My Foolish Heart

by Susan May Warren

  Maybe here he could find a new life. A fresh start. A place where people saw Caleb Knight, not his scars.

  The porch light sprayed over the backyard of the house next door, although the lights upstairs had switched off since he’d moved the last box in.

  Maybe the neighbor, too, had voices in his head that kept him thrashing away the night hours.

  Your life is different now, but you’ll get used to it.

  There’s no shame.

  You’re a hero for your country.

  Your disability can be a good thing, if you let it.

  Yeah, sure it could. Although it had opened his eyes to God’s grace, to second chances, and set his focus on being the man he should have been. The man he would be.

  But it didn’t make it any easier to sleep. Not when the sounds and smells of the desert, the taste of fear and his own tinny blood, could crawl back to haunt him. Hence his addiction to late-night talk shows. They filled his brain with sounds that couldn’t hurt.

  Hopefully he could get an Internet connection, pick up The Bean.

  Caleb steadied himself on the porch rail as he climbed the steps. He stopped to rest, to breathe deep. He had to get inside before someone saw him.

  Then again, it had to be close to midnight. Who would see the new football coach limping to his house?

  He opened his door and went inside.

  Closing it, he braced himself on the side table. Ten more steps. He could do ten more steps.

  No . . . he couldn’t, not with the heat in his leg nearly making him howl. He turned around, leaned his back against the door, and collapsed to the floor. Fighting with his cuff, he tried to pull up his pant leg. Shoot, he couldn’t get at it . . .

  So he unbuckled his belt and peeled down his jeans. Then, with hands that shook, he reached down and rolled off the elastic sock that connected his transtibial amputation to his artificial leg.

  2

  How Lucy Maguire hated 3 a.m. The world at 3 a.m. bore a hush that could turn her bones brittle. Not with fear, of course—because who could really be afraid in Deep Haven? A hamlet trapped in time, without a Starbucks, without a mall, without even a movie theater. No, the brittle, almost-breakable sense came from the loneliness of the hour, the fact that only her voice kept her awake as she kneaded dough, processed it through the donut cutter, plopped it into the hot oil.

  Most of all, her solo humming reminded her that upon her size-two shoulders alone hung the confectionary legacy of three generations.

  And she was going to let them all down.

  Lucy slapped her hand on the alarm and buried her head in her pillow. Even if she tried, after all this time, her body simply refused to sleep past three fifteen.

  It made for a stellar social life.

  She rolled over, stared at her ceiling. Pulled out her earplugs and set them on the white wicker nightstand, the one her mother picked up at a garage sale in the Cities when Lucy was twelve. In fact, the entire room overdosed on white wicker, all garnished with pink—a pink bedspread, pink carpet, pink plush pillows.

  She padded across the hallway into the bathroom, dug her toes into the royal blue bath rug, and fished her toothbrush out of the cup. It must have rained in the night because the rug squished between her toes, a victim of her open window. She turned off the water. Sure enough, the random plinks from the poplars looming over the bungalow told her to put on rain gear for her walk to the donut shop.

  A gal had to get her exercise somehow. Especially when she hung around donuts all day. The grease embedded her pores, and indeed, as she peered into the mirror, she resembled a teenager the week before the prom, little bumps of acne across her forehead, where she wore her baseball cap. Then again, she always looked like a teenager, or worse, a ten-year-old. It simply wasn’t fair that Issy landed all the curves while Lucy could still shop in the juniors section at Dillard’s.

  But at least she could shop at Dillard’s, at the mall some two hundred miles away. At least she wasn’t trapped in her house. At least Lucy’s mother was alive, albeit on a beach in Florida, having done her tenure at the donut shop.

  Issy had good reason for her panic attacks, and Lucy, her best friend since first grade, wasn’t judging.

  She scrubbed her face, ran her fingers through her pixie cut, grabbed a red baseball cap, didn’t bother with makeup, and returned to her room. Yesterday’s jeans were good enough, paired with a clean T-shirt and a Deep Haven Huskies sweatshirt.

