A Hopeful Heart and A Home, a Heart, A Husband: A Hopeful Heart

“Yes, Mr. Johnson, I realize that everyone works nowadays, but our clients need to eat their meals at a regularly scheduled time each day. We encourage them to come to the dining rooms on time, to eat with the others and to limit their snack foods.” She waited for the next onslaught.

The blustering man’s whining voice grew louder.

“But surely when we have made the effort to get here to see our mother, you could adjust the dinner hour somewhat?” His soulful brown eyes drooped with sadness.

Melanie’s temper was wearing thin after forty minutes of his griping. There was still so much to be done before her daily to-do list was even halfway complete. She decided to set him straight and make her point without any pussyfooting around.

“Mr. Johnson,” she said, her soft voice firm. “You have been to see your mother, what?” She consulted the open book in front of her. “Two times in the past month.”

The man had the grace to turn red, but Melanie was relentless.

“Your mother is here every day of every week, all year long. She is hypoglycemic, which means that she has to eat regularly to maintain her blood sugar levels.” She gave him her most severe nurse look. “Please don’t ask me to adjust the routine of your mother and the other eighty-six residents, thirty-odd staff and an entire kitchen just so you can drop in for a visit once in a blue moon.” She closed the big binder with a thud and stood in dismissal.

“I’m sorry, but you will have to wait until Mrs. Johnson is finished her meal or return at another time.” Her tone suggested that she didn’t particularly care which.

Grumbling and complaining, the man took his leave. Melanie sank into her chair with a groan.

“I didn’t know we kept track of the residents’ visitors.” Bridget smirked from the doorway.

Grinning, Melanie held up the accounts ledger for housekeeping. “We don’t, but it worked, so don’t knock it.” They giggled together for a few moments before Bridget spoke.

“You still need to call Mr. Richards’s family about his clothes,” she chided, glancing at her watch. “Or should I say lack of!” Bridget’s round face beamed with mirth. “And then get out of here. It’s after seven.” She clucked at Melanie like a mother hen guarding her chick.

Two and a half hours later, at the end of a killer fourteen-hour day, Melanie reluctantly dragged her aching body into the apartment she shared with Mitch and Hope. Tossing her purse and sweater on the sofa, Melanie sprawled on the soft, cool comfort of Mitch’s leather sofa, dreaming of a bubble bath.

“That’s all I want,” she mumbled wearily. “That and someone to cook me a wonderful dinner,” she elaborated, closing her eyes for just a moment.

“Melanie.” A big hand was shaking her and Melanie wished it would go away. She pulled one eye open with the maximum effort and saw a pair of huge blue eyes peering into hers.

Not now, she prayed. She couldn’t deal with a sexily rumpled corporate type right now. She shut her eye and resumed her fantasy.

“Oh, boy, you look bad.” Mitch’s deep voice rumbled beside her right ear, bringing her awake.

“I know, don’t even say it,” Melanie ordered halfheartedly. “I’ve been doing CPR on a resident.” She glanced into his dark eyes. Tiredness caused the tears to course down her wan cheeks. “We lost him.”

To his credit, Mitch never said a word. He just tugged her gently into his arms and let her bawl on his new blue shirt. When she was finished, he wiped her eyes gently and then sat on the sofa behind her, propping her up.

“Come on, lady.” He urged her forward a little, his hands moving to her shoulders. “I’ll give you a massage.” His long, lean fingers kneaded the tensely knotted muscles in her shoulders. “You’re dead on your feet.”

Melanie was too tired to do anything but relax against him and let him do all the work.

“Mmm,” she moaned, unable to move an inch. “I guess dreams really do come true.” She tipped her head and peered at him from beneath lowered lids. “Did you bring dinner? Something yummy like chicken chop suey or moo goo gai pan?”

“You don’t want much, do you?” he chuckled, squeezing the knots in her shoulder a little harder. “A masseuse, a meal. Can I get milady anything else?” His voice had assumed a butlerish English accent.

“That fifty thousand dollars would be nice,” she muttered drowsily, arching as his strong thumbs found a particularly sensitive spot by her neck.

“I’m working on that,” he told her, grinning. “But we need to talk first.” He grunted as he probed the aching muscles of her upper arms.

“You are as strung out as a cat on a thin wire,” Mitch muttered, kneading the tight knots of tension from her shoulders. “This is some stressful reaction coming from a nursing home.”

