My Foolish Heart

by Susan May Warren

  The man had Issy’s eyes. Or rather, Issy had his eyes, gray-blue and deep and looking inside him even as he smiled. He could trace Issy’s sculptured face, too, the edge of a tough jaw, despite the folds of skin around Presley’s neck.

  “Go ahead . . . son.” Presley’s voice emerged from a distance, as if trapped inside his body, and it died at the end. He hadn’t considered the man’s inability to talk. Caleb glanced at Dan.

  “Because of his trach, he can only talk as the ventilator expels the air from his lungs. So it has to be short and sweet. And he can’t modulate his voice, so you might have to lean close to hear him.”

  Caleb scooted up his chair. “I just wanted to come by and introduce myself. I, uh . . . I know I can never take your place, but I wanted to tell you that I’ll do my best for the team. You left quite a legacy.”

  The ventilator drew the air from Coach’s lungs. “Meet my daughter?”

  Caleb glanced at Dan.

  “I mentioned you two were neighbors,” Dan said.

  “Yes. I have. She’s, uh, a very pretty girl.” Oh, good grief; he sounded like he might be in high school.

  The coach’s gaze moved to Dan, and he smiled. For a second, Caleb saw a spark of the coach who had heralded his team to state championship glory—tough, smart, and savvy.

  “I recapped this week of practice for him, filled him in on the little competition the town has going on,” Dan said. “I hope it’s okay—I told him about lunch on Sunday. I’m glad you made it by.”

  The respirator made a round as Caleb wiped his hands on his pant legs.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Southern Minnesota. Played running back for a small town. We won our state championship for our division.”

  “College scholarship?”

  “No. I . . .” He glanced again at Dan. “I was fast, but I wasn’t the big leagues. I would have barely gotten off the bench for Ohio State. So I found a college that let me play and taught me the fundamentals of coaching. I got my degree in teaching there—psychology. My dream has always been to coach high school football.”

  His leg had begun to ache and now he longed to put it up, straight, on a chair. “The National Guard helped foot the bill for college, so I went to Iraq straight after. I had planned to finish my commitment, then come back and find a school where I could coach.”

  Coach waited until his ventilator wheezed the breath out. “Get hurt there?”

  Had he been rubbing his leg too much? Caleb eased back in his chair, folded his hands. Coach might be just the man to whom Caleb could tell his secrets. But what if the old coach rooted for Brewster?

  Despite the concern in the man’s eyes, and with Dan sitting here, Caleb ducked the truth of his injury. “I did. But it doesn’t interfere with my coaching.”

  Coach considered him, and Caleb looked away. Dan too wore a strange expression.

  Finally, “You want to help my team?”

  It was the longest sentence yet, and it spilled out almost as a gasp, desperation in his tone.

  “Yes, actually. Yes.” Caleb sat up and leaned forward. “I really do. I’ve always wanted to coach a small-town team, like mine. I want to help mold boys into honorable and courageous young men, and football is a great way to do that. I hope to lead the Huskies to a state championship. Or three.” Nothing fake about his smile this time.

  Coach nodded, blinked, and from his eye, moisture dribbled down his cheek. Caleb’s own therapist back at Walter Reed warned him that trauma injuries could weaken a man’s emotional threshold. Caleb himself could tear up at a Hallmark movie. Still, the coach’s emotions made him turn away.

  Dan still wore that strange expression. Like he and Coach Presley shared an inside secret. “Coach here has been praying for someone like you for a long time, Caleb,” he said. “A very long time.”

  10

  A person shouldn’t be allowed to grill while his neighbor worked in the yard. Especially when Issy still had a bed of pansies to deadhead before she could go in, grab a flimsy grilled cheese sandwich, and hang out in the forum for an hour or two before her show. That always gave the ratings a boost—Miss Foolish Heart’s appearance on the message boards.

  She needed her online friends after today’s grilling from Rachelle. Say hello? Stop thinking about what the town thought of her, how to make her world safe? Rachelle made everything sound so easy. Try living with her memories and see how safe the world felt.

  Her stomach growled. Issy tried to ignore the aroma, as well as the country twang lifting over the fence into her yard, followed by Duncan’s excited barking.

