My Foolish Heart (6 page)

“Dan Matthews. Enjoying the fish burger?”

“I've never had a fish burger before. They're . . .”

“Fabulous. We only get them twice a year—Fish Pic and Labor Day.” Dan patted his belly. “I've had three already. But don't tell my wife—she'll have me eating low carb for a month.”

Caleb grinned. “Your secret's safe with me. So how's the family from the accident?”

“I checked in with them this morning—the wife delivered a healthy baby girl by C-section but had to be airlifted to Minneapolis Medical Center's burn unit. The father and his other daughter were released. I'll check again, but I think everyone will survive, thanks to you.”

“Right time, right place.”

“And quick thinking. I really can't talk you into volunteering for the fire department? You'd get to take a place in our annual dunking contest.” Dan gestured behind him. Caleb turned just in time to watch a victim splash into the drink at the hands of a little girl, her blonde hair pulled through the back of her blue and white baseball cap.

“Way to go, Wendy!” Dan yelled, and she turned, waved. “She's my oldest. Has the fastball of a Yankee pitcher.”

A woman, her light brown hair in a matching ponytail, high-fived the girl. “And that's my wife, Ellie. She's the manager of our EMS department, and I promise, you don't want me to sic her on you. An able-bodied man fresh to our community? Turn yourself in under your own volition is my advice.”

Able-bodied.
And so far, even in daylight, the pastor hadn't given a second glance to Caleb's shaven head under his baseball cap or the puckered skin on his hand, the one holding the fish burger. “I think I'll be pretty busy with football practice, but we'll see.”

Ellie waved her husband over and Dan made a face. “Busted. I think it's my turn in the tank.” He clamped Caleb on the shoulder. Thankfully, Caleb no longer had to wince. “Swing by anytime or even come up to the church. We'd be glad to see you.”

Caleb took the proffered hand and returned an I'll-do-that smile.

His first friend in Deep Haven, a pastor. Yes, this place felt right.

Finishing off the fish burger, Caleb made the rounds through the assembly of artisans who had set up shop in front of the local pizza parlor. Watercolorists, weavers, wood-carvers. He stopped in front of a pottery booth.

A foot-pedaled potter's wheel bulked the middle of the booth. Sacks of clay sat on a shelf behind it alongside unfired pots, some painted, some pale gray. The potter stood over a worktable, wearing an apron over her broom skirt and white T-shirt, her long black hair in a loose braid.

Caleb picked up a bowl painted in the earthy greens, ambers, and cedars of the north woods. A seagull flying above a shoreline etched the bottom.

“Let me know if you have any questions,” the woman said. She took a bag filled with what looked like clay and water and began to knead it from the outside.

Okay, sure. “What is that?”

“A broken pot. It fell off the shelf before I could fire it. Thankfully, it wasn't completely hardened, or I would have had to grind it to powder and start all over. This one, I just took the pieces, let them soak in water for a few days to regain the moisture. I think it's just about ready to be remolded.”

She opened the bag, worked her hand through the clay, finally fishing it out. She dumped it onto a wooden board and began rolling it into a ball.

“Do you have a store in town?” Caleb asked.

“Right up the road. I share commercial space with the bookstore.”

“How long have you lived here?”

“About ten years.
Someday
I hope to be considered a local.” She looked up at him, pushing back wisps of her black hair with her wrist. “Are you visiting?”

“No, I—”

“He's our new social studies teacher, Liza.” This voice he knew, and Caleb turned into the handshake of Mitch O'Conner, head of the school board. A fishing cap, bedazzled with tied lures, protected his blond crew cut, but already the sun had turned his burly arms red. He shifted his coffee cup into his right hand. “You settling in?”

Caleb nodded. “Got here last night. Met the local fire department.”

“So you were the one on the scene. I was talking to one of the firefighters this morning and he mentioned a Good Samaritan. You should volunteer—we could use more men on the squad. And a few of them are on the school board. You might recognize them from your interview.”

