My Foolish Heart (19 page)

Pitch it to me, Issy!
For a second, her father stood there, his hand outstretched.
You take the hike from Mom, then pitch it to me. No law says a girl can't play quarterback.

She had a great throw—always did.

She considered Caleb, then waved him off. “Go long, neighbor.”

He gave her the oddest look before disappearing.

She fired it over the fence, wishing she knew whether he caught it.

* * *

“It's your lucky day, Rog. Or I guess it's Duncan?” Caleb crouched in front of the dog and slid him the plate of leftover burgers. He'd slapped two extra on the grill . . .

Just in case.

Apparently he couldn't tempt Isadora with the smell of ground beef cooking over an open flame. Or a game of catch.

Although, admittedly, she had a nice spiral. He'd nearly caught it, too, but avoiding the potholes in his yard slowed him down and he opted to let it bounce rather than dive for it, land on his face.

She didn't check on him, however, so he might not fess up that he hadn't caught it.

At this rate, he'd be better off dating Miss Foolish Heart than trying to make friends with his neighbor. He even caught himself thinking about Miss Foolish Heart, her show, her voice in his ear . . .

Except her methods simply didn't work.

He patted the dog on the head, climbed the stairs, and sat on the back steps, his residual leg stretched out on the top step, the pressure easing as he ate. He could go for fries, maybe a chocolate shake.

And someone with whom to enjoy dinner.

Next door, he heard her gate latch. He should fix that broken fencing, but . . .

Coach here has been praying for someone like you for a long time.
He put his hamburger on the plate, his appetite gone.

More than anything, seeing a man like Presley—a man so much like the person he wanted to be—taken out, sidelined . . . it could turn Caleb's bones to liquid.

God had spilled out more than his share of mercy on him that night in the ditch.

What if he'd been sent here not just to help the team, but Coach's daughter, too?

Caleb got up, wishing he could see her from his porch, but the fence blocked the view. He'd have to climb upstairs, but that felt too much like spying.

How did he coax a woman trapped inside her own fears out into the world? He threw his burger to Roger, who caught it in the air, before hobbling into the house, where he lowered himself onto the sofa, worked the suction seal away from his leg, and eased out of the prosthesis. When—okay,
if
—he got the coaching job, and once people knew about his injury, he'd switch to his athletic prosthesis, one that allowed him better flexibility to move and cut and even run, even if it did expose his disability with the metal compression foot.

Until then, he had to prove himself with two supposedly good feet.

He settled his leg on the sofa, the daily burn already lessening. Lying against the arm of the sofa, he just wanted to throw his arm over his eyes.

Nope. He still had plays to work out for Monday's practice. And his limb exercises to do, and his prosthesis to clean, and . . .

What he really wanted to do was talk to Miss Foolish Heart. See if she had any brilliant ideas for cracking his neighbor's thick shell.

Reaching over, he hauled his computer onto his lap. Maybe he could dig around that forum.

He logged on, ignored the welcome page full of crazy literary quotes, then clicked on the discussion tab.

Three hundred posts since his argument with Miss Foolish Heart. Didn't these people have anything better to do?

Still, the speculation over his mystery girl had him smiling.

She's probably his boss and he is just trying to get a promotion.

He broke her heart years ago and now wants to win it back.

I think he's shy. I want his number.

Good thing these things remained anonymous.

On a few of the posts, Miss Foolish Heart herself had replied.

Would she show up if he started his own discussion?

He clicked on the Start a Discussion tab and named it “How to Get the Girl.” Pressing Enter before he could change his mind, he immediately wanted to delete it. But there it appeared, on the front page of the forum.

It felt a little like standing out in the rain in his skivvies.

How did he delete? He clicked on Help. A list of options popped up and he chose FAQs. Discussions could only be deleted by the administrator.

Perfect.

But when he scrolled down, he discovered the Privacy settings. He went back to the discussion page, and since he'd started it, it allowed him to set it to private.

Good.

Except how was he supposed to get any advice?

A screen popped up.
MissFoolishHeart would like to add to your discussion. Will you allow?

