My Stubborn Heart (9 page)
Feeling like a CIA operative, Kate covertly tailed Velma to the bathroom. It was Friday again. Poker night. She waited in the shadows of the hallway.
A few minutes later, Velma exited the bathroom, spotted Kate waiting, and frowned. “Is this going to become a regular thing? Me using the ladies' and coming out to find you here? Because I don't exactly like the idea of somebody listening to me pee.”
“Completely understood.”
“From now on if you want to talk to me, just tell me you want to talk to me.”
“Got it.”
“Good.” Velma sniffed, then crossed her arms over an orange turtleneck and a black vest decorated with iron-on Halloween characters. Ghosts, pumpkins, witches, and black cats gazed at Kate with surprised eyes. “You wanting to talk to me about Morty?”
“I am.” Kate smiled hopefully. “Doesn't his hair look great?”
“His hair looks . . . nice.” Velma inclined her head like a queen granting a serf a concession.
“So? Will you go on a date with him?”
“No.”
Kate furrowed her brow.
No?
No!
“His hair's better,” Velma said, “but his clothes are still a problem.”
Kate just stared.
“You know, the white T-shirts and the jeans and the penny loafers. I married my sorry husband when I was twenty years old and that's exactly how he dressed back then. Lord knows, that man was a disappointment.” She wrinkled her nose. “I don't cotton to Morty reminding me of Herb every time he walks into a room.”
“O-kay,” Kate replied slowly. She wanted to shout,
Do you know how many hours it took to remove that hair dye?
Instead, she marshaled her thoughts and managed to ask in a level voice, “What kind of men's clothing do you like?”
“I like a man to look stylish, you know. Maybe some of that Italian fashion.”
A mental image of the mobsters from
The Sopranos
popped into Kate's head. She grimaced. “Ah . . .”
“I also like those shirts, those . . .”âVelma waved fingers painted with her trademark pearl polishâ“Tommy Bermuda's shirts.”
“Tommy Bahama?”
“Yes, Tommy Bahama. I think they sell them in Philadelphia.”
Great. Philadelphia. A mere two-hour drive round trip.
“I like slacks,” Velma said. “And boots with a nice heel on them. And a spiffy looking burgundy leather jacket would be nice.”
Velma had been giving this some thought, Kate noticed, and tried to take that as a promising sign. “So . . . if Morty buys some new clothes, will you agree to a date?”
“I'll think about it.”
“I'm going to need a firmer commitment,” Kate replied. “If he spends money on new clothes just to please you, then I'm going to need your promise that you'll go on a date with him.”
Velma regarded her with a steely gaze.
In the background Kate could hear the others talking, the clack of the poker chips as Morty stacked them into piles.
Velma gave Kate an airy shrug. “Well, you're not going to get a promise. I've been living on my own for forty years, and to tell you the truth, I like it just fine that way.”
Kate blew out a defeated breath.
“The only thing I'll say is that I might,
might
, be tempted to accept a date with a man wearing a Tommy Bermuda's shirt.”
“These seniors know how to eat.” Matt scooped up a second handful of Beverly's caramel corn. They'd been playing poker for an hour and a half and were taking a break before starting up again. He and Kate stood side by side at the butcher block in the kitchen.
“This is very true,” Kate agreed, popping some into her mouth.
Man, it was good, he thought. Sticky and buttery with lots of nuts in it. He hadn't stopped appreciating Beverly's cooking. Still couldn't get over it. In the years since he'd moved to Redbud, he'd eaten lousy food either over the sink or in front of the TV. But for more than two weeks now he'd been eating Beverly's home-cooked meals at her kitchen table every weeknight.
“I'm going to have to step up my workouts,” he commented.
“What, from two hours a day to three?”
He peered down at Kate and lifted an eyebrow.
She laughed, ate more caramel corn. “On an entirely different subject . . .”
“Yes?”
“I've been thinking that it might be less painful for you if you just went out and bought me the Coach purse I want.”
“Really?” he asked dryly.
“Really. That way I won't be forced to win money from you at poker every Friday.”
She'd been saying things like this to him all week. It amused him. Trash talking from this fashionable little person he could crush with one finger. He found himself actually looking forward to hearing whatever outrageous thing she'd say next. “Thanks,” he answered, “but I prefer this painful method.”
