Читать книгу A Hopeful Heart and A Home, a Heart, A Husband: A Hopeful Heart - Lois Richer - Страница 6

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.”