My Stubborn Heart (4 page)

She crossed her arms, slowly drinking in her surroundings. The stone bulk of the house. The building doggedly known as the “barn,” though it contained parking spaces for several cars but not a single animal. The black hills in the distance. The starry sky. And again, the white-washed chapel in the center of it all.

She began to walk, enjoying the crunch of the driveway and then grass under her slippers. She could feel God in the night.

Jesus' words in Matthew popped into her mind.
If you have faith as small as a mustard seed, nothing will be impossible for you.

It was humbling to have faith tinier than a mustard seed. Kate stopped walking, sighed, and let her eyes close.

I have a plan for you,
God seemed to say.

It would be nice, Lord, if it could include a man.

Silence answered.

The hardest and the truest thing was the supremacy of God's will, which meant that no matter how much she prayed for a husband and a family, she wasn't guaranteed that she'd ever receive what she asked for.

She began to stride forward again, praying, feeling the cool air on her skin, in her lungs. Her mind drifted to Matt.

Okay, so there was a magnificent-looking hockey legend currently renovating her grandmother's house. Okay. She could handle it. She could absolutely resist the temptation he presented.

She was a social worker and it was in her DNA to reach out to people who were hurting and do her best to make things better. Now that she knew what he'd been through, she was even more firmly set on befriending him.

It wouldn't be easy.

But she could try.

If she stuck with it, maybe she could eventually force him to smile. Bring a little bit of fun into his workweek. Nothing that would begin to ease his loss, of course. But something.

She took a deep breath.

She could try.

She found him the next morning at work in one of the second-story guest bedrooms. He'd ripped away a section of the wall, revealing the wooden framework beneath. Brittle plaster lay around his feet like rubble.

“Wow,” Kate said, taking in the mess.

Matt stopped what he was doing and glanced at her. He was wearing khaki cargo pants and a long-sleeved cotton T-shirt that said
Abercrombie and Fitch
across the chest. His baseball hat rode low over his eyes.

“I brought you a bottled water,” she said. “Thirsty?”

He hesitated. “Sure.”

She picked her way through the clutter and handed it to him.

“Thanks.”

“What're you working on?” she asked.

“There was a leak.” He pointed to a crack in the metal plumbing line.

“Looks like it rotted all the wood around it.”

“Yeah.”

“And your plan is . . . ?”

“I've got to replace this section of plumbing. Frame in new wood. Put up drywall.”

“Could you use some help?”

He eyed her critically. “Not really.”

She couldn't resist. She had to smile. He was intimidating, he truly was. Big and brooding with eyes like a blade when you irritated him. She was certain that he scared off almost everyone. Yet for some reason, he didn't scare her. “I understand. I'd probably just get in your way.” She went and sat cross-legged on a clean patch of floor. “I'm taking a break, so if you don't mind I'll just sit and hang out for a little bit.”

He didn't give her permission to stay, but he didn't tell her to get out, either. She took that as a promising sign. “I love working on old houses,” she said. “I have a duplex back in Dallas, and I did some of the work on my half when I bought it.”

He concentrated on peeling off plaster.

“Even though Gran's told me about it for years, this is my first time to visit Chapel Bluff.”

More silence.

“I'm glad I was able to get the time off from my job,” she said, “so that I could come here.”

He still wasn't responding. She racked her brain for something else to say.

“Where do you work?” he asked without looking at her. “Back in Dallas.”

She felt absurdly pleased at his question. It was the first one he'd asked her about herself. “I work at a place called Christopher's House. We provide a temporary home to kids who've been abused or abandoned.”

He took that in for a few moments. “Kids who've been removed from their homes?”

“Right, by Child Protective Services. We're called an emergency residential shelter. We give the kids a place to stay and recover until they're placed with a foster family.”

“What do you do there?”

“My official title is case manager. I'm assigned to children as they enter Christopher's House, and I manage their cases until they're taken away.”

“Manage their cases?”

