by Becky Wade
Kate touched one of the knobs on the upper door, then gently ran her fingertips along the glass.
“Well?” Matt asked.
“I think it’s even older than the Windsor chair.” She laughed with disbelief at this outrageous streak of good fortune, then opened one of the cupboard doors and peered inside. “Second half of the 1700s, maybe.”
“Is the paint supposed to look like that?”
“Yes.” What had been cream-colored paint when applied had faded, scratched, and worn away to almost nothing. “It’s perfect. It should look exactly like this.” She gazed at him. “If I’d known there was furniture like this up here, I’d have been here the first day I arrived at Chapel Bluff. The first minute! Gran thought it was mostly junk. Instead, it’s . . . it’s amazing. We’re going to need an appraiser. And someone to clean everything properly. And more fire detectors.”
“Fire detectors?”
“All through the house, once we move these things in. Imagine if these were destroyed.”
“Imagine.”
“Who can we get to move these pieces into the house?” Kate asked.
“I know a few people.”
“Good, because as soon as we have our garage sale on Saturday and move all the shabby furniture out of the house, we can move this stuff in.”
“You might want to paint first.”
“Oh right.”
“And refinish the floors.”
“Oh right.”
“And then you can probably move this stuff over.”
She put her hands on her hips and blew a strand of red hair out of her eyes. “I think I better go get Gran.”
Her ancestors had had some kind of incredible taste in furniture. About half of the items left forgotten for decades in the barn were extremely valuable. As in, they could have been featured on Antiques Roadshow valuable. The mix was eclectic: a Federal mahogany sideboard; a Chippendale—Chippendale!—desk; a walnut Queen Anne dining room set; some Shaker furniture; and a table that Kate suspected might have been made by Gustav Stickley.
Matt had stayed with Gran and Kate all day, saying little in the face of their squeals and exclamations, doing all the hardest work. He’d wielded a crowbar for them, lifted crates, dragged things out of their way, and taken loads of trash to the Dumpster.
Out of splintering wooden boxes they’d uncovered quilts, journals, aged Bibles, three wonderful Hudson River School–era paintings, some pottery, and an extensive collection of Depression glass.
That night after dinner, Kate curled up in the den with a cup of tea, too excited to go to bed. She stared into the empty fireplace and saw lustrous wooden drawers, the clean planed top of a desk, the curving linear beauty of an armrest. She’d made finds today that took her breath away. More finds in a day than she’d dreamed of making in a lifetime. All the better because they were part of her family’s history, because they’d find a home again here inside the walls of Chapel Bluff, where they belonged.
She took a long sip of tea, savoring its minty smell. It was all much, much too good to be true.
She found Gran’s Bible in the basket by the foot of the sofa and managed to locate the verse she wanted with some help from the concordance. Every good and perfect gift is from above, coming down from the Father of the heavenly lights, who does not change like shifting shadows.
Thank you, she prayed. Thank you, God.
Tonight, with the stars visible through the den’s windows, she couldn’t help but brim with hope. Hope for this old house, hope for her future, hope for her job, hope even for their heartbroken recluse of a contractor.
On Friday, the geriatric gang showed up early for poker night.
Dinner wasn’t until 6:30, but Kate spotted Peg and William’s silver BMW cruising up the driveway at 5:43. Morty’s Oldsmobile at 5:48. And Velma’s Smokey and the Bandit black Trans Am, complete with the big gold bird on the hood, at 5:55.
Kate, upstairs in her terry-cloth bathrobe with wet hair, quickly went to work with the blow-dryer.
Over this past week, and against all odds, she and Matt and Gran had settled into a nightly routine. Every weeknight Matt left work, went home to shower, then came back for Gran’s cooking lessons. If the dinner of the night needed time in the oven, they’d sit at the table while it baked, snacking on cheese and crackers or hummus and pita chips. Over dinner they’d chat about upcoming community events, memories from Gran’s childhood, movies, books. Everything but Matt himself. Sometimes, he’d help Kate clean. Always, he was out the door by 8:15 to go home and do . . . she wondered what.
