My Stubborn Heart

by Becky Wade

  He admired some of those things about her. But still, none of them was the thing that drew him.

  Since Beth died, he’d been living with a cold ball of grief square in the center of his chest. He took it with him everywhere he went. It clouded every thought he had. It motivated every decision he made. The people in his life couldn’t touch that cold ball. Nothing and no one had. Nothing and no one could.

  Except maybe . . . her.

  He couldn’t explain it, but Kate had the power to thaw some of the coldness inside him. Just barely.

  He didn’t want her to have any effect on him at all. That she did made her dangerous. He was just barely surviving. It was all he could do to simply get through each day, just the way he’d been getting through every awful day since Beth died, by going through the motions. He did the same familiar, necessary things in the same way every day. If he kept everything the same, at least, he trusted that he could make it from morning to night, that he could hold on to his equilibrium. If he stepped away from what he was used to, he might not be able to keep it together.

  She happened to look up and caught him staring. “What? Do I have food on my face?” Tentatively, she used a hand to shield her mouth.

  “No.”

  “Are you sure? Please tell me, because I’ll be mortified if I look in the mirror later and see blackberries in my teeth.”

  “I’m sure.”

  “Okay.” She scooted her chair away from the table, leaned back in it. “I’m stuffed. I can’t eat another bite.”

  He ate his last spoonful.

  She regarded him with a sympathetic half smile. “Gran’s expecting you to eat dinner with us from now on.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Can’t you?”

  He didn’t answer.

  She assessed him for a few moments, the ticking of the kitchen clock loud in the silence, then rose and began stacking dishes and silverware. “So you said earlier that you usually do frozen food and sandwiches for dinner.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Me too. Do they have a Potbelly Sandwich Shop in town?”

  He nodded. “Over on the south side near Fourth and Riverbend.”

  “Oh good. Have you had their Italian on white bread with the pickles and hot peppers?”

  “No.”

  “You should, it’s incredible.” She carried their dishes to the sink. “What about cereal? You ever eat that for dinner?”

  “About once a week.”

  “Me too. What about canned vegetable soup?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Same here. Chinese takeout?”

  “Sometimes.” That was a lie. He didn’t want to tell her that even stopping at a restaurant for takeout got him all kinds of attention he didn’t want.

  She started wiping off the plates with a long-handled scrub brush. “At home in Dallas I’ll get Chinese some, but I get Mexican more. We have unbelievable Mexican food in Dallas. There’s none here in Redbud, though, right?”

  “Right.”

  Matt took a sip of coffee, torn. He wanted to hightail it out. But just how rude would it be for him to leave her with the entire mess to clean up? He eyed the pile of dishes and could hear his mother in his head, schooling him on manners. She’d be devastated if she knew he’d left without at least offering to help.

  Resigned, he walked to the sink and nodded to the dirty dishes she was working on. “I can do this part.”

  “It’s okay, really. You don’t have to help me clean up.”

  “I don’t mind.” Another lie. And another thing he’d gotten out of the habit of—saying what he really felt.

  “You sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, thanks.”

  He rolled up his sleeves and began slotting the dishes into the dishwasher while Kate moved around the kitchen putting things away. They worked in companionable silence until the job was done.

  As he drove home afterward, he thought back over the evening. Cooking. The way the food had tasted. The things they’d talked about. Mrs. Donovan. Kate. He’d come away from it all okay. But his instincts were telling him that it would be safer, much safer, for him to refuse their dinner invitations from now on.

  The two of them were welcome to their nightly dinners, but they were going to have to count him out.

  The road to hell is paved with good intentions.

  Despite Matt’s good intentions, he came for dinner the next night.

  And the next.

  Mrs. Donovan, a lady he’d thought to be a sweet and gentle person, flatly refused to accept the fact that he wouldn’t be coming for more of her cooking lessons. Try as he might, he couldn’t convince her otherwise.

