My Foolish Heart

by Susan May Warren

  “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?”

  “Owns it, I think. Hey, the parade’s about to start. Aren’t you gonna be on the float?”

  Seb shook his head as Mike jogged away, probably to inform what remained of their senior class that the Sebanator had returned.

  He didn’t even want to imagine the look on Lucy’s face. What was I to you, Seb? A fling? A mistake? Her words could still turn his throat to fire. Of course, no. Never.

  But in the end, yes.

  And what had happened to Issy? He should stop by and see her.

  The crowd began to push toward the sidewalk along Main. He found a place next to the kettle corn stand and stared up First Street to watch.

  The Deep Haven parade lasted an entire twenty minutes. But crowds packed the sidewalks, anxious for everything from the old-fashioned cars carrying the Huskies Booster Club Fan of the Year, to the Humane Society float with children holding abandoned puppies and kittens, to the mayor giving a thumbs-up from the back of a convertible, to finally the North Shore Queen and her subjects, waving from a float decked out in green. He read the name on the side—Sarah Mulligan. Lucky Sarah, she’d have her face immortalized in a block of butter at this summer’s state fair dairy pavilion.

  Issy had been the North Shore Butter Girl the summer after their senior year. He’d made a point of avoiding the dairy pavilion.

  He’d always believed the Butter Girl should have been Lucy. But Lucy had never been the kind to stand out, to vamp up onstage for a crown.

  And by the time the pageant came along, Lucy had disappeared into her donut shop.

  The “Class of” floats started in the sixties, sporadic as they worked forward by year until they reached his decade.

  He had to admit that he was curious.

  Curious about P-Train, his running back, and Bam, and DJ Teague, his wide receiver who could catch any of his passes, even when he threw them wide or long.

  But most of all, yes, he wanted to see Lucy. Wanted to see that she’d made something of herself, that she’d healed. Even gotten over him.

  He wouldn’t dare to hope that she’d forgiven him.

  The float came into view—a flatbed pulled by a Ford truck, and of course, Big Mike rode in the bed, waving for his fans. Seb waved to Bam, barely recognizing him with his beard and fifty extra pounds. Behind him—was that P-Train? What had happened to his running back’s hair?

  He searched then along the people sitting on the flatbed, their legs dangling off the edge. Monica Rice, Abby Feldstone, Bree Sanders.

  No Lucy.

  Except . . . there, behind the float, a slight girl—er, woman—wearing skinny jeans and a black T-shirt with white type that read Got Donuts?

  She handed out flyers to the crowd, one by one, behind the float. A smile on her face, and although she’d cut her beautiful, silky long hair, she looked . . .

  Breathtaking.

  And was coming his direction.

  For a moment, he panicked. He should slink into the crowd before she saw him. But maybe, maybe she’d smile at him. Remind him of their happy moments.

  Tell him that she’d forgiven him for betraying her.

  He blew out a breath, tried to keep his body from freezing, tried to keep his stomach from roiling.

  Lucy handed a flyer to the man next to him.

  Seb reached for one. Met her eyes. “Hi, Lucy.”

  Time stopped, or perhaps just his heart, as Lucy’s gaze found him.

  Her beautiful smiled dimmed. “What are you doing here?”

  So much for his welcome home.

  * * *

  “I have a new neighbor. And I’m hungry.”

  “I just saw Seb Brewster.”

  Issy let a beat pass. “You win. Go.”

  “I don’t have time. I’ve got a donut rush after passing out flyers at the parade. But . . . well, he looks good. Too good.”

  Issy switched the phone to her other ear. “Seb was at the parade?”

  “Yep. Listen, if you need food, I’ll be by after work with leftovers.”

  “So we’re not going to talk about Seb’s return? Okay, then I need something more than donuts. Vegetables, fruit. Diet Coke.” She opened the cupboard. “What kind of lunch could I make with a stale half package of Ramen noodles, two packets of ketchup, a mail-sample bag of some new brand of healthy cereal, and a box of hardened raisins?”

  Lucy laughed, then greeted the mayor. “You know, you could go to the grocery store.” The ring of a cash register. “You’re ready. This is the next step. You can do this, Issy. I believe in you.”