Kate sensed that the dinners were hard for him. Simply showing up forced him to extend himself much further than he wanted to. She hadn’t told him about poker night, because she’d known if she did that he wouldn’t come. But now she was second-guessing herself, thinking that she should have warned him. He might not deal well with Gran’s friends, and the last thing she wanted at this point was to push him too hard and scare him off.
By the time she arrived downstairs, the seniors’ mealtime gender role-play was well under way. She’d watched this dance since childhood. Amazing how it differed so little from state to state, decade to decade, or with the inclusion of these new participants.
William and Morty were sitting at the kitchen table, doing nothing. In fact, had there been a TV available anywhere downstairs, she was certain they’d have been stationed in front of it watching sports. As it was, they were simply sitting, looking slightly awkward.
The women, on the other hand, were moving at double speed. Stirring green beans, spooning pot roast onto a serving platter, whisking butter out of the refrigerator, and seventeen other things at once.
These two very different time-to-get-food-on-the-table roles had always confounded Kate. How odd and vaguely insulting that she was expected to plunge into meal preparation because she had breasts, while those without were clearly expected to do nothing more than notch back their La-Z-Boys.
Of course, she wasn’t exactly in a place to criticize Morty and William. Those Who Filled Glasses With Ice had precious little elevation on their high horse.
After greeting everyone, Kate walked dutifully to the cabinet with the glasses. She was still twisting ice cube trays when she heard Matt’s truck pull up outside. She paused, waiting to hear him kill the engine.
He kept it running.
Still running.
He’d seen the other cars and was about to drive home without coming in. She glanced up and found Gran already looking at her. Kate widened her eyes in silent communication.
“Excuse me for a second.” Gran dried her hands on her apron and hurried out the kitchen door. Gran could persuade flowers to bloom in January, so Kate had high hopes.
Sure enough, a minute later Matt appeared in the doorway with Gran. Everyone in the kitchen broke off their conversations and regarded him with fascination.
Matt stood with the kind of stillness that held suppressed motion, as if he were on the verge of turning and heading back to his truck. He’d made his face carefully expressionless. For all his physical beauty and strength, he looked vulnerable to her, standing there.
Her heart squeezed. Shoot! He was miserable around strangers. She knew this, and she should have warned him about tonight.
“Everyone,” Gran said, wrapping her hand affectionately around his forearm, “this is Matt Jarreau. Of course you know he’s our marvelous contractor.”
He had on a fitted navy sweater and flat-front khakis. She’d bet that he was one of those guys who hardly gave a thought to his clothing. He probably just wore whatever was clean. Yet his casual, sometimes ever-so-slightly-rumpled appearance never failed to make him look like a J.Crew model.
“Matt,” Gran continued, “this is William, Morty, Peg, and Velma. Friends of mine.”
Matt lowered his chin a fraction. “Nice to meet you.”
Velma walked up to him, still holding, with two frayed potholders, the dish of glazed carrots she’d been taking t
o the dining room when he’d arrived. “Good gracious, you’re taller than I realized. How tall are you?”
“Six two.”
“Hmm.” She scrutinized him from behind her enormous glasses, as if trying to decide whether she’d deign to let him stay.
Kate felt ridiculously protective of Matt, a sentiment he wouldn’t thank her for. Still. If Velma started needling him, she was going to have to intercede.
“You’re tall and you’re good-lookin’,” Velma announced. “Nice to have a hottie over for dinner, isn’t it, girls?”
Disaster. Kate expected Matt to break for the door. But he stayed where he was, apparently speechless.
Peg blushed and nodded faintly.
“Indeed!” Gran smiled up at Matt, her blue eyes twinkling. “Always nice to have hotties over.”
Velma’s attention swooped to Kate like a hawk catching sight of a canary. “It sure is, isn’t it, Kate?”
