To Heal A Heart (Love Inspired) (3 page)

Mitch got his sudden smile under control, looked his dad in the eye and said, “Can’t hurt to run it by him, and meanwhile I’ll follow Mom’s advice.” Since she was sitting right next to him, he patted her on the knee.

“Your father didn’t mean anything by that last remark,” she assured him.

“Yes, I did,” Vernon instantly refuted. “Mitch works too much. If he’s really interested in finding someone to spend his life with, then he’s going to have to cut back on his hours. You said it yourself.”

“I also said we should keep our opinions to ourselves,” she scolded benignly, shaking a finger at him.

He gave her a droll look over the bowl of his pipe. ‘You’ve been married to me long enough to know better than that.”

She rolled her eyes, saw that Mitch was trying not to laugh and threw up her hands. “So I have, you meddling old mother hen.”

Vernon clamped the pipe stem between his teeth, looked at his son and quipped, “Ah, the joys of married life.”

Mitch laughed at them both. His father grinned unrepentantly while Marian folded her arms in a mock huff. “If it makes you feel any better,” he heard himself saying, “I saw her again.” So much for keeping quiet.

“Her?” Vernon echoed, forehead beetling.

Marian clasped her hands together. “The girl on the plane! The one with the pretty name.”

“Piper Wynne,” Mitch confirmed. “Turns out she works just down the street from me, but that’s all I know about her. And that’s all I have to say on the subject.”

“For now,” Vernon qualified with a flourish of his pipe. “Well, well,” he mused, inserting the stem between his lips again.

Well, well, indeed, Mitch thought, looking at his mother’s shining eyes. He couldn’t help wondering how long they had kept silent, waiting for him to be ready to love again. It was to be expected from his mother, but his father had shown great restraint and respect. Thinking of his garrulous, take-charge father biting his tongue for only God knew how long stunned Mitch.

He cleared his throat and softly asked, “Have I told you two lately how much I love you?”

Vernon removed the pipe from his mouth, smiled and looked down, brushing at imaginary lint on his thigh. Marian’s hand closed tenderly over Mitch’s forearm.

“It’s always good to hear,” she said softly.

Mitch sat back and lightened the moment by asking, “What’s for dinner?”

His mother hopped up and headed to the kitchen, answering him over her shoulder, “Your favorite, of course—chicken potpie.”

Vernon waited until she was out of earshot before confiding, “When I asked, she told me leftovers.” He stuck the pipe between his teeth and winked. “Glad you came over.”

Mitch just smiled.

Piper bit off a chunk of sandwich and momentarily turned her face up to the sun, eyes closed. The air felt like silk today, thanks to unusually mild temperatures and a steady breeze that blew the pollution southward. Chewing rapidly, she looked down at the folded newspaper in her lap, her gaze skimming an article on the so-called megachurches in the area. Suddenly a shadow fell across the newsprint. When it failed to move on, she glanced up.

Mitch Sayer stood in front of her, smiling, a hot dog cradled in a waxed wrapper in one hand, his suit coat draped through the crook of his other arm.

She lowered the newspaper to her lap. “Hello again.”

“Hello.” He lifted his eyebrows as if for permission to snoop. She nodded slightly, and he tilted his head to get a look at what she was reading. “Looking for a church?”

She thought of it more as preparing to look. “Starting to.”

“I’d be delighted if you’d try mine.”

She made no reply to that beyond a tight smile, but somehow she wasn’t surprised to find that he was a practicing Christian.

“May I sit?” He indicated the stone bench that she was occupying.

She pulled her nylon lunch bag a little closer. “Sure.”

Mitch tossed his coat over the end of the bench and sat, biting into the hot dog. She saw that he took it covered in chili, cheese and jalapeño peppers.

“You really do like the spicy stuff, don’t you?”

He looked over his meal and said, “This one’s mild. I forgo the onions when I have a meeting too soon after lunch.”

She grinned. “Considerate of you.”

“Even murderers and thugs can smell,” he quipped. Seeing her shock, he apologized. “Sorry. Little jailhouse humor. I forget it’s not always appropriate.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s all right. You said you were a lawyer. I just didn’t think…”

“Criminal law,” he supplied, and she nodded.

“I figured corporate something or other.”

