asked finally, not wanting to break the companionable silence but needing to bring some reality into the evening.

“I don’t know what to think. I’m afraid for her.”

“Afraid?” He frowned. “For heaven’s sake, why?”

Her finger absently played with the hair that just touched his collar as she moved slowly with him. Her touch bothered him, sending electric currents through his blood.

“Melanie?”

“She’s waited so long. She’d almost let herself forget him. Did you know Hope has gone out with your grandfather a few times?”

Mitch jerked backward, staring at her in surprise. Suddenly, the little scene at Charity’s made sense.

“You mean she’s falling in love with him?” He frowned.

“I don’t know, but something was happening between them. She was finally beginning to let go of the past and consider the future.” Melanie heaved a sigh. “And now this.”

“Makes you wonder who’s in control of the universe, doesn’t it?” he laughed.

“Oh, I know that God’s in control,” she told him seriously. “And whatever He has planned is more wonderful than anything we could ever imagine. It’s just hard to understand right now.”

“I never thought of God as personally interested in our lives,” Mitch murmured. “I always think of Him as some far-off entity. In heaven, I guess.” He shrugged.

Melanie smiled knowingly. “Well, I’m certain He’s there, but He’s also here with us, guiding us through our daily lives. I just have to keep praying that Hope won’t be too badly hurt by all this.”

She snuggled her head against his shoulder, and Mitch stared at the stars. Melanie Stewart made him think of all those things he wanted but could never have. Things like a wife, a home of his own, a family. Things he had no business dreaming about.

Pulling her a little closer, he guided her carefully across the patio as the music died away. His left hand settled on her waist, and he tortured himself with the dream of someday holding someone who was special to him in just this way. In his ear there was a soft whisper.

“What?” he asked, missing the soft words.

“You move that hand any lower and you are in trouble.”

Privately, Mitch thought he was in trouble anyway, but he decided to change strategies. His mouth touched hers softly in a whisper of a kiss that was over before it began. When she kissed him back, he followed the curve of her jaw with a tiny, feather-light brush of his mouth. His nose nuzzled the sensitive spot under one ear. That brought a tiny sigh from her. Then she edged away, pressing her palms gently against his chest.

“Thank you for a very nice evening.” Her soft voice was primly correct, and he almost burst out laughing.

Nice? Talk about a nonresponse.

“You’re more than welcome. And thank you for coming to dinner.” He grinned at her, unabashed at the color flooding her face.

Bending, he pressed a kiss to her soft, pink mouth and one on a tiny freckle just below her eye. Then he whispered in her ear, “I enjoyed it. All of it.”

When her face colored again, he grinned smugly. “You do blush a lot,” he teased her. Then, lest he hurt her feelings, he told her the truth. “I like it on you.”

They walked to the door side by side, saying nothing, both feeling the tension of the moment. At the door Mitch took her oval face in his hands and rubbed his thumb along her lips.

“Can we share dinner again?”

Waves of feeling swamped her, and Melanie was unable to think straight. A noncommittal answer, that was the best.

“Maybe,” she temporized, unsure of anything but her surging heartbeat. “I don’t know if I’ll be able to afford it if I don’t win that contest. You eat a lot.”

He grinned. “Save your allowance then, because I’m going to hold you to it,” he promised. Mitch pressed one last kiss to her mouth. Then, sighing, he dragged himself away.

“Good night,” he whispered, and pulled the door closed behind his tall figure.

“Good night,” Melanie answered to no one at all. One slim hand touched her lips in wonder.

In a trance she moved through her nightly rituals, half dazed. Mitchel Stewart didn’t seem nearly as irritating as he had two weeks ago. Nor as angry.

What Melanie recalled was the way his bad-boy looks had made her heart thump. And the black lock of hair that tumbled across his forehead. And his lazy blue eyes with their hidden flames. And the soft, caring touch of his hands.

Yawning widely, Melanie plumped her pillow and promptly fell asleep dreaming of Mitchel Stewart.

“You think this fellow is this Jean guy? The same one that Hope Langford was engaged to?” Mitch stared at his grandfather in dismay.

“Not only do I think he is the one, I’m pretty sure he plans to marry someone else. I’ve had someone looking into things for me. On the Q. T. of course.” Harry Conroy rubbed his hand wearily across his stubbled cheek. “I’m stumped, laddie. I dursn’t tell Hope about this. She’s got her heart set on a reunion, and if this guy is what he seems, that isn’t going to happen.”