“Yes,” Kate said lamely. “It is.”
And that’s how Matt Jarreau was ushered into the kitchen, swept along to the dining room table, and firmly caught in the center of poker night.
After dinner, Morty—who took his poker very seriously—hauled out an enormous case of gambling chips and a small sign stating the worth of each color of chip. While Morty was setting up at the dining room table, Velma made her way to the bathroom. Kate followed her surreptitiously and waited in the hallway outside the bathroom for Velma to come out.
When Velma exited, she caught sight of Kate and halted. “Wouldn’t go in there for a few minutes if I were you,” she warned. “Stinks.”
“Ahh . . .” All Kate’s preplanned sentences evaporated, and she had to scramble after them. “It’s okay. I wanted to ask you something anyway.”
One penciled eyebrow rose. Velma was wearing a black cowboy-cut shirt and tapered jeans tucked into flat ankle boots with fringe on the side. It appeared she’d fallen for an infomercial and shelled out $19.99 in exchange for a machine that punched silver studs into fabric, because she’d punctured her shirt with dozens of them. Her shirt positively gleamed. Brighter than the tin man.
Kate had a vision of Velma attempting to pass through airport security in that thing—metal detectors up and down the terminal shrieking and wailing.
“Morty likes you,” Kate said. “And I wondered if you’d reconsider going out with him.”
Velma rolled her pink lips into a sour expression. “No. Morty and I get along fine as it is. I’m not interested in anything romantic.”
“Why not? I mean, he seems like a good person.”
Velma regarded her skeptically.
“He’s a nice-looking man,” Kate said. If you like really old Elvises.
“Nice-looking?” Velma grunted. “In what way?”
“Ah . . .” Kate put her hands in her pockets and thought ferociously. “He’s a masculine sort of guy, large, but not too large. And he has an interesting face. Strong. And,” with a surge of triumph, “he has lots of hair.”
“The hair is a problem for me.”
“How so?”
“That black color. It reminds me of a greased-up car tire. You know what I’m talking about? What your tires look like right after you pay extra to get them cleaned?”
“I do know.” And Kate had to admit, Morty’s hair was bad. “What if he did something about his hair? Would you reconsider?”
Velma’s mascara-clad eyes studied her without blinking. “Have you appointed yourself his pimp?”
“No! I’m just trying to help him out, I guess.”
“Why?”
“I have my reasons. Now, about the hair. If he fixed it, would you go on a date with him?”
“Probably not.”
“But maybe?” Kate pressed. “All that admiration has to be flattering, doesn’t it, Velma?”
Velma pushed her glasses up her nose, blew out an impatient breath, and turned to saunter down the hall. The rhinestones stuck to her banana clip glittered in the dull light. “I’ll think about it.”
“Raise,” Matt said, and idly thumbed the edges of his two cards before tossing a few chips forward.
William folded. When it came to Kate she again consulted the little piece of paper Morty had given her. It listed the pictures and names of all the different poker hands from best to worst.
“I’ll . . . reraise?” She looked to Morty and lifted a brow for confirmation that she’d used the right term.
Morty nodded.
Kate pushed a stack of chips to the center of the table.
Matt frowned. He had two pair, but he didn’t know if they would hold up against her beginner’s luck. Kate knew nothing about poker, but impossibly had maintained the chip lead almost from the time they’d started.
Matt was no serious poker player. But like all self-respecting men, he knew enough about the game to get by. And like all competitive athletes, he didn’t like to lose. Especially against a total rookie who kept consulting her cheat sheet and throwing down her cards and saying, “Nothing there!” each time she had a weak hand. It made him pretty darn sure that she had a good hand whenever she started raising like this.
He suspected his hand was better, though. This time. He pushed enough chips forward to equal hers.
The remaining players folded. Morty turned over the fifth card.
Matt checked. Kate peeked at her hand and smiled with transparent excitement. She shoved another tower of chips forward. “Raise.”