“I’m a defense attorney,” he told her forthrightly. “Dirty job, but someone’s got to do it—someone who actually cares about justice, preferably.” He bit off a huge chunk of the chili dog.

“And that would be you,” she hazarded.

He nodded, chewing, and swallowed. “I do, actually.” He waved a hand. “I consider it more of a calling than a profession, which is not to say that I don’t find it exciting at times.”

“I can imagine.” The emergency room had often been an exciting place to work, too, until… She pushed that thought away. “So, do you have any high-profile clients at the moment?”

“A couple,” he answered matter-of-factly, shifting on the hard bench. “You heard about a case where a couple of kids took to playing practical jokes on one another and one of them went wrong, put out the eye of an eleven-year-old?”

She shook her head. “No, I live, er, lived in Houston until recently.”

“Well,” he said, “my client is the kid who rigged his buddy’s lunch box with a small explosion. It wasn’t a bomb—it was just supposed to make a popping sound. Unfortunately, his buddy’s little brother took the wrong lunch box to school that morning, and he happened to be holding a fork in his fist when he opened it. You can guess what happened.”

“Oh, that’s awful.”

“Sure is, and with school violence on everyone’s mind lately, my client found himself looking at an attempted murder charge. A Houston lady who just happened to be visiting her granddaughter for lunch that day saw the whole thing. If she hadn’t remembered seeing a name written on the box top in ink marker, my client would still be looking at an attempted murder charge. Seems he was not exactly a fan of his buddy’s little brother, and the D.A. was taking a hard line until my witness remembered seeing that. She’s the reason I was on that plane, by the way. How about you?”

“It was the cheapest airfare,” she told him honestly.

He chuckled. “Yeah. It’s bare bones on those daily shuttle flights, but that’s not what I meant. I was wondering what it is exactly that you do for a living.”

“Oh. I thought I told you.”

“You told me that you work for an insurance company,” he said before taking another bite of his lunch.

She lifted her sandwich and nibbled at it. “That’s right. Case review. You know, that’s where a rejected claim is appealed, so it goes for review, and I either have to justify the refusal to pay or offer some settlement.” She wrinkled her nose, thinking how often she’d complained about some asinine bureaucrat dictating treatment to facilities like the one where she used to be employed. “Like you said, somebody’s got to do it.”

“Okay. Gotcha. Go on.”

“That’s about it,” she said.

“What about family?”

“Everyone has family,” she answered evasively. “Even you, I assume.”

He nodded. “My parents live in the White Rock Lake area to the east of here. What about yours?”

“Oh, they’re in Houston.”

“So that’s where you grew up?”

“No, actually, we lived overseas.”

“Really? Whereabouts?”

“Thailand.”

“Ah, the sandpipers.”

“That’s right.”

“Must’ve been interesting.”

“Well, I’ll tell you, it was quite a culture shock when I came to the States in, like, seventh grade to attend boarding school in Tulsa.”

He polished off the chili dog and wiped his mouth and fingers with a napkin that he plucked from the folded wrapper, careful not to get anything on his pristine white shirt or dark tie. “So what you’re telling me is that your parents stayed in Thailand?”

“For forty-two years.”

He cocked his head. “What business was your father in?”

She looked at her sandwich. “They were missionaries.”

She felt it the instant he figured it out. It was as if something
popped.

“Your father is Ransome Wynne.”

“You’ve heard of him,” she said mildly, a little disappointed.

“Oh, my goodness. Heard of him? Ransome and Charlotte Wynne are giants in the mission field. I heard him speak once, a long time ago. His faith just astounded me.”

Piper nodded and tried to smile, but an ache had started in her chest. She fought it desperately. Her companion seemed not to notice.

“Ransome Wynne,” he murmured. “Imagine that.”

Piper stuffed her sandwich back into her bag and hastily rose, glancing blindly at her watch. “Look at the time. I have to get back.” She turned away, automatically adding over her shoulder, “Nice to see you again.”

“Wait a minute,” he insisted. “You forgot this.” Pivoting on her heel, she found him right behind her, the folded newspaper in one hand, his suit coat carried once more in the crook of his arm, as if it just naturally gravitated there. He tapped the paper with a forefinger. “This is it,” he said.

“What?”

“My church.” He lifted the paper a little higher so she could read the small ad tucked in among so many others in the church directory section. “Maybe I’ll see you on Sunday.”

