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

“Actually there’s quite a lot. But for right now, would you mind bringing in my suitcases? I’ll be sharing Melanie’s room. You’re not going to destroy my best friend’s daughter’s reputation as long as I can stop it!”

Mitch stared at her, his mind whirling. Was this what Gramps had meant this morning on the phone? What had he said? “Hope has her feathers ruffled.” Was that it? Apparently she was angry with him. Mitch groaned at the thought of this straitlaced busybody and her obviously mistaken impression of his and Melanie’s unusual arrangement.

“Miss Langford, I assure you that there’s nothing like that going on. Melanie and I—”

“Will have a chaperone,” she interrupted smartly, straightening the cushions thrown haphazardly on his sofa. Her eyebrows lifted disdainfully at the coffee rings covering the glass surface of the coffee table. “Melanie should be staying with her mother. And if it weren’t for the missionaries Charity had already invited, I’m sure that’s where she would be.”

Mitch watched transfixed as Miss Langford picked up a half-eaten box of doughnuts and dumped the whole lot in the trash.

“Hey! That was my breakfast,” he told her, frowning resentfully. He decided to make a show of bravado, even though his knees were shaking. There was something about this woman that brooked no nonsense.

“Now, look here, Miss Langford. I’m letting Melanie use the spare room so she can get her half of the money for that nursing home she’s so wrapped up in. That’s all there is to it.”

“Fine.” Hope Langford stared at the carpet, grimacing at the bits of lint and fluff. “And while she’s here, I’m here,” she told him firmly. “Please bring my things through to Melanie’s room. I’d like to get settled in.”

Mitch found himself obeying even though the last thing he wanted was this neatness freak in his apartment. Fortunately his spare room had two single beds. He watched transfixed as Hope removed perfectly pressed clothes from the satchels and hung them in the minuscule closet that already housed a few of Melanie’s uniforms.

His original houseguest had planned on moving the rest of her stuff tonight. It was going to be a tight squeeze in this dinky apartment, he decided, leaving Hope to pour himself another cup of coffee and contemplate the doughnuts in their box in the garbage can.

A really tight squeeze, if she was going to insist on chucking out his food supply. But how did you throw out an older woman determined to save the reputation of someone who didn’t need it?

“Coffee is very hard on your stomach lining,” Hope said in a stern voice. “I make a wonderful protein drink with raw eggs and yogurt that would give you lasting energy.”

Mitch set down his cup hastily and grabbed his briefcase. He had to get out of here. Quickly.

“Er, uh, no, thanks,” he mumbled, grabbing the doorknob like a lifeline. “I have to get to work. Early appointment.” At the convenience store across the street, he thought. He almost had the door safely closed behind him.

“Young man?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, debating the propriety of a salute.

“I will need a key to this residence. There are several matters to be taken care of today and I will need to let myself in and out.”

“Oh. Yes, of course.” He thought. “I made a spare for Melanie yesterday. I think it’s in the kitchen. In the drawer beside the sink. I’ll get another cut this afternoon.” He watched her carefully to see if that was all right with her, and when she nodded, he turned to escape.

“Have a nice day,” she told him cheerfully.

No doubt all that happiness came from her power drink. He shuddered and climbed into his red Camaro with relief. Thank goodness it was running properly, at last. At work, Mitch could hardly wait to dial Melanie’s work number. When she answered, he almost bellowed at her over the phone.

“Thanks a lot,” he shouted angrily.

“Mitch? Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me.” He tried, really tried to control his temper. “I’m just calling to say thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” she answered politely. A few seconds later her puzzled voice came on the line. “For what?”

“Don’t pretend you don’t know. She arrived this morning, bag and baggage. All prepared to settle in for the duration.”

He waited for her excuse; her plea for understanding for her aunt. He was all ready to shoot her excuses down, one by one.

Instead he heard:

“Have another cup of coffee, Mitchel, and call me back when you’re awake and in your right mind. Okay, okay. I’ll settle for awake.” The telephone line went dead.

“Of all the overbearing, pushy women,” he began, stuffing another chocolate-covered doughnut into his mouth.

“Mitch, your nine-thirty is here. Shall I show him in?” His secretary’s eyebrows rose as she watched him nod and shove the doughnuts out of view. Amanda chuckled appreciatively. “Pigging out, are we?”

“Just show him in, will you, Amanda?” he muttered in frustration, trying to hide the sticky evidence.

Clarence Palmer had been a private investigator for thirty-five years. If there was a secret to be unearthed, Clarence knew exactly how to go about it. Mitch had known him for years and used his services several times, once for himself, to find the father he’d hated for so long.

He grabbed the older man’s hand and slapped the thin back with pleasure.

“Clarence! Gee, it’s good to see you again. Come on, sit down. Want a doughnut?”

“Mitch.” Clarence nodded, peering at the doughnuts as he carefully wiped his hand on his handkerchief. “You still addicted to these things?” His observant gaze scanned the package. “Must be a bad day.” He chuckled.

“Why do you say that?”

“Chocolate ones are all gone.” Clarence grinned. He helped himself to a sugared doughnut and settled back in the leather chair. “This a good time?” he asked quietly.

“Yep, perfect.” Mitch poured them both a cup of coffee and then leaned back, pen and paper at the ready. “What have you got for me?”

With a swift economy of movement, Clarence whipped open his notepad and began.

“I got a lot of this stuff from your grandfather’s contacts. Jean LeClerc. You want age, birthplace, all that?” He waited for Mitch’s negative reply, then continued. “Okay. Vietnam vet, killed in action, or so they said. Actually, the other guy was pretty sure this Jean was wounded and kept in an enemy camp for years. The Viet Cong deliberately left some of his stuff to be found so he’d be presumed dead. You know the routine.”

Mitch nodded grimly. He did know. Very well, as it happened. He’d worked on a few cases involving fathers who had died in Vietnam. It wasn’t pretty.

“Okay. Good old Jean came back but minus a few facts—like who he was. Met a volunteer at the vet hospital and they married. She had money and he put it to good use building an empire. Ever heard of Papa John?” Clarence looked at him through his wire-rimmed glasses and saw Mitch’s astonishment.

“This means something to you?”

“Yeah, it does.” He stared at Clarence, seeing not him but the elderly white-haired man he’d met at the Bismarck television station. “Let me get this straight. The Papa John’s Peanut Butter magnate is Hope Langford’s Jean LeClerc?”

“One and the same, we think. Only I’m not sure if he knows it. Legally his name is John Lexington. A nurse at the hospital said they called him that when he couldn’t remember his name. He apparently responded to John, and they adlibbed his last name.” Clarence left half his doughnut on a napkin as he dug through his notes.

“Nurse Mary said he had lots of nightmares and kept mentioning the same words over and over. One of those words was hope. They didn’t realize it could be a name until I offered it as an explanation. Apparently this guy was worried that someone would think he’d reneged on their deal. But whenever he woke up, he remembered nothing and couldn’t tell them any more about what he was hoping for.”