  Wait—today was the Fisherman’s Picnic parade. They’d expect her on the class float. Well, she’d just have to come home and change.

  Or not. After all, she didn’t have anyone to impress. There wasn’t a soul in town who didn’t know Lucy the donut girl, hadn’t known her since she was three. And wearing pink. Sweet Lucy.

  She hadn’t been sweet since . . . No. Why did every Fisherman’s Picnic have to rouse all the dark memories?

  All her failures.

  She grabbed her raincoat and slipped into her rubber boots. Not bothering to lock the back door, she cut through her yard to Issy’s backyard paradise. Oh, to have one ounce of Issy’s talent. Everything she did, she did well, from gardening to her crazy radio show. Trapped in her home, she was still someone. Miss Foolish Heart.

  But Lucy—oh yes, she could make donuts.

  She closed Issy’s gate and turned onto the flagstone path. Stopped.

  Someone had broken into Issy’s house.

  She ran up the back steps to the shattered door.

  “Issy?” She didn’t care if she woke the whole neighborhood. “Issy?” No light in the kitchen or the front room, or from the upstairs office. But Issy had to be here. What if she was hurt?

  Her boots picked up the glass, which sliced into the ridges and crunched as she ran down the hallway. “Issy!”

  “Here. I’m here.” The voice emerged small, and even as Lucy searched, she couldn’t find her.

  “Where are you?”

  “By the piano.”

  Oh, Issy. Wrapped in her father’s coaching jacket, the one that still smelled of grass stains, Issy had crammed herself under the baby grand in the front parlor. Bare feet stuck out of her jeans, rolled up at the cuffs.

  Lucy flicked on the lamp over the piano. “What happened? Are you okay? Your back door—there’s glass everywhere.” She crouched before Issy. Her long hair hung tangled and crunchy around her face, which was puffy as if she’d been crying.

  “I think there was an accident.”

  “I know; I saw the door. Are you okay?”

  “No, I mean . . . you know. At the light.”

  “At the . . . There was a car accident?”

  “A couple hours ago. You probably had your earplugs in, didn’t you?”

  Lucy nodded, but what did that have to do with Issy’s back door being demolished? “I don’t understand.”

  “I heard the sirens. And I think there was a fire.”

  “Was anyone hurt?”

  “I don’t know. I just—” She drew in a breath, and Lucy had to give her credit for not burrowing back into her father’s coat.

  “Shh. You’re okay. But what about your door?”

  “Oh. There was a dog. I think he must have been afraid of the storm. He broke in.”

  Lucy took Issy’s hands. They radiated heat, clasped as they’d been inside the arms of the jacket. “Are you hurt?”

  Issy swallowed, sadness on her face. “No.”

  “Good. You’re okay. See, you’re okay, right?”

  Issy nodded. “I’m okay.”

  “Where’s the dog?”

  Issy looked past her. “I think he’s upstairs.”

  “C’mon. We’ll get him.” Lucy held on to Issy’s hand and led the way up the stairs.

  Sure enough, the dog had invaded the second floor, helping himself first to the greasy white donut bags, now saliva sloppy and littered across the floor toward—

  “Oh no.” Issy pushed open her parents’ bedroom door.

  L
ucy followed her in. The dog, his feet chunky with globules of earth, his sides slicked with grime, slept in the middle of Issy’s parents’ handmade wedding ring quilt. Mud layered into the creases of the squares. The animal had even settled his head on the matching pillow, dripping saliva into the cotton. The quilt itself was tangled in a circle around him, as if he’d tried to make a nest.

  “Wow. That’s . . .”

  Issy made a strange sound. A burble at first, then a hiccup of something breaking free.

  Lucy turned. Please, don’t let her be unraveling, not again.

  Issy put her hands over her mouth, looked at Lucy, and laughed.

  Out loud. Louder, half-crying, half-laughing. “I guess he likes me.” Her words emerged on more high-pitched giggling.

  “Are you okay? Do you need to sit down, maybe put your head between your knees? Is this the beginning of a panic attack? I don’t know what to do.”

