My Stubborn Heart (21 page)

“Thank you, ladies.” He tipped his hat to them, practically glowing with pride.

Kate glanced at Velma. She'd never seen Velma speechless before, but she appeared to be so now. Her mouth opened and closed a few times like a fish gasping on the dry bottom of a fishing boat.

“Well, Velma,” Morty said, “hop on in. I'm taking you on a date.”

Velma promptly found her voice. “Right this moment, Morty Rittenbower? I'm not dressed for that.”

“That's why we're going to swing by your place first. So you can change.”

“A woman likes a little advance notice.”

“I'll remember that next time.”

“Next time?”

“Next time,” he assured her.

Velma put her hands on her hips and looked ready to argue. A few tense moments ticked by, sunshine glinting along the contours of the car, before her lips finally bowed into a smile. “I can't believe you actually took this car out of that old garage.”

“I actually did.” He beckoned with his hand. “Now, c'mon. That's enough fussing. Get on in.”

Kate heard the back door open behind her and looked over her shoulder to see Matt walk outside. Something inside her lifted with delight, just like it did every time she saw him. He came to stand next to her as Velma settled herself in the passenger seat.

“Oh! Let me get your things, Velma.” Gran dashed into the house and reemerged with Velma's coat and purse.

“Have a good afternoon, ladies. Matt.” Morty saluted them and eased the car away, heartily honking the horn a couple of times.

Pleasure rushed through Kate at the sight of the two of them driving away together. She'd actually helped get Velma Armstrong out on a date with Morty! At times it had seemed like winning the lottery would prove more likely. Yet there they were, driving off together.

Gran walked down the driveway after them, clapping and waving.

“He sure didn't look worried about the car,” Matt remarked.

“No,” Kate answered. “He didn't.” He'd looked thrilled with himself. Morty, the old dog, had learned some new tricks and managed to melt the heart of one of the crustiest women on the continent. “You know what this means, don't you?”

“No. What?”

“Well, aside from true love and Morty and Velma's happily-ever-after?”

“Aside from that.”

“It means I've got gift certificates to the spa coming my way.”

“You don't have the hots for me, do you?” Tyler asked.

Kate glanced at him. They were walking through the club's foyer on their way out. It had been a fun night, just like they all were with him. They'd gone to a pizza place, then to a club where a friend of Tyler's had been playing guitar with his band.

Had she developed hormones for him, however? Either tonight or on any of their other date nights? No.

Tyler regarded her with a resigned half smile.

“Well,” Kate replied slowly, “you're illegally charming.”

“I am that.”

“And
incredibly
handsome.”

“Incredibly.”

“And I should be wildly infatuated with you.”

“Agreed. But you're not, are you?”

They stopped near the rest rooms. People drifted past them.

“No,” Kate answered. “But I really do like you, and I'm thankful that we're friends.” She flinched a little, gave him an apologetic smile. “Was that patronizing, that last part about being friends?”

“Not patronizing so much as uncreative,” he said. “But I guess my ego can take it.”

She regarded him sympathetically.

“Quit looking so worried. It's okay.”

“Okay.”

“You're into Matt, aren't you?”

“Um . . .”

“He's got that whole dark, tortured thing working. Women love that.”

Kate thought of Theresa and the rest of the female population of the town, who'd all wholeheartedly agree with Tyler's assessment. “I'm going to top out at friendship with Matt, too.”

“Really? The way he was glaring at me the other night when I came to pick you up, I thought there might be more there.”

“Nope.”

“Well, shoot, little lady. I guess we're both fresh out of luck.”

She smiled. “I guess so.”

“Here, put on your jacket.” He handed hers over, and they both donned their jackets, scarves, and gloves. He took her hand and threaded it through the crook of his arm. They made their way out of the building and through the parking lot toward his car.

“Don't get me wrong, princess,” he said. “I wish you were into me.”

She nodded.

“But it's all right that you're not.”

“Must be rare for you,” she commented, “to be on the receiving end of the let's-be-friends thing.”

“Oh, extremely rare.” He chuckled. “The thing of it is . . .”