Would he allow? He clicked Okay.

Her daisy avatar popped up on his discussion.

MissFoolishHeart: Hello, BoyNextDoor. Do you need help?

Caleb stared at the screen, the blinking cursor.

MissFoolishHeart: I'm sorry; am I intruding? I see you made the discussion private. I just wanted to see if you needed help.

Help, oh, did he need help, because suddenly all the moisture had sucked out of his mouth and his hands turned slick.

BoyNextDoor: Hi. Yes, I need help.

MissFoolishHeart: I'm not a technical wizard, but I am an administrator, so I can try.

BoyNextDoor: Well, I mostly need help with . . . how do you get a girl to go out on a date?

MissFoolishHeart: Ask her.

He made a face. Yeah, the idiot meter went into the red with him sometimes.

BoyNextDoor: No, I mean, so far your advice hasn't exactly worked.

He stared at the blinking cursor. Oops. He wasn't sure how this online communication worked, but he hadn't said it with his angry voice. Just a fact.

MissFoolishHeart: I'm sorry to hear that. Are you sure she's not involved with anyone else? She could be sending you the go-away signals.

Isadora . . . and a boyfriend? Surely her father would know. And he hadn't exactly seen a guy.

BoyNextDoor: I think she's single.

MissFoolishHeart: And you've followed all my advice?

Wow, that sounded like a woman.

BoyNextDoor: Yes. To the letter. I even shaved.

MissFoolishHeart: Oh, BoyNextDoor, don't go overboard now.

Funny, real funny.

BoyNextDoor: The thing is, she needs a friend, and I thought I might ask her on a date.

MissFoolishHeart: So she needs a date? That's fairly arrogant.

BoyNextDoor: I didn't mean it like that. But I met her father, and I think he'd like me to get to know her.

MissFoolishHeart: This is just getting worse. Her father? What, are you Amish? Is this an arranged marriage?

Oh, how he wanted to hear her voice, because in his head, she was laughing.

BoyNextDoor: No! Of course not. It's just that she hasn't had many dates recently.

MissFoolishHeart: Why?

BoyNextDoor: She's sorta disabled.

That word didn't seem to fit, but he couldn't figure out another.

The cursor blinked.

MissFoolishHeart: I feel terrible. Please forgive me, BoyNextDoor. I should have taken your concerns more seriously.

Her tone caught him, made him settle back into the pillow. As if she truly cared.

BoyNextDoor: It's no big deal. I just want to get to know her better. There's something special about her. And I want to figure out what that is.

MissFoolishHeart: I knew there was something I liked about you. What about this girl catches your interest?

What did he like about Issy?

He had to let the cursor blink a moment. He liked the way she had rubbed Duncan's head, as if she cared about the dog, despite his destruction to her hosta.

BoyNextDoor: She can forgive.

MissFoolishHeart: That's a good trait.

His gaze fell on the yearbook.

BoyNextDoor: She loves her town and her neighbors.

MissFoolishHeart: So she's friendly.

He had a feeling she liked football—after all, the way she threw that pass spoke of a girl who knew her way around a football, wasn't afraid to get her hands dirty. And she loved her garden, whereas he could kill plants with a look.

BoyNextDoor: Most of all, I think she could be someone I want to know. But currently, that's all I got.

MissFoolishHeart: That's not much to work with. Why is this so important to you?

Why?

BoyNextDoor: Because I was given a second chance to be the kind of man I should be, and I am not a quitter. I like to finish what I start.

Like learning to walk again. And turning the town football mess into a winning team.

And proving to God that He'd made the right decision in saving Caleb's life.

MissFoolishHeart: Be careful—she still sounds like a project.

A project. Sometimes
he
felt like a project. But, no. How about an . . . incentive?

BoyNextDoor: What if she's the prize?

The cursor blinked for a long moment.

MissFoolishHeart: BoyNextDoor, you're lucky; I just about banned you with the “she needs a date” comment. Okay, time to get creative. You could ask her to share a picnic—maybe a pizza. Or better, spaghetti. That's easy and nonthreatening.

