by Becky Wade
What took Kate’s breath away, though, were his eyes. They were dark, dark, dark, almost liquid brown. Thoughtful, long-lashed, shielded, and somehow . . . somehow wounded. All the more startling for being set in such a masculine face.
She studied those eyes as he spoke to her grandmother and she thought, Tragedy.
The conversation between Matt and Gran continued. She stood there feeling vaguely idiotic, holding her coffee mug and finding it hard to look away from him. It was as if something within her had been sleeping and now—the longer she was near him—the more it was waking, becoming alert, jangling. That something seemed to be saying, It’s you.
Finally.
I’ve been waiting.
For you.
Which was crazy. Crazy! Yet her heart, as if it knew something her brain didn’t, executed an awkward double beat, and then started pounding anyway.
“. . . Kate and I have already picked out the paint colors for our rooms,” Gran was saying, “but we didn’t know how much you’d need and so we haven’t purchased it yet.”
“I’ll get it for you,” he replied.
“Oh, would you? That would be wonderful.” Gran led the way up the front walk. “Come on inside, and I’ll get the paint swatches.”
Kate and Matt followed Gran into the house. He was over six feet tall and moved like an athlete. She could sense his coordination and strength. She’d bet money that he had some serious muscle, and that the straight fall of his shirt hid a washboard stomach.
“Can I get you something to drink, Matt?” Gran motioned to the kitchen. “We have coffee.”
“I’m fine. Thanks.”
“A muffin?”
“No. Thank you.”
“All right, then. Here are the swatches.” She swept them off the coffee table and handed them over with the musical click of bracelets. “Do you need to go up and have a look at our bedrooms?”
“I’ve already measured them so I know how much I’ll need.”
“Oh, good.” Gran crossed her arms, tucking her coffee cup into an elbow. “So tell us about yourself, Matt.”
“Not much to tell.” Even at that innocuous question, Kate could sense him retreating.
“I remember you coming over here to play as a boy. Your parents were just about Mother and Daddy’s closest neighbors. Have you lived in town all your life?”
“I lived in New York a while.”
“Oh, did you? Manhattan is such an interesting place. . . .”
As Gran chatted about a recent trip she’d taken to New York, Kate watched Matt move smoothly to the door and take hold of the handle.
In Kate’s experience, men as hot looking as he was had an ego to match. But Matt seemed strangely guarded, almost introverted. He hadn’t smiled, he’d answered all Gran’s questions politely but with few words, and he’d used his posture and expression like a shield.
“Have you been back in Redbud long?” Gran asked him.
“A couple of years. I’d best be going.” He opened the door and walked off the front porch.
“Certainly. We’ll see you later.” Gran waved cheerfully.
They stood watching until his truck pulled out of sight.
“I told you he was a hunk,” Gran said.
“You were right.”
They made their way to the kitchen and went to work cleaning up breakfast. “I get the feeling that something happened to him,” Kate said.
Gran washed off plates and slotted them into the relic of a dishwasher. “To Matt?”
“Yes. Something . . .” Kate stilled, a dish towel dangling from her shoulder. “Something terrible.”
“What gives you that impression?”
“I’m not sure. I just know.”
“You do?”
“I could see it in his eyes.”
Gran stopped, her wet hands dripping water into the sink, and studied Kate shrewdly. “You were unusually quiet around him.”
“I was dumbfounded by him! I couldn’t think of a thing to say.”
“Well, as previously noted, he is a very nice-looking young man.”
To say the least. Matt Jarreau was in-your-face, big-screen, major-league handsome. But there was something more about him than his mere handsomeness . . . something intangible, that had her by the throat. Her stomach still felt fluttery. Which was not good for her. Not. Good. She’d sworn off the really good-looking ones. Absolutely couldn’t go there again.
They resumed their cleaning.
“I’m an excellent matchmaker,” Gran stated. “Very subtle.”
