Lois Richer - A Hopeful Heart and A Home, a Heart, A Husband

“No, I hadn’t heard anything, but then I don’t know Judge Conroy all that well. If his grandson’s been here for two weeks, I’ll probably meet him at church soon. If I ever get another Sunday off!” Melanie smiled at the abrupt change of topic.

“Yes, Mother, I know there are some good men in the world. I just haven’t met many of them, and those I think I might be interested in usually want my help to attract someone else.” She smiled at the volume of reassurances that issued over the phone.

“Listen, Mother, I was just going to start dinner when you called. I have to go now. I’m starved. Have a good time with Faith and Hope. Bye, Mother.”

The letter on the hall table stared at her all the while she ate her dinner. Knowing she could procrastinate no longer, Melanie finally carried her tea to the living room and sank into the depths of her overstuffed sofa. Yawning widely, she slit the slim envelope and drew out a single sheet of heavy white paper.

We are pleased to announce that M. Stewart of Mossbank, North Dakota, has been randomly selected by our computer as the grand prize winner of 50,000 in our recent Papa John’s Peanut Butter contest.

This will advise you that prizes will be awarded Thursday, July 15, during a televised announcement at WMIX-TV13. Please be at the station no later than 1:00 p.m. of that day. A company representative will contact you within the next few days to confirm your win and to give you additional information.

There was another paragraph offering congratulations and asking her not to talk to the press, but Melanie absorbed none of it. Her eyes read the words, but her mind couldn’t comprehend their significance.

She turned it over to check for the usual qualifying sentences and found nothing. There was only a scrawled signature at the end of the letter which was identified as the CEO of Papa John’s Peanut Butter. Stupidly, she stared at the embossed golden logo, afraid to believe it.

“He answered,” she muttered to herself, dazed. “I’ve actually won some money!”

Melanie read the wonderful letter three times before her mind acknowledged and processed the information, and then she let out an unbridled squeal of joy.

“A grand prize winner,” she mused, twisting one curling lock of her shoulder-length hair. “Thank you, Lord. As usual, Your timing is perfect. Maybe Mr. Henessey will get his wish after all. And of course, Mrs. Blair.”

One by one, the residents of the special-care home flew through her thoughts. Many of the seniors had little or no family nearby. Some, like Mr. Henessey, had very little money for things that would make his last few years so enjoyable. A windfall of cash would be just the thing.

When Shawna sauntered through the door three hours later, Melanie had finished drawing up her list of future expenses. She pounced on her friend eagerly.

“I won, I won,” she squeaked, thrusting the letter in front of Shawna’s sunburned nose.

Her roommate was cool and efficient, well used to Melanie’s bursts of excitement. Calmly she laid her jacket and purse on a nearby chair, wished her gaping date a good evening and closed the door on him firmly, then reached for the letter. After a careful scrutiny, she grabbed Melanie and they danced giddily around, laughing hilariously.

A week later, the thrill of excitement had not diminished as Melanie found herself ushered into the makeup room of WMIX, a Bismarck television station that specialized in North Dakota’s news events. Melanie sat nervously while a teenage girl applied a thick layer of shadow and mascara. She felt butterflies dance an entire ballet through her midsection. Finally, eons later, a short, frumpy woman bustled into the room.

“M. Stewart?” Accepting the nod, the older woman wrapped her vivid purple nails around Melanie’s arm and led her through a maze of corridors to a busy sound stage.

“Now, dear,” she said over her shoulder, “we’ll be broadcasting shortly. Don’t move from this spot. When it’s your turn, I’ll be here to guide you on.”

Like a plump, busy robin, the woman in the bright red shirt whisked through the menagerie of sound men, cameras and directors to the booth across the room.

From behind the curtain, Melanie saw part of the stage setting. A huge structure meant to represent a peanut butter jar full of gold coins sat front and center with the famous glittering golden letters PJPB on its side. Standing beside it was a man Melanie identified as Papa John, clad in his white shirt, bow tie, blue jeans and red suspenders. Snowy white hair looked exactly as it did on the commercials that flashed across the television screen every night.

In the last forty-eight hours, Melanie had spent valuable hours at work wracking her brain, trying to remember entering any contest to do with Papa John’s Peanut Butter. Nothing specific came to mind, but then she had been in such a fog during a particularly low period in her life a few months ago. Right after poor old Mrs. Peters had passed away.

Suddenly the announcer’s voice penetrated her thoughts.

“The winner is M. Stewart!”

Melanie felt a hand on her back propelling her forward. As she moved toward the grinning announcer, she noticed a tall, dark-haired man moving from the wings on the far side of the stage. Slim and muscular, he exuded the very essence of a man-about-town. He had rugged, chiseled features and the bluest eyes she had ever seen.

And those eyes were fixed firmly on her!

Melanie gave herself a mental shake and focused on the task ahead. Nervously, she wiped her sweaty palms on her skirt before moving to stand beside the announcer.

“M. Stewart,” he boomed in his loud, TV personality voice.

“Yes,” Melanie answered, and then heard a yes from directly behind her. Turning her head, she found those deep blue eyes glaring at her.

“I’m sorry, miss, but I think he asked for me.” Low and rumbling, his voice rolled past her left ear as the man carefully but still rudely elbowed his way past.

“But my name is M. Stewart,” Melanie insisted, wondering if the whole thing was a hoax. The announcer was obviously at a loss as he turned his perfectly groomed head from one to the other.

“I’m Melanie Stewart.” Melanie was so nervous her voice slipped out in a soft squeak that no one seemed to hear.

Finally the director hissed from his seat in the sound room. The words were audible over the whole stage. “Do something!”

“I’m sorry, folks,” the announcer said slowly, “but there seems to be a bit of a mix-up here. Our winner of the Papa John’s Peanut Butter contest is M. Stewart. Sir, may I have your full name, please?”

The handsome interloper gracefully inclined his head as he stated clearly, “Mitchel Edward Stewart.” His glittering blue eyes dared Melanie to top that.

“And you, miss. Your name is?” The microphone was stuck in her face, and Melanie forced a tight rein on her temper as she answered.

“Melanie Clarice Stewart.”

“Well, isn’t this great. Are you two married?”

The stranger’s dark head shook adamantly, his blue eyes hurling daggers at Melanie.

“I am not married and I have certainly never met Miss Stewart,” he said, arrogantly dismissing Melanie’s presence with a brush of his hand. “I was advised by telephone that I had won a contest and that I was obligated to be here today.”

Melanie’s simmering temper flashed to the surface. Not so fast, she thought, and tugged the rumpled letterhead from the pocket of her skirt, intent on wiping the smugly satisfied look from Mr. Mitchel Stewart’s handsome countenance.

“I received this letter by special delivery,” she said, waving the letter for all to see. Heat flooded her face as she stared into mocking blue eyes.