“What’s his name?” Mitch asked curiously, flipping through the reports covering his grandfather’s desk. “And where’s he been for the past thirty years? Why didn’t he let her know he was alive so she could move on?”

“I don’t know, son. Those are all good questions that I’d like to ask the man myself. You don’t go abandoning a woman like Hope without a darned good reason. Leave those papers be!” Harry sounded furious, and Mitch studied him with new eyes.

“You’re pretty fond of Miss Langford, aren’t you, Gramps?” he asked quietly.

“Fond of her? I’ve spent longer than I care to think about trying to get close to the woman. But she has this barrier she always puts up. Won’t let people get too close. Leastways, not me.” He frowned.

Harry Conroy peered at his grandson. Over the years he’d gained a pretty good knowledge of human nature, and he used it to good advantage now.

“I think you’re interested in Charity’s daughter, too. Aren’t you, boy?” The faded gray eyes sparkled with hidden knowledge. “I was afraid it would never happen,” he declared happily.

“It hasn’t,” Mitch assured him quietly. “I’m not looking to get married, Gramps. You know that. Neither is she. Sure, I like Melanie. She’s sharp and witty.”

“Not too hard to look at, either,” his grandfather added.

“No, she isn’t,” Mitch agreed with a grin. “But she’s dedicated to her career as much as I am to mine.”

Harry snorted. “Hogwash,” he bellowed with disgust. “You’re still thinking about your parents, aren’t you, Mitch?” He shook his head. “Those two didn’t have a marriage, they had a battle zone. That’s not the way it’s supposed to work, boy.”

“From what I saw at Mercer, Lloyd and Jones, that’s the way it usually works,” Mitch told him soberly.

“I knew you didn’t like Chicago, Mitch, but I always thought you liked your work.”

“I hated my work there,” Mitch said hoarsely. “Bottom man on the pole wasn’t the problem. I had to take whatever they assigned, and it was always family court.” He shuddered at the memory. “I still see the looks in the kids’ eyes, Gramps. So tired. And scared.”

“Well, I’m proud of you for getting yourself out of there, son.” Harry wiped a tear away. “It’s a sad thing to see a family torn apart, that’s for sure. But it doesn’t have to happen to you. All marriages aren’t bad. Your gran and I shared some pretty happy years.” Harry stared across his desk, his eyes focused on some memory Mitch couldn’t share.

“You never knew her, Mitch, but she was the kindest, gentlest woman God ever created.”

“Sort of like Hope, you mean?” Mitch watched, stunned, as his grandfather’s head reared back and his round belly shook with laughter.

“Good heavens, no! Hope is nothing like your grandmother. If she thinks I deserve it, she can tear a strip off me. Most times, it serves me right.” He chuckled.

“Mom must have taken after your Anna, then.” When Harry frowned, Mitch rushed to make his meaning clear. “You know what Dad was like, Gramps. He never had a decent word to say to anyone, Mom included. Most of the time he was screaming vile things at her. And she took it all without telling him off. Not once as long as I hung around can I remember a time when she would retaliate.”

“No, she wouldn’t have,” Harry whispered sadly. “That was our fault. Anna and I knew your ma saw the court cases come and go, and we were afraid she would learn that retribution often paid. So we taught her that fighting back never solved anything.” He stared at the picture of the young laughing girl on his desk. “I regret that now.”

“There’s no point in regrets, Gramps.” Mitch smiled bitterly. “We can only learn from the past, and what I learned from my old man and his successors is that marriage tears people up.”

“I’m sorry ‘bout that, too, my boy,” Harry whispered as the door slammed behind his grandson. “Because I think marriage is the best darn institution God ever invented.”

He sat staring at his oak-lined office for a long moment before rousing himself to action.

“I wonder,” he murmured, shrugging into his black robes for the last session of the day. He pressed the newfangled speed dial his secretary had shown him how to use.

“Hello, Hope? I need to talk to you about something.” He waited for her response, a smile curving his lips. “I thought maybe we could go for a picnic. Haven’t had one of those in years.”

When she started to protest he cut her off.

“I’m due in court now, my dear. Let’s just plan to leave around six. I’ll pick you up. Wear pants.” Harry hung up the phone with a huge smile on his round face.

Yes, siree, this was going to be an interesting date!

