My Foolish Heart (14 page)

After all, she had the list.

He made a little sound on the other end of the line, something like surprise. Or perhaps fear. Uh-oh, she didn't want to scare him off. “Oh, BoyNextDoor, don't you want to fall in love?”

Silence. Then, “I don't know.”

He didn't know? But in his tone, she heard the slightest tremble. It vanished with “What do I need to do?”

Deflection. Yes, BoyNextDoor could be a very interesting, very lucrative caller.

“Start with listening. Whatever her list of complaints is, fix them. Show her that her concerns matter to you. Then call me back.”
Please, call me back.

“Am I supposed to say something? Like ‘Thank you, Miss Foolish Heart'?”

She heard the mocking in his voice but somehow didn't mind it. As if he might be mocking himself, too.

“That'll do. Good luck, BoyNextDoor.” She muted him, then ran a commercial, watching the forum board.

Cupid87: Do you think he'll do it?

MissFoolishHeart: If he wants to win her, he will. A woman likes to know her words matter. Look at Mr. Darcy. He listened to Elizabeth's fears and then, without telling her, went and found her sister, making sure she married Wickham. He made Elizabeth feel safe.

It always came back to that, didn't it? Safety.

Duncan raised his head. His tail flopped once.

Don't you want to fall in love?

Her question niggled at her for the rest of the show. Something about his pause—she understood that pause.

No.

Well, maybe.

Only if it didn't hurt.

She ended the show with her tagline and was just signing off when a chat request came in. From Elliot.

Elliot: Did you see the activity after BoyNextDoor's call? I think you have something there.

MissFoolishHeart: I know. Why do you think I told him to call me back?

Elliot: You're brilliant, MFH.

MissFoolishHeart: Now you figure out a way to turn it into advertisers.

She logged off. No doubt he'd spend all night working on proposals for new sponsors.

But perhaps, along with a ratings boost, she could make one woman's life a little easier.

She doused the light to her office, noticing that the neighbor's still glowed, bluish white across his jungle.

What about
his
to-do list? Just because she'd made a fool of herself didn't negate the fact that he lived in the Amazon or killed her pansies. Was it so hard to cut the grass? Maybe move his truck onto the street?

Duncan got up, thundering down the stairs behind her as she went into the kitchen and turned on the tea. And next door, the neighbor's light flicked off and settled the house into darkness.

7

“How are they looking, Coach?”

Caleb looked up from where he sat on the bench, taking notes on the players. “Hey, Dan.” Great. Now Pastor Dan could report to the coffee slingers how he coached from the bench. He'd seen them sitting in the stands yesterday morning.

The fact remained, however, that his players simply didn't run as hard, as fast, without him standing over them. But he'd had to sit down, his eyes nearly crossed from hours of standing, running, hiding his limp, which only became more pronounced as the morning grew hot.

Long.

Agonizing.

Add to that a team that carried two years of loss and a defeated attitude into this season, and he just wanted to go home, soak his leg, and figure out why he'd ever thought he could do this job.

The fact was, after three days of practice, Caleb could admit he needed help. An assistant to help him run the plays, put action to words. He never thought he'd actually have to go it alone—the school board had specifically mentioned volunteers.

Days like today stirred the old urge to reach out to God, to ask for help. But God had done enough, hadn't He? Caleb needed to stand on his own two feet. Well, figuratively. Still, gratitude didn't include whining.

God had given Caleb this job, and he intended to do it well.

“They're looking good,” Caleb said to Dan, his voice tight. “I think we have the makings of a powerful team here. Of course, this is only half of them. The other half takes the field this afternoon with Coach Brewster.”

“You coming back to watch?”

Actually, he'd planned on mowing his lawn. But that sounded feeble, didn't it? Mow his lawn rather than size up the competition? However, perhaps Isadora Presley
was
his competition. He hadn't thought about it until late in the night, but what if . . . what if she really didn't like him? Would she say something to her father? To the school board?

No, it was only his fears calling up lies, winding his brain into knots of worry.

