My Foolish Heart

by Susan May Warren

  She picked up a carton of yogurt, a package of cheese, then beelined for the refrigerated dairy case.

  A man dressed in a blue oxford, a red baseball cap on his head, stood contemplating the sour cream. He didn’t seem familiar, but she didn’t expect to know everyone in Deep Haven. Especially after all this time. She turned away, stepping back from her cart to grab a half gallon of milk.

  The heat fogged the glass on her door even as she heard his section slam, heard his cart rattle.

  She grabbed her milk, closed the door, turned.

  No cart.

  She looked up to see the stranger hauling her food away, dragging the cart behind him like an afterthought.

  Wait. “Hey!”

  The word came out more strident than she intended, panic laced in her tone.

  He didn’t stop.

  She clutched the milk to her chest. “Hey! You!” She ran up and grabbed the cart, jerking him to a stop. “That’s my cart.” Had she shouted it? A woman looked at her from the cleanser aisle.

  The thief turned to face her, his back to her momentarily, and that’s when she saw it. On the opposite side of his body, emerging from the neck of his shirt and crawling up his head to underneath his cap, a wave of reddened skin, rumpled and shiny, as if it had been peeled back from his body. It touched his jaw and wrinkled his ear and she had no doubt that his cap hid something brutal.

  “This is your cart?”

  He was speaking, and she barely managed to rip her gaze from his scars to his eyes—blue, so blue that they sucked her breath from her with their intensity. “Uh.”

  “Oh, it is. I’m so sorry. I thought that was mine.” He leaned down to take out his sour cream.

  Her gaze followed his movements and affixed on his scars. The skin on the top of his hand snarled into a tight ball, and where his pinkie finger had been, there remained only a nub.

  He’d been burned.

  She froze, all other thoughts stripped.

  Burned.

  Her breaths came fast. She opened her mouth again, but only a mangled whimper emerged.

  “Are you okay?”

  Please, don’t make a scene. But what was the man going to do with a woman hyperventilating before him?

  “Can I help you with something?”

  From the meat section, Diann looked up.

  No. Don’t look. Please, don’t—

  The cruel hand of the past reached up for her. She smelled the smoke, heard her mother’s screams. Her own screams.

  “Ma’am?”

  A keening filled her brain and she prayed it wasn’t audible as she pushed away from him, leaving the cart, her groceries, her bag right there. She quick-walked past the cereal aisle, the bakery, and heard her own breaths rip out of her as she picked up her pace, nearly crashing into the automatic doors.

  As if in a tunnel, she heard the slapping of her feet against the pavement as she fled across the parking lot.

  She lost a flip-flop, came down hard on the ball of her foot, scraping skin against pavement. But she didn’t care, just ran, eyes on her house.

  She climbed the stairs, threw open the door, and slammed it hard, breathing out. Her hands palmed the cool wooden floor as she dropped to her knees.

  Then, losing her other flip-flop, she crawled over to the piano in the front parlor and slipped underneath, pulling her legs to herself.

  So much for miracles.

  4

  After three years, Caleb thought he’d be used to the reaction of a pretty girl to his scars. Thought it wouldn’t hurt so much for someone to freeze, polite words ripped from her mouth, leaving only a mumble in reply. Sure, culture had conditioned most people into a cool, hey, I don’t see that you’re hurt sort of facade, but Caleb could still read it in their eyes.

  He was damaged. Scarred. Frightening.

  And sometimes, when he looked at his body in the mirror, he might agree with them. When he stared at the pucker of scars along his arm, his back, down his leg, and remembered the body he’d had, it could cripple him into seeing only what he wasn’t.

  But he’d long ago refused to focus on his wounds.

  And today, at the celebration, he’d actually forgotten them.

  However, he’d never driven a woman away in a state of horror before. Caleb had watched her go, torn between wanting to run after her and apologize—for what, really?—or quickly walk away, pretend it never happened.

  Pretend he’d never served his country? Pretend that he hadn’t survived when others didn’t? No, that didn’t seem right.

  Which left only frustration.