“Oh yes. You were very subtle when you threw me together with Barry Markman at the Fourth of July picnic.”
“It’s just that his grandmother and I are such close friends. We’d hoped . . . Well, how was I to know he had bad breath?”
“Listen, no one is going to make any romantic overtures toward Matt Jarreau.”
“Why?”
“He’s way out of my league.”
“No!”
“Yes.” She was ordinary. A thirty-one-year-old redheaded virgin with asthma and genetics that didn’t include either hips or boobs. “Even if by some chance he did want to ask me out, I no longer date guys that look like that. I decided a couple of years ago to save myself the anguish.” Everyone knew—and her own experience had confirmed—that good-looking men were usually taken, emotionally unavailable, or narcissists. “Okay?”
“Okay,” Gran sighed.
With a pang of dread, Kate imagined Gran cornering Matt at every turn, begging him to take her poor, forlorn granddaughter on a date.
“Gran, I’m serious.”
“I am, too,” she answered. “You know I’d never do anything to embarrass you.”
Kate could think of dozens of times when Gran had, nevertheless, done exactly that.
Gran dropped two dirty knives into the dishwasher. “However, I do think you and I need to invite him to dinner. Single men don’t eat well. He probably hasn’t had a home-cooked meal in weeks. His mother and father live in Florida now, you know.”
“Inviting him to dinner is fine.”
“Good. Then that’s settled.” Gran rinsed out the sink and dried her hands. “What’s on the agenda today?”
“Today we’ve got to start sorting through everything. We need to decide what to sell at the garage sale, what to sell on eBay, what to toss, and what to keep.”
“And tomorrow?”
“Hmm.” She wasn’t going to nurture a single romantic feeling toward Matt and yet . . . she was painfully curious about him. She wanted—it surprised her how much she wanted—to get to know him, to find out what had made him so sad, and hopefully to establish a friendship so that she’d have some company her own age over the coming weeks.
Everyone who knew her knew she had a wide streak of stubbornness running through her. When something got into her head and took root, she couldn’t get it out. And Matt Jarreau had gotten into her head and taken root. He didn’t know it yet, but she was going to find out his secrets and they were going to be friends. “Tomorrow I’m going to help Matt paint.”
chapter two
The next afternoon Matt Jarreau wiped his hands on his jeans and surveyed the paint job he’d just finished in Mrs. Donovan’s bedroom. The light purple color was a long shot from anything he’d have chosen. Sleeping in here would be like sleeping inside a purple carnation. Still, the room looked a heck of a lot better without the water stains, cracks, and faded paper that had covered the walls and ceiling before he’d started.
He set about cleaning and putting away the supplies he’d used. Other than the paint colors that she and her granddaughter had chosen for their bedrooms, he liked Mrs. Donovan’s renovation plans. She seemed to have an eye for preserving the character of the old house.
Carrying the paint and tarp with one arm and a fresh paint pan and roller brush with the other, he made his way upstairs to the attic room. Yesterday he’d covered the layers of aging wallpaper with a light plaster tex
ture, and this morning he’d taped off the floorboards and the crown moldings. With that done, painting the attic room wouldn’t take long—
He stopped abruptly in the doorway.
Mrs. Donovan’s granddaughter glanced up at him from where she stood in the center of the room.
He waited for her to murmur something about getting out of his way, and then leave.
Instead, she simply stood there.
“I don’t mean to inconvenience you,” he said after a few moments of strained silence, “but I was going to paint in here now.”
“No inconvenience,” she said. “I’m going to help.” She bent and lifted a brand-new roller brush off the floor.
He liked to work alone. In fact, almost everything he did in a day—eat, workout, buy food, watch TV—he did by himself. The people in this town knew that and left him alone. It unsettled him that this stranger wanted to paint with him, that he was trapped in here with her.
Without letting his irritation show, Matt spread out the tarp, wedged the lid off the first can of paint, and stirred it carefully. The pale pink color she’d picked looked like chewed bubble gum.
