My Stubborn Heart (11 page)

Matt.

Infuriating man!

Now that he'd yanked his companionship away, she felt shamefully . . . bereft.

It had been awful to exist in the same house with him today, trying to act normal, struggling not to show how much his coldness hurt.

She'd attempted to ignore him, but attempting to ignore Matt was like trying to ignore a searchlight. The light might be quiet, but it blasted white color and incredible heat. That's how ridiculously aware of him she always was. Ridiculously aware and, for today anyway, inwardly churning with hostility. Because in truth, she was deeply,
deeply
irritated with him.

His wife had died. And he'd loved her so much that her death had left him devastated and broken. She got it. And yet it wasn't okay to be rude to people. Especially them! She and Gran a) were technically his employers and b) cared about him.

She heaved a sigh, then swiped away her tears with her index fingers.

A big part of her wanted to write Matt off. It would be simpler and a lot less painful. She could stop trying so hard. She could stop torturing him. She could just let him go.

But every time the idea crossed her mind, she envisioned him coming across the lawn the first day she'd met him. She'd looked into his face and seen tragedy in his eyes. She could clearly picture him, looking at her as he'd looked at her that day from under the brim of his hat, with those grave, sad eyes.

He was injured, and he needed her help. She was probably flattering herself dangerously to presume that, but she couldn't shake the idea. And as long as she felt that he needed her, she refused to give up on him. No matter how maddening he could be.

The furnace came clonking, then whirring, to life. A tree branch scratched against the roof. Through her tears, Kate contemplated the moon visible through the window.

I am weary, God. Give me your rest.

It was a breath prayer. She didn't have the emotional strength to form a long, coherent prayer at the moment. So she simply breathed in, held her breath for a few beats, and then whispered, “I am weary, God. Give me your rest,” as she breathed out.

Breathe in. Silent tears. Breathe out.

I am weary, God. Give me your rest.

The next day, Kate entered heaven.

Heaven on earth in the form of an antique shop named The Plaid Attic. Not immaculate heaven, like the antique shops on Redbud's Main Street. In those stores, Kate was afraid to turn around for fear that her purse might smash something overpriced. Instead, The Plaid Attic offered a cluttered, cozy, inviting heaven.

Outside, the October day swirled with cold, but the inside of the shop welcomed her with warmth. Kate unwrapped her scarf and made her way deeper inside. She smelled brewing coffee, a citrus candle, and that familiar woody, dusty smell that always meant deliriously wonderful
old stuff.

“I'll be out in a second” came a woman's voice from some unseen back room.

“No hurry,” Kate called.

The furniture wasn't displayed bare, but neither had it been overly accessorized. A whole collection of blue stoneware pottery reclined inside a rustic bookcase. White tulips flopped out of a ceramic jug, scissors and cellophane still lying next to it on top of a mahogany sideboard. Beautifully framed sketches stood propped up on a walnut bachelor's chest. A Spiderman action figure peeked out of a bureau drawer.

Kate noticed with some admiration that the owner of the place had actually managed to paint the walls plaid. A pale blue, white, and green plaid, with ribbons of pink running through it. The colors on the walls echoed the long rectangular rug of periwinkle blue and sage green gingham.

A woman emerged from the rear of the shop wearing a bright pink fleece, jeans, and pink Crocs. “I was attempting to organize the back room. Like that'll ever happen.” She rolled her eyes and smiled. “Can I help you?”

“Yes. I'm Kate Donovan.”

“Theresa Kickenbach. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you.”

Theresa had a head full of pale blond curls that sprang upward and outward from her scalp, ending in a bouncy line just above her shoulders. Though her hair had tons of volume, it looked fine and fluffy. Like if she pulled the whole thing into a ponytail she could probably secure it with an orthodontic rubber band. Kate could see that she'd attempted to tame a section of bangs with a tiny—no bigger than an M&M—yellow clippie.

“A gentleman at one of the other antique shops told me where to find you,” Kate said. The Plaid Attic was two streets off Main, tucked into a quiet block. “He said you're an antiques appraiser.”

“I am—I was . . . No, I
am
, I just don't do many anymore. Come in, come in.” Kate followed her to the back, where an Arts and Crafts table served as a desk. “Here . . .” Theresa cleared a stack of magazines, mail, and files from the wing back that faced the table. “Have a seat.”

“Thanks.”

Theresa bustled around the opposite side and settled on a rolling desk chair. Behind her, an enormous cork bulletin board bristled with photos, Post-it notes, and children's art.

“Are you from here?” Theresa asked.

“I'm from Dallas, actually. I'm here with my grandmother for three months to renovate Chapel Bluff.”

“Oh, sure.” Realization lit her gray eyes. “I came to your garage sale.”

“You did?”

“Yep, and I bought a few things for some clients of mine to add to their collections. So if you're looking for an appraiser, dare I hope that means that you'd like me to come and appraise Chapel Bluff's antiques?”

“Exactly.”

She rubbed her hands together. “What do you have? Furniture? Art? Collectibles?”

“All of the above.”

“Mmm. I'd
love
to get a look at everything.”

Just then the bell above the door jingled merrily, admitting two women.

