Sparing the Heart (Pastime Pursuits #3) (6 page)

“Drinks are on me!” Kellan shouts after we’re officially proclaimed the winners. Everyone cheers, some pounding their fists on the table.
 

“A wine for me, please.” In social settings I used to sit back and force myself to drink whatever was offered. I didn’t want to seem rude or ungrateful. Now I understand the importance of asking for what you want.
 

“Not a beer drinker?”

“No. I prefer wine or mixed cocktails.” My preference tends to shock people, as though I’m breaking some law. Sue me if I’m from Wisconsin and don’t like beer. It’s not like I said I’m a Chicago Bears fan.

“Something red for the lady,” Kellan gives in and heads over to the bar to place an order for me as well as a pitcher of Miller Lite. I sneak a peek at his butt as he walks away.

“Great game, Kate.” Clark approaches me, rubbing his hands together with a smirk.
 

I’m certain he didn’t forget about my comedy routine. “Well, mostly. I can’t believe what I did in my first frame.” Why do I remind him?

“Don’t worry about that. I guarantee something embarrassing has happened to each and every one of us. Besides, this is for fun. Don’t take yourself so seriously.” Taylor pats me on the back for a little extra support.

I guess I kind of do. I love bowling, though, and I welcome the order in my life. How else do I measure myself if not by winning in competitions or selling the most homes? What’s the purpose?

“I’m a tad serious of a bowler. You’ll learn that about me.” I don’t find humor in a lot of things. This is one of my downfalls, and something I should work on improving.

 
“Here you go!” Kellan hands me my wine and slams the pitcher on the table. Gretchen follows behind with glasses, water for herself.

“You don’t drink beer either?” I ask.

“Breastfeeding.”

Oh, yeah. That never crossed my mind. I’m not close to being in the same vicinity as someone ready to even consider children, so I don’t think of those things. I’ll have a lot to learn if I get a chance. “What about paint night?”

“I pumped and dumped.”

“I don’t want details about my sister’s breasts. Can we change the subject?” Kellan pleads as he pours himself a beer.

“I’m sorry if my nurturing your niece offends you.”

“It’s not offensive. It’s just … “

“Gross.” I cut in. Kellan needs help. Bad. I don’t think he can handle this on his own.

“Kate! You’re a woman! How can you use such a word to describe something so natural?” Gretchen scolds me as though a code exists between females and I betrayed it.
 

“I’m not saying
you’re
gross or that breastfeeding is. Discussing it in front of your brother kind of is.” I love my brother, but I would never discuss something so intimate with him. I wouldn’t have an issue feeding my child in front of him, but a conversation about my nipples is out of the question.

She taps her breasts. “Well, these puppies do a lot of work. They probably should pay taxes.” I hope no one notices me taking a look at my own breasts. They’re average, I guess. I’ve been blessed more in the backside area than the front.
 

“Anyway,” Kellan rolls his eyes, “tell me about you, Kate. You sell houses — don’t forget I want your business card — and you’re not too bad of a bowler. What else? How did you start bowling?”

I barely remember a time when I didn’t bowl. The months after my father’s death go down in record as my longest hiatus. I recall my first experience vividly. The musty smell, the psychedelic carpeting, the roller to help me push the ball faster, and the bumpers so I didn’t lose confidence. My father’s hand on mine as he showed me how to throw it down the lane is probably the most powerful memory of all. I still own my first pair of shoes he bought me. He hated to rent them.
 

“My fifth birthday. My dad took me.” Just the two of us. He made me chocolate chip pancakes that morning and let me pour the syrup. What a mess! After we ate, he took me to the library and read me a few books about this pastime he loved so much. Then he took me to the small alley in our town.
 

I can still hear pins being knocked down by the men in the league practicing that day. The stale scent of cigars remains a trigger for this day. Dad and the alley owner were pals, so he opened a lane for us, way down at the end. The ball scared me. I was five years old — even the eight pound ball was too heavy. When he brought out the roller so I could push the ball down, I was ecstatic. I bowled a forty-one that day, and my dad a forty. Of course I know he let me win, but at the time I didn’t.

