Faithfully Yours
Page 24
“Why do these initials seem so familiar?” she wondered aloud. After a few moments of deep thought, Fred Jones answered her.
“It’s probably just another of those things announcing you have won an unbelievable amount of money,” he said. “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 beige 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.
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.
As usual, the events of her day threatened to overwhelm her and she forcibly thrust them to the back of her mind, refusing to allow herself to dwell on the sad situations she often handled as director of Sunset Retirement Home.
At twenty-eight, she had never become resigned to the plight of seniors forced to enter a nursing home when they could no longer care for themselves; empathy of a world-weary foster child, no doubt, she derided herself.
Melanie spent every minute of her workday trying to make their lives interesting and enjoyable. In short, she hoped to allow each resident the freedom to live as they wished with help nearby when necessary. Since her dreams of husband and children had never been fulfilled, the small community of Mossbank, North Dakota, but especially the residents at Sunset had become her special family.
Melanie placed the letter on the kitchen table, then set about preparing her meal; a chicken sandwich on whole wheat toast and a glass of iced tea.
The letter sat staring at her all the while she ate her dinner and knowing she could procrastinate no longer, Melanie finally carried her iced tea to the living room and sank into the depths of her overstuffed sofa. 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 Peanut Butter’ contest.
This will advise you that prizes will be awarded Thursday, July 15th during a televised announcement at WMIX-TV13. Please be at the station no later than 1 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 its 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 below 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 dazedly. “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 those things that would make his last few years so enjoyable. A windfall of cash would be just the thing.
A week later, the thrill of excitement had not diminished as Melanie found herself standing backstage in a television studio at WMIX, a Bismarck television station that specialized in North Dakota’s news events.
“Now, dear,” an older woman carrying a clipboard directed Melanie, “we’ll be broadcasting shortly. Stay right here and don’t move from this spot. When it’s your turn, I’ll be here to guide you on.”
Melanie nodded and felt butterflies dance an entire ballet through her midsection.
Like a plump busy robin, the woman in the bright red shirt whisked through the menagerie of soundmen, cameras and directors to the booth across the room.
From behind the curtain, Melanie could see part of the stage setting. A huge structure meant to represent a peanut butter jar full of gold coins sat front and centre with the famous glittering golden letters, PJPB, on its side.
Suddenly the announcer’s voice penetrated her thoughts.
“The winner is M. Stewart!”
Melanie felt the hand on her back propelling her forward. As she moved toward the grinning announcer, she noticed a tall, dark-haired man moving out 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 a rugged, chiselled face with 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 grinning 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 now 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 of them.
“It’s Melanie Stewart” Melanie was so nervous that her voice slipped out in a soft squeak that no one seemed to hear.
Finally the director hissed something from his seat in the sound room, that sizzled through the headset The words were audible over the whole stage. “Do Something!”
“I’m sorry folks,” the announcer stumbled for words, “but there seems to be a bit of a mix-up here. Our winner of the Papa John’s Peanut Butter and $50,000 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,” the announcer muttered.
Yes, isn’t, it Melanie thought. She stared at her blue-eyed nemesis, the man who claimed to be M. Stewart as well. He glared back.
Now what? Melanie wondered.
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eISBN: 978-14592-6447-2
FAITHFULLY YOURS
Copyright © 1998 by Lois Richer
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