“I spend time putting together welcome baskets, talking with the child, arranging for clothing, organizing a doctor's or a psychologist's care if they need it, planning how long they'll stay and where they'll go next. That kind of thing. I'm in touch a lot with their CPS case workers and the foster families.”

He used a saw to cut through the leaky pipe, removed the broken section, then took out his tape measure and noted how long the new pipe would need to be. “How many kids do you handle a month?”

He was actually talking to her! “Well, I work with another woman who's also a case manager. It varies, but between us we do about sixty every month.”

He gazed at her then, looking grim. “Sixty kids a month?”

“Yeah.”

“How young?”

“Newborn on up. We have a nursery with cribs for the littlest ones.”

His chocolate brown eyes, always so sad, seemed to ask her the questions she'd asked herself for years. Who would hurt a baby? Who would leave a little boy or girl alone to fend for themselves? Who would beat a child?

She had no trite reassurances to offer.

He went back to work and she watched him, her thoughts on her office back home, her co-workers, the kids, and what they'd be doing this morning.

Despite the depressing aspects of her job, she'd managed to stay positive about it year after year. It had been clear in her mind that while she couldn't change the past for the children she worked with, she could influence their future for the better.

No matter how boring or lonely her personal life had been, she'd always believed her job was something she'd gotten right. She'd known she was exactly where God wanted her to be. Then about six months ago a girl named Gabriella had committed suicide.

Just the thought of it caused Kate's heart to twist. She looked down, picking at a bumpy thread in her jeans. She could clearly picture Gabriella's curly dark hair, her glittering eyes, her expression—so tentative and so sensitive despite everything she'd been through.

Gabriella had stayed at Christopher's House twice: once when she'd been an elementary student and Kate had been a new employee there, fresh off her degree, and then again a year ago when Gabriella had been fourteen. Both times Kate had managed her case. After Gabriella's first stint at Christopher's House she'd eventually been returned to her father. After the second stint, Gabriella had been placed with a foster family. Outwardly, it had looked like things were stabilizing and improving for the girl.

And then, in the middle of the night one night, she'd swallowed a bottle full of pills.

Her suicide had struck Kate like an earthquake. She'd stood graveside as the girl was lowered into the earth, asking herself then and a million times since if she could have done more. If she
should
have done more.

After Gabriella's death Kate had started to lose her joy in her job. At first she thought she'd just misplaced it, like a set of keys, and that she'd find it again shortly. But her enjoyment of her job had stayed lost. Every scared young face, every terrible story, every mental picture of the circumstances the child had come from weighed heavily on her. She began to feel powerless to help them—any of them. For the last six months she'd been going through the motions of her job out of habit instead of real motivation.

When Gran had asked her to come away with her to Chapel Bluff for three whole months, Kate had known God was offering her a lifeline. She'd taken it.

She glanced up and found Matt watching her.

She met his gaze directly, which sent her heart thumping.
Just a friend!
she reprimanded her heart.
Just a friend!
“Well . . .” She stood up and dusted off her butt. “I better get back to work. Would you like to join us for dinner tonight? If Gran could cook for you she'd think she'd died and gone to heaven.”

“Can't. Thanks, though.”

“No problem.” She made her way downstairs. Her pulse was still speeding.
Just a friend! Just a friend!

On Thursday Kate sorted through three closets and the fourth of Chapel Bluff's five bedrooms. She pried some small talk out of Matt and invited him to stay for dinner. He declined.

On Friday morning Kate sweated through a yoga class. She organized the entire contents of the kitchen. She forced Matt into more conversation.

On Friday afternoon Kate finished categorizing the house. Much had been thrown away. Much was waiting for their upcoming yard sale. Kate worked to post the remaining twenty-three items on eBay. She invited Matt to stay for dinner. He declined.

On Saturday Kate and Gran slept late, then toured the town. Kate convinced Gran to buy a watercolor by a local artist to hang above the fireplace mantel in the den. They had bowls of soup and French bread at a restaurant called The Grapevine on Main Street. They visited some of Gran's old friends in the afternoon. Matt wasn't around to invite to dinner.

