by Becky Wade
“I’m glad I’ve got you alone,” Morty said to Kate. He reached inside the pocket of his jeans and pulled out an envelope. “I’ve been on an official date with Velma and you haven’t asked me about the spa certificates.”
“I didn’t want to be crass.”
He smiled and handed the envelope over to her. “Good thing then that I never welsh on a deal.”
Kate accepted the envelope. “Thank you. Really. I’ll enjoy this.”
“You earned it.”
“I don’t know if I did that much—”
“Yeah, you did, kid. You helped a heck of a lot.”
“If I did, I’m glad. Would you like some pie?”
“Sure.”
She served him a wedge. “Listen, I’ve been wondering about something.”
“Shoot.”
“What made you decide to take your car out of storage?”
He held his fork in his knobby hands while he chewed pensively. “It was something you said. About how you thought Velma wanted me to drive the car because she wanted me to enjoy life more. I went and visited the car a few times last week. You know what? That ol’ garage was cold. Damp. Lonely. That car wasn’t enjoying itself in there and neither was I. I finally thought, what am I waiting for? The Lord to come for me? That car is old, like me, but she can take a few miles. And I’ve really been wantin’ that date with Velma. Really wantin’ it. For years.”
Kate nodded. “Will there be more dates?”
“She’s lettin’ me have one date a week. So that means you’ll be getting a few more certificates before you leave town. Good thing you’re leaving, too, or you’d drain me dry.” He winked at her.
“I’m sure Velma’s worth every penny,” she lied.
“Every penny,” he vowed.
“I’d love a ride in your car myself sometime if it’s not too much trouble.”
“You would?”
“Definitely.”
He reached out and squeezed her hand affectionately. She squeezed back.
“On the next pretty day, then,” he said. “You, me, and the Cadillac.”
“You, me, and the Cadillac,” she agreed.
Astonishingly, Matt turned out to be the ideal antiquing partner. He didn’t shove his opinion at her. But when she asked him for it, he gave her thoughtful answers. And after seeing the way he’d decorated the inside of his own house, she found it easy to respect his taste. He never complained, never rushed her, never looked pained. He never asked to use the bathroom, like a girlfriend would have. He handled the driving and the parking. He carried all the stuff. And—and—he was eye candy to look at.
Together, they had a very successful morning. They scored three lamps and a set of lithographs at the flea market. At the estate sale they decided on a chocolate-colored leather sofa and chair, and two beautiful beige, brown, and sage-green oriental rugs. After a pit stop at a deli for sandwiches, they parked near the center of town so that Kate could revisit a few of Redbud’s antique shops.
Everywhere they went people recognized Matt. A few acquaintances greeted him by name and with a handshake. The rest, strangers, whispered about him and watched him with avid interest when they thought he wasn’t looking. Kate could easily read the speculation in their faces. They were all wondering what this very average woman was doing with their town celebrity.
Before subjecting him to more antiques, Kate insisted on buying him coffee. Main Street Coffee was crowded, so they took their drinks, a latte with lots of whip and chocolate sprinkles for her, and a plain coffee with low-fat milk for him, to one of the black iron benches positioned along the street.
Kate settled in with a contented sigh. Sitting here with him felt right. Better than that. Perfect.
She squinted upward through the barren tree branches to the swath of sky. The temperature hovered in the mid-fifties, but the day was sunny and windless. Her quilted trench coat and leather gloves were keeping her plenty warm.
She glanced over at Matt, who was wearing a well-worn pair of jeans and a black North Face jacket. He met and held her gaze, utterly still but tense with that awareness that lived between them now.
She sipped her latte. “I want to ask you about something, and I already know you’re not going to want to talk about it.”
He raised an eyebrow.
“But it’s been on my mind a lot lately, so I’m going to ask you about it anyway.”
“Uh-oh.”
“What happened with your hockey?”
He winced, his lips setting into a firm, hard line.
“Will you tell me?” she asked. “Or is it totally off-limits?”
“I’ll tell you.” Several cars hummed by before he said more. “Beth died during the hockey season. Did you know that?”
“No.”
“The coach and the GM met with me afterward, told me to take a few weeks off. So I did.” Slowly, he lowered his coffee cup to his knee and turned it around and around. “Those were bad days—with the funeral and all the family, the reporters. Every day of those two weeks I wished I could go back to practice. I was sorry I’d taken any time off at all. I thought that when I got back on the ice at least something in my life would be right again.” He kept silent a long time.
“But it wasn’t right?” Kate asked.
“No. It was meaningless. I’d thought the hard work would help. But instead it was just . . . empty.” He frowned. “Beth knew what was important in life, and it became clear to me that hockey wasn’t it.”
“I’m sorry,” Kate said.
“Yeah. It’s pretty bad when you suddenly hate something you’ve always loved.”
Kate nodded. “Drink something,” she gently reminded him.
“Oh.” He took a sip. His posture, which had tightened, visibly relaxed.
“So you left the team?”