“Oh, I love it,” she said.
Matt glanced at her and frowned. “Is it Kate?”
“Yep, it’s Kate.”
“You might not want to paint in that outfit.” She had on a white tank top and black pants, the kind that ended above the ankle. He couldn’t remember what women called those. On her feet she was wearing what looked like black ballet shoes.
“This is my painting outfit,” she replied. “See?” She pulled the shirt to the side and pointed to a few flecks of paint on the fabric. “It’s all right.”
He wanted to tell her to take her roller brush and her crazy painting clothes downstairs and out of his space, but she was his client. So instead he nodded, poured the paint, rolled his brush, and went to work.
Out of the corner of his eye he watched her paint a big N on the wall, and then use her roller to fill the space between the two uprights. “I saw them do it like this on Designed to Sell one time.” She smiled.
He grunted and tried to ignore her.
After a while she paused, and he could feel her attention on him. He kept on painting.
“I’m really glad you’re able to help us with this renovation.”
He nodded.
“Gran has been wanting to update this place for a long time.”
He didn’t say anything.
“How long have you been doing this kind of work?”
“Three years.”
A few moments of quiet. “So you knew my great-grandparents?”
“I did. They were nice people.”
“Yes, they were. I miss them.”
He kept on painting, hoping she’d drop the small talk.
“You grew up in Redbud?” she asked.
He nodded.
“Just down the road from here?”
He nodded again.
“You know . . .” She paused, studying him. “Having a conversation with you is a lot like having one with myself.”
He met her gaze, frowning.
Her lips twitched, then spread into a big, wide smile. Genuine warmth glittered in her eyes.
He . . . he wasn’t sure what to make of her. He was accustomed, in a way, to women hitting on him. But she wasn’t hitting on him. Teasing him, maybe. Whatever she was doing, he didn’t like it. Didn’t like her questions or the directness of her gaze.
“You seem to be a pretty serious person,” she observed.
He refocused his attention on the wall and resumed painting. “I guess I am.”
“Do you smile much?”
Pain took a slice at his heart, but he managed to deflect the blow so that it only scored a glancing hit. “I don’t know.”
“Hmm. What would it take to make you smile, I wonder? Have you ever seen a skinny girl do jumping jacks? I look like a praying mantis when I do them. But I’m willing to embarrass myself and give it a try.”
“Thanks for the offer. I think I’ll pass.”
“You’ve no idea what you’re missing.”
“I’m sure I don’t.”
She threw back her head and laughed. “Okay, we’re doing better. We’re sort of talking back and forth.”
The squishy sounds of dipping brushes and rolling paint filled the room. He was used to those sounds, familiar with their kind of silence.
He couldn’t remember Kate saying anything at all when they’d met yesterday. She’d been so quiet he’d hardly noticed her. What had happened? He’d liked her better quiet.
Matt shot a glance at her. She reminded him of that movie star from way back . . . the one who was famous for wearing the tiara and shopping at Tiffany’s or something. Audrey? Yeah, Audrey Hepburn. Kate had long dark red hair pulled into a low ponytail, but otherwise they looked alike. She was slim like Audrey Hepburn, with little features and big eyes.
“What do you do for fun?” she asked.
Good grief. “Not much.”
“Well, since you seem so fascinated by the subject, I’ll tell you what I like to do.” She squatted to roll a section near the baseboard. “I’m into antiques. I like going to flea markets. I read. I go to movies and dinners with friends. So . . . now you have to tell me what you do for fun.”
“I work out.”
He caught a glimpse of her wrinkled nose. “Doesn’t that fall more under the category of agony?”
“Maybe.”
“What else?”
“I watch sports.”
She tucked a long strand of red hair behind her ear. “If there’s not a game on tonight, Gran and I would love for you to stay and have dinner with us.”
“Thanks, but I can’t.”
“She’s a great cook.”
“I’ve got plans,” he lied.