  Issy pressed her fingers under her eyes. “The poor dog sort of looks like me, crazy with fear, trying to find a safe place. If I were him, I’d have done the same thing—gone for the donuts, then curled up in my parents’ bed.” She sat down, ran her hands over the animal. He opened one eye but didn’t move.

  “Issy?”

  Issy’s smile faded. “I’m so tired of this, Lucy. Tired of feeling broken. Tired of letting fear beat me. Tired of hiding in the dark. I just want to be free.”

  Lucy sat next to her. “You will be. One day at a time.”

  “I hope so. One of my callers tonight asked me to go to her wedding. In Napa.”

  “Napa? California? That’s wonderful.”

  Issy gave her a look. “Not so much.”

  “You should go.”

  “How, exactly, might I do that? I can’t even stir up the courage to cross the highway and attend the celebration in town. Bree’s called me three times to get me to ride on this year’s float. Like that’s happening.”

  “You don’t need to ride on the float. I’ll walk down to the corner with you. We can wave together.”

  Issy picked up the animal’s floppy ear. Leaned into it. “Whoever you belong to is going to die a slow, painful death.”

  The dog yawned, groaned, then settled back into sleep.

  Issy glanced at Lucy. “It wouldn’t hurt you to ride the float, you know. A little free World’s Best Donuts advertising?”

  “And it wouldn’t hurt you to go to Napa, a little free advertising for My Foolish Heart.”

  “Touché.”

  Lucy grinned. “I need to go to work.”

  “Go. I’m fine. I think I’ll just join Duncan here.”

  “Duncan?”

  “Doesn’t he look like a Duncan?”

  Lucy kissed her friend’s forehead and let herself out. Sure enough, at the intersection, a couple tow trucks hoisted two dented cars onto their beds. She blinked away the too-raw image captured in the Deep Haven Herald of the fire department pulling the body of Issy’s beautiful mother from the wreckage of their sedan.

  As for Issy’s father . . . well, the town had yet to find a replacement for their most winning football coach, the wound of his injuries still fresh. Thankfully, Coach Presley hadn’t died—although it seemed like it sometimes with him trapped in his bed at the care center. That night had dismantled the football program with one swift, ugly blow. The assistant coach had barely managed to finish out the season and moved out of town. And the volunteers since then hadn’t known the first thing about coaching, let alone how to fill the shoes of a man who’d helped build men of honor.

  Or at least tried to.

  Lucy detoured the other way, crossing a block down from the wreckage, intending on cutting back across the lakeshore toward the donut shop. After fifty years of renting, her family had finally purchased the tiny building on the edge of Main and First. It needed updating, however, the land beneath it worth more than the building. Unfortunately she owed too much money to the bank to consider updating the property.

  She’d sold six hundred fewer donuts yesterday than she had last year at this time. Which meant she’d have trouble making her monthly loan payment yet again. With heating bills and the dip in tourism, clearly her decision to stay open last winter hadn’t been a wise one.

  Maybe she wasn’t exactly cut out for business ownership.

  What if she just called it quits, closed the shop?

  Then what?

  She caught her refection in the dark window of the Java Cup. Hood up, she looked like a waif or perhaps a vagabond.

  Nearly tripping over something on the ground, she stopped. She’d stepped on a piece of cardboard—no, poster board, probably ripped from the door of the coffee shop by the storm. She read it in the dim light.

  Freshly made donuts, sixty cents each. While they last.

  Freshly. Made. Donuts. Sixty cents? She’d been charging eighty for the past two years. A person couldn’t make a living for less than eighty cents a donut.

  While they last? How many had the coffee shop made? Six hundred, perhaps? Almost five hundred dollars of her donut revenue?

  She picked up the sign, her hands shaking, and debated putting it up against the door but then, suddenly, couldn’t.

  She was the donut girl. She ran World’s Best Donuts.

  Marching over to the Dumpster, she held it up to toss it in; then—yes!—she tore it in half. Again. And again.

  She tossed the scraps into the Dumpster. Picked up a rock, threw that inside, too.

  Oh, she wanted to scream, to awaken the town, or . . . something.