Melanie wished he wouldn’t mention cats, but she was too tired to lecture him so she eased into the sofa and sighed deeply.

“Melanie, what happened today to cause all this?” Mitch’s quiet voice demanded a reply.

“The list is endless,” she muttered. “One of the residents shed his clothes and took a stroll out-of-doors.” Melanie could feel his knuckles manipulating the vertebrae in her back, and she curled her spine accommodatingly. “Unfortunately, several old dears had just completed a tea party with some of their friends, and the friends, members of the board, actually, were leaving the premises at the time. He flashed them.”

The calm, sensible way she told the tale had Mitch nodding in agreement until he absorbed what she had said.

“Flashed them? You mean…” She didn’t know why, but he sounded shocked.

“Uh-huh,” she replied, stretching a little. “Could you move a bit to the right? Yes, that’s it. Oh.”

Mitch, to his credit, kept on working the muscles in her back as he appreciated the view. It wasn’t every day he got this close to Melanie and he was pretty sure she wasn’t about to stop him now. Not when her eyes were closed like that and she was breathing so deeply.

He had been dreaming about her for weeks, and he had no desire to end this contact with her, even if she was half-asleep. He was enjoying bringing her relief, he decided, as his fingers kneaded and manipulated the knotted muscles in her shoulders. She didn’t seem to be protesting. He leaned forward for a better look and grinned.

Melanie lay asleep on the sofa, hair sprawled across her shoulders and over her face. Carefully, hoping not to wake her, Mitch slipped the silky strands off her cheek. A slow, satisfied smile tipped the corners of her wide mouth as she breathed a deep sigh of satisfaction.

“Thanks for the massage,” she murmured. “I feel so much better.”

Her mouth touched a tiny caress to the side of his neck in appreciation before her slim arms fell to her side. Curling like a sensuous kitten, Melanie nudged her foot against the end of the sofa, finding a more comfortable spot, before her huge eyes blinked shut. Seconds later she was blissfully snoring.

Mitch decided he could spend the evening just sitting there and watching her. She looked so peaceful, and there were none of those biting little witticisms coming out of her full pink lips. She looked adorable with her hair all mussed and her makeup completely gone.

He was in the process of easing a blanket over her, when he heard the key in the door. With a groan Mitch recalled Hope and her ridiculous assumptions about this arrangement. He knew he was going to have to move fast.

Mitch pushed Melanie up and propped her against the end of the sofa while he rearranged the cushions and smoothed the blanket over her. He had just straightened when Hope breezed through the door, a casserole in her arms and his grandfather following close behind.

“Hello,” she greeted him happily. “I made my special tofu surprise this afternoon and I thought perhaps we could all share it.” She trundled to the kitchen with the bowl held high.

“I suppose she wants us to eat our Wheaties and will serve spinach with it, too?” Mitch complained, glaring at his grandfather. “I’m not eating that stuff.”

“You don’t have to,” Harry murmured. “Just pretend you’re enjoying it and smile. I need some time to explain about Jean, and I was hoping it would be tonight.” He stared at Melanie’s slumped figure speculatively. “Will she wake up anytime soon?”

“I don’t know.” Mitch grinned. “She was pretty out of it after I gave her that mass—she was pretty tired,” he amended. But his grandfather’s eyes were glowing, and Mitch knew the old man had caught the slip.

“A massage? How kind of you. Never knew you to be so concerned about someone before,” Harry murmured slyly.

The doorbell rang, signaling the arrival of Faith and Charity, who immediately began fussing over a groggy Melanie.

“My goodness, Melanie, you do look tired,” Faith chirped cheerfully. “You should try some of that new tonic Arthur just got in. Liver tonic, I think it is.” She shuddered. “Tastes vile but really restores your energy.”

“Baloney!” Charity’s brisk, no-nonsense tones were neither hushed nor quiet. “She doesn’t need a tonic. Just some fresh air and a decent meal. Wake up, dear.” She shook her daughter’s shoulder briskly.

“Oh, is Melanie awake now?” Hope asked brightly from the kitchen doorway. Her spotless white apron was just as immaculate as the dress she wore beneath it. “My casserole will be ready in about fifteen minutes. We can all enjoy it together.”

“Piffle! I hate—”

Charity’s firm voice cut off Faith’s protests.