BoyNextDoor: I'm not sure she eats spaghetti.

MissFoolishHeart: Everyone likes spaghetti. What's not to like? Also, most girls like it when the men in their lives show an interest in the things they like. Does she have any interests?

BoyNextDoor: She likes yard work. And exercising.

MissFoolishHeart: Perfect. Strap on your tennis shoes and go ask her to play a game of tennis. Or take a walk by the beach. Or even throw around a football.

Throw around a football?

He liked Miss Foolish Heart much more than he should. And the fact that she assumed he could do any of those activities . . .

For a moment, he tasted the days before his injury, the easy ones when someone called to him from the end of the hall, “Caleb! Let's play some catch!”

Miss Foolish Heart saw him as whole.

And in that delicious moment, he did too.

* * *

BoyNextDoor: Thanks, MissFoolishHeart. I'll try that.

MissFoolishHeart: Good luck, BoyNextDoor. She's lucky to have you.

Shoot, BoyNextDoor had signed off, and watching him go, Issy tried—oh, she tried—not to hate the Girl.

What kind of girl had
she
become that she got jealous over unknown—and taken—voices in her discussion forum?

The entire conversation had her confused even as she picked up her grilled cheese sandwich and walked downstairs.

She heard whining at the door, opened it to find Duncan sitting on the porch, his dark shaggy tail swishing on the boards. “I'm not sure why you even bother to whine. Why don't you just come through the cardboard?” But she let him in and fed him the last of her sandwich.

He gulped it down as if he hadn't eaten in a decade. Then he lay on the floor, rolling over for a rub.

“And by the way, we need to talk about the destruction of my fence.” She let loose a smile at the image of her own boy next door, following his dog into her yard.

What if he'd caught her pass?

What if he hadn't?

She rubbed a bare foot over the dog's chest. “I have to go to work. If you promise to keep my feet warm, you can join me.”

Duncan followed her upstairs.

BoyNextDoor hadn't returned to the forum. Probably out lacing up his running shoes. Except if the Girl was disabled, she might not be able to run, so she'd given him lousy advice . . . again.

What kind of man didn't even notice, or care, about a woman's disability?

The kind of man she'd like to know.

The sun had already sunk out of sight, dusk scuttling around the yard. She switched off her porch light and looked out the window, then checked the lock on the front door before climbing the stairs.

Her neighbor's light glowed into the yard.

She can forgive.

Those words lingered, nudged her. Forgive. Had she forgiven her neighbor? For . . . what? Annoying her? Not cutting his grass?

Invading her world and making her stare at her vacancies? Her limitations?

She stopped on the stairs, her hand on the rail.

Ever since he'd moved to town, careened into her life, something had unhinged inside her. As if her world had slipped just a little out of her control.

He reminded her of her town, her people. Her father.

Her loss.

Caleb reminded her of all the ways she let them down. All the ways she was locked inside her fear, all the ways she'd failed.

She sat on the stairs, staring out the transom of her door. The narrow strip revealed the Millers' house across the street and the far edge of the library. Beyond that, the view captured the spire of the lighthouse at the point, the glow over the dark expanse of the lake. But her world seemed, suddenly, about that size—a peek out her door, the edges cut off, only glimpses remaining into the real world.

Oh, God, how did I get here? The coach's crazy daughter, afraid of the world?

She pressed the meat of her hands into her eyes and heard Rachelle's voice.
Maybe you shouldn't strive to be the woman you left behind, but the one who is out ahead. . . . I'd bet if you stop trying so hard to hold her back, to keep her safe, she might just surprise you.

Oh, she had her doubts. Just imagine her, out on a date. She'd end up under the table in the fetal position.
Sorry, but can you take me home?

Nope, nope, nope.

Caleb only made that wound ache, too.

He made her want to fall in love. Or at least make a friend.

She still sounds like she's a project.

Had she really written that? Could she be ruder? But it had bothered her, BoyNextDoor's fascination with his Girl. He seemed to know so little about her. She was
friendly
? Hardly an intriguing attribute on which to base an attraction.