My Foolish Heart (21 page)

Issy's office door stood ajar, but in the other room she heard a thump. She pushed open the door to Issy's parents' room.

What on earth . . . ? Issy stood in the center of the room wearing her prom dress, her earbuds in, playing the air guitar.

She caught sight of Lucy in the mirror and froze. Turned. Pulled out her buds. “Hi.”

“What are you doing?”

“What happened?”

They stood a moment, then—

“I asked you first.” Lucy pushed into the room. Issy had washed the bedspread—it bore no scars from Duncan's nesting. But what looked like Issy's entire wardrobe littered the bed. Jeans and sweaters, blouses, two dresses, and probably eight pairs of heeled sandals and pumps. She even saw a couple suits, one of which still dangled the tag.

Lucy picked it up, then sat on the bed on top of a pair of jeans. “Having a rummage sale?”

Issy grinned—a sort of grin Lucy might assign to a mental patient. It ran all over the place, dipping, rising. In fact, it might not be a grin but rather a new form of panic. “Are you okay?”

“I . . . I have a date.” The words emerged more question than statement, but Issy turned away, smoothing the prom dress, staring at her reflection. “I. Have. A date.”

“Really? With whom?”

“The neighbor.”

“Coach Knight?”

“Yes.” Issy's eyes widened and she nodded. “I have a date with Coach Knight.”

“Okay, listen, are you having some sort of low blood sugar attack? I know I haven't been around for a couple days, but you're acting weird.”

Issy smiled and Lucy saw her friend return. “I'm just getting used to it before I start panicking over what to wear.”

“Please tell me you aren't wearing your prom dress?”

“Note that it still fits me.”

“You're amazing. I'll send your name into
Woman's Day
magazine. However, I'm thinking Coach Knight might make a break for it if you show up in your prom dress.”

Issy slipped the dress off, let it puddle on the floor, grabbed her bathrobe. “I wasn't going to wear it. I was looking for the right pair of shoes and found it in my mother's closet. And then, well, she has the full-length mirror . . .”

“Why did you turn your room into the studio instead of the guest room downstairs?”

“I like the view of Deep Haven. And my mother's garden.”

“You should move in here, you know. Your dad is never coming home.”

Issy took a breath, and Lucy instantly wanted to grab her words back. “I didn't mean that. I'm sorry.”

“You did, and you're right.” Issy picked up the suit, the one with the tag. But her hand shook. “I bought this for the interview at KQRD. I never wore it.” She hung it in her mother's closet. “Tell me what your big news is.”

So many wounds, little nicks that still bled as Issy walked through every day. But if Issy wanted to change the subject . . . “Seb kissed me.”

“What? Seb
Brewster
?”

Oops. Lucy hadn't quite meant for the announcement to tumble out like that. She'd meant to go at it slowly, to prepare Issy.
Seb Brewster is helping me save the donut shop. Seb Brewster kissed me. . . .

No, she should back up even more. “I've been meeting with Seb the past two nights. We've been sorting out the finances of the donut shop so I could get a loan.”

“So it was Seb you met the other night?”

“Yeah, I couldn't believe it. He took business in college. He's teaching math at the school, and . . . oh!” She stared at Issy. “He and Caleb are vying for the same job. It's all over town. They're having a big scrimmage next Friday to see who's going to be the new coach.”

“You met Caleb?”

“Today. He came into the shop and introduced himself.”

“You told him about the door.”

“Should I be sorry?”

Issy smiled. Then, “Wait—so Caleb and Seb are both going to be coaching?”

“I think it's a competition. Seb has all the old Huskies out coaching his team. They're running their old plays, the ones they can remember.”

Issy sat on the bed, began folding the debris. “Poor Caleb. I hope he has help.”

“Pastor Dan is helping him. And according to Seb, Caleb has a coaching degree. He's teaching psychology at the high school. I've already seen posters around town advertising the scrimmage.”

“I remember it being a big deal even when my dad was coaching. All the boosters, the parents, most of the community came out to watch the guys play, gauge their potential.”

“After the last two years, we need a little enthusiasm for Husky football.”