“Mitch is taking Melanie out for dinner, Hope. Then they’re going for a walk in the park or something. And Faith and I have already eaten.” Mitch grinned at the frown Melanie’s mother gave Faith. “But you and Harry go ahead. We’ll just sit with you and visit.”

Mitch was sure only he heard the whispered complaints between the two old ladies.

“You lied, Charity! I didn’t have dinner yet.”

“I didn’t say you had.” Charity’s voice was cool. “I merely said we’d already eaten. Didn’t you have breakfast and lunch today?” She waited while Faith nodded. “Then you’ve already eaten.”

“But, Charity, I’m hungry,” Faith wailed. “I’ve been weeding in your garden all afternoon, and I want my dinner.”

“Badly enough to swallow her tofu casserole?” Charity muttered grimly. As enlightenment spread across Faith’s countenance, Charity patted her hand. “We’ll stop at Burger Heaven on the way home.”

“Can I have fries?” Faith asked slyly, her nose curling as a strange odor wafted through the apartment.

Mitch wheeled and whispered in Faith’s ear. When she nodded, he pressed a twenty into her hand.

Surprisingly, it took Melanie about five minutes to shower and change into a pair of white slacks and a cool blue top. Her hair was wreathed around her head in a coronet style that left the air free to caress her long, slim neck. Mitch decided he liked that style almost as much as he liked it when she left it loose and long.

“What did you give Faith twenty dollars for?” she demanded as soon as they left the apartment, the good wishes of the three ladies ringing behind them.

“To get rid of any of that stuff that’s left,” he told her. “You may be some kind of health nut, but I am not, repeat not, eating tofu casserole.”

Quick as a wink, Melanie whipped open her tan leather bag and pulled out a ten, which she handed to him with a grin.

“Good thinking.” She laughed. “I can’t stand tofu myself. Particularly not after wading through those awful poached chicken breasts last night. They had no taste.”

“Tell me about it.” He chuckled. “Well, what’s it to be? Artery-clogging fried chicken? Thirty fat grams of pizza? Or Faith’s favorite—Burger Heaven?”

When Melanie beamed at him like that, Mitch wondered if it wasn’t just about time to renounce his long-held beliefs on marriage and his aversion to it. Just about.

“None of the above. Let’s try some lean, healthful Chinese food.”

“Good idea! Like sweet and sour ribs and deep-fried chicken balls. Health food! Now that’s my style.” He pulled away from the curb with a roar and steered off down the street.

He couldn’t help but join in her hoot of laughter. Nor could he avoid the sense of camaraderie that being with her brought. It was almost as if he belonged.

Chapter Six

“Please, God, just this once, don’t let him be there.”

Melanie prayed fervently but without much faith. Since that fateful day two weeks ago when her sane, orderly life had been traumatized by a back rub that had massaged away the aches but replaced them with desires that couldn’t be fulfilled, Mitch Stewart had dominated her thoughts.

Lately, Mitch managed to be at their apartment whenever she was. Casually waiting, smiling that mysterious smile. As if he knew about the flicker of desire that curled in her stomach whenever she caught sight of his dark head.

And Melanie was more aware of him than any man she had known before. Regardless of what he thought, she did remember offering him a kiss as thanks for his help. She was pretty sure she’d seen desire in his eyes at that moment. And Melanie knew Mitch had wanted her as much as she had him.

She wanted permanence, someone to depend on, someone to build a future with. She had a sneaking suspicion Mitch might fill that bill very well, Melanie admitted. But Mitch had made it very clear that theirs was only a temporary arrangement. It would end, and they would go their separate ways.

When she left for work, his dark blue eyes stroked over her uniform, noting every detail. When she left on a date, his glance followed every curve and line of her outfit, mentally chiding her for leaving him alone with Hope. Oh, he never said a word, of course. But she was a master at reading that poor-little-me expression.

Of course, it’s only for the money she was staying. At least, that’s what she told herself.

Ruthlessly ignoring the tingle of electricity that jolted through her whenever his twinkling baby blues met hers, Melanie focused on work. She came in way too early and left later than ever and was still far behind in her work. She accepted every date she was offered, even though she spent most of the time sitting thinking about who Mitch was with while she listened to someone else’s love life and their problems.

