To Heal a Heart. Arlene James

money, not bad looking, either, if you like them big and beefy.”

      For some reason the picture in Piper’s mind dissolved and reformed into the image of Mitchell Sayer. Now, where had that come from? She shook her head. Melissa took it for refusal.

      “Aw, come on. What’ve you got to lose?”

      “I’ll think about it,” Piper promised, heading for her apartment door. “See you later. Provided I can still move.”

      “Burgers right here by the pool,” Melissa reminded her. “And he really is a good guy!”

      “I said I’ll think about it.” Piper tossed the words over her shoulder. But what was there to think about really?

      Melissa and Scott were her only friends. Oh, she’d eaten lunch with some of the women at work this week, but no one seemed inclined to socialize outside the office. She enjoyed the time she spent with the Ninevers. The arboretum had proven very enjoyable indeed. Surely she could trust their judgment when it came to this Nate fellow, and she really did want to meet someone special, even though she seldom let herself think about it. She cringed at the thought of a blind date, but she really ought to be more open to the possibilities. After all, what was the point in starting a new life if she kept holding on to the same old attitudes?

      She knew that she was going to agree before she even finished her shower and got dressed for work, but she couldn’t shake the feeling of trepidation. All day long she kept trying to find excuses for refusing to meet Scott’s friend. In the end, however, she couldn’t make herself be that dishonest. No good reason existed for not meeting this Nate. She decided to tell Scott at dinner that she would be pleased to meet his friend.

      After the bus let her off in front of the apartment house, she hobbled straight to the mailbox in the common area and unlocked her cubby, as was her custom. Most of what she received consisted of circulars and advertisements, but when she came across a letter from the airline upon which she’d flown from Houston, she decided to check it out, although it was probably just a credit card offer or some such thing. Carefully inserting a fingernail beneath the flap, she tore open the envelope and unfolded the single page within.

      To her surprise it wasn’t some advertising gimmick. Instead it was a note from the office of the vice president saying that a personal article of no real monetary value had been recovered by a third party interested only in returning it to its owner. Anyone having lost such a personal item was instructed to call a local telephone number or write to a local post office box. Piper shook her head. She hadn’t lost anything that she knew of—at least nothing that could be returned to her. She dropped the letter into the trash can along with the other junk and headed for her apartment as swiftly as her sore, tight muscles would allow.

      By Tuesday of the following week, Mitch had received three replies to the airline mailing—two phone calls from Dallas-area residents and a letter from Houston. The letter writer claimed to have lost a valuable family heirloom in the form of a large diamond ring, despite the airline’s specific wording of the notice. Mitch shot off a letter stating, once again, that the item recovered was of no monetary value and definitely not a ring. He suggested that the writer submit a properly documented claim to the airline, while privately doubting that the ring had ever existed.

      The telephone calls were no more helpful. One call came from a nervous newlywed whose private honeymoon video had probably never made it on the airplane in the first place. The other came from a wary older gentleman who wouldn’t say what he’d lost or give Mitch his full name or address, so Mitch suggested that they meet in a public place.

      The man chose a popular Greenville Avenue restaurant, and they set a time for early Friday evening. Mitch felt cautiously optimistic, but it turned out that the fellow had lost his Social Security card and didn’t want his daughter to know.

      “She thinks I’m the next thing to senile as it is,” the grandfatherly man explained.

      Mitch advised him to contact the local police and the Social Security Administration immediately, as well as all three national credit reporting agencies and the administrator of his pension checks.

      “It’s a hassle, but it’s the only way to protect yourself, identity theft being such a problem these days. And if you find out someone’s been using your information to make purchases or apply for credit cards, let me know right away. I’ll go with you to file a report and help you clear your name and credit.”

      He gave the man his business card, brushed aside his expressions of gratitude and asked if he had seen anyone drop a piece of paper while boarding the plane. Like the newlywed, the gentleman answered in the negative, but he suggested that Mitch ask a friend who had accompanied him on the flight. Mitch jotted down the name and telephone number that was supplied, then insisted on buying the fellow a glass of iced tea and an appetizer. He politely refused Mitch’s offer of dinner, so Mitch dined alone, disappointed that he was no closer to finding the owner of the letter, though it was early days yet.