  On Saturday and Sunday he gratefully retreated to his solitary life. He didn’t have to go to Chapel Bluff for two whole days, didn’t have to cook, didn’t have to speak, didn’t have to shield himself from Kate’s hazel gaze.

  Nothing like a brisk walk in the company of seventy-year-olds to make a person feel like a fitness slacker.

  It was Sunday, and Kate and the others had been to church that morning. Gran, Velma, and Peg went to different congregations because they each had to attend, obviously, the church they’d gone to since babyhood. Next they’d done what any sane Christian rushed to do after worship: They’d changed out of their church clothes. Then they’d met at Peg’s for lunch. And now, because it was a pristine day and because the older people got, the more they grumbled after big meals about needing to “walk it off,” they’d set out into the woods behind Peg’s house. Their party included the regulars: Kate, the three “girls,” Peg’s husband, William, and the still-haven’t-figured-out-how-he-fit-into-the-group Morty.

  The weather was painfully pretty. Sunny and clear, with a clean brisk wind that rustled the grass and lifted Kate’s hair away from her face. The forest that surrounded them smelled like a Girl Scout campout—damp and woodsy and comforting.

  Fall. Kate loved it. Loved the holidays. Loved wearing jeans and her quilted trench coat that she’d saved and saved for. Loved the temperature.

  Predictably, Velma had charged into the lead. William, in his good-natured way, was attempting to keep up with her both in pace and conversation. Gran and Peg came next, walking arm in arm, heads bent toward each other. Which left Kate, huffing and puffing ever so slightly, to bring up the rear with Morty.

  “So where do you live down there in Dallas? You have a house?” Morty asked.

  “I do, actually. It’s a duplex I bought four years ago.”

  “Oh yeah? Who’s living in the other side?”

  “A really nice lady. She’s a librarian at SMU.” Her renter had been living in the right half of the duplex for thirty-five years, so Kate had simply inherited her when she’d bought the place. Judy was quiet, scholarly, had two cats and loads of potted plants. Judy’d never been married. As much as Kate liked her, she couldn’t help occasionally thinking that their duplex was like a before and after snapshot. Kate was the “before,” but frequently felt like she was sliding inexorably toward the exact same fate as Judy. Cats and potted plants.

  “Your tenant isn’t making meth, is she?”

  She glanced abruptly at Morty. “Meth?”

  “Yeah. I’m retired from the force, but I keep up with things pretty good. All kinds of people making meth in their kitchens these days. Selling it right from their home.”

  “Ah . . .”

  “Strangers coming and going at all hours?”

  “No.”

  “Suspicious people parked out front?”

  “Nope. I’m pretty sure my tenant isn’t making meth.”

  He harrumphed. “Well, good then.”

  Morty looked like Elvis might have looked at seventy-seven. Hair dyed black and glistening with gel. White T-shirt over a barrel chest and a stomach that wasn’t quite a potbelly. Ironed jeans. White socks. Black penny loafers. When they’d left the house he’d pulled on a gray Member’s Only jacket.

  “Do you do mu
ch bowling down there in Dallas?” he asked.

  “No, I’m afraid not.”

  “Well, come on out while you’re here. Bring Beverly there. I’m at the lanes every Tuesday and Thursday at ten. Be happy to give you some pointers.”

  “Thanks, Morty.”

  They walked, shoes crunching over twigs and leaves.

  “Play any poker?” he asked.

  “Not much these days.”

  “Well, these here and I,” he motioned to the group ahead, “we get together on Friday nights for poker.”

  “Was that your idea?” She couldn’t imagine anyone else in the group coming up with it.

  “Yeah. But the rest of ’em are getting pretty good.”

  Kate nodded.

  “I talked with Beverly about it at lunch, told her to come and bring you this Friday, but she said Matt Jarreau eats with you on Fridays and she didn’t want to leave him.” He dug his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “So I was thinking that if you and your grandmother are interested in playin’, we could all meet up over at your place there at Chapel Bluff on Fridays.”