“Not at first. I forced myself to play for another month and a half out of nothing but discipline. Then one day at practice . . . I was playing fine and everything was normal . . . but on that day I just—I just suddenly couldn’t make myself do it anymore. I walked off the ice.”
Kate watched the muscles in his jaw turn stone hard. “And that was it,” he said. “The end of my hockey career. I was done.”
He looked at her, and she returned his attention evenly. She thought she saw regret in his expression. Waste. Loss. “And then you came to Redbud,” she said.
“Yeah.” He watched a group of teenagers pass, clearly finding it easier to talk to her while looking at the bustle surrounding them. “I only took two things out of the New York apartment and then I moved—”
“What two things?”
He tilted his head, quizzical.
“What two things did you take out of the New York apartment?”
He paused. “Remember that picture of Beth you saw at my house?”
“Yes.”
“That and . . . well.” He hesitated again, seeming embarrassed. “A hairbrush of hers with a silver back on it.”
Kate pretended extreme interest in an approaching mother and toddler so that Matt wouldn’t see her lips tremble. Emotion pressed against her from the inside as she fought back the urge to cry for him. He might have been a big-time hockey star once, but on the inside, he’d always been this quiet, intense person whose feelings ran deep. The kind of person who’d want to keep his wife’s hairbrush to remember her by.
She kept her gaze sternly focused on the toddler and waited to speak until she could be certain her voice would sound normal. “What did you do with the rest of your stuff from New York?”
“I had it put in storage.”
“And then you moved into your house here.”
“Yeah.”
“Which was in pretty bad shape at the time.”
“Right. I didn’t mind, though. Working on it, making it better, gave me something to do, something else to think about.”
She could see how the process of repairing old houses had been good for him. Therapeutic. Sort of
a metaphor for what she wished he could do with his heart. “How did it become your business?”
“By the time I finished my house I had several other offers, people around here who wanted me to come work on their houses. So I took a few of them up on it.” He shrugged.
“Are you involved with hockey at all anymore?”
“Not at all.”
“Why?”
Silence. “Kate,” he groaned.
“I know, I’m torturing you. Just go ahead and get it over with and tell me.”
“Man, you’re persistent.” But he didn’t look annoyed. He regarded her with tenderness.
Tiny shivers raced between her shoulder blades in response. “I’m horribly persistent, aren’t I? I’m sorry. It’s terrible! I wish I could be more—”
“I’m not involved with hockey anymore because it’s painful. That’s the short answer, I guess.” He ran a hand through his hair. “How do I explain this? I hardly even like to think about it.”
She waited.
“I used to love hockey. It was my life. It’s difficult to be reminded of it now, because every time I see it on TV or hear about it or think about it I remember that it’s over for me and that it’s continuing on without me.”
Since that moment at his house when she’d seen the look on his face when hockey had come on TV, she’d been thinking about Matt and his sport. She could almost hear God whispering to her, saying, He needs to return to it, Kate. He’s not done.
This conversation had only cemented the idea in her head. Matt Jarreau, hockey legend, needed to make phone calls, train, play the minor circuit if there was one, audition if they did that, and whatever else was necessary to get himself back into the NHL. He was never going to have closure or peace about it until he finished his career on his own terms.
Could he find the same passion for it that he’d had before Beth died? She’d bet that it had already returned. Otherwise, accidentally catching a glimpse of it on TV wouldn’t have the power to hurt him like it did now.
“Thank you for telling me,” she said, and left it at that. This wasn’t the time or place to share her revelation with him. She needed to think and pray about it. To sort out everything clearly in her own head.
“Are you cold?” he asked with a trace of worry.
“Not at all.”
“Sure?”
“Sure.” She drank down the last of her latte and licked her upper lip.
His gaze followed the movement. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course. Anything.”
“I want to know about your job,” he said.
“What would you like to know?”
“How you feel about it.”
“Well . . .” Over the weeks, they’d often talked about her job, but their discussions had only touched on things like her day-to-day duties, what the complex was like, her co-workers. That he’d ask her this made her wonder if he could read what she didn’t say, the same way she was learning to read him. “I used to feel really confident about my job. I enjoyed it, I got a lot of satisfaction from it. But more than that . . . This is going to sound weird to you.”
“Try me.”
“I felt like it was exactly what God wanted me to be doing.”
“You’re right. That is weird.”
She balled up the napkin she’d wrapped around her coffee cup and threw it at him. He caught it effortlessly one-handed. Grinned.
“You’re such the joker,” she said.
“Yeah, I’m full of laughs. Here.” He took her cup and threw all their trash in a nearby garbage can. When he returned he asked, “So how do you feel about it now?”
“Like maybe I’ve done the job too long.” She struggled to be as truthful with him as he’d just been with her. “One of my kids, a teenage girl, committed suicide about six months ago.”
Matt’s breath hissed inward at the news.
“After that happened my job started giving me this sad, hopeless feeling. I always used to be so optimistic about the kids, about their futures, but now I don’t know. I was having a hard time finding any joy in it for those last few months before I left.”