  And of course, a fresh wound where he thought he’d healed. Thankfully, the checkout girl smiled sweetly at him as he paid. He loaded his two bags of groceries into the back of his truck and drove the less than two blocks home. Probably he could have walked, but the jaunt around town had fatigued him and he needed to save his energy for practice.

  The last thing he needed was an injury before he met the team. A football coach had to be tougher and smarter than his players.

  Especially if he hoped to wrench the job away from Seb the champion. He couldn’t believe that Mitch had roped him into this competition.

  He would prove that he could be the best football coach Deep Haven had seen since . . . well, since they’d lost Coach Presley. Caleb knew what it felt like to lie on the sidelines, broken and defeated, and planned to do everything he could to restore the Huskies’ winning streak and get the Deep Haven football program back on its feet.

  Coach Presley cast a long shadow, but Caleb didn’t plan to linger in it long. God hadn’t given him a second chance for him to quit.

  Caleb climbed out of the truck, touching down on the groomed lawn of his neighbor. They built these lots small in little towns, and his two-wheel paved driveway couldn’t contain his truck, his tires flattening the edges of her grass. He glanced at the house—a two-story Victorian with dormer windows. Pretty, with light blue paint, a white railing, a couple potted geraniums on the steps, roses in the bed flanking the stairs. Still, it was only a hint of what lay behind the fence in the backyard.

  The garden belonged in a designer magazine, not trapped inside this frozen wasteland just south of the Canadian tundra. Lilacs and roses—must be ten kinds of roses—and pots of overflowing pink and red and white geraniums on the back deck, and a stone pathway winding through it all. In the center sat a royal blue birdbath and a wooden bench. It called to him to plop himself in the middle until the whir of his brain stilled to a soft flutter.

  Yes, he liked his neighbor’s garden. And when he’d stopped home after the parade, he’d seen the owner working in it, her long brown curly hair like a waterfall down her back, her skin baked by the sun.

  He’d like to meet her.

  Except, maybe not at this moment. Perhaps he’d let his ego heal first. Just in case she reacted the same way as the woman in the store. But if there was a way to meet a nice woman in this town, he wouldn’t resist.

  Caleb stood now, groceries in each arm, looking at her house, remembering her sitting back on her heels as she soaked in the sun, the way she lifted her face to the sky, wiping her brow with her forearm, and . . .

  The woman in the grocery store. She’d worn sunglasses, but something about her . . . That long brown hair, the tanned arms. A pretty girl.

  Oh no.

  And to think he’d come to this town to start a new life. Perhaps he was dreaming too big for a guy with his scars. Maybe he should come to accept the horror in the eyes of women. After all, what woman would stick around long enough to get to know him, to see past his wounds?

  He crossed around the back of the pickup into the forest of his front yard. He needed to mow, but he hadn’t seen a mower in the shed. He heard his foot scuff on the cement pathway, shuffled up it, found his front steps.

  He should put one of the bags down, hold on to the railing, but four steps wouldn’t topple him, right?

  Caleb managed the first, was on the second wh
en he heard the barking. A deep, throaty bark that issued from the belly of something large. He turned and spied the dog rushing up the stairs beside him. It knocked him on his bad leg, and he was a goner.

  The groceries flew as Caleb grabbed for the railing, but it didn’t stop him from twisting, going down, slamming hard into the steps. Pain spiked up his leg, all the way into his brain. He ground his teeth against the burn as he reached out to swat the dog.

  “Dog! Get!”

  The animal trundled down the stairs, then turned, his tail slicing the air. He barked as if saying, Don’t just sit there! Play with me!

  “You’re the one who’s been digging for gold in my backyard, aren’t you? You’re going to kill me, animal. Go decimate someone else’s yard.”

  He’d describe the beast as a cross between a mastiff and a Saint Bernard, brown and black with saggy eyes and a tail that should be registered as a lethal weapon. Mud caked its coat, and balls of matted fur hung from its tail.

  “Please don’t tell me you’re homeless.” He reached for the dog, and it came to him, slurped him in the face as Caleb ran his hand down its neck. Frayed and caked with mud, the collar revealed nothing in the way of identification.