“Maybe another night.” After about thirty seconds of peace, she continued. “So you’re wearing a UNC hat. Did you go to college there?”
“Listen, no offense”—he’d had all of her chatter that he could take—“but I like to work with it quiet.”
She studied him with those eyes of hers—they were hazel with long lashes. He didn’t see any anger in her expression, just curiosity and something that looked like understanding. “Okay,” she said, a dimple flashing in one cheek. “I hear you.” Then she amazed him by returning to work.
She wasn’t going to leave? He watched, frustrated, as she continued painting. A redheaded Audrey Hepburn in ballet shoes, concentrating hard on covering her walls with pink paint.
Kate sat in the middle of the downstairs library the following afternoon, surveying the piles that encircled her. She deposited a folder of what looked like ancient receipts into the throwaway pile, and then set a porcelain sculpture of a milk cow with a daisy behind its ear in the garage sale pile.
As expected, the job of organizing the contents of Chapel Bluff was huge. Huge! Because she and Gran were so thorough, leaving no drawer uninspected, they were making painfully slow progress. First thing this morning, Gran had called Velma Armstrong and Peg Lawrence and enlisted their help.
Velma and Peg had been close friends of Gran’s since their days together at Redbud Elementary. Gran always referred to them as “the girls,” a term that had, in Velma and Peg’s case, long ago expired.
“Good gracious, Beverly, this job is overwhelming!” Velma emerged scowling from the closet where she’d been buried. Dust hovered in the air around her, sparkling in the sunlight.
Gran looked up from her spot at the desk. “I know. That’s why I called you.”
“I’m about to choke to death on all this dust!” Velma marched over to a window and forced it open. She was dressed for the day’s work in a teal and white velour sweat suit. Her white high-top Reeboks looked like they’d come straight out of 1985 but didn’t have a scratch on them. She’d twisted her long hair, an unlikely shade of nut brown for a seventy-something woman, into a rectangular bun secured with white plastic
combs encrusted with rhinestones.
Crisp afternoon air flushed into the room, and they all sighed with relief.
“How much more have we got?” Velma asked, eyeing the stacks venomously.
“We haven’t even started on those,” Gran said, pointing to a wall of shelves.
“Good gracious,” Velma muttered.
Gran laughed and slowly pushed herself to standing. “I think we could all use a break. C’mon ladies, the cookies should be just about ready.”
Gran led them into the kitchen, then bustled around, scooping cookies off the cookie sheet with a spatula and giving them each something to carry back into the dining room for high tea.
Velma, Peg, and Kate settled at the table, which was set with china teacups and saucers, tea plates, napkins, silverware, and a tiny crystal vase filled with flowers.
Velma eyed Kate assessingly. She swiped at her hairline with fingers decorated with several diamond-studded gold rings and long nails shellacked with opalescent pearl polish. “Kate,” she said in an ominous tone, “how old are you now?”
Ah, Kate thought. Here it comes. Though Velma and Peg had spent their entire lives in Redbud, Kate knew them well from their annual trips to Dallas to see Gran. “I’m thirty-one.”
“Why in the world haven’t you married anyone yet?”
“Well . . .” I’m holding out for Prince Harry. I have cooties, so that makes it hard. Shark attack killed the last prospect.
“What’s the holdup? I mean, you’re a pretty girl; there must be plenty of men who are interested in you.”
“There’ve been a few.”
“So?”
“So none of them worked out.”
“What ever happened to that big, tall, handsome boy from way back?”
“Rick?”
“Yeah.”
In the past ten years, she’d had two major and a handful of minor boyfriends. The first major one, Rick, Kate had met her senior year in college and taken with her into the working world. She’d thought they were on the same page, that they’d wanted the same things. But three years in, when she’d finally made the merest and most casual mention of marriage, he’d bailed instantly. She’d felt like a fool for not realizing that he’d been with her strictly because it had been convenient and fun for the short term. “Unwilling to commit,” Kate answered.