She actually recognized the address as being in her neighborhood, but she didn’t say so. “I’m not sure yet about Sunday.”

“You’d be most welcome.”

She met his gaze then, confirming the interest that his tone had seemed to suggest—personal interest. She took the paper from him and tucked it beneath her arm.

“Thank you,” she said a trifle breathlessly. “I have to get back.”

“Yeah, me, too.” He snagged the collar of his suit coat with the curve of his forefinger, tossing it over his shoulder. She started off again.

“Bye.”

“See you,” he called after her, and it sounded as if he might have added under his breath, “Soon,” but she couldn’t be sure, and she didn’t look back. She didn’t dare. Something about him brought her raw emotions too close to the surface and made her heart beat just a little too fast. That somehow seemed threatening, since she often wondered if her heart had ceased to function entirely.

M
itchell was astounded. The most interesting, attractive woman he’d met in years was Ransome and Charlotte Wynne’s daughter! How amazing was that? The Wynnes were personal heroes of his. He could only shake his head at the thought of it. His parents would be as blown away as he was—if he told them.
When
he told them, he amended mentally, because of course he would tell them. Eventually.

They might jump to all kinds of unwarranted conclusions if he let that particular cat out of the bag too soon, so he had to think carefully about the timing of it. He didn’t want to disappoint them, to get them thinking that he’d found the woman God intended for him, only to come to the conclusion later that such was not the case. Better to see how things developed first.

Eager for that, he wondered when he’d see Piper again, and then realized that he’d let her get away without asking for her telephone number or offering his own. Lifting a hand to the back of his neck, he bemoaned his own thoughtlessness, but then he chuckled. He’d see her again if he was supposed to, maybe as soon as Sunday.

He decided that if she showed up at church he’d introduce her to his parents as the daughter of Ransome and Charlotte Wynne. If she didn’t, he’d wait to impart this interesting tidbit until after the next development, provided there was another development. Surely there would be. Surely.

Maybe not romantic developments, though. He sensed a skittishness in her, an uncertainty, as if she weren’t quite sure if she liked him. Then again, even if she did
like
him, that was no guarantee she’d be attracted to him, let alone fall in love. With so much thinking ahead, he felt a little deflated.

Maybe he’d wait to see if she came to church before talking about her again to his parents.

A car horn blared. Feeling a little disoriented, he glanced around him, then lifted his arm to check his watch. He had time to stroll back to the office, but instead he found himself hurrying, as if he could make the day go faster and Sunday come sooner.

Piper sighed as she punched in the code that allowed her access to her apartment. A feeling of oppression enveloped her; it wasn’t even relieved when she reached shelter. Leaden skies threatened to release their burden of rain any moment. Piper refused to think the oppression might be guilt. She was absolutely determined to be finished with guilt. Why should she feel guilty just because she’d decided to attend a church other than Mitchell Sayer’s?

Frankly, it hadn’t been a very uplifting experience, even though the people there had seemed friendly. The music had been familiar, and she couldn’t quibble with the pastor’s sermon or delivery, but she hadn’t felt any “connection.” So what? she asked herself. At least she could scratch that particular church off her figurative list. Besides, she didn’t owe Mitch Sayer anything. As a matter of fact, she didn’t owe anyone anything, not anymore. She was a free agent. Completely free. She didn’t have to go to church at all if she didn’t want to.

Piper trudged past the stairwell leading to the second floor of the small, recently refurbished apartment house and moved into the open courtyard beyond. She’d rented here because she’d been able to view the apartment over the Internet and because she’d imagined that the waterfall at one end of the swimming pool would provide constant, calming background noise. Not today, however. The soft
plinking
sounds were more from the gloomy rainfall than the fountain.

She dashed to her front door, keys in hand, and wrestled with the lock. By the time she got the door open and swept inside, she was thoroughly misted with rain. Closing the door firmly behind her, she put her back to it and let out a deep sigh.

Silence surrounded her, accenting the emptiness she felt. She shrugged out of her sweater, hung it on the doorknob and plopped down on the rented sofa. Recriminations pummeled her. She should have gone to Mitch’s church. She should have gone where she knew someone, but she hadn’t because he knew who her parents were, and she was so tired of trying to live up to everyone’s ideal of who she should be. Being the brave and saintly Wynnes’ daughter was more than she could manage just now, perhaps more than she could ever manage again. She wished Mitchell Sayer didn’t know, wished she could be just anyone’s daughter and sister. She wished it for her parents’ and brother’s sakes as well as her own.