“Excuse me a minute?”

“Sure,” Kate said.

Kate relaxed into the chair and sighed. Matt had been just as cold toward her this morning as he'd been yesterday, and it felt like a vacation to get away from him and Chapel Bluff for a few hours. If she could drink this place in—like a steaming cup of hot chocolate with whipped cream and sprinkles on top—she would.

Kate glanced over and saw one of the women gesture to the Spiderman action figure in the bureau drawer. “Do you have children?”

“I do,” Theresa answered. “A daughter who's seven and a son who's four.” She made a wry expression, plucked Spiderman out of the bureau drawer, and shut it with her knee.

Theresa spoke with the customer for a few more minutes, then returned to her desk chair, which squeaked when she sat. She held up Spiderman. “Jack's been looking everywhere for this.” She tossed him into an enormous purse already overflowing with odds and ends. “You don't have kids, do you?”

“No.”

“Thank goodness!”

Kate tilted her head. “Thank goodness?”

“You're so thin. If you were that thin
and
a mother, I was going to have to shoot myself.”

Kate laughed.

“No, really. You wouldn't believe how many women get pregnant, have babies, and come through it all looking like high school cheerleaders. It's appalling!”

“Appalling.”

“I mean, I've tried to lose weight,” she said, indicating her chest and wide hips, “but my body isn't budging. And on that note—” Theresa reached under some papers, extracted two Hershey's kisses, and extended them to Kate—“care for some chocolate?”

“Sure.” Kate grinned and took one.

“You look too young to have kids anyway,” Theresa commented. “I'm forty.
Forty!
That's so depressing. Here. More chocolate.” She pushed two more kisses across the desk.

“Thanks.”

“So tell me about Chapel Bluff and why you're interested in hiring an appraiser.”

“Well, when we were clearing out the second story of the barn, we discovered all these incredible antiques. My grandmother thinks they've been stored there since the fifties.”

Theresa nodded.

“We need someone to come and appraise it all so we can get it insured.”

“Gotcha. Are the items still in the barn?”

“We just started moving them into the house yesterday.”

“What makes you think the things you've found are valuable enough to require insuring?”

“Well, I'm not sure, but I think we might have a Windsor chair, a Federal sideboard, a Chippendale desk, some Hudson River School paintings, and a table that might, just might, be a Stickley.”

Theresa regarded her with round eyes for five full seconds. “Wow.”

“I know.”

“You've been doing your research,” Theresa said.

“I'm crazy about antiques. I'm strictly an amateur, but they've been a hobby of mine for years.”

“It's official then, we're going to be friends. You're here temporarily?”

“Until mid-December.”

“Perfect. That's just enough time for me to fall in love with you and be left brokenhearted when you leave.” Theresa shot her a mock grimace, then extracted a file and began paging through it. “I worked for Sotheby's in the city once. Can you believe it? That was a hundred years ago, before my daughter was born, before we moved to Redbud. I'm an Accredited Senior Appraiser, shockingly, and the documentation is in here somewhere. Hmm.” More distracted flipping. “At least I thought it was . . .”

“That's all right, I believe you.”

“Well, look me up online and verify my credentials.” She closed the file and set it aside. “I only work when my son's at preschool. But I really enjoy this shop and appraising, and as I tell Doug—that's my husband—even though I don't work lots of hours or make much money, this job is worth the price of my sanity. Sanity, you understand, is in short supply when you're the mother of young children.”

“I'm all for sanity.”

“I'm afraid, though, because of my hours, that as an appraiser I'm going to be slow.”

“Are there any other Accredited Senior Appraisers in town?” A smile tugged at Kate's lips.

“No.”

“Then I guess I'll put up with you.”

“Good.” Theresa tilted back her chair, looking satisfied. “I can hopefully pull in the grandparents to help with the kids, and there's a lady in town who can work some hours for me here.”

“Perfect.”

“Perfect!”

“When can you start?”

Who would have guessed that Tyler was some kind of idiotic, annoying Don Juan?

Not Matt, that's for sure. He'd worked with Tyler on and off for over a year. He was a good electrician, and Matt had called him in on several of his jobs. On those other occasions Tyler had been punctual, easygoing, and hardworking. But Matt would never have booked him for this job if he'd known the guy was such a pathetic wannabe ladies' man.

He, Tyler, and Ryan had been hauling furniture into Chapel Bluff for two and a half days. And for almost every minute of every hour Matt had had to listen to Tyler prattle on and on and on to Kate. Constant jokes, constant compliments, constant mindless chatter. All of it obviously superficial, like grease smeared on top of a window. But, astonishingly, Kate seemed to be buying it. Smart, quick-witted Kate—who he'd thought had a good head on her shoulders—was actually buying Tyler's shtick. And not just buying it. Lapping it up.

Matt had made an art these past few years out of letting talk swirl around him, circling, but not touching him. But
their
talk, he couldn't seem to tune out.

At this point Matt would have been happy—thrilled—to get in his truck and drive for days to escape having to hear another word between Tyler and Kate. To distract himself he started making a mental list of all the ways he could leave Chapel Bluff.

He could go by train. Plane. Motorcycle.