On Sunday they went to church at First Baptist, then to lunch at Peg's house. Peg's husband, William, was there—distinguished and adorable in Ralph Lauren from head to toe. Someone named Morty was also present. Kate couldn't divine his connection to the group except that he was a retired Redbud police officer and clearly had the hots for Velma. Matt still wasn't around to invite to dinner.

On Monday morning Matt showed up right on time in faded jeans, a flannel shirt, and his UNC cap. Kate ruthlessly refused to be moved by the sight of him. She stripped all the dingy curtains throughout the house and began the arduous process of removing the wallpaper in the kitchen and dining room. Gran made enchiladas for dinner. Kate invited Matt. He declined.

On Tuesday Gran informed Kate that Gran's mother and grandmother had used the attic of the barn for storage. Sick of sorting and organizing, Kate decided to procrastinate on the barn for a few more days and continued battling the wallpaper. She invited Matt to stay for dinner. He declined.

On Wednesday Kate strained and stretched through another yoga class. Upon her return to Chapel Bluff, she was squeezing conversation out of Matt while he was installing drywall in one of the upstairs bathrooms. She invited him to stay for dinner. And wonder of wonders. Miracle of miracles! On what had seemed like an ordinary day until that very moment . . .

He said yes.

Matt wasn't sure why he'd said yes. He'd never made the conscious, thought-out decision to agree to dinner with Kate and Beverly. In fact, in his head, he'd made the opposite decision. The decision to stay away from them.

Today when Kate had come to talk with him, she'd been wearing her yoga clothes and flip-flops, with her red hair up in a ponytail. She leaned against the doorjamb of the room where he was working. “How's it going?”

“It's going okay.” Her frequent visits no longer annoyed him as much as they once had. With a bolt of shock, he realized that he must have actually come to like her a little bit.

She chatted for a while about the renovation, the town, the TV show she'd watched last night. Then she invited him—again—to dinner. Any regular person would have taken the hint and stopped inviting him days ago. But Kate asked him every single day. She might be petite and friendly, but she was also unbelievably persistent.

“C'mon,” she said. Threading her fingers together, she raised her joined hands to him, mock begging. “Please.” She cocked her head and smiled persuasively. “Just one little dinner, Matt. It would make Gran so happy. What do you say? Just one dinner? Please?”

In that moment, looking into her hopeful expression, he'd been unable to say no. His vocal cords had agreed before his brain had any say.

Afterward, he couldn't believe he'd said yes. Just thinking about eating dinner with them made him uncomfortable. Should he dress up? Bring something? Were they going to ask him questions he didn't want to answer? He'd much rather stay home and eat a sandwich.

But it was too late for that. He had to go.

When Matt knocked on the kitchen door that night, Kate hurried over to answer it and found him on the threshold, holding a bouquet of flowers and looking completely unsure of himself.

Tenderness stirred within her. “Hi,” she said, trying to act like having him over for dinner wasn't the huge deal that it was. “C'mon in.”

“Matt!” Gran bustled over to greet him. “Welcome, welcome. My fingers are covered with food, but here,” she leaned into him and wrapped her upper arms around him while keeping her hands safely splayed in midair, “let me hug you.” She pulled back, beaming.

Without his ball cap he looked different to Kate, more formal. The cheery kitchen light picked out glossy strands in his dark hair, still damp from a shower. He was wearing a brown knit sweater that had a short zipper at the neck. Through the V of the zipper Kate could see the neckline of a white T-shirt underneath. “Umm . . . these are for you both,” he said, extending the flowers.

Because Gran's fingers had crepe stuffing on them, Kate moved forward and took the flowers from him. “Thank you. Wow, they're beautiful. I'll find a vase.”

“Oh, they're
lovely
,” Gran said. “Just lovely! Thank you so much.”

He nodded, put his hands in his pockets.

