My Foolish Heart (16 page)

Lucy slid into the booth. “Hi, Seb.”

He might have been the one who betrayed
her
, but as he looked at her, at her sweet smile, everything he'd tried to deny burst open inside him. He wasn't in the least over her. Not at all. And the years of dodging and trying his charm on other girls came crashing on him as he sat back in his seat, his body still a little stiff from practice today.
Oh, God, I'm sorry for what I stole from her.

“So,” she said, slipping her bag off her shoulder, “are you here for a while?”

“Yeah, I'm . . . actually, I'm moving home. I'm going to be working at the school. And hopefully coaching the football team.”

“You're really going to be coaching football?”

“Why not?”

She seemed to consider this. “How's it going?”

“Good, I think. We're having a scrimmage next Friday. A sort of tryout for the coaching position. I have some of the old team helping me with practice.”

“I'll bet they're loving that.” She studied him again for a moment, then, “How's your shoulder?”

This he hadn't expected. “Better. I did some throwing today, though, so I'll ice it.”

“It was a brutal hit to watch. I'm sorry.” She looked at the tabletop as she said it, so perhaps she didn't see his mouth open, just slightly.

Lucy had seen his career-ending game with Iowa State? He took a breath, fighting the joy that buzzed through him. “It was brutal to experience. And they never were able to fully repair the tear. Even had surgery.”

“I know. It made the paper.” She did find his eyes then, as if it might be more acceptable to read about his trials in the local paper than search for his games on the cable channels on a Saturday afternoon. Yes, that would take some amount of commitment.

That brought a smile, and suddenly he felt very much like the seventeen-year-old boy dating the prettiest girl in the school. “So Bam mentioned a business plan? Why? Aren't you running the donut shop?”

“Yes, but—” she leaned over the table as if including him in a secret—“the Java Cup has started serving donuts.”

“Wow. That's . . .”

“I sold, on average, six hundred fewer donuts a day last weekend.”

“Six hundred.” He refrained from adding,
That many?

Apparently six hundred less donuts put a hole in her business.

“Stop smirking.”

She always could read his mind, and even now, she bore the hint of a smile. “This is a big deal, Seb. I'm already losing money this season, and I finally figured out why. It's not that I don't make great donuts—”

“You make awesome donuts.” This he said with a straight face.

“I know, but that's the problem. I'm
too
popular. But I can't keep up. I . . . need to expand. Jerry says I need a drive-through window.”

“A drive-through?”

“Or a walk-up. Something outside that can take the overflow.”

“A hole in the donut shop.” He really couldn't stop grinning.

“You're cute, but yes. Only problem is, that costs money. And I don't have it.”

“So you need a business loan.”

She nodded. “I think I can get Gary Starr and his crew to make me a . . . donut
window
before Labor Day, but not if I can't pay them.” She drew in a breath, her face solemn. “Will you help me, Seb?”

It was how she said it, without a trace of their past in her voice, with so much hope, he wanted to leap to his feet, shout,
Yes!

“I . . .”

But see, he'd never actually written a business plan or even owned a business. He'd been hoping—in the part of him that knew his own failures—that she wouldn't show, that he wouldn't be forced to make a fool of himself, that he might slink away, his lie unrevealed.

But he'd returned for second chances, hadn't he? And most of all, he knew what it felt like to work your entire life for something only to have it slip out of your hands, your fault or not.

How hard could it be? “I'd love to help you.”

She sat back, and the smile on her face could reach right down and light the dark places inside him. “Really?”

“Yeah. Of course. I . . .” He so didn't want to say,
I owe you
and suddenly rush their past at them, but he did owe her. He amended his words, softening the truth for both of them. “Well, you probably helped me pass my English class, so it's the least I can do.”

“You would have passed without me, Rochester.” Lucy slid out of the booth, grabbed her messenger bag. “I gotta get home. It's past my bedtime, you know. Someone has to get up and make the donuts. Thanks, Seb.”