Yes, Caleb remembered that interview, six weeks ago. Especially the question
Is there anything that might prevent you from doing this job?
They'd probably had their eye on his scars, those they could see. He'd answered as truthfully as he could.

Not in my estimation.

He'd just have to prove his words right.

“By the way, you should know that a couple of the guys from the board told me we have another candidate for the coaching position.”

“But I thought I would be coaching.” He knew he'd technically been hired to teach psychology and social studies, but he hadn't exactly hidden his true agenda.

“The candidate is Seb Brewster, an alum of Deep Haven High. He's filling a math aide position.” Mitch took a sip of coffee. “Played quarterback, led our team to our last state championship. And . . . he wants the coaching job.” He gestured with his cup. “He's over there in the green shirt, listening to JayJ and the guys.”

The green shirt . . . oh, the guy who looked about six-four, built lean and fast, as if he still spent time on the field, throwing long and scrambling out of the pocket? The man finished his own fish burger and now rose to shake a hand and buddy-hug a couple linebacker-size locals.

“He's already got a fan club in this town, so . . . well . . . I had to swing a deal with the board.”

Something about the look on Mitch's pale-skinned face made Caleb's chest tighten.

“We're going to have a competition.” Mitch made an I'm-sorry face as he spoke, but it didn't lessen the pinch. A competition with the state champ over there? For the job?

Perfect.

Three years ago, Caleb might have outcoached the man blindfolded, his own impressive high school record as running back fodder for serious competition. Today, his leg already ached after an hour of tromping around town, and even with his degrees in teaching and coaching, he hadn't coached seriously since the year he'd graduated from college and worked for the summer youth football camps.

Then, of course, came his two-year National Guard stint in Iraq.

The fish burger soured in his stomach.

Mitch was still talking. “We're going to divide the team in half, and each of you will get a full line. You'll have a couple weeks to whip them into shape, learn a few plays, and then we'll have a scrimmage. We have one every year anyway to give our players a chance to stir up some excitement for the season, and this time, we'll get to evaluate coaches as well as the players. We're not guaranteeing the winner the job, but it won't hurt.”

He took a sip of coffee. “We mostly want to see how you work with your players. This is a long-term gig and we have to make the right investment. We may be a small town, but we're a town that loves our sports teams. Especially football.”

Mitch stared into his coffee as if it held some answers or words. “Frankly, we're still hurting over Coach Presley's accident. Just can't seem to find our footing. Our football program was more than a sport—it was a way to build character into our young men.”

No pressure there. “I knew the old coach was in an accident, but what happened?”

Mitch looked at the kids running along the beach. “Coach got hit by a semi two years ago during homecoming weekend. The accident killed his wife, and he ended up a quadriplegic at the care center. He can't breathe on his own. Great guy. He used to coach me.” Mitch sighed, his gaze bouncing off Caleb, back to the band and Seb Brewster. “It hurts to see him like that. Not to mention what happened to their daughter.”

“Their daughter?”

“She was in the car. Her mother died in her arms. Tragic. She's got some sort of PTSD, had a breakdown.”

PTSD. Yes, he understood that. Knew, too, how a person had to have a firm grip on the love of God to fight the panic attacks that came with it.

Mitch looked at him. “For what it's worth, I'm rooting for you, Caleb. Good luck.”

Yeah, well, he didn't believe in luck. Divine providence, yes. Hard work, you betcha. Caleb smiled back and met Mitch's grip again.

Mitch walked away, but Caleb stood there for a long while, listening to the cry of the gulls, the harmonica solo from the local band, watching the high school boys doing tricks on their boards.

Turning back to the potter, Caleb found her still working the clay, kneading it with the heels of her hands, putting her weight into it as she pushed it into the board.

She looked at him and smiled. “It's nearly ready. The key is to make sure there aren't any air bubbles or hard spots because it'll make it impossible to work with on the wheel.” She rolled the dark clay into a ball, then dropped it back into the bag, twisting it closed. Then she picked up a rag to wipe her hands. “Come by later—I'm going to throw it onto the wheel.”

“What's it going to be?”