“Jessica, I cannot afford to reprimand you again. This is the last time.” Melanie watched as the young woman’s face turned sullen.

“But, Melanie, Mrs. Lindstrom was—”

“I cannot condone your actions regardless of what our residents do or say.” She cut her trainee off. “Your treatment of Mrs. Lindstrom was callous and disrespectful, and we do not allow that here.” She searched Jessica’s pretty face for some sign of remorse. “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“I guess so.” The voice was petulant.

Melanie refused to allow herself any softening. The bullying tactics she had just witnessed were unforgivable.

“I’ll make it perfectly clear, then, so that we both understand the way things go at Sunset.” She waited until Jessica’s sullen blue gaze met hers and then she laid down the law.

“This is your last warning, Jessica. Our residents are seniors, yes, and sometimes they need help. But force will not be used on anyone unless he or she is a danger to themselves or someone else. Okay?”

“But she was pulling my hair! Don’t I have any rights?”

Melanie sighed, knowing the teenager would have to be relocated.

“Jessica, please. You were forcing her into the bath. She hates water. She’s afraid.”

“Well, how was I s’posed to know that?” The young woman had shifted from cranky to defiant, her lip curling with disgust. Suddenly, Melanie was tired of the whole thing.

“I guess you would actually have to talk to her, like a real person, and then let her talk back to find it out,” she answered acidly, unwilling to go over the same material again.

Melanie knew she was venting some of her foul mood on the trainee, but Jessica deserved it. She would have dumped on Mitchel Stewart, too, if he had been around. He had been at the bottom of a lot of her problems lately!

She waved Jessica away tiredly as she raked a hand through her disheveled curls. Her secretary walked in with a cup of coffee and a commiserating smile.

“What happened to decency and courtesy, Bridget?” She sipped a mouthful of the refreshing brew and closed her eyes. When there was no response, Melanie opened them again. The woman just kept watching her. What now? she wondered.

“I’m sorry, Mel, but Mr. Northrup is slipping away fast. Hospital phoned to say you should come over if you want to talk to him once more.”

Melanie got up immediately and moved to the door. Jonathan Northrup had been at Sunset even longer than she had. He had been her inspiration and hope for so long. It would be hard to say goodbye. The only consolation was that they both knew they’d meet again in heaven. Still, it would be tough. She straightened her backbone and strode down the hall, not really hearing Bridget’s voice as she gathered her thoughts.

“Mel, there’s some fellow from Papa John’s Peanut Butter wants to see you immediately. He’s at the front desk.”

The last few words were hollered at Melanie’s disappearing figure. She need not have bothered, Bridget thought. She knew Melanie Stewart had her priorities straight. And Jonathan Northrup was certainly more important than some silly contest!

Half an hour later, Melanie closed the big hospital door. He was gone. Serene to the end, Jonathan had given her his final bit of advice.

“You have to get out and live, my dear. Old folks are selfish and depressing sometimes, and much as we enjoy all your efforts, you have to look after yourself. One day you’ll find a man who, if you let him, can give you so much.” He had stopped for a painful, wheezing breath. “Make sure you have enough left of yourself to give back. That’s all I ask.” His frail, veined hand had clasped hers one last time.

“Enjoy your life, my dear. You’ve given me so much happiness. See you in heaven.”

“Yes, in heaven.” A tear rolled down her cheek, but Melanie dashed it away angrily. She would not cry. Jonathan wouldn’t have wanted it.

A deep voice spoke from behind her left shoulder.

“Are you all right, Melanie?”

Turning, Melanie found Mitch’s tall, elegantly dressed figure behind her. He looked very handsome in his navy blue pinstriped suit, but it was his eyes that drew her. Dark and searching, they probed deep within, sharing her sorrow.

“He was someone special, wasn’t he?” he asked softly as his arm moved across her shoulder. His hand was gently soothing on her back, and suddenly Melanie gave way.

Turning into his arms, she put her head on his shoulder and bawled like a baby.

“Oh, Mitch. He was my best friend.”

He let her cry out her loss and feelings without saying anything. And as she cried, Melanie felt the stress and sadness slowly drain away.

“Thanks,” she murmured, accepting the snowy white handkerchief he pulled from his pocket to wipe her eyes. She knew she had smudged her mascara, and her eyes must look like a raccoon’s, but Mitch never said a word. Gently, he took the fabric from her and completed the cleanup himself before stuffing the square into his pocket.