She shrugged. “Your choice.”
“You know,” he said, refilling his glass with water from the tap, “it's going to be very embarrassing for you when I beat you.”
“Beat
me
?” she asked with exaggerated disbelief. “At poker?”
“Pride goes before a fall.”
“Are you quoting the Bible to me now?”
“I guess I am.”
“I love it! As you know, I'm very pro-Bible.” She looked delighted with him. “You realize what else it says in there?”
“Enlighten me.”
“Those more experienced at poker shall beat those of lesser experience, regardless of gender.”
She beat him again.
When it was down to three and they called it a night, Kate had a towering stack of chips. Morty had a respectable pile. Matt had managed to hold on to third place with a lame number of chips. So much for all the World Poker Tour he'd watched and all the poker strategy he'd researched online. It hadn't helped.
He studied Kate with equal parts admiration and irritation as Morty counted out her winnings.
She was good. Perfect strategy, risking when she should and protecting when she should. Excellent at bluffing, because he knew she had to be doing it, but couldn't tell when. Surprisingly gracious. For all their banter, whenever she won a hand she pulled the chips toward herself with nothing more obnoxious than a half smile.
Morty took Matt's chips and exchanged them for five dollars and thirty-five cents of winnings.
Matt's gaze drifted over Kate's profile.
Long ago, before Beth, he'd run across plenty of women who'd started out looking beautiful to him, but had grown less so the better he got to know them and the closer he looked at them.
With Kate, somehow the opposite was happening. Her appearance, the blazing hair and the delicate features, had started out looking plain to him. But over time, so slowly he wasn't sure when his opinion had started to change, her face was becoming . . . interesting to him. He liked her expressions. When she lifted her eyebrows. When she threw back her head and laughed. When she shot him a sideways glance.
Matt stared at the ice cubes in his glass as he swirled them. He'd come to depend on her to make these social eveningsâwhich, let's face it, he was lousy atâbearable. He'd been avoiding attention and conversation for years, and as a result he was rusty at interacting with people. Kate had a way of smoothing the way for him and making it all okay.
“Brooding, Matt?” she asked lightly.
He glanced up. She was standing, regarding him with a joking light in her eyes as she collected napkins and empty cups.
“Nope. Not when I have”âhe flicked a finger toward his puny pile of dollars and coinsâ“this tower of money here to comfort me.”
“Yes indeed. What are you going to splurge on?”
“Maybe a sandwich, chips, and a drink at Subway?”
“You wish! Probably just chips and a drink.”
“Bummer.”
She drifted off, carrying the dirty dishes toward the kitchen.
It wasn't easy for him to come here, to be a part of this group.
Her
group. But at the same time, he couldn't help but feel just a little bit . . .
Glad.
Kate stopped in the doorway of the upstairs bathroom, where Matt was working. “Exciting news,” she said.
Matt looked up from stirring what appeared to be a bucket of white grout.
“Wayne Gretzky's on his way over for high tea!” she exclaimed.
He regarded her with skeptical amusement.
“Okay,” she said. “So, not really.”
“That's a shame. Wayne and I love high tea.”
She grinned. “Well, my actual news is only a little less exciting. Gran and I just finished painting. Every room. The whole house. Done!”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you very much.” She grabbed an empty orange plastic Home Depot bucket, turned it over, and took a seat.
She watched Matt finish stirring the grout, then apply it to the wall above the bathtub with a triangular metal spatula. Once he'd spread the grout, he used the teeth on the end of the spatula to score it in preparation for the tile. She and Gran had picked white subway tiles that matched the white of the whirlpool tub he'd installed.
“I can hardly wait to use that bathtub,” Kate said.
“Something you remind me of daily.”
“That's rude.”
“What?”
“To remind me of my own repetitiveness.”
He cocked a half smile. “What am I supposed to do? Listen to you drone on and on about the same things day after day?”
“Of course.”
“Then you're not paying me enough.”
Kate chuckled. Silence drifted between them as he continued to work. She watched his hands as they moved. Big, strong, muscular hands. Marked with small scars. Graceful and competently assured.
When he finally had the grout how he wanted it, he reached down for a tile. Kate scooted her bucket near the stack of them, lifted one, and handed it to him. “Since Gran and I are done painting, it's time to refinish the floors.”