She held out her hand again. Somehow he took it. Somehow he smiled. Somehow he let her walk away without running after her.

Maybe he could be a hero again.

* * *

Seb Brewster had returned, and if Lucy guessed the expression on his face correctly, he was every bit as shaken to see her.

She crossed the street, headed up the hill toward her house. The air held a soggy breath, the trees shivering. In the distance, thunder grumbled.

It seemed that Seb had grown up, no longer the shy boy who could barely read—only she knew about his dyslexia, how he struggled. How she'd helped him sound out nearly every word of their dramatic reading from their English assignment until he knew it by heart, could recite it with passion.

She smiled at the memory of him standing on the picnic table down by the harbor, thundering out his words over the roar of the waves.

“I sometimes have a queer feeling with regard to you—especially when you are near me, as now: it is as if I had a string somewhere under my left ribs, tightly and inextricably knotted to a similar string situated in the corresponding quarter of your little frame. . . .”

She might have dreamed herself into his arms a little then. Might have let herself be Jane, poor and obscure, plain and little, yet loved. Probably his drama had conspired to make her believe he loved her. Made her say yes that summer night with the stars sprinkled like dust overhead.

She never should have believed soft words like
forever
and
love
on his lips.

Lucy, I'm so crazy about you. . . .

Sure he was. So crazy that right after the homecoming game he'd gone out to celebrate and ended up fogging his car windows down by the beach. The same beach across from World's Best Donuts.

Too bad she'd spotted his car on the way to work in the wee hours of the morning. Too bad she'd been too curious.

It took her years to expunge the picture of Seb and Bree from her head. And worse, she had never really been able to scour away the one of herself in his arms. Which probably accounted for why, when Lucy walked into the café tonight and saw him sitting in the booth, wearing a white shirt and tie, his black curly hair cut short, it all rushed back to her—the feeling of being his girl, being in his arms, the hope of Happily Ever After.

Issy's light still glowed—her show would be about half-done. In her neighbor's house, the light also burned.

Wait . . . didn't Issy say her neighbor was the new football coach?

She didn't know much about football—just what she learned hanging around Coach Presley, which she'd tried to do whenever Seb happened to be around—but she knew this: Seb Brewster could lead any team to victory.

She'd never figured out, however, why he hadn't made it back onto the Cyclones after his injury. He'd dropped out of school, and out of the conversations around Deep Haven, and she'd lost him. He'd simply disappeared into the annals of Husky football.

But now . . . Coach Brewster. Yes, she liked that.

The neighborhood seemed more ominous now than in the early morning. Thunder rippled, closer. She picked up her pace.

Will you help me, Seb?
She'd pulled everything out of her with those words. Pushed out every ounce of desperation and hope and saw herself, at that moment, small. And plain.

Broken. Until . . .

His eyes. They filled with a look she recognized—or thought she did. The look he'd given her the day the teacher assigned them to work together. And in that moment, she knew.

He hadn't forgotten her, not at all.

She reached her street, turned left. Overhead the stars blinked at her, perhaps as surprised as she was at the way she wanted to skip, even find a song.

Please, God, don't let him destroy my life again.
She'd learned her lesson—she wouldn't betray her virtues again. But the way her heart had stirred to life since he returned to town, he had the potential to do great damage.

She simply couldn't give him her heart; that was all. She was smarter, not naive little Lucy anymore. She could handle working with Seb Brewster without losing herself, right?

* * *

Caleb had never been the kind of guy to find his fun online. Not with weights to lift and game tapes to watch and weekend drills that turned him into an all-state running back. And growing up on a farm in southern Minnesota, he never lacked for something to do.

Never in his life would he have dreamed that he might spend his evening calling a talk show hotline. About love.

Good thing Dan didn't know. Who would have thought that his first friend in Deep Haven would be the town preacher? And a fairly decent football coach too, the way he drilled the guys and even helped the wide receivers lay out their routes.

