Читать книгу A Hopeful Heart and A Home, a Heart, A Husband: A Hopeful Heart - Lois Richer - Страница 7

“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.