Issy held up a black sweater before pulling it on. “I wonder if my dad knows.”

“And which one he'd choose.”

Issy grabbed a pair of jeans.

“Is that it, your outfit for your date?”

“Not so fast. We're still talking about you. And Seb. You
kissed
him?”

Lucy reached for a sweater, folding it on her lap. “I did. It sort of just happened. He was there, talking about his dad and why he quit football, and then suddenly, he kissed me.” She smiled, remembering the look in his eyes as he drew away, as if he'd knocked over a glass of milk. “I don't think he meant to, but . . . it was like everything reset. As if we started over.”

Issy hadn't moved. “Lucy, I don't know. You and Seb . . . there's a lot of pain there.”

It's no big deal.
Her own words rushed back to her. No big deal. Except she hadn't forgiven herself for betraying everything she believed in since then. And, well, there had been some dark times when she gave in to her wounds and went searching for comfort. No big deal.

I am sorry, Lucy, for hurting you.
This time, seeing the honesty in his eyes, she believed him. And if she hadn't forgiven him before, she did now.

Lucy reached for another sweater. “I think it can be different this time.”

“You're stronger. Smarter.”

“And he's different. Humbler. And sweet. He really wants to help me, too. I think I can save the donut shop.”

“I thought you hated donuts.” Issy smirked.

Lucy had a nice pile of clothing growing. “I can't lose the donut shop. It's been in my family for three generations. Besides, I'm changing the world, one donut at a time, right?”

“And I'm changing the world one foolish heart at a time.”

“Hey, if God can use me one donut at a time, then He can use you, even trapped in your home. You would've never started the show if you hadn't been here. And think of the people you're helping.”

“Oh, right. I haven't a clue what I'm doing. Poor BoyNextDoor keeps trying out all my ideas, and apparently the Girl won't even talk to him.”

“She will. There's nothing more irresistible to a woman than a man who's in love with her.”

“Thank you,
Sound of Music
. Sort of.”

“My best line. So are you leaving the house for your big date?”

Issy turned away from the window. “No, we're not going out. He's coming over to fix my fence. And my door.”

“Uh . . . not to rain on your parade, but are you sure that's a date, Issy?”

“He's bringing spaghetti.”

“Spaghetti. Oh yes, that qualifies.”

Issy returned to the pile of clothing. “I can't wear this.” She whipped off the sweater, grabbed a brown T-shirt.

“What are you doing?”

“If I wear the sweater, I'm trying too hard. It's too dressy, too full of expectation.”

“Do you have expectations?”

“No!” Issy glared at Lucy. “Of course not. It's just . . . spaghetti.”

“Mmm-hmm. Yeah, well, the T-shirt screams, ‘Hey, dude, go out for a pass.'”

Issy stilled. “Oh . . . I told BoyNextDoor on our chat to play catch with the Girl.”

“So?” Lucy riffled through the pile and found a seersucker blouse with short, ruffled sleeves.

“Don't you get it? The boy next door offered to bring me spaghetti.”

“You are making no sense.”

Issy sat down hard on the bed. “No, it couldn't be him. He said she was disabled. And besides, everybody likes spaghetti.”

“
Who
is disabled?”

“The Girl.”

“BoyNextDoor is dating a girl with a disability?”

Issy took the blouse, then stood and pulled the T-shirt off. “Yes, except he said it didn't matter.” She pulled on the blouse, buttoned it. “Isn't that just the kind of guy you'd want to know? A guy who looks at a woman for who she is beyond her handicaps?” She smoothed the shirt.

Oh . . . no. “Issy, you like him.”

Issy frowned. “Well, sure, we had a rough beginning, but . . . I said hello today. And he's going to fix my fence—”

“Not Coach Knight—BoyNextDoor. You
like
him.”

“No, I don't. He's not . . . real. I mean, he's a voice on the end of the phone line. And yes, we chatted in the forum—”

“You chatted in the forum?”

“That's how I found out about her disability. And I told him to buy her spaghetti.”

Huh. “Well, everybody likes spaghetti.”