“That’s cool.” Kellan takes a drink of his beer. “Gretchen and I pretty much grew up in a bowling alley.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. Our mom cleaned this one so we always practiced while she did her job.” Gretchen joins in the conversation. “Dad worked long hours and she couldn’t afford any type of daycare, so we came with her.”

“That sounds like fun.” My whole life I helped out at the bed & breakfast and eventually ran it on a day-to-day basis. Don’t misunderstand me — I enjoyed my job. Something like this, though, spending days in a bowling alley and learning the ins and outs, would have been so incredible.

“Ned and Ted are like our brothers. Ned’s more part of the group because Ted enjoys the quieter side of life. He keeps to himself most of the time. Anyway, their grandpa owned the place before them and they practically lived here. We got into a ton of trouble together.” Kellan looks away.

“What sort of trouble?”

“The kind Kellan doesn’t like to discuss anymore.” Gretchen puts her hand on her brother’s. “I’m sure as a kid you did a lot of crazy stuff. We had our share of stupid moments. Some more than others.”

I wonder if she is talking about Kellan specifically. She’s wrong. I didn’t rebel or do anything to piss my parents off even as a teenager. The worst thing I can think of is the one time I cut class because I fell asleep studying and wasn’t prepared for my exam. My yearbook is hidden away so no one can see my name next to
Class Goody Two-Shoes.
The label upset me at first, but I own it now, even if it’s a tad excessive. I’m not
that
bad.

“Maybe you can tell me about it some other time,” I whisper to Kellan, forgetting for a second he’s getting married. Remembering would be so much easier if he wore a ring. And if I slowed down on the wine. “Tell me about Macy.”

“Macy is wonderful. She takes care of me and we've been together for a long time.”
 

“Too long if you ask me,” Gretchen says.

He glares at his sister, clenches his lower jaw, and shakes his head. His soft eyes harden when she sneers back.

“How long is a long time?” Time is relative to most people. Long to them may mean a year. I’m surprised she didn’t come to the game. Even though she can’t play, she can be a cheerleader. Am I the only one who believes support is a huge part of relationships?

“We've known each other almost all our lives, and we’ve been on and off all the way through college. We broke up for a brief time, but now we’re getting married.” The jukebox plays in the background, Carrie Underwood blasting through the speakers. He twirls his cup and gulps down the last of his beer and pours another one. Not the demeanor I expect from someone telling me he’s getting married — and is happy about it.

“If you ask me she's only using you.”
 

“Gretchen, would you please stop?” Kellan’s tone changes through his gritted teeth. “I’m
very
aware of your opinion of her and I wish you would learn to keep your mouth shut.”
 

“I’m just saying she aspires to be a TV star and you're on TV. Seems a little convenient if you ask me.” I tense up as I watch this banter between them. She leans back and pops a pretzel in her mouth, crosses her arms and stares down Kellan.

“Well, I didn't ask you and I'm only on the local station. I’m not a big celebrity. She can't get on TV through me and she knows that.”

Tiffany pops her head in. “There’s no way
you
could ever star in a sitcom.”

“Why not?”

She helps herself to the mix on the table. “You’re too stiff.”

“Stiff?” Kellan shakes his body. “I feel pretty loose.”

“I think that woman of yours keeps you too much in check.” Taylor appears and pours himself another glass. “I agree with Tiff. You’re fine doing the weather, but what is that, a five-minute segment advising people if they need a jacket or not? Anyone can do that.”

“I’d like to see you try!”

The bickering between this group of friends reminds me of my college years, before I bore the responsibility of running the B&B and taking care of my dad as he grieved the death of my mom. “So, how did Macy sprain her wrist?” Let’s move on from this topic.

“Too much shopping.”

“Gretchen, let me tell the story.” Kellan is getting more upset by the second.
 

Clark comes to the rescue. “Honey, let’s go play some music.”

She shoves off the table and takes off with her husband, and Tiffany and Taylor join them, leaving Kellan and me alone. “How does someone hurt themselves shopping?”