  “Sure, that would be fine.” Sorry social life when this prospect excited her. “What do ya’ll play for?”

  “Money. But the buy-in’s just five dollars each.” He nodded disdainfully toward the others. “These here don’t want to play for big money.”

  “I see.”

  Quiet stretched as they ambled along the dirt path. In the distance, Kate could hear the gurgle of a stream.

  “So, Kate.”

  “Yes, Morty?”

  “There’s something I’ve been wanting to talk to you about.”

  She couldn’t imagine what, since they’d already covered meth, bowling, and poker. “Okay.”

  “You’re young. You know all about romance and such.”

  Who did Morty have to offer, she wondered. Commitment-phobe grandson? Geeky neighbor? Self-obsessed nephew? “I’m not sure I do know that much about it, unfortunately.”

  “Well, I . . .” He scowled. Alongside the trail, the creek came into view—clear and cold looking with a few leaves floating on top. “Young girls your age—you like going to the, what do you call it? Spa? Getting your nails done?”

  She looked at him, befuddled.

  “What I’m trying to say— What I mean is—” He growled in frustration, stopped walking, and turned to face her. “I love Velma.”

  “Ah.”

  His faded green eyes filled with earnest sadness. “She won’t have me, though. Won’t even agree to a date.”

  Kate winced. “I’m sorry.”

  “And I’m sick of waiting for that woman.” He began to gesture, warming to his subject. “My wife’s been gone twenty years and a man has needs. . . .”

  If he finished that thought, Kate was going to hurl herself into the stream.

  “Velma’s a spirited one,” he continued. “I know that. Heck, I like fire in a lady. But I must’ve asked her out fifty times now and still nothing. Nothing!”

  “I see.”

  “I have my pride, you know.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “I’ve about had it up to here with her.” He vehemently indicated his forehead.

  “Got it.”

  He stared moodily at the stream, cracked a few knobby knuckles. “I’ve got a couple of tricks left up my sleeve, though.”

  Kate waited, curling and uncurling her toes in her sneakers.

  He indicated the path ahead. “Shall we?”

  “Sure.”

  They began forward. “I’d like to offer you a deal,” he said. “I’d like you to help along my pursuit of Velma. You know, get her to go on some proper dates with me.”

  “I don’t think I have much influence with her, Morty.”

  “Oh, I reckon you do. I can tell that she thinks highly of you.”

  This was news to Kate. Apparently affection and grim acceptance were, coming from Velma, indistinguishable.

  “She only has sons and grandsons, you know. Freeloaders, the lot of them. Compared to them, you’re a peach.”

  “Oh.”

  “So here’s the thing. Bring her around to me, and I’ll give you some certificates—gift certificates, you know—to the spa.”

  Now he was talking her language. “How many gift certificates?”

  “One for each date.”

  “How much would each of these certificates be worth?”

  He peered at her, eyebrows lowered.

  She grinned at him, shrugged. “Velma’s not going to be easy to convince.”

  “Fifty dollars per certificate and not a penny more.”

  “Done.” She extended her hand.

  He received it with a firm shake.

  chapter four

  Apparently Gran didn’t think Kate could fit a key into a lock without help. Or perhaps Gran worried that the barn was infested with spiders and didn’t want Kate bitten without company. Or maybe—and with a sinking sensation, Kate acknowledged this possibility most likely—Gran was attempting some matchmaking. She’d insisted that Matt accompany Kate to the upper floor of the barn so that he could “help her” investigate whatever was stored within.

  Matt, who was wearing worn jeans, boots, his ball cap, and another soft-looking flannel shirt over another long-sleeved shirt, had agreed to Gran’s request. But he’d agreed with an air of long-suffering resignation, which was hardly flattering.

  Matt tolerated her. God knew she’d been trying to establish rapport with him, to loosen him up, to make him smile. But the very best that could be said was that he tolerated her in return.