It was impossible to change who she was, though, so the best she could do was to change her life. That much she could, would manage. She sat up a little straighter, remembering that one of her neighbors had invited her over for dinner this evening to meet her husband.

Melissa Ninever was a few years younger than Piper, maybe twenty-three or -four, and newly married—a tall, slender young woman with an engaging smile and streaky, light brown hair in a short, trendy cut. Melissa had gone out of her way to make Piper’s acquaintance. Her husband, Scott, apparently worked a lot of overtime as a shipping scheduler. Melissa herself worked as a clerk at a rental agency just a few miles up the road and seemed to find herself at loose ends quite a lot. She seemed to need a friend as much as Piper did—and she had no idea that Ransome and Charlotte Wynne were revered the world over for their missionary service.

It was Day Thirteen of her new life, and already Piper had made a friend. That was a good beginning—enough for now. The rest would come, surely. Otherwise, why would she have so easily found a job and an apartment via the Internet even before she had set foot in Dallas? They were confirmation, in her mind, that she had made the right decision. For whatever reason, God wanted her out of Houston. Perhaps if she had listened more closely and been more sensitive to His urgings, she and her family could have been spared the pain of these past weeks and months.

Perhaps she would not have made such unforgivable mistakes.

She bowed her head, but confusion swirled through her, blocking any coherent thought that she might have lifted in prayer, so she got up, walked into the small, single bedroom and began changing into casual clothes, pondering how to fill the next few hours. Lunch had to be prepared, of course, and then cleaned up. For the life of her, though, she couldn’t think of any other way to fill the time until she was expected at the Ninevers’ upstairs apartment.

The afternoon suddenly seemed as bleak as the weather, but she busied herself flipping channels on the rented television and choosing from her meager wardrobe the next week’s outfits. She didn’t want to show up for work week after week in the same few articles of clothing. Finally she brushed out her thick, wavy hair, slid a bright blue elastic band over her forehead to hold it in place, put on a matching shirt with her jeans and stepped into her loafers.

Melissa had said to come casual, but Piper wanted to make a good impression on her friend’s husband, so she added a pair of simple gold hoop earrings and a bangle bracelet, as well as mascara and a touch of pale coral lipstick. Taking along an umbrella this time, she climbed the corner stairs and followed the landing to the Ninevers’ door. Melissa greeted her with a bright smile, and Piper allowed herself to be pulled into the colorful apartment strewn with lava lamps, beaded curtains and tie-dyed fabrics straight out of the early 1970s.

Scott Ninever might have been a year or so older than his young wife, but his sideburns, pale shaggy hair and baggy clothes made him seem younger, as did the inch or so in height that Melissa obviously had on him. His friendly, open manner and kooky sense of humor soon put Piper at ease, and she found him every bit as accepting and intelligent as his wife.

Dinner proved to be nothing more than frozen lasagna and prepackaged salad, which they ate sitting cross-legged on the floor around a large, square coffee table in the living area. Modern rock emanated from a wall-sized stereo system. The dining nook was occupied by a desk and an impressive array of computer equipment that looked right at home with the seventies memorabilia and minimalist metal furniture.

An uncomfortable moment came when the dinner lay spread out on the unconventional dining table and the three of them had arranged themselves comfortably around it. From sheer habit, Piper bowed her head in expectation of a blessing. At least a couple seconds ticked by before she realized that her new friends were carrying on with filling plates and pouring drinks. Realizing her assumptions were erroneous, she quickly picked up her napkin and spread it in her lap, keeping her head down until the burn of color in her cheeks cooled somewhat.

If the Ninevers even noticed, they were too polite to let it be known, and she was soon laughing as Scott lip-synced to the music and played air guitar with his fork while somehow managing to eat his dinner. After the meal, Melissa and Scott quickly cleaned up, working as smoothly together as if they’d been doing so for decades, while Piper sat at the counter separating kitchen from dining-cum-office area and admired Melissa’s display of hand-painted tin plates. Next they coaxed her into a silly game of dominoes, again to the accompaniment of rock music and Scott’s gyrations.