“Of course they do.” She went to the bureau, picked up the pearls.

“Definitely not.”

She put them down. “I just wish I could find someone who might see me the way BoyNextDoor sees this girl. Who would come into my world . . .”

“And get you.”

Issy lifted a shoulder. “Maybe someone who isn't afraid of my world, dark as it is.” She looked out the window again. Lucy followed her gaze. The sun shone against the birch trees that parted their yards.

“Your world's not as dark as it used to be. How many times did you go around the block today?”

“Eight. But I could have done nine.” She met Lucy's eyes. “I think.”

“I
know
. And I know that there's light ahead. Just keep walking toward it.”

12

Did a guy buy a gal who loved to garden . . . flowers? Caleb stood before the rack of potted flowers in the Red Rooster Grocery Store and tried to decide if Issy might like an iris or—he checked the tag on the other pot—chrysanthemums.

What if he brought her something cut? Like the bouquet of pink and white flowers? Or maybe nothing at all? He didn't want to spook her.

But Issy had fueled all sorts of happy, crazy thoughts with the look she gave him over her shoulder as she walked into the house. As if he'd done something right.

Finally.

A part of him couldn't wait to tell Miss Foolish Heart. Only, perhaps he'd wait until
after
the date.

He reached for the iris.

Down the aisle, he heard the tumble of cans. He glanced over, spied the stock boy in a white apron struggling with a box.

Caleb left the flowers and limped over to grab the edge of the failing box and hoist it onto the dolly. “Hate it when those things get away from me.” He grinned at the stock boy.

Jared Ryan.

Ryan narrowed his eyes at him, then chased after the scattering cans.

Caleb held the box while the kid tossed them into the container. He predicted a special on dented cans of corn in the store's future. “Go easy there—”

“Don't coach me in my job.” Ryan dumped the remaining cans into the box. Grabbing the box with one hand, he started to wheel away.

“You're welcome.”

Ryan stopped. Turned, his eyes cold. “I don't even know why you're here, man. What good are you? All we're doing is learning the stuff we learned in fourth grade. We're never going to win with those plays. The draw, the sweep, a reverse—every defense in the state knows those. What we need is something magic, like the stuff the Huskies used to run. Like what Coach Brewster is teaching his team. We're going to lose and we're going to look stupid. We need to outplay those guys or they're going to run over us.”

Caleb schooled his voice. “You win with fundamentals. I'd be happy if you boys could even manage the basics. You're so messed up from two years of bad coaching—”

“You're the bad coach. And I don't want to play for you. I'll go play for Brewster.”

“Sorry, son, but you can't do that. Brewster's not going to let you play for him.”

“He will if he wants to win.”

Oh, boy. Caleb hated to think that he might have been this arrogant back in the day. “I thought the flashy plays were what'll make us win.”

Ryan glared at him. “If I can't play for Brewster, then forget it. I'll save my energy for hoops. I was an all-conference forward last year. And I ran hurdles in state.”

“Perfect. We'll miss you. But don't think that when I'm Huskies head coach, I'm letting you on my team.”

“You won't get the job.”

A can of corn escaped and clattered to the floor. Caleb bent over and picked it up. He didn't care about the pain that burned through him. He held it out to Ryan.

The kid swiped it from his hand.

“You get one more chance to show up at practice.” Caleb turned, ignored the flowers, and walked out.

He got into his truck, staring at the storefront, watching Ryan trundle the corn down the aisle, listening to Ryan's words replay in his head. Fancy plays. No, they didn't need fancy plays—they needed fundamentals. Blocking. Tackling. Rushing.

He closed his eyes, leaned his forehead against the steering wheel.

I promise, I'm doing my best, Lord.
But what if his best wasn't good enough?

This morning at the men's Bible study, he'd met a couple guys who he thought might be friends, someday. The local plumber. Joe, a firefighter whose wife ran a bookstore. He had a kid on Brewster's team, too.

Dan had reiterated Sunday's Philippians text about God's provision. God had provided Caleb an opportunity. Now he'd just have to work harder, be smarter, to be a good steward of it.