That’s why Papa John’s visit last night had been so unexpected. And so infuriating. Hope had gone out with Harry, leaving Melanie to tolerate the friendly arm Mitch placed around her shoulders just long enough to avert suspicion before she moved across the room, far away from his big hands. And when he sat right beside her on a sofa that could have easily held six, Melanie made an excuse to refill the tea, even though the pot was still more than half full.

“Oh, yes, we’re great friends, Mel and I,” he assured the old man, flashing that sexy smile guaranteed to weaken any woman’s knees. “We share everything from breakfast cereals to our taste in music.”

Mel had gaped at that. Mitch liked jazz while she preferred rock music from the past. And as far as she knew, he never ate breakfast. Unless you counted doughnuts.

The one thing they did share was their obvious lack of use of the old man’s product. Melanie sincerely hoped he wouldn’t ask for some, because she was positive there wasn’t a jar of the stuff anywhere in the apartment. But then, as usual, Mitch was miles ahead. He proudly showed their half-empty jar of nutty peanut butter to a benignly smiling Papa John.

“This is great stuff, sir. I’ve enjoyed it every morning.” Grinning ear to ear, Mitch proceeded to wax rhapsodic about peanut butter!

Melanie thought she would be sick.

“Did your children eat a lot of peanut butter when they were growing up?” Mitch had asked curiously.

When the elderly gentleman lost all his color, Melanie helped him sit down and offered him a cookie.

“I’m afraid my only son died,” he whispered, his face chalk white with strain. “I have no other children.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” Melanie murmured, patting the blue-veined hand as she glared at Mitch. “It must be terrible to lose a child.” To her disgust, Mitch continued on quite easily, as if nothing untoward had happened.

“Yes, I imagine it must be just like losing a parent,” he said thoughtfully. “I used to know some people who lost a father in Vietnam. It was very sad.”

Melanie didn’t think it was possible, but the old man’s color receded even further, leaving him pale and wan.

“I, er, I was in Vietnam, too,” he murmured, his hand shaking as he sipped his tea. “I had an accident there.”

“I’m so sorry.” Melanie rushed to reassure him, wondering why Mitch kept probing at a subject that was obviously painful. She directed a glare in his general direction, but it did absolutely no good. Mitch kept right on asking questions that were none of his business.

“What kind of an accident?” he asked curiously. “Anything you can talk about?”

“I, er, that is, well, you see, I lost my memory.” His eyes were distant, staring into the past. “I was hit with some flying debris when a comrade in the army stepped on a land mine.” He peered at Mitch. “I still don’t remember it all,” he murmured. “But a friend of mine has been helping me understand that what’s in the past isn’t important.”

“But what if there was someone, some family member maybe, that had been waiting for you to return all these years?” Mitch’s eyes were deeply intense as they studied their visitor. “Wouldn’t you want them to know you’re alive and okay?”

“Of course,” Papa John murmured. He rubbed his chin and tried to explain himself. “But I just can’t piece it all together. Not yet. Sometimes I get these pictures of someone, a woman…” He shook his head tiredly. “It’s no good. I can never remember the dreams.”

“Perhaps a hypnotist, or some specialist,” Mitch offered quietly but Papa John shook his head.

“No,” he said firmly. “I can’t sit around waiting anymore. I made my wife wait too long before we were married, hoping I’d remember something from the past, some clue to who I was.” His eyes filled with tears. “Because of that, we had so little time together.”

“I’m sorry, Papa John,” Melanie murmured. “We have no right pressing you like this.” She frowned at Mitch. “This is obviously a painful subject and absolutely none of our business. I apologize for my friend.” She laid special emphasis on the last word, warning Mitch silently that she wasn’t finished with him.

“It’s just that I’d like to help. If I could,” Mitch added, his cheeks flushed. “I mean, could I conduct a search or something?”

Papa John smiled as he stood, towering over them.

“That’s very kind,” he said. “But you see there’s almost nothing to go on. I don’t remember any names from that time except John. I think that’s mine. And a date,” he added. “June twenty-first. I have no idea of the significance of that. And you young things don’t want to be fussing about an old man like me. You’ve got too much living to do. I’d better get going.”

Melanie ushered him to the door, murmuring a few polite words of farewell. The door flew open just as she grasped the handle, and an unusually flustered Hope came surging into the room, her hair wild and disorderly, her normally immaculate clothes rumpled and dirty.

