A Hopeful Heart and A Home, a Heart, A Husband: A Hopeful Heart. Lois Richer
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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,