“Well, come on.” Gran motioned for him to follow her to the kitchen counter, where she was fully in the throes of cooking. “Wash your hands so I can put you to work.”

He hesitated for a moment, but did as he was told.

Kate smiled to herself. Poor, poor Matt. He may once have been a warrior on the ice, accustomed to body-slamming giant men, but he wasn't equal to the coming onslaught from Gran. He was going down.

She located a crystal vase, filled it with water, and pretended she knew how to arrange the bouquet of ivory hydrangeas and white roses.

Gran resumed stuffing crepes with a mixture of sautéed mushrooms in a creamy sauce, chicken strips, and Monterey Jack cheese. Her two stone bracelets clicked together rhythmically. Just this week she'd made herself a long string of mauve and purple beads, which she wore behind her neck, the ends attached to the earpieces of her glasses. She'd taken to whipping her glasses off and letting them drop down, only to slide them back on a half second later. At the moment the glasses were in the “on” position and the beads were swinging from side to side. “I could use three or so more crepes, Matt. Would you mind cooking them up for me? The batter's just there.”

Matt paused in the act of drying his hands. He eyed the oiled skillet, the spoonula, and the mixing bowl of batter the way a kindergartner might an algebra problem.

Kate swallowed an unkind giggle and went to work setting the kitchen table.

“I . . . uh . . . I don't cook,” he finally said.

Gran whirled on him. “Don't cook?”

“No.”

“Whatever do you eat?”

“Uh, sandwiches and frozen meals, mostly.”

“For dinner?”

He tilted his head as if trying to understand. “Yes, ma'am.”

“Not while I'm living at Chapel Bluff you're not.”

He just stared.

“You're going to be eating dinner here from now on, and mark my words, young man, I'm going to teach you to cook!” Gran's white hair stuck up in artful tufts. Her blue eyes narrowed. “I will not take no for an answer.”

“I . . .”

“I insist.” Gran turned back to her cooking.

Matt glanced at Kate. “Uh . . . Maybe Kate could handle the crepes.”

“Don't look at me,” Kate said. “I don't cook.”

“Blasphemy!” Gran said.

“I'm the person at family meals that sets the table and puts ice in glasses and takes drink orders,” she explained.

“How about I be that person tonight?” Matt said.

“No, no, no, no,
no
,” Gran replied vehemently. “Despite years of effort on my part, I've resigned myself to the truth that Kate's talents lie in areas other than cooking. I haven't even begun to work on you, however.”

He knit his brow and faced the stove.

“Now, Matt,” Gran continued, her eyeglass beads a-swaying, “begin by warming up the skillet. . . .” She kept up a steady stream of chatter, talking him through the meal's preparation step by step.

Three times in a row Matt poured too much crepe batter into the skillet. But to his credit, he tried a fourth time, saying little, clearly concentrating hard. Kate watched him surreptitiously as she opened windows to let in the evening breeze, set the table, and made iced tea. The only mishap came when Gran asked him to slice a tomato for the salad. His knife slipped off the tomato's smooth skin, which sent it skittering along the countertop and over the edge of the sink. It plopped into a dirty mixing bowl full of suds.

“Shoot,” he whispered.

Kate couldn't help herself. She laughed.

He glared at her.

“I'm only laughing because that's exactly the kind of thing I'd have done,” she said.

“Care to try your luck?” He extended the knife to her, one eyebrow raised menacingly.

“When I'm having so much fun watching you? No thanks.”

He actually ground his teeth.

More laughter burst from her. She swiped a fresh tomato from the bowl on the chopping block and placed it in front of him. “See? No harm done.”

“You wouldn't say that if you were that last tomato,” he muttered darkly.

Matt had stopped enjoying food. He hadn't meant to. But somewhere along the way he'd gotten out of the habit of eating a good meal, apparently. Because tonight's dinner—the stuffed crepes, the homemade bread rolls, the salad, the asparagus with butter and salt on top—was the best-tasting food he could remember having in months.

Years?