He nodded.
“We called the floor guy you recommended, and he said his crew could come later this week. It'll take them three days, and we're supposed to stay out of the house while they're here because of the dust. Will that work with your schedule?”
“Yes.”
“Do you think we can move the antiques from the barn into the house next Monday then?”
“Yeah.”
“Should I hire movers? To get it all from there to here?”
“Nah, I'll call a few of the guys that work with me sometimes and get them to help me move it over.”
“Perfect.”
Quiet settled.
“Gran and I thought we'd take a trip to Philadelphia while the floor is being refinished,” Kate said. “Go see the sights. The Liberty Bell, Independence Hall, and all that. We leave tomorrow.” She watched closely for any sign of a reaction, any slight indication that he cared whether they stayed or left, that he'd miss them. Nothing came. He just continued with the tiles, completely indifferent.
What had she expected?
She wasn't sure how to broach the next subject. She picked at the speckles of paint on her fingernails, mentally debating her tactics, then finally deciding to be blunt. “Morty loves Velma.”
Matt lifted his head, gazing at her with those fathomless chocolate brown eyes framed by long, dark lashes. “Come again?”
“Morty loves Velma.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes. I'm telling you because I need your help,” Kate said.
“My help?”
“Yes.”
He held out a hand. “Tile.”
She handed him another.
He stuck it into place. “My help with what?”
“With persuading Velma to go on a date with Morty.”
He paused momentarily, then placed a little X-shaped spacer next to the tile. “I can't wait to hear how you think I could help with that.”
“Velma said she'd consider Morty if we did something about his hair. So we did. But now she wants him to change the way he dresses.”
“I've got a suggestion.”
“Which is?”
“Morty should tell Velma to jump off a cliff.”
“He can't because, as previously noted, he loves her.”
Matt grunted disdainfully.
“Velma told me she likes Tommy Bahama shirts on men.”
He rolled his eyes. “It's October. Aren't those for likeâ” he made a vague gestureâ“trips to the Caribbean in July?”
“Exactly. But she wants what she wants, so Morty has given me permission to buy a Tommy Bahama shirt for him when I'm in Philadelphia. I wondered if there's any chance, any small chance at all, that you'd be willing to take Morty shopping while I'm gone for the rest of the clothes he needs.”
He stared at her incredulously.
“Just a few pairs of pants. Some boots. A leather jacket. And some extra shirts,” she said in a rush.
“Kate.”
“I think he's too embarrassed to tell William or any of his other friends about this. And it would be way too awkward for me to shop with him.” She gazed at him beseechingly. “You know something about men's clothing and Morty has a man crush on you, of course, because of your athletic superpowers, so I think he might let you advise him.”
“Man crush?” he growled.
Kate laughed and dropped her face into her hands. “In a matter of speaking.” How did she get herself involved in these dramas? She waited for him to shoot her down.
“I don't really go shopping for clothes with other men.”
She lifted her face. “I know.” She shouldn't have asked him. It had been such a long shot, but she'd irrationally hopedâ
“I'll do it.” He sighed.
“Really?”
“Yes.”
She gaped at him, absurdly grateful. “Thank you.”
He shrugged.
“No, really, Matt. Thank you. I appreciate it.”
He returned his attention to the tile. “So what other old-people activities do you have planned for Philadelphia? You going to ride around on a tour bus? Eat dinner at four-thirty?”
“Very funny.”
“How old are you?”
“Do you ask because I seem like a seventy-year-old?”
“I ask because you hang out with seventy-year-olds.”
“How old do you think I am?” Just as soon as the words left her mouth, she wished she could stuff them back in.
How old do you think I am?
Every womanâincluding herselfâknew to avoid that question like the plague. It had popped out accidentally. Talk about setting yourself up for devastation.
“I wasn't born yesterday, Kate. There's no way I'm guessing your age.”
Smart man! “I'm thirty-one.”
He gave her a doubtful expression.
“I am.”
“You look younger than that.”
People frequently assumed that because she had no curves. “How old are you?” she asked.
“Thirty-two.”
Huge internal sigh of relief. She
really
hadn't wanted to be older than he was.
“So if you're thirty-one,” he said, looking across his shoulder at her and lifting one eyebrow, “shouldn't you be married by now?”