  “Awesome. Are you hungry? What was this, an ambush?”

  Sure enough, the dog scooped up the bacon and ran for the hills.

  “I hope you get trichinosis!” Caleb yelled.

  Groceries. All over his front yard. He looked to see if the neighbor might be peering out her window. Or if the folks across the street, next door to the library, might be on their front porch, staring.

  Thankfully, no one saw his dinner scattered on the lawn. No questions to answer, no help to refuse.

  Caleb moved to get up, and that’s when the pain screamed through him. He had wrenched his knee harder than he realized yesterday. But he fought his way down to the yard, forced himself to pick up the crushed sour cream, milk, the sodden carton of eggs, the flattened bread, and the can of beans.

  He blew out too many breaths as he worked his way back up the stairs with his loot, returned for the second bag, full of bruised apples, canned corn, and a package of crushed Oreos.

  He piled it all in the entryway and closed the door behind him, refusing to listen to the small, dark voice inside that told him to quit and drive as fast as he could away from Deep Haven.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe Seb Brewster is back.”

  Lucy sat on the back porch swing of Issy’s house, nursing a cup of tea. Above Issy’s head, the porch light had flicked on, drawing moths flirting with death. Cicadas chirruped, backdropped by the sound of “Twist and Shout,” a local band playing the standards for the street dance. Tonight, after Issy’s show, they’d sit on her front porch and watch the fireworks. She could stay up for that.

  Lucy refused to imagine Seb at the dance. “He looks really good. I’m going to have to hate him for that.” She watched the moonlight glisten on the freshly replanted hosta, the row of ostrich fern, Virginia bluebells, and . . . “What are those big red flowers called?”

  “The ones against the fence? Hibiscus. They’re perennials.” Issy sat on the steps, leaning back against the post, one foot on the lower step, the other drawn underneath her. She picked at the take-out container of grilled corn, the now-cold fish burger Lucy had brought over. “Thanks for dinner.”

  “You really ran out of the grocery store?”

  “I feel sick. Just ill. I cannot believe I treated him like that.”

  “You were in shock.”

  “I was rude. And hurtful.” Issy drove her hands into her long hair, and Lucy didn’t know how to comfort her. “I am just praying for a chance to apologize, but how’s that going to happen? I swear I’m never walking out of this house again.”

  “Stop. I’m sure he understands.”

  “Oh, you don’t know how bad it was. But it had nothing to do with his scars, which, frankly, aren’t that bad. He has a handsome face—or at least amazingly blue eyes. I do remember that much. But, oh, Lucy.” She shook her head as if to dispel the memory. “Let’s talk about Seb. Did he say anything? What do you mean he looks good?”

  “That black curly hair, those mysterious green eyes. He’s filled out—big shoulders, thick arms. Definitely looks like he played football for some college team. . . .”

  Lucy played with her tea bag, remembering Seb standing on the sidewalk, next to the kettle corn stand, as she’d passed out her scribbled Buy one, get one free flyers. For a second, seeing him had knocked the wind right out of her, rushed at her that feeling she’d had the first time he looked at her or, better, seeing him waiting for her after school astride his motorcycle.

  Talk about rude—What are you doing here? But it was a good question.

  “Didn’t Seb play for Iowa State?” Issy said, reaching for dessert—a cold raised glazed donut.

  “Two years, I think.” Actually, exactly seven games and three quarters before a late, blindside hit blew out his knee, but telling Issy that would only ignite more questions. “Funny, he stood there, his hands shoved into his pockets, looking embarrassed.”

  “He should be.”

  “Not anymore. I mean, c’mon, that was eight years ago. I think I can forgive him for breaking my heart.”

  Issy looked up and for a second held Lucy’s gaze, then shook her head. “You cried for six months.”

  “I was a hormonal teenager.”

  “You dated for a year. And he cheated on you.”

  Yes, that’s what Issy knew. Lucy couldn’t bear to tell her the whole truth.

  Better to let Issy think that Seb had simply broken her heart.

  Not stolen her virtue or turned her into a woman who betrayed herself.

  Seb had left such deep wounds that sometimes she still bled. Like today.