“The nerve of that man,” she sputtered, her voice full of dismay. “He actually asked me to marry him. At my age! Can you imagine it?”

Papa John observed Hope with a curious look, his eyes wide and questioning, obviously amazed that she found a marriage proposal so distasteful.

“He wants to get married right away! As if I would even countenance such a thing.”

“But why not?” Mitch demanded. “Gramps and you make a fine couple, and I think you enjoy each other’s company. Don’t you?” His stare was speculative, his eyes narrowing as the older woman brushed aside a bright lock of hair.

“Of course I enjoy Harry’s company,” she burst out. “But I can’t just suddenly decide to marry him. Not now, not with everything so up in the air.”

“You know,” Mitch told her seriously, his eyes fixed on the white-haired man in the doorway. “We were talking about that very thing and how a person shouldn’t wait for something that might never happen. Isn’t that right, sir?”

“Well, now, I’m not advising any rash decisions,” the old man mumbled, staring at Hope’s blond beauty, bushy eyebrows furrowed. “But there comes a time when you have to grasp opportunity with both hands and get on with your life. Before it’s over.”

Melanie suddenly noticed that Hope was staring at Papa John, her cheeks pale.

“Do I know you?” she whispered, peering into his eyes. “I feel somehow that I…”

“I’m sorry, Hope. I should have introduced you.” Mitch was beaming at the two of them. “This is Papa John. You know, from the company awarding us the prize money.” He turned to the man at the door. “This is our friend, Hope Langford.”

They nodded at each other, but Hope had not lost that odd look of speculation, and Melanie wondered for the hundredth time what was going on.

“Papa John Lexington,” he told her succinctly, offering a quick little bow. “Most folks call me Big John.” He turned to Melanie, who was standing dumbfounded as Mitch’s muscular arm wound itself around her shoulders, pressing her against his side in a pose reminiscent of two young lovers.

“Any word on that prize money?” Mitch asked, snuggling Melanie’s firm, unyielding form against his.

“It should be released any day now,” Papa John murmured, still staring at Hope. “Strange, though, the entry forms having only the one initial. We don’t think they were signed in either of your handwritings, either. We checked against the disclaimer we had you fill out.” He was almost to the elevator before Hope’s shrill tone stopped him.

“Wait a minute! Did you used to live near here? In a place called Sherman Oaks? You remind me…”

But Papa John was stepping into the elevator, shaking his white head.

“No, I’m afraid the name doesn’t sound familiar,” he told her. His gaze lighted on Mitch and Melanie still standing entwined. “Thank you for the tea. You’ll be hearing from my company soon, very soon.”

When the elevator doors finally closed on their guest, Melanie ducked out from Mitch’s snug embrace to chastise him roundly.

“How could you?” she gasped. “He thinks we are in love with each other. He thinks we eat peanut butter. He thinks we actually like each other!” Her voice was squeaking, and Melanie fought for control.

“We could be, I do eat it, and we do like each other,” he answered quietly before moving to clear away the dishes they’d used.

“But…but—” Melanie spluttered, unable to believe what she had just heard. She floundered, searching for words. “I never—that is, if we…I mean, darn it, will you stand still for a minute?”

She was frustrated at Mitch’s calm acceptance of the situation. What did he mean, they could be in love? She had never given him any reason to think such a thing! Had she?

He did stop. Putting the tray on the ceramic kitchen counter, he placed his hands behind him as he leaned back to study her flushed face and wringing hands. His knowing grin made her palms itch to slap it away. This was no laughing matter!

“You know that you’re as interested in me as I am in you,” he told her. “We think alike. But if you want to keep pretending that there’s nothing there…” He shrugged. “Fine. That’s life. But you’re only fooling yourself.”

“I have no clue as to where you got this information,” she told him spitefully. “But let me assure you that it is false. I am not attracted to you. You’re too pushy and too bossy and—”

His big smile beamed teasingly at her.

“It’s okay, Melanie. I don’t expect you to own up to it. You never do.” His blue eyes licked fire at her as he followed her figure to the cinched waist of her silky slacks.

“You’re weird,” she muttered angrily. “I don’t understand where you get the wild idea that we think alike. I couldn’t possibly think in nearly such a convoluted form as you.” She glared at him. “Besides, I always own up to everything.”