A Hopeful Heart and A Home, a Heart, A Husband: A Hopeful Heart

A HOPEFUL HEART

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

A HOME, A HEART, A HUSBAND

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Epilogue

Therefore I say unto you, Take no thought for your life, what ye shall eat, or what ye shall drink; nor yet for your body, what ye shall put on…. Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these. Wherefore, if God so clothe the grass of the field, which today is, and tomorrow is cast into the oven, shall He not much more clothe you, O ye of little faith?

—Matthew 6:25-30

This book is dedicated to my grandpa John, and to Papa Richer. Both of them would have loved Melanie’s refreshing attitude toward seniors and her efforts to improve the lives of those spending their last years in a nursing home. To you who devote your days and nights to caring for someone’s spouse, mother, grandparent or friend, may I say “Thank you.” Your labors do not go unappreciated.

Melanie Stewart slipped out of her battered tan car and slammed the door shut, hoping it would catch.

“You’re doing fine, Bessie, old girl,” she murmured, patting the ancient car’s rusty fender. “I know. You need a paint job and new tires, but that will wait. It has to.”

She grimaced at the thought of the number of high-priority items on her to-do list that seemed to multiply daily. Oh, for a little spare cash!

“The love of money is the root of all evil,” she repeated to herself. “Remember that, and be glad for what you have.”

With a sigh, Melanie blew her auburn bangs from her forehead, resigned to both her penurious state and the blistering July heat.

“Just a few dollars would sure be nice, though.” She sighed, glancing heavenward. “Just a little spare cash could make a big difference to so many.” Unbidden, images of the residents at the Sunset Retirement Home—her residents—rolled through her mind. “Give me a sign, Lord, please,” she pleaded in a heartfelt prayer. “Just a little hint that better things are on the way.”

“Oh, Melanie!” Mr. Jones strode jauntily down the street toward her, whistling his usual happy tune as he pushed his delivery cart in front of Melanie’s redbrick apartment building. “Afternoon, Melanie, my girl.”

Fred Jones was a genial man who had been Mossbank’s special-delivery officer for twenty years. He knew everyone in town and most of what went on. Melanie had long ceased to wonder how he kept the residents and their stories straight.

“Hi, Mr. Jones. How’s your wife doing?” They exchanged the usual banter about the romance Melanie had helped along three years earlier. Then the older man thrust an ordinary white envelope with Official Notice stamped on the front of it into her hand.

“This looks pretty important, Melanie. Thought I’d better bring it over soon as you got off work. It was addressed to the nursing home, but I knew you’d be coming home about now. Sure hope it’s good news.” He grinned. “You’ve got a couple more wedding invitations, too. Reckon Cupid and you were real busy last winter,” he said teasingly, watching her face flush.

His wiry tanned hand offered the shabby clipboard for her signature.

Melanie shook her head at the suggestion that she was the local matchmaker. In Fred’s mind, the two latest invitations confirmed it, even if she hadn’t meant to get involved.

“All I did was lend a little advice,” she told him. When there was no response, she turned the plain white envelope over. There was nothing to identify it on the back. She peered at the strange letters on the front upper left corner—PJPB.

“Why do those initials seem so familiar?” she wondered. After a few moments of deep thought, Fred Jones answered her.

“It’s probably just another of those form letters announcing you have won an unbelievable amount of money.” He frowned. “Then, when you read the fine print, there is always a conditional if or possibly to free the sender of any misrepresentation.” He shook his head gloomily and watched while Melanie stuffed the envelope into the outside pocket of her tan leather bag. “Then again, maybe it’s a letter from an admirer,” he suggested slyly.

“Well, whatever it is, it will have to wait,” she told him tiredly. “I need a shower and some supper. Thanks anyway, Mr. Jones.”

Fred Jones grinned, waved his hand and strode off down the street to his next destination, still whistling, but this time it was “Here Comes the Bride.”

Lethargically, Melanie forced her tired feet up the three stairs and into the blessed coolness of the air-conditioned foyer. The elevator took forever, so she slowly climbed the stairs.