“I'll wait until they're in position, then do a couple drive-bys,” Caleb said as he glanced at Dan, dressed in a dark polo shirt, a pair of khaki pants. “How are you doing? How's Ellie?”

“Still wanting you to join the volunteer fire department.” Dan sat next to him on the bench. “She sent me by to twist your arm.”

Dan smiled, but Caleb turned his attention to the field, where Ryan practiced a sweep play. “Okay, Ryan, I want you to just work on getting the snap from Merritt. McCormick, Walker, and Benson, line up, practice taking the handoff, left and right.”

He should get up and run the drill so they could see it, but after three hours on his leg, he just might fall on his face.

Still, McCormick at running back was sloppy, dropping the ball too often to make him reliable. And the kid gave little effort with his fake. The defense would see right through it, take him down on his first step.

“You handled yourself well at the accident. Cool head, focused. Like you had training.”

Caleb's eyes stayed on the field. “I have had training. I was a medic in the National Guard.”

“Really?” This clearly got Dan's attention. “We could also use EMTs—”

“I'd like to, Pastor, but I'm here to coach football.”

“We have three former football players and two school board members on our crew.”

The man knew how to go for the jugular.

Unfortunately that could prove to be the perfect opportunity to reveal his weaknesses. “Let's see how the next two weeks go, okay?” By then, maybe he'd have the job.

By then, he could tell them the truth.

“Sounds fair.” Dan clamped him on the shoulder. “We're having a men's Bible study on Saturday morning. Would love to see you there.” He got up.

“Hey, Dan, can I ask you a question?”

“Sure.”

“What exactly happened to Coach Presley's daughter? Mitch said she has PTSD.”

“Oh, that's a sad story. It was raining, about this time of year, actually. Coach and his wife were in the front seat, and a semi hit them as they slid through the light at the corner—”

“The one from last week.”

“The very one. Spun the car around. Her mother was driving—she was trapped in the car. Coach flew through the windshield. And Issy was in the backseat, nearly without a scratch. For a long time I couldn't get the scene out of my brain. Coming up on the accident . . . the car had already caught on fire, and Issy wouldn't leave her mother. I think she might have stayed there until the flames engulfed the car. We finally got the fire out, freed them from the car, but Gabriella died there on the street. Horrible accident for everyone, but it was especially rough on Issy.”

His pause, his tone, made Caleb glance at him.

Dan wore a grimace, as if witnessing something fresh and raw. “She had a terrible panic attack the day of the funeral and locked herself in the bathroom. The police had to take the door off the hinges. And she was incoherent when we found her, had a sort of breakdown. She's . . . she hasn't really left her house since then.”

That was more than PTSD. Still, Caleb knew about that kind of fear, the kind that seeped inside you, took you apart piece by piece, made you believe that you'd never be whole again. “She lives next door to me.”

“You saw her?”

“At the library, actually.”

“Good. I'd heard she'd been making progress. Maybe you can reach out to her. I know Coach worries about her.” He turned to the field. “By the way, your running back needs to sell his fake a little more. He's too easy to read.”

Caleb stared at Dan as he started to walk away, the swell inside him making his mouth open nearly without his permission. “Hey, Dan, one more thing.”

Dan glanced at him.

“Wanna . . . help me coach? I could use another set of hands.”

A slow smile spread over the preacher's face. “I'll be here at 6 a.m.”

The sun had crested in the sky when Caleb drove home. Roger met him as he lowered himself out of the truck's cab. He rubbed between the dog's ears. Then, circling around to the truck bed, he opened the tailgate, pulled out a ramp. He'd found the only self-propelled mower at Schuman's Sports, and it set him back about a fourth of his disability pay for the month.

He grabbed the gas can from the back end and unscrewed the lid from the tank. As he gurgled the gas in, he let the wind off the lake cool his face. He'd start with the front yard, move to the back tomorrow.

Then, maybe, he'd replant her pansies.

A couple hard pulls and the mower roared to life. Not unlike a four-leg walker, really, it balanced him as he directed it down the row, moving slowly to mulch the grass, spitting moisture onto his jeans, his shoes.