“You’re planning to go back to it when you return to Dallas.”
“Yes. Although, if nothing’s changed, then I’m going to have to think about looking for another job, which scares me.”
“When are you leaving Redbud?”
“In about a month.”
He scowled. “That soon? I didn’t know.”
“Thanksgiving is next week. We’ll stay a week or two into December, but no more than that. Gran and I both need to get back for the holidays. Will you be finished working on Chapel Bluff by then?”
“Yeah, I’ll be done.”
A beat of quiet. “Ready to look at a few more antiques?” she asked.
He nodded, and they made their way side by side down Main.
“Listen,” he said. “About Thanksgiving. I’d really like for you and Beverly to come over to my house and spend it with us. You owe me that after forcing me to invite my whole family.”
That he wanted her to join him for Thanksgiving pleased her inordinately. “We’ve already told Velma we’ll do Thanksgiving dinner with her, but we could probably come over to your house that evening if you want us to.”
“I want you to.”
“Then we’ll be there. What can we bring?”
“Nothing. We’ll have too much food as it is.”
“Gran will insist on cooking and bringing something. Just tell her to do a pie—that’ll make her happy.”
They reached the nearest of the shops. Matt held the door for her as Kate entered into an environment brimming with classy accessories, expensive British antiques, and the smell of cloves. Kate weaved her way along, appreciating the various pieces, until she came to a table that stopped her in her tracks. It wasn’t large. It was dainty, in fact, with a satinwood rectangular top and two satinwood sides that folded down. Its graceful cabriole legs ended in worn brass casters. The top and sides of the table had been skillfully painted with swags of leaves and wreaths accented with fluttering white ribbons.
“You like it,” Matt said.
“I do.” The piece clutched at her heart in the way that antiques sometimes did. “It’s a Pembroke table.” She checked the dangling white price tag. Five thousand dollars.
The owner of the store, a ruddy-faced older gentleman, approached them with a smile. He did a double take when he recognized Matt. “Are you Matt Jarreau?”
“I am.”
He extended his hand and introduced himself. “Henry Vernon. I watched every televised game you ever played. I’m a big fan.”
“Thank you.”
“It’s a real pleasure to meet you.” He glanced from Matt to Kate to the table. Cleared his throat. “I bought that on my last trip to London. Just came in on the container I had shipped over. It’s a beauty, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is,” Kate said.
“It’s a George the Third Pembroke table. Made around 1780.”
They chatted about the table, some of the other finds he’d made on his trip, and about the delights of antiquing in England. When a trio of new customers came in, he excused himself to greet them.
“This is too expensive for Beverly’s budget,” Matt said.
“Way too expensive, and she doesn’t need anything quite like this. But it is pretty.” Kate admired it for a few more moments and then reluctantly moved on.
“Kate,” Matt said.
She turned.
“I just wanted to say thank you.”
“What for?”
“For today. I’ve enjoyed it.”
“You have?” She found it hard to believe.
“Yes.”
“I should be the one thanking you. You’ve been a big help and really patient, even though most of what we’ve done must have bored you to death.”
He gazed at her levelly. “I wasn’t bored.”
“Good, I’m glad.”
She started forward. “C’mon, almost done here. Then one more store and I’ll let you off the hook.”
———
Matt followed her, his thoughts churning. He’d been completely serious when he’d told her he’d enjoyed their day. Actually, if anything, it had been an understatement. Today had been the best day he’d had in years because he’d been near her.
Inside Chapel Bluff’s chapel, he’d railed at God because this world could be so incredibly rotten. But today had reminded him that there was good in it, too. There was still beauty here and there was still kindness and maybe . . . maybe there was even still hope.
chapter seventeen
Kate was in serious trouble. She knew it almost instantly. She’d lived with asthma long enough to differentiate between her regular symptoms and a severe attack. This was a severe attack, and it had come on suddenly and hit her like a freight train.
She paused, leaning her hand against the trunk of a tree. She tried to relax. Hard to do with her heart rate surging, pounding fast in her ears. Calm down, she told herself. But her airways only constricted more, and the wheezing sound of her breath grew louder, more labored.
She pushed away from the tree and continued up the driveway to Chapel Bluff. She’d woken up restless this Sunday morning. . . . A walk had seemed like a good idea. She coughed repeatedly. It had turned out to be a bad idea. A really bad idea. It shouldn’t have been. She’d checked the weather online before she’d left, thinking it’d be okay. But the air was much colder than she’d expected. And cold air combined with exercise could sometimes trigger her asthma. But rarely—so rarely—did it ever get this bad.
Desperation rose inside her. She kept her focus forward, on where the house would be when she rounded the bend. How much farther? How many more steps until she could get herself inside? Gran was there. Her inhaler was there.
Help me, God.
She was struggling to get any air at all now, her chest unbearably tight. You’ll be okay, she told herself. You’ll be okay. You’ll be okay. But the house was still far away and the panic was rising, overwhelming her. She wheezed in and out, drowning without a drop of water anywhere in sight.
“Matt?” Beverly said.