And now, after all that, Mrs. Donovan leaned over his shoulder and placed a dish of blackberry cobbler in front of him. Straight out of the oven, a scoop of vanilla ice cream melting in white rivers on its crusty top. Kate poured a mug of steaming coffee for him and set it next to his cobbler.

As stuffed as he was, he couldn't make himself stop. He waited for them to find their seats, then followed their lead by picking up his spoon and digging in. Eating this food in this old-fashioned kitchen was like visiting a land he'd loved once but hadn't been back to in a long, long time. As pained as social interaction had become for him, it surprised him to admit that he didn't hate being here as much as he'd thought he would. It was hard to hate an evening filled with such amazing food.

“This is delicious, Gran,” Kate said.

“Yes, it is.” Matt put down his spoon, trying to pace himself. “Thank you.”

“You're welcome.” Mrs. Donovan reached across the table and squeezed his hand. “I'm glad you like it. And I'm glad you'll be joining us from now on.” Before he could correct her on that, she pushed back her chair and went to set her dish in the sink. “And with that,” she said, “I'm off to bed. Early to bed and early to rise.” She winked at him. “Another reason to learn to cook, Matt. Then, by rights, you shouldn't have to clean.” She sailed toward the dining room. “Night, Kate.”

“Night, Gran.”

“Night, Matt.”

He rose to his feet. “Good night.”

Mrs. Donovan shot him a parting smile and disappeared.

Kate went back to work on her dessert.

He lowered to his seat, took a few more bites. What had just happened? Mrs. Donovan had left and now he was alone in the kitchen with Kate, eating together. It felt a bit like a date.

A date. Just the thought tightened his gut with dread.

He didn't like her like that. Mostly what he felt toward Kate was caution. And yet . . . he was here, wasn't he? He'd admitted to himself earlier that there was something about her that he liked a little.

He studied her bent head. So what was it? What was it that he liked?

To look at her, you'd think she'd come from old money. She was understated and sophisticated like that. Except her watch wasn't Rolex and her diamond earrings, though probably real, were tiny. She was an unusual mixture of other things, too. . . . She was no bigger around than his wrist, yet he'd seen her work all day stripping wallpaper and hauling boxes. She laughed easily, yet he could sense that she'd dealt with sadness. At first he'd guessed that she had an event planner kind of job, but instead she was a social worker who spent her time with struggling kids.

He admired some of those things about her. But still, none of them was
the
thing that drew him.

Since Beth died, he'd been living with a cold ball of grief square in the center of his chest. He took it with him everywhere he went. It clouded every thought he had. It motivated every decision he made. The people in his life couldn't touch that cold ball. Nothing and no one had. Nothing and no one could.

Except maybe . . . her.

He couldn't explain it, but Kate had the power to thaw some of the coldness inside him. Just barely.

He didn't want her to have any effect on him at all. That she did made her dangerous. He was just barely surviving. It was all he could do to simply get through each day, just the way he'd been getting through every awful day since Beth died, by going through the motions. He did the same familiar, necessary things in the same way every day. If he kept everything the same, at least, he trusted that he could make it from morning to night, that he could hold on to his equilibrium. If he stepped away from what he was used to, he might not be able to keep it together.

She happened to look up and caught him staring. “What? Do I have food on my face?” Tentatively, she used a hand to shield her mouth.

“No.”

“Are you sure? Please tell me, because I'll be mortified if I look in the mirror later and see blackberries in my teeth.”

“I'm sure.”

“Okay.” She scooted her chair away from the table, leaned back in it. “I'm stuffed. I can't eat another bite.”

He ate his last spoonful.

She regarded him with a sympathetic half smile. “Gran's expecting you to eat dinner with us from now on.”

“I can't.”

“Can't you?”

He didn't answer.

She assessed him for a few moments, the ticking of the kitchen clock loud in the silence, then rose and began stacking dishes and silverware. “So you said earlier that you usually do frozen food and sandwiches for dinner.”