She must have a royal flush. If he lost this hand, he’d be all but dead. He looked down at the table, scratched the side of his forehead. He should probably fold. At least he could safeguard the chips he had left. And yet . . . stubborn confidence in his cards tugged at him.
What the heck. He met her bet and then some.
She raised again.
To meet her this time would take all he had, and only empty her down to half her chips. He’d be out of the game and forced to go hang out in the kitchen with the other early losers—Beverly and Velma.
What was he, a pansy?
He slid his remaining chips to the center. “I call.”
Kate’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly.
“Let’s see what you’ve got.”
She wrinkled her nose and revealed her hand. He, too, turned over his cards.
She had . . . She had nothing. He furrowed his brow, trying to understand what she’d been thinking.
Morty leaned toward her. “Now, Kate, you shouldn’t have bet on this hand. You don’t have anything here. Not even a pair, see?” As Morty’s voice continued on with exaggerated patience, Kate’s gaze flicked to Matt. One corner of her lips lifted knowingly and she winked.
Shock hit Matt square in the chest.
Just as quickly, Kate looked back to her cards, nodding seriously over Morty’s instruction.
She knew exactly what she was doing, Matt realized, stunned. She knew good and well that she’d had nothing. She’d been bluffing. Matt thought of previous hands when he’d folded, when they’d all folded, and she’d raked in their chips with her delicate little hands without ever having to reveal her cards.
The antique lover knew how to play poker? The antique lover? It seemed impossible. He’d never seen anyone who looked less like a poker player. She’d parted her long red hair on the side tonight, and tucked it behind her ears. Classy black turtleneck. Classy gray skirt. The odd black ballet shoes.
Slowly, feeling sluggish, he pulled all the chips toward himself.
Kate was an expert at Texas Hold ’Em. The whole beginner thing was an act. The confused expression, the questions, the reliance on the cheat sheet—phony. He felt like a dunce for falling for it. But one glance around the table told him that all of the other players were still falling for it. She was going to take them to the cleaners.
He watched her, grudging admiration sifting through him. He had to hand it to her. The clever little thing knew she only had so long before they realized her charade, so she was running with her
chance.
It was William’s turn to deal. He shuffled and began sliding cards to each player. As Kate accepted her first card, she looked up at Matt and their gazes locked. She lifted one eyebrow, her hazel eyes glinting with amusement. So? she seemed to ask him.
I’m on to you. He mouthed the words silently.
She nodded at him, smiled. Didn’t appear the slightest bit worried.
Now that he was wise to her, boy, he was bringing his A game. It was on like Donkey Kong. She was destined to lose.
But, as it turned out, she didn’t lose. She won. By custom, they stopped for the night when only three players remained, then divvied up the prize money to each of those people based on their chip count. Kate had twice as many chips as anyone else, then came Morty and then Peg, which was downright embarrassing. Even Peg had beaten him. Matt had made it to the final four, then lost fair and square.
If he did nothing else this week, he was going to study up on poker. His name wasn’t engraved on the Stanley Cup for nothing.
After suffering through some mandatory small talk, Matt said his good-byes and let himself out the kitchen door.
Kate slipped out beside him, sliding gracefully into her coat. “I’ll walk you out.”
They made their way through the dark side by side, hands in their pockets, shoes crunching.
“You had me going in there,” he said.
“Did I?”
“You know you did.”
She laughed—a soft, easy sound. “Yeah. I know I did. That was terrible of me. Terrible! I shouldn’t have done it, but Morty just assumed right from the start that I didn’t know anything about poker, and you kept giving me those impatient and pitying looks—”
“Hey,” he protested.
“They were definitely pitying.” She glanced teasingly at him. “I couldn’t resist.”
He snorted. “Where’d you learn to play?”
“From my dad. He loves the game.” She bent her head a little against the fierce wind. “Most families played Scrabble or Pictionary or Uno on family vacations. We played poker.”