  Strange, once upon a time, it had been Issy comforting Lucy. A different lifetime.

  Issy stared at herself in the microwave door. “Yes. Yes, I can do this,” she said. Yes. She refused to let fear trap her in her house. First this, and then . . . maybe she’d tell her neighbor to get off her grass.

  Then, someday, Napa.

  “Go to the grocery store. I’ll see you tonight.” Lucy hung up.

  How hungry, really, was she?

  She grabbed the sample bag of cereal, worked it open, and peered inside. Granola of sorts.

  Nudging open her back door, now covered in refrigerator-box cardboard, she walked out to her porch, sat on the steps, and surveyed her tiny piece of heaven.

  Yes, sitting here in the backyard might be enough to nourish her, with the August breeze reaping the fragrance of the Pilgrim roses next to the porch, the dainty tea roses along the path.

  Issy could live right here, in her mother’s backyard, forever.

  To think, there’d been a time when she couldn’t wait to escape it.

  Thank You, God, for leaving me my mother’s garden. But the thought twined around her like nettles.

  She emptied the last of the cereal into her mouth and blinked back the moisture in her eyes.

  Her stomach still growled.

  Really, how hard was it to walk two blocks to the grocery store, fill her canvas bag with essentials, and walk home? She didn’t have to talk to anyone. She could paste on a smile and not meet any gaze straight on. She visualized herself walking through the automatic doors of the tiny store. Saw herself picking up a red plastic basket. Plotted her route through the aisles. She’d start at the bakery for bread, then head to the frozen foods and finally the dairy section, grab some eggs, yogurt, milk. She’d end at the vegetable aisle for lettuce. Maybe pick up some dressing. All that could fit into her tote bag, the one just big enough to keep her from buying too much to carry.

  She’d pay with her bank card, then walk home. Still smiling.

  She could do this.

  Take your time. There’s no rush. You’re in control.

  Rachelle’s voice pulsed in her head, and it pushed Issy off the back porch, to the front door. She found her flip-flops, her canvas grocery bag, her purse, her sunglasses. Glanced in the mirror by the door. When was the last time she wore makeup?

  Probably the day of her mother’s funeral.r />
  The thought caught her up, filled her throat.

  Use your tools.

  “For God has not given us a spirit of fear.”

  “If God is for us, who can ever be against us?”

  “I can do everything through Christ, who gives me strength.”

  She had no problem walking to the end of her block or the next. See? She was making progress. In fact, she’d pushed the boundaries of her world out that far just recently with her daily run. Only a light sweat beaded her skin as she crossed First Avenue diagonally into the parking lot of the Red Rooster Grocery Store.

  Which, she noticed, overflowed with cars. What was wrong with these people? Didn’t they see the celebration going on downtown? Please don’t let the place be packed with familiar faces.

  Including hers. Just her luck, someone would notice her. Hello, Issy. How’s your father?

  Of course, people had stopped offering condolences for her mother more than a year ago.

  Issy pulled in a breath, something stalwart and deep, before she stepped onto the mat that opened the automatic door.

  Cool, canned air, the beep of the scanners, voices and conversations, and the smell of produce sucked her into the store. She kept her sunglasses on under the fluorescence and went to grab a basket.

  The bin was empty.

  No problem. No problem. She took a breath in, out, then unhooked a cart from the stack and dumped her bag into the seat in the front.

  She gripped the handle with two hands.

  Bakery section. She kept her eyes on her goal even as she noticed a familiar face in the cereal aisle—Mark someone, from the Elks Club. And there, by the deli, Diann, who used to work in the school library.

  Issy grabbed a loaf of wheat bread, dropped it into her cart, then cut toward the frozen foods.

  She kept one hand on her cart while she opened the door, the air raising gooseflesh as she grabbed for a frozen entrée; she didn’t care what flavor.

  Across from her, Nancy from the café glanced at Issy as she grabbed a carton of ice cream. Her toddler daughter kicked her feet against the cart. Was that baby one or two?

  Issy didn’t stop to ask, kept her smile affixed as she nodded, despite the swelling of her throat. Just keep moving.