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

Mostly Mitch was really sick of the tall, ever-charming fellow from the television studio. Neal Landt was becoming a frequent visitor on the weekends. Charming and personable, he had openly admitted his interest in Melanie. The man had even asked Mitch for advice about her favorite meal!

“I want to make a good impression. You know how it is, old son. She’s one very foxy lady.”

Old son, indeed! Could the woman not see that Neal must have bleached his hair and his teeth to get them that white? Mitch forced his mind back to reality. That same woman was now sitting in his kitchen. Alone. Waiting.

“I was going to tell you—”

He turned toward the counter just as Melanie’s elbow connected with his cup. The hot, sweet coffee splashed down the pristine white of his shirt. It was just enough to ignite his already red-hot temper.

“Blast it, woman, can’t you be careful? It’s not enough that you take over my apartment, use up all the hot water, constantly invite your seniors over and expect me to entertain them and run your Dear Melanie Advice Service from my telephone, now you’ve ruined my best white shirt.”

Mitch’s dark eyes flew to her face in time to catch the cascade of red suffusing it. Her jade eyes glittered sparks at him. He watched, mesmerized, as her temper flared and then he waited for the explosion.

Melanie jabbed her pink-tipped fingernail into the air, her voice betraying a tiny wobble, which she quickly corrected.

“What, exactly, is your problem?” she demanded. Her foot moved as if to whack him in the shin. He jumped back. “You are the biggest dolt I’ve ever known. And the grumpiest. I’m terribly sorry I woke you, bear face. And I didn’t intentionally ruin your shirt.”

Mitch was pretty sure she wanted to stick her tongue out at him, but she didn’t.

“Crawl back into your den till spring and sleep it off,” she advised him angrily. “By then I’ll be gone, thank goodness!” She rushed out the door.

Berating himself for his rotten attitude, Mitch moved after her. He hadn’t really meant to say it. It was just…

“No, wait, Melanie.” His voice was loud and strident, but she was gone. Only Mrs. Green from 106 stood in the hallway, frowning at him darkly.

“A den of iniquity, that’s what it is,” the elderly woman groused. “People coming and going at all hours. It’s a good thing Hope Langford is watching out for that girl. Otherwise…” She shook her head doubtfully at Mitch’s coffee-stained shirt and red face before returning to her apartment.

Slowly Mitch walked inside, pushing Melanie’s strappy black heels out of his way. He remembered how great she had looked last night. Black stockings, black leather jacket and skirt, and these bits of leather on her feet. It had been a fifties car thing downtown, he remembered. She’d ridden with some punks in a convertible.

Mitchel kicked the heels away viciously. Didn’t the woman pick anything up?

“Forget it, will you?” he ordered himself. “You’re an idiot. A stupid, blithering idiot!”

His fist connected with the door frame in frustration as he realized he was thinking about her again and wishing he hadn’t been so rude. When the throbbing pain finally translated itself to his brain, Mitchel Stewart decided it was time to do some serious regrouping. He stuffed another doughnut into his mouth and poured a fresh cup of coffee as he pondered his situation.

Okay, he admitted to his niggling conscience. He liked her brash attitude and quick comebacks. A lot. And he wanted to get to know her. But after this morning’s little fiasco, he doubted she wanted much to do with him, prize money or not. And he was going to have to figure a way to get past the hordes of people that always seemed to be around her.

“It’s gonna take a lot of sucking up, Stewart,” he told himself, then grinned. He knew he was feeling the sugar doughnuts hit his bloodstream, but suddenly he felt happier than he had in days. He had a plan, by George, and he was going to put it into practice today.

Whistling merrily, Mitch removed his sodden, coffee-stained shirt and replaced it with another.

“Fine.” He grinned cheekily at himself in the mirror. “If she wants polite and restrained, that’s what I will be. Decent. Upstanding. I can do that.” At least he thought he could.

Melanie wasn’t going to goad him into doing anything that would put her beloved money in danger. And if she didn’t get that blasted cash for her old friends, nobody would lay it at his door.

There was a tiny voice in the back of his mind demanding to be heard. Was it really for the money that he’d talked her into staying here?

Mitch ignored the question. He straightened his shoulders. He had to get this cleared up. If she was staying, and he wasn’t too sure about that, then he had some serious apologizing to do.

A gift, that was it. He’d give her something. He remembered something she had said about pets and old people being a natural. They weren’t allowed here, but maybe at Sunset…Maybe that was the answer.

“Prepare for battle,” he muttered to that little voice before grabbing his overstuffed briefcase and stomping out the door. His fingers snicked up the last doughnut on the way.

“Bran flakes, indeed!”

“Junk-food junkie,” Melanie muttered through tightly clenched teeth. Her heart sank as she spied Hope standing on the corner, waving madly. “Just what I need to make a lousy morning really complete,” she muttered, staring at the woman’s smiling face.

“Hi, Hope. Boy, you’re up early.”

She tried to infuse some enthusiasm into her voice while swallowing the little prick of conscience that reminded her that Hope had risen at precisely four fifty-eight, a full half hour before her own alarm went off.

“Yes, I had some thinking to do,” Hope murmured, buckling herself in carefully after arching one eyebrow, then daintily removing a chocolate-bar wrapper from the seat with two perfectly shaped oval nails. “Could you give me a lift to the home, Melanie? It’s my day to volunteer and I thought I’d get an early start.”

“Yes, of course.” Melanie steered into what passed for rush hour traffic in Mossbank and drove furiously through town.

“What did you say, dear?”

“Oh, nothing, Hope,” Melanie lied, knowing perfectly well what she had said and hoping against all the odds that her former Sunday school teacher wouldn’t call her on it.

“You said, ‘The man is a neat freak,’” Hope repeated, her voice serious. “I take it you’re talking about Mitchel?”

“Oh, yeah.” Melanie breathed, trying to stall all the unlovely things that begged release. “He was nattering at me again this morning. I accidentally bumped his arm and spilled his coffee. He’s so rude!”

There was no point in holding back and getting ulcers, Melanie decided finally. Might as well lay it on the line.

“If I so much as put my feet up on the edge of the coffee table, he’s there with a cloth, cleaning up.” Melanie flicked the signal with more power than necessary and winced at Bessie’s protest.

“If I have a glass of water, he waits, suspended at my side, ready to pounce the moment I set it down. Then he marches into the kitchen to put the glass in the dishwasher. As if I have some contagious disease!”

“Yes, he’s become quite particular about things lately.” Hope nodded, smiling happily. “And you could take a lesson from that, dear.”

“I’m not messy,” Melanie protested, her face flushed and angry. “I just like to relax for a while after work. It’s not my fault he stepped on my keys last night. I didn’t deliberately put them on the floor.”

“He didn’t say you had! He just asked you to be more careful. With the three of us, it is rather crowded, and you do tend toward accidents, my dear.”