  “Seb Brewster has been out of my life for nearly a decade. Trust me, that’s long enough to get him out of my system.”

  Issy smiled. “If you say so. And by the way, let’s go back to the flyers you were handing out at the parade. Really? You were in the parade?”

  “Yes, and Bree said to tell you hi and that if you need your hair done, she’d be glad to stop by.”

  “You always were so nice, Lucy. Even to Bree.”

  Lucy pulled out the tea bag, dropped it onto the saucer, pushing away the image of Bree in Seb’s arms. Shoot, she’d thought she had deleted that from her memory. “That’s me. The nice girl.” She took a sip of tea and managed not to choke. “I declare a moratorium on nice. Did you know the coffee shop is serving donuts?”

  She could have hugged Issy for her appropriate look of shock.

  “Yep. They had a sign on their door—they’re selling them for sixty cents. Sixty!”

  “That’s simply not right.”

  “Which is why I was out handing out flyers. Did you know that I made 2,486 donuts today?”

  “That’s a lot of donuts.”

  “Not enough. I’m down by six hundred from last year at this time.”

  “Six hundred donuts?”

  “That’s about five hundred dollars.” She took another sip of tea. “Tell me I love my job.”

  “You love your job.”

  “Tell me that buying my parents’ business wasn’t a huge mistake.”

  “You made a stellar investment. It’s the only donut shop in a hundred miles.”

  “Tell me I love donuts.”

  “You love donuts.”

  Lucy looked at her. “I hate donuts.”

  Issy took another bite. “You don’t hate donuts.”

  “Oh, but I do. I’ve been making donuts every single solitary day since I was twelve. I hate donuts with everything inside me. I loathe donuts. I wish nothing but terrible things for donuts. I despise the dough and the glaze and the chocolate—”

  “Please stop talking. You’re hurting me.” Issy took another bite. “And the donut. It’s in pain. Shh . . . wait until I’ve eaten it.”

  Lucy bit back a
smirk. “Fine, okay, I don’t hate donuts. I’m just saying, I never thought, when Mrs. Childers assigned us to write, ‘Where will you be in ten years’ for our senior essay, that my answer would turn out to be ‘Serving up coffee and donuts down at the harbor.’”

  “Being a donut girl is a noble profession.”

  “Now you’re just lying to make me feel better.”

  “Isn’t that what best friends do?” Issy finished the donut. “And no, I’m not. Think of how lonely and donutless I’d be without you.”

  “My mission in life—to fill the earth with donuts.”

  “Donuts are joy in a little sugary package.”

  “No, donuts have a hole in them. Which says that something is missing. Probably a good metaphor for my life.”

  Oops, she hadn’t meant to get quite that transparent. Please, Issy, don’t ask.

  “Oh, Lucy. You’re the most beloved girl in town. You know everyone, and everyone knows you. What could you be missing?”

  See? She had everyone fooled. She lifted a shoulder. “I might be missing my donut shop by this time next year if I can’t make my payments. Which means I have to fight for donut control of Deep Haven.”

  “Maybe we could rally the community.”

  “Like when we tried to get Pierre’s Pizza to start delivery? Yeah, that worked.”

  Issy made a face. “I miss their gourmet spaghetti, with the pepperoni and olives? Yum.” She licked glaze off her fingers. “Talk to the mayor. Jerry loves the donut shop. Doesn’t this town have some sort of no-compete clause? Or why don’t you talk to Kathy? Find out why she’s serving donuts.”

  “Kathy’s wanted to serve donuts since my mother started making lattes and cappuccino.”

  “Then I think your mother started it.”

  “And left me to finish it. I have to get creative. Figure out a way to beat them at their game.”

  “What about delivery? I’d have a standing order.”

  “I don’t have the money—or the manpower—to begin a delivery service.”

  “How about adding a drive-through?”

  “A drive-through?” Lucy made a face. “It’s so . . . big city.”

  “Listen, tourists love to drive. The Java Cup has a drive-through. The Dairy Queen has a drive-through. Why can’t you? And it might cut down on some of those mile-long lines.”