  The lower story of the barn was easily accessible through enormous garage doors. But a doorway located at the top of a rickety wooden staircase, which clung to the furthest outer wall of the barn, provided the only entrance to the second story. After unlocking the bolt, Matt shouldered the door open and held it for her.

  Kate clicked on the flashlight she’d brought and entered the cavernous storage area. Gritty, heavy air swirled around her like fog. She wrinkled her nose and made her way further inside. The smell reminded her of the churches she’d been to on a trip to England a few years back. Closed up, damp, and old.

  “What do you think?” Matt asked.

  “I’m not sure yet.”

  She recognized a few hope chests together near the center of the space, but almost everything else had been covered with fabric and secured with ties. Furniture? It looked like the fabric might be covering furniture. She approached a medium-sized something that was perhaps a chair.

  She could hear Matt’s footsteps behind her.

  Kate set her flashlight on the ground and aimed it at the chair. It took her a minute to free the first knotted tie, and she was grateful when Matt knelt near her feet and went to work on the tie beneath. They were very close to each other, so close that she could almost hear him breathing. Her senses swam.

  Just friends, she reminded herself firmly, struggling to get her stupid body’s response in check.

  When they’d unraveled the knots, Kate pulled away the filthy cover and tossed it aside.

  Recognition flooded through her in a singing rush. She lifted her hands to cover her mouth. “Oh,” she murmured, staring with disbelief at the chair they’d revealed.

  After a few beats of silence, Matt asked, “Does that mean it’s good?”

  She nodded dumbly.

  The wooden chair was illuminated by the flashlight, but also by a wash of sunlight that had managed to fight past a grimy window. The chair stood in a reverent halo of dust motes. Gleaming. Seeming to say, It’s about time someone found me.

  Kate swallowed. Licked her lips. “This is a . . .” She glanced at Matt. He was looking at her strangely, waiting. “This is a Windsor chair.” She gestured vaguely. “It has a comb-back and armrests . . . and—” she gripped the wooden piece that ran along the top—“a serpentine crest rail.”

  “How old is it?”

  “Probably about two
hundred years.”

  His eyebrows lifted slightly. “Was it made in America?”

  “Yes. New England. This,” Kate pronounced, “is a fabulous chair.”

  They stood together for a full minute saying nothing, simply looking. It was a beautiful piece of workmanship. Full of history. Worn, but perfectly so for its age. An extraordinary find.

  “How do you know it’s not a fake?” he asked.

  She made herself move past her shock to tilt it up, then peer below the armrests to see how the wooden slats fit in. “An expert will have to come and look at it before we’ll know for sure. But I think it’s the real thing.”

  “You know a lot about antiques.”

  “Yeah, I love antiques.” She ran her fingers down the chair’s tapered leg. “I cannot believe we just discovered this chair up here!” She grinned at him.

  He met her gaze. Not smiling, but not frowning, either. He extended his hand to her, she accepted it, and he pulled her to her feet.

  “Do you think there could be more furniture like this up here?” Kate assessed all the other hulking objects filling the loft.

  “We can look,” Matt answered.

  There were at least twenty more fabric-covered pieces. Plus the hope chests, plus wooden boxes of every size. What had seemed like a chore five minutes ago now seemed like an odyssey.

  Kate made her way to another nearby piece of covered furniture, something about six feet tall and four feet wide, and started in on one of the four ties.

  Matt joined her again, his big hands graceful and sure on the time-crusted knots. Again, she tried hard to squelch the effect his nearness had on her. She couldn’t quite do it. Couldn’t quite steady herself.

  “Care to do the honors?” Kate asked when they’d finished, motioning to the fabric cover.

  “It’s all you.”

  Kate whipped the cover off. This time they’d unearthed a corner cupboard. The bottom half contained two wooden doors topped with two drawers. The top half held three shelves visible behind two paned-glass doors that opened outward from the center.