A Hopeful Heart and A Home, a Heart, A Husband. Lois Richer
water for him.
But Melanie’s extended steam baths left little but the most frigid of showers which were, of necessity, very short. He’d taken to shaving in his room because the mirrors in the bathroom were too steamed up to let him shave properly even if there had been room for his razor among the multicolored little bottles, vials and tubes. He couldn’t figure it out. As far as he could tell, neither woman wore much makeup.
When at last Mitch sauntered into the kitchen, he was in no mood for pleasant conversation. He was desperately searching for a cup of coffee. Melanie did make good coffee, he’d give her that. That is, if he got any. More often than not, Hope would pour the “vile black drug” down the drain as soon as her niece was finished.
Today Melanie sat alone at the breakfast bar, staring vacantly out the window. In front of her was an empty cereal bowl testifying that she had already eaten. Bran flakes, no doubt. A shudder tickled Mitch’s back.
“How can you eat that stuff?” he demanded.
Melanie stared at him for a moment before answering.
“It’s very healthy,” she murmured as she strolled with that long-legged grace to the counter to rinse her bowl before bending to place it in the dishwasher.
Her slim, efficient body was immaculately clothed in blush-pink nylon, and she exuded freshness. By contrast, Mitch felt drained, lifeless. And he was beginning to hate the color pink.
“Maybe, but it tastes like dog food,” he said grumpily, stuffing one of the doughnuts he’d bought the night before into his mouth. He glanced around to make sure Hope hadn’t seen his secret stash.
“I wouldn’t know.” Her clear gaze surveyed his tired face. “I have never tasted dog food.” She smirked at him. “It’s a treat I’ll leave you to savor.”
Mitch wanted to stick his tongue out, but he managed to control the urge. Barely.
“Boy, are you cranky. Something bothering you, Mitch?”
Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. He scowled. Miss Perfect Stewart was no doubt well refreshed after her night on the town with pretty-boy Jeff, the blond doctor. No doubt they had gone out for a healthy meal of sushi, Mitch told himself jealously.
He was getting fed up with the parade of men who frequented his apartment. “Friends,” she said, but Mitch wondered. Most of them phoned to ask her out for coffee, to take her for pizza or to a movie. A few even ended up in his living room getting advice about a birthday gift for their newest love. Young and old, they came to ask her advice about a new girlfriend. The kids took her to dinner, baseball games and all the church socials in town while they plied her with questions about the best way to handle their totally uncool parents. He never got a moment alone with her.
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