Kellan’s smile is bright and his eyes pull me in. I believe I can trust him, and I’m sure his audience does as well. I, for one, think he’d be fine in a sitcom. He’d draw in women viewers no problem. “She was carrying way too many bags and her wrist just snapped. It’s a small sprain. Gretchen makes it sound much worse than it is.” He taps his hands on the table. “So you don’t watch TV at all?”

I pick up my wine and hold the glass with two hands. “I didn’t say that. I said I don’t have it on often, and I tend to avoid the news.”

His eyes widen and he takes a drink of his beer. “Oh, I see.”

“Well, Channel 13 anyway. Remember, I’m more of a Channel 8 gal myself.”

He slams his cup down and pretends to shove a knife into his stomach. “Ouch! Way to knock down a guy’s pride!” He pulls the fake blade out and cleans it off on his slacks. “Why don’t you hold onto this in case you want to torture me some more?”

I won’t tell him I’ve already pictured him naked and wondered how soft his lips are. “Brian Turdow is probably much more accurate.”

“Okay, okay, stop now. I can’t take this anymore!” He’s holding his hand over his chest.

I fake taking the knife from him and set the blade on the table. “I’ll keep this so you don’t keep injuring yourself.”

“Thank you. Now don’t hurt yourself on accident. That knife is tainted with Channel 13 blood.”

“I won’t,” I tell him. “I don’t bleed.” My entire body is full of scars, emotional ones that I refuse to open back up.
 

He looks confused, but adds, “Be careful anyway.”

I’m trying.

I sit up in bed, drenched in sweat. My shirt sticks to my stomach as I pull at the hem and my hair is plastered to my face. The sheets beneath me trick me into thinking I’ve wet the bed. These nightmares need to stop. I’m waking up way too often and barely getting any sleep. I glance at the clock. Damnit! Six o’clock already. I have to take a shower (now more than ever) and search my closet for work attire. Laundry is piling up since developing a social life.

The shower is the best place to be overcome with ideas. Whenever I find myself stuck on something, I turn the water up as I high as I can stand it and clear my mind as the heat cascades down my body. This morning Janice’s house is all I can think about. How in the world do I plan on selling this property? Most situations call for something as easy as a carpet cleaning and a wash down of the walls. Add a bit of decluttering and a house presents itself as almost new. Not this one. This house looks as though its been through the ringer. Like when someone skips out on their mortgage and destroys the house before they’re officially evicted. This requires me to be creative, something I’m lacking lately.

I finish showering, make myself some tea, and heat up toast. I grab my iPad and open up the local news station and flip through the top stories for today. I’m hoping to be surprised and a positive story is posted. No such luck. Someone arrested for drunk driving, another accused of insurance fraud, protesters at the Capitol. Same old news. An exciting weekend in Madison.

Once I’m done eating and ready for the day, I head out to the office, set on figuring out what to do with Janice’s house.
 

People like Janice really irk me. No appreciation for their parents. She should be lucky her dad thought to leave her that house. With some work, the house could be a gem and stay in the family. Or find a young couple with a growing family to rent it. She could request top dollar for a home in that neighborhood, as long as the place is livable. My thoughts, though, are her dad wants the house to remain with her, for reasons she’s probably too stuck up to understand.

The office is near empty when I arrive. Linda’s door is closed, and the receptionist is in front checking Facebook. Is that what we pay her to do? I don’t let my irritation show and head straight for my desk. This morning I
need
to catch up on email.
 

I can’t believe the amount of spam I receive on a daily basis. Half of the newsletters I think I signed up for at some point in time, but others are plain junk. I don’t want to refinance my condo. Delete. I don’t bank with the financial institution listed here, so that’s a phishing scam. Delete. And no, I’m not interested in what Kyra has to offer me. Delete. I manage to find nine legitimate emails in the thirty-one cluttering my mailbox.
 

Twenty minutes pass and my almost empty folder marks my success. I should come into the office more often. Too many distractions exist at home. My cell vibrates. A voicemail. How did I miss my phone ringing? I guess that’s what focus does.
 

“Kate, this is Kellan. Can you give me a call back to discuss some houses? I want to start looking as soon as possible. Thank you!”

I take down his number and punch in the numbers right away. I’m excited to talk with him. He picks up after the first ring, giving me no time to prep what I’m going to say.