A Hopeful Heart and A Home, A Heart, A Husband Page 4
“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.
“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?”