“Yeah?”

“I'm glad we're friends, too.”

She'd gone on a date with Tyler again. Beverly had spilled Kate's plans to him just as Matt had been leaving work. The news had hit him like a stone to the stomach.

He'd come home, but he hadn't eaten. Hadn't turned on many lights or the TV. All he'd done—all he could bring himself to do—was pace.

Why was she still seeing Tyler? Did she care about him? She must, to keep going out with him. Tyler definitely cared about her. Matt would have staked anything on it.

With a growl, he finally quit his pacing, grabbed up his car keys, and headed . . . again . . . for the empty solace of his Lamborghini.

It really wasn't fair that Matt should be
so
gorgeous. I mean, really. It was just wrong. Nice-looking was one thing. But over-the-top beautiful?

They were halfway through their Friday night poker and were taking their customary break. Kate and Matt had made their way into the kitchen together for dessert. He was chewing a bite of pecan pie. She'd mostly been chewing on resentment over his looks.

His beauty wasn't like that of, say, a statue of a Greek god. Matt had scars under his lip and near his eyebrow, after all. And a nose that had been broken. But somehow those things plus the long-lashed eyes, plus the serious mouth, plus the dark hair, plus his sheer size equaled IRRESISTIBLE. Even today, when he'd seemed especially guarded and upset about something, he struck her as painfully handsome.

And
this
was the person who'd looked at her with heat in his eyes and told her he couldn't stand to think about her dating other people.
This
was the person she was supposed to be immune to.

What a joke! She sure wasn't succeeding at developing immunity toward him. If anything, her feelings for him kept sending roots deeper and reaching up higher, despite her best intentions. She was caught in purgatory—constantly trying to talk herself out of her attraction to him even though goose bumps pebbled her skin every time he so much as looked in her direction. It was terrible. It was wonderful.

“Okay,” she said, finishing her pie and setting aside her plate. “So I was supposed to go antiquing tomorrow with Theresa, but her daughter's sick and so she can't go. Would you like to come with me instead?” Now that they'd mutually agreed to be friends, she thought she might have the right to ask him that kind of thing. The difficult part would be avoiding hurt if—when—he turned her down.

“Antiquing?” he asked her skeptically.

“Yep. Gran needs some things to finish out the house. Rugs, lamps, and a couple of sofas. I'm planning to hit the flea market, one estate sale, and maybe an antique store or two just for fun.”

“Right,” he said slowly. “Just for fun.”

She laughed. “That sounds like a man's idea of cruel and unusual punishment, doesn't it? I don't know what I was thinking. Look, forget I said anything—”

“I'll go.”

She blinked up at him. “You will?”

“Yeah. What time?”

“Nine?”

“I'll pick you up in the truck.”

His words had been easily spoken, but there was something in his expression as he gazed down at her. A troubled, dangerous, almost haunted light that made her chest hurt.

She desperately wanted to see something better and clearer in his face before she left and went home to Dallas. But instead of improving, in some ways he seemed worse lately. And she was running out of time.

Morty and Velma drifted into the kitchen. Morty had on his Tommy Bahama shirt, despite the frigid weather outside. Velma had on a lime green velour sweat suit with a white ribbon stitched across the top in what looked like the pattern of a heartbeat on a monitor. Velma's astute eyes flicked over Kate to Matt. “How you doing, hottie?”

“Um . . .”

“You don't mind me calling you that, do you?” Velma asked him.

“Actually—”

“Aw, get over it.” She swatted a hand at him.

Morty chuckled. “She's a spitfire, isn't she?” He eyed Velma with lovestruck admiration.

“I most certainly am,” she replied, “and don't you be forgetting it.”

“Now, how could I,” Morty asked her, “even for a second?”

She lifted penciled eyebrows behind the spheres of her glasses. “Well, you've got a point there.” She poured iced tea into three glasses, then glanced up at Matt. “Mind helping me carry these in to the others?”

“I can do it,” Morty said.

“If I wanted you to do it, I would have asked you. I want the hottie's help.”

Matt groaned but picked up two of the glasses and followed her out of the room.

“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.”