Reluctantly Piper rose to leave just before ten, warmed when first Melissa then Scott kissed her cheek. She was almost out the door when Melissa stopped her, saying, “Hey, why don’t you come with us to the arboretum next Sunday?”

“Hey, yeah, bet you haven’t been out there yet,” Scott added.

“It’s really neat,” Melissa told her. “Of course, it’s prettiest in the spring, but there’s still lots to see.”

“It’s, like, serene, you know,” Scott put in, “and they do concerts on the lawn—classical mostly, some folky stuff, too. You really ought to see it.”

“Bring a book,” Melissa suggested. “We’ll just veg out.”

“Guaranteed to relieve stress,” Scott said enticingly.

Piper smiled. What could it hurt? It wasn’t as if anyone would miss her if she didn’t attend church somewhere. Besides, it was just one Sunday. She nodded. “I’d like that.”

Melissa gave a little hop and clapped her hands together, which made Scott smile.

“Oh, you’re going to love it,” Melissa promised. “We’ll hook up later and fix what time to meet, okay?”

“Sure. Thanks for the invitation, and for a great evening.” Piper started toward the stairs, adding, “Next time, my place.”

“Right on,” Scott called heartily. “Have a good one!”

“You, too.”

She went down the steps feeling pleased. She had made two friends. Life was improving already.

“Mr. Adler, you don’t know how much I appreciate this,” Mitch said, shaking the older man’s hand across the gleaming expanse of a very vice-presidential desk.

“Must be some letter you found,” Craig Adler said as he dropped into a sumptuous tan leather chair, exposing a large bald spot in the thinning gray hair on top of his head. “Your father says that you wish to retain possession of it until the owner is found.” He waved Mitch into one of three matching leather chairs arranged in a slight arc in front of his desk. Mitch folded himself into the nearest one.

“That’s correct. I haven’t shared the letter with anyone other than my parents, and I don’t intend to. It’s a privacy issue, you understand.”

Adler smiled. “Spoken like a true lawyer, and frankly, the privacy issue is a real concern to us.”

Mitch nodded. “I’m aware that you can’t just turn over the flight manifest to me.”

“I’m glad you understand that.”

“And I also realize that you have no vested interest in seeing the letter go back to its original owner,” Mitch added.

“You’re right. Even if we wanted to, we couldn’t reunite every lost item that we find with its owner. Just holding items of value for claim is a real financial burden, so the less the airline has to do with this the better. But I don’t see any real reason not to send out a notice informing everyone on the manifest that a personal item of no actual monetary value has been recovered and is being held for the owner by you. Provided we can agree on the ground rules.”

Mitch smiled. It was more than he’d dared hope for, really. “You just tell me how it has to play. We can even spell it out in writing, if you like.”

“I’ll send you a memo when we’re done here,” Adler said, making a note on a legal pad. “And I have to tell you that I wouldn’t do this for just anyone. Even with assurance that nothing in this letter you’ve found could be construed as a legal risk for the airline, I wouldn’t normally go against company practice like this, not even for a personal friend, but I know your father, and he says this is important.”

“I’m very grateful, sir, and I’d like to add my reassurance to Dad’s. This won’t come back to bite you, I promise. My sole intent is to return the letter to its owner. Anything beyond that is strictly up to that individual.”

“Meaning?”

Mitch shifted uncomfortably. He didn’t want to give away too much, but he realized that Adler was sticking his neck out here. Choosing his words carefully, he said, “Criminal law is not my only area of expertise. After Anne died, I got involved in a counseling program that has become something of a personal ministry for me. I think this person might benefit from that.”

Craig Adler tapped a finger on the corner of his desk consideringly before nodding. “All right. Fair enough. But what happens if the person who contacts you isn’t the owner of the letter?”

“It seems to me permissible to ask if a contact saw someone else drop a folded sheet of paper on the loading ramp and, if so, who. I might get at least a description that way.”

Adler nodded. “All right.”

Mitch shifted forward. “Would it be okay, do you think, if I asked for the names of anyone traveling with the contact so I could perhaps interview them?”

“Hmm, I suppose, but at no time may you represent yourself as connected to the airline per se.”

“Absolutely not. And I promise to document every contact.”

“I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that some folks may refuse to speak to you, and you have to respect that.”

“Of course. It goes without saying.”