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