He made another pass. Yes, it had grown into a jungle. His mowing job might not be pretty, but already the lawn shimmered, an emerald in the sunlight. The smell caught him, sent him back to his youth, to sprawling out on a fresh-cut lawn, running his toes between the prickly blades. In his mind, he gripped the football, stiff-arming his brother, going down, tussling in the front yard.

Someday he hoped to tussle with his own sons, watch them outrun each other. He didn't have big dreams—not after Iraq. He just wanted to build a normal, small-town life. The kind of life his parents had.

Roger bounded out from the driveway, toward the sidewalk, barking, and Caleb turned.

Wow.

Isadora Presley had amazing legs. So maybe he shouldn't have let that be his first thought, but nonetheless, Isadora came down the sidewalk in a pair of shorts, wearing a blue baseball cap, her curly dark hair pulled through the hole. It swung behind her like a tail as she ran with those tanned, long legs that belonged on a distance runner.

She stopped—or rather slowed. Looked at his yard.

At him.

He raised a hand. “Howdy, neighbor.”

She stood there a moment longer before she smiled too, something quick and obligatory. Then she took off again.

She passed his house five times before he finished, not stopping, not slowing again. He locked the mower in the backyard, climbed up the back porch and into the house, then lay on the floor and tried not to weep at the pain.

Mow the lawn, check.

* * *

“It's the Seb-a-na-TOR!”

Just once, Seb would like to walk into a room without Big Mike, all-state center, announcing his presence.

Although for a second, something hot and sweet swelled inside him. He'd spent years being nobody. It felt good to be someone again.

A hero, even.

No one really needed to know the truth, right?

He raised a hand to Bam, seated on a high top at the bar. With his bullish shoulders, not much of a neck and his head shaved to a nub, the defensive end could still strike fear into anyone opposite him, including, probably, the poor saps who came into the credit union searching for a loan.

“Six ball, left pocket. Hey, Seb.” Pete Watson—P-Train, they called him—slid the ball into the corner pocket, smooth as silk, just like his running game.

Above P-Train, the neon lights in the window advertised the specials on tap, and beyond that, pictures of those members who'd served in the wars lined the walls. The VFW also served the best burgers in town, hosted a free pool table, and let JayJ and his band practice every Wednesday night.

JayJ stepped up to the mike. “You drink free tonight, Sebanator.”

Seb acknowledged him, but he wasn't a drinking man—not anymore. He should have been warned off that night Lucy had caught him and Bree Sanders in a post–homecoming game clench. Sadly, there had still been a few dark years after the fiasco at Iowa State. He had to do something to forget his mistakes.

But about two years ago, he'd straightened up, found his way into a church, fallen hard at the foot of the cross, cried his eyes out over his sins, and promised to start over.

Even, someday, in Deep Haven. And he'd meant it, even if he'd had a couple rough starts after that. But not with alcohol. He only had to look at his father to let that lesson sink in.

He stepped up to the bar and ordered a Coke. Bam gave him a look, but he ignored it and found a stool at the high top where Big Mike considered his pool bets.

“P-Train knows how to sink 'em, but he still has a wild shot. Now, Deej, he's got the touch. He'll sneak right up and pretty soon he's grabbing the game out from under you.”

DJ Teague looked up, smiled. Always had a smile—it wasn't easy being the only African American in a town pocketed so far north, but he knew how to pluck the ball from the air, and to the town he, like everyone else, appeared Husky blue.

Funny how Seb still saw each of these boys in their uniforms, their numbers emblazoned on their backs. Probably each of them could trace every play of that last game in their sleep, especially Coach's trick “Quarterback Chaos.” Sometimes, he still saw himself taking off for the sideline.
Coach, Deej doesn't know the play! He doesn't know the play!
See, out of his periphery, the defenders loosen their stance, even stand up.

Enough for the offense to mow them over, for him to cut down the side and into the end zone. One of Presley's famous magic plays.