“Dunno yet. I guess it'll depend on the clay. How it will work with me.” She put the bag on the shelf, picked out a dollar from her tip jar, and stepped out of the booth into the sun, smoothing the cash between her fingers. “When it's done, you won't even know it was once a broken pot.”

She gave him a wink before crossing to the ice cream stand.

Across the park, Dan dumped into the water to the shrieks of the locals.

And a small crowd had formed around Seb, the local football hero, back for glory.

Back to fill the shoes of a man the town still clearly loved.

Back to steal Caleb's job.

* * *

“If it ain't the Seb-a-na-TOR!”

Seb heard the voice and cringed, fighting hard to wipe the dismay from his face. How he hated that nickname—it sounded so crude. But Big Mike had never denied his redneck roots, football just taming them for a season.

Still, it didn't hurt to have so many of his old teammates happy to see him.

“Hey, Mikey,” Seb said, his voice trying for enough enthusiasm to acknowledge their past camaraderie, not enough to inadvertently invite Mike over to the trailer at midnight with a six-pack of Bud Light.

He might savor the old glory, but Seb wanted a different kind of life this time around.

Mike slapped him on the back. “Just in time! You're gonna run that other guy right outta town.”

“What other guy?”

“There's another guy who wants your job. Got a de-
gree
in coaching, don't ya know it.” Mike gripped his shoulder, gestured past him with his drink.

Of course he did. If Seb had learned anything in football, it was to look out for the guy coming from the blindside, faster, stronger, tougher, ready to take you out. He'd forgotten it once, and it derailed his entire life. Now, he turned, sized up the . . .

Yep, competition.

The guy didn't seem any taller than himself, but he had wide shoulders—probably had a pull-up bar in his bathroom, a weight set in his kitchen. He knew the kind—living, breathing football, every second running plays in his head. Lean, with a shaved head under a red cap, a summer-vacation grizzle on his chin, he wore a stoic expression as if shaking down every kid in town, running him through his mental conditioning course.

“A coaching degree, huh?” Seb had barely passed his last online class. He'd landed the aide job by pulling hard on a few strings. He was hoping the board didn't look too deeply at his grades, the fact that he managed to stretch out his college experience into eight halfhearted, part-time years or that he hadn't exactly landed his teaching certificate. Yet. Thankfully, the school didn't require one for their aides.

It helped that they'd just had a slew of cuts at the school. Desperation, perhaps, made them ask few questions. Hire outside the unions.

Of course, Seb
might
have suggested that the teaching certificate was in the mail. He fully planned on passing during the next round of testing dates.

“Yep,” Mike said. “Supposed to be some sort of superstar, led his team to state as a running back for three years. Set all sorts of records. Played in college, too.” He turned to Seb. “But you played college ball for the Cyclones, so he's got nothin' on you. And you've got Coach's playbook.”

Yeah, Seb had played college ball. For about 7.2 seconds. But as for Coach's magic playbook? “No, I don't.”

“You don't? But weren't you his favorite?”

“No. I just needed a place to crash sometimes. He didn't give me the book.”

“Maybe you can remember the plays.”

He was counting on it. “I hope so. Do you?”

Mike lifted his glass. “I barely remembered them the next day. But go ask Issy for the book. She probably has it at her house.”

“Issy is still in town? Last I heard she was headed out for some big anchor job in the cities.”

“Not after the accident. She can't leave her own house now.”

Seb stared at him, not comprehending. “What?”

“Yeah, she's . . . uh, what do you call it? Agraphobic—”

“Agoraphobic?”

“That's it. Although I saw her in her yard a few days ago, so maybe she's not.” He took a drink. Burped. “Weren't you and she friends?”

Seb lifted a shoulder. Friends. Yes. And then after Lucy, no. But agoraphobic? Oh, Issy, what happened? “She was the coach's daughter, so of course we hung out.”

“Weren't she and Lucy pretty tight?”

Lucy's name stirred up an image in Seb that clenched his teeth. His voice, pitiful to his own ears, emerged without permission. “I think so. Does she still work at the donut shop?”