  Figures the dog preferred Coach Knight-in-Shining-Armor to her. She only fed him donuts. She’d seen the coach feed him a couple burgers. Cheater.

  She’d bet BoyNextDoor wasn’t a dog stealer. Okay, fine, so her neighbor hadn’t actually stolen his own dog from her, but Duncan had spent the day in her shade, on her porch, eating her leftovers.

  BoyNextDoor probably had his own dog. Something pedestrian and well behaved. A miniature schnauzer or a poodle. Even a collie. Named . . . maybe Frank. Or Harold. Something all-American.

  She threw the dead flowers into her compost bin and gave it a stir. The odor made her turn away, toward the scent of dinner.

  Maybe tonight BoyNextDoor was outside, throwing a Frisbee to his collie named Frank, after making a flank steak. And a nice arugula salad with pine nuts and raspberry vinaigrette. Maybe he was sitting on his front steps, waving to the neighbor in his suburb of . . . Chicago? Maybe Grayslake? Or Schaumburg?

  In some strange way, knowing that Coach Knight was grilling hamburgers on the other side of the fence and playing with his dog stirred an almost-sweet warmth in her stomach.

  Sort of like how she felt when Lucy showed up after work to chat.

  Or a picnic on the front porch.

  Or when she logged online, found her favorite people in the forum, or on the phone line. What if BoyNextDoor came on the show tonight?

  See, this was why she shouldn’t date. If she looked forward to seeing online or hearing the voice of a man she’d never formally met—a man whose real name she didn’t even know—how could she be trusted to remain calm and keep her head around a man she actually liked and met in person?

  Not that she liked BoyNextDoor. No, she just wanted to watch her ratings spike again. Every time he called in, activity exploded on her forum boards. Better, online memberships had nearly doubled this week over last.

  BoyNextDoor was simply good for My Foolish Heart.

  Most of all, he wasn’t a living, breathing soul who could watch her unravel right before his eyes.

  Even if that soul did . . . clean up.

  She’d snagged a look at Coach Knight climbing out of his pickup earlier and something inside her simply . . . stopped. He looked . . .

  Well, what was the man doing in Deep Haven? With that tan, chiseled jaw, his beard clipped to a smart goatee, wearing khakis—he probably had a meeting with the school board or the bank.

  Still, he was certainly no BoyNextDoor. BoyNextDoor would be trying to find ways to meet the girl of his dreams. Make her smile.

  Ask her out on a date.

  She reached in past the thick, spiny stalks of her rugosa to yank the last of the weeds from the soil. “Ow!”

  Watch those wild roses, honey. They have a bite.

  Her mother’s voice sank into her mind, a bitter warning that could bring tears to her eyes. She dropped the weeds into the bucket.

  The sun had risen, hot, unforgiving, the breeze barely tempering that Labor Day weekend.

  “I know how to weed a garden, Mother. I just don’t know why we have to get up at the crack of dawn on the last day of my vacation.”

  Her mother had leaned back, her face shaded by a garden hat, and wiped her tanned arm across her brow. “I just wanted to spend more time with you before you left. We never see you anymore. I miss you.”

  After all these years, her mother still spoke with an accen
t, one that suggested she’d lived life in some exotic location. Indeed, had her father not played football in Italy, he and Gabriella would have never met.

  “I miss you too, Mama,” Issy had replied. Only, well, the two years since college graduation had felt a little like flying. Issy had poured herself into her journalism degree and landed a job at a cable station in Duluth, writing scripts and working as a producer. But what she really wanted was to be in front of the camera, doing a talk show about current issues. Books. Movies. Even, if she had to, sports.

  “You’ll be back for homecoming?”

  Issy moved away from the roses to pinch the dead buds of the pansies into the bucket. “I’ll try.”

  She didn’t have to turn to see her mother’s lips press together in a tight, hold-her-tongue line.

  “I just don’t love Deep Haven like you do, Mama. It’s so small. Everyone knows everyone.”

  “That’s the charm, honey. But perhaps you’ll come home for your father’s game, not the town.”

  Her mother didn’t play fair. Yes, she would do anything for her father, including driving home three hours for a Friday night football game. Especially now that his championship team had graduated.

  Indeed, she loved football too. Loved to watch him stalk the sideline. Loved to listen to him coach his players. Even loved his Thursday