She glared. “Not you, too.”
His lips twitched, and she could tell by the sudden glint in his eyes that he was teasing her. Ah. Uproarious!
“Tile,” he said.
She passed one over.
“Where'd you go to school?” he asked. “I'm guessing it was a four-year Christian university.”
“Baylor.”
“Uh-huh. And you must have been in a sorority there.”
“Must have been?”
“Am I right?”
“Yes.”
“And you must have been popular with the fraternity brothers.”
She shot him a not-very-ferocious scowl.
“And you attend church on Sundays.”
“Yes,” she said.
“So what's the deal?” he asked. “Women on that track marry by twenty-five.”
“Not this woman.”
“Is there a boyfriend I don't know about? An engagement?”
“Negative.”
“How come?”
She let the silence stretch. “Are you looking for a joking answer or an honest one?”
He adjusted a tile until it was perfectly aligned, then straightened away from the wall. He regarded her evenly, serious suddenly. “An honest one.”
“Well . . .” She tried to decide how to phrase it without sounding pathetic. “The honest answer is that I've had some short-term and long-term boyfriends over the years but none of them have worked out.”
“Because . . .”
“Well, for example, the last short-termer was reckless, um . . . selfish, and generally unkind.”
“Is that all?”
“Alas, no. That's just the beginning of the list.”
She expected him to smile, but instead he acknowledged her words with a frown.
Kate attempted a lighthearted shrug. “My romantic story is just the common, boring story. Nice girl who hasn't met the right guy.”
He continued to measure her.
“That's if there
is
a guy out there for me somewhere,” she added.
“Of course there is.”
Spoken like someone who was totally disconnected from the realities of her dating life. He'd been a rich and famous hockey star, since what, teenagerhood? And she was quite sure he'd been gorgeous since birth. The acquisition of eligible women had probably been the simplest thing in his life.
He stretched out a hand. “Tile.”
She placed one in his palm. A visual image of match.com's office building back in Dallas popped to the front of her mind. An enormous gray mirrored structure a block wide and at least three stories tall. All those employees, all that square footage, dedicated to singles in search of matches. Every time she drove past that building, the sight of it bummed her out. Reminded her how looming and impossible that search could be.
Was
, in her case.
Where had she put her bag of peppermint taffies? Suddenly she needed some urgently. She pushed to her feet, brushed off her jeans. “I know how you like to work with it quiet, so I'll leave you to it.”
His brows knit. “When has my desire to work with it quiet ever stopped you before?”
She grinned. “There's a first time for everything.”
He glowered.
What was wrong with her? Something. Because even his glowers struck her as adorable.
Thank goodness for blockbuster.com, because he wouldn't be caught dead renting these movies in public.
Matt looked over the selection that had come up on his computer screen in response to his search for Audrey Hepburn. Yep, there was
Breakfast at Tiffany's
, which he'd heard of. He ordered it, then studied the rest of the movies. He wasn't the slightest bit familiar with any of them.
After some scrolling and clicking, he ended up also choosing something called
Charade
and something called
My Fair Lady
because the blockbuster.com users had rated them with the most stars.
Matt submitted the order and leaned back in his desk chair. He'd been wondering more and more the past few days if Kate really did look anything like Audrey Hepburn. Now he'd be able to see for himself.
He glanced at his desk clock. It was late. No doubt she and Beverly, on their old folks' schedule, were long asleep. The two of them had loaded up the Explorer and left for Philadelphia yesterday, Tuesday, around noon.
He'd enjoyed being alone yesterday and today. It was nice to have some time off from Chapel Bluff, from all that talking, from the constant female scrutiny. He could breathe easier holed up here in his house by himself. He liked it best this way. Preferred to be alone.
At least it used to be true that he preferred to be alone. But as time passed, a bad thing began to happen. The longer Kate and Beverly were away, the slower the hours went. Thursday stretched long before finally dragging into Friday.
On Friday Matt worked out, ran errands, and fixed everything that needed fixing around his house. Did stuff for his business. Peg called and invited him to poker night at her house but Kate wouldn't be there, so he invented an excuse and turned her down. He did laundry, then watched a wussy Audrey Hepburn movie. In bed that night he lay awake staring at the ceiling when he should have been sleeping. Friday crawled into Saturday.