He had a good team; Caleb could feel it in his bones. As long as they stuck to the basics, resisted the urge to be fancy, and simply kept their heads about them, they had a chance at winning.

If he could get through to Jared Ryan, of course. Although he'd figured out at least one source of the kid's lousy attitude today, when he'd nearly gotten into a fistfight with Bryant. The other team had drawn Ryan's buddy, wide receiver Chase Samson, and from what he'd heard, the two made magic on the field.

Caleb hoped his words, after Dan had gotten between the two players, sank into Ryan.
A great quarterback leads the team, finds their talents, and makes them better. Figure out how to help Bryant, and you'll turn him into the player you want him to be.

Ryan barely looked at him, and when he did, Caleb saw distrust.

Apparently he'd have to prove himself to Ryan before the kid would listen to him. Oh, to take him down in a tackle or, better yet, throw a deep pass right into Bryant's skinny arms. Caleb had been a fairly decent quarterback before he'd settled into the running back position. But his leg had burned all the way through his body—he couldn't drop back into the pocket for a pass to save his life.

Sometimes his limitations could eat clear through him.

Navigating to the
My Foolish Heart
web page, he clicked on the radio player. He couldn't deny the urge to report in, to tell her that yes, he'd done his homework.

Perhaps it was the teacher inside.

The voice of Miss Foolish Heart came over the line. “Tonight we're discussing beauty. Can you love a man or woman you find unattractive? Consider Jane Eyre and Rochester. Neither of them could be called beautiful; in fact Rochester is actually called an ugly man. Yet Jane falls for him, even after he becomes blind and scarred. Why? Cupid, you're on the line.”

“Rochester fell in love with Jane because of her intellect and because she connected with him. She understood him. That made her beautiful.”

“Thanks, Cupid. How about you, NiceGirl?”

“It's not beauty on the outside that he wanted. Blanche was beautiful, after all. But she was not for him.”

“Good comparison, NiceGirl, but let's not forget that Rochester was no catch, either. In fact, Jane even says, ‘Had he been a handsome, heroic-looking young gentleman, I should not have dared to stand thus questioning him against his will, and offering my services unasked.' She doesn't see herself as beautiful, nor him, so that made him attainable. Go ahead, DorothyP.”

“So are you saying it's impossible for an ugly girl to marry a handsome man?”

“No. But a girl doesn't want to walk into the room and feel like everyone is looking at her date.”

Oh, brother. Caleb scrolled down to the show information. No picture of the hostess, Miss Foolish Heart. And by the tenor of the conversation . . . well, he didn't want to guess what she might look like. He clicked on the forum link and logged in, hoping to find something about her.

Oh . . . my . . . They'd created a discussion titled “BoyNextDoor.” He hovered his mouse over the link, debating.

Clicked it.

Wow. Women had such fertile imaginations.

“I just think that Rochester saw her as his equal; that's why she became beautiful to him.” This from someone who sounded about nineteen.

He couldn't stop himself. He dialed the line, then gave his name to the producer.

“BoyNextDoor, you're on the line.”
Her
voice. Soft, with a hint of question. Talking to him. Oops, he hadn't thought Miss Foolish Heart would take his call immediately. Wasn't there some sort of queue?

“Uh. Hi.” Was that him, on the air? He sounded like an idiot, deep voice, sort of confused. He cleared his throat.

“Would you like to add to the conversation?”

She didn't sound unattractive. In fact, he sort of pictured her young. Maybe with brown hair, kind gray-blue eyes.

“I . . . I just wanted to say I think you have it all wrong.”

Silence. “Oh?” But not an angry
oh
. More curious, as if she might be playing with him.

“Yeah. Uh . . . look, men like pretty girls. They don't want their equal. Every guy out there would date a movie star if he could, but that's beyond his means.”

“Wow . . . BoyNextDoor, that's fairly Neanderthal of you.”