  Issy wasn’t the only one tired of being trapped, of being overwhelmed. Tired of the past haunting her, telling her how to live.

  But Lucy was the donut girl. It was all she had. She wasn’t going down without a fight.

  * * *

  “I doubt she was serious, Elliot.” Issy cradled the phone against her ear as she piled the quilt and the sheets into a ball and carried them down to the basement laundry room. At the top of the stairs, she pulled the dangling cord, and light bathed the cobwebs, the cracked, ancient cement floor that had seen too many days as a hockey rink.

  “I guarantee you that Lauren O’Grady was serious. So serious that I got a call this morning on my home phone from the governor himself asking for your number.”

  “Hence why you dragged me out of bed at 6 a.m.?” Although Issy had never visited Elliot in New York, she imagined him as an older fellow, well dressed, his hair slicked back, with sharp, dark eyes. He had approached her on behalf of Late Night Lovelorn after listening to her podcasts online.

  Podcasts that Oscar, the producer from Deep Haven’s local radio station, had posted after she’d hosted a few book club call-in shows from her remote location at home. Elliot had heard them online and cajoled her into starting a talk show. My Foolish Heart had been his creation, and in those early days, it kept her from the black hole of grief that wanted to suck her in, seal her off completely from life.

  “Who are you kidding, Issy? You never sleep. You’re always online.”

  What did he expect? My Foolish Heart had become her entire life. It had grown to a national show, with a forum and a chat room and a life to it that made her feel too much like the television host she’d once upon a time aspired to be.

  Someday, she might even reveal her identity to the world. To Deep Haven. But not quite yet. She couldn’t bear the comments that might follow.

  Such a shame what happened to her parents.

  Three days in the hospital after the funeral.

  She didn’t leave her house for almost a year.

  And all this time that she was hiding out, she was pretending to be a romance therapist!

  Talk about driving her back into her home, never to be seen again. “You didn’t give my number out, did you?” She piled the laundry onto the dryer and opened the washer lid.

  “I can’t be bought, yet, but have you given any thought to your ratings, Issy? This could be a real boost. Imagine, broadcasting live from Laur
en O’Grady’s wedding.”

  She pushed the laundry into the washer, added soap, turned on the water. “I don’t think she’d like that.”

  “Of course we’d wait until after the wedding, but we’d have some taped interviews from guests, talk about how My Foolish Heart helped her commit to marriage.”

  “All I did was offer some commonsense romance advice my mother gave me. ‘Don’t call boys; wait until they ask you out. Dress like a woman you want them to respect. Expect the best from your date. Don’t give away the goods.’ I never expected the show to go viral. I thought I was hosting a radio show for aficionados of classic romances.” She climbed the stairs and turned off the light. Now to attack the back door. She’d already swept up the glass, but she needed to put a piece of plywood or cardboard over the frame to keep the mosquitoes—and apparently, wildlife—out.

  She’d already fed Duncan the last of Lucy’s donuts before the dog took off, tail wagging after his bed-and-breakfast stay.

  She sort of hoped he came back. After a bath, of course. He made a nice companion. A man of few words. Kind eyes. Afraid of storms. Someone she could relate to.

  “And that’s what’s made you so popular. Common sense. Principles. And the fact you are so well-read. You’re the only talk show that reads passages from Jane Eyre and Romeo and Juliet and Sense and Sensibility aloud.”

  “We can always learn from the classics.”

  “But looking ahead to the future wouldn’t hurt. Late Night Lovelorn Network is willing to pay for your trip, set you up in a hotel, provide you with transportation and a staff to make this happen.”

  She stepped through the door, surveyed the damage, and sighed. “No.”

  “I don’t understand your phobia. What, do you think you’re going to get hurt? I’d fly out, be right there with you.”

  Most people didn’t understand panic attacks, really. It wasn’t a fear of leaving the house. It was a fear of being out of control, of something happening that she didn’t expect and then reacting poorly. Poorly, aka running away, hiding, dropping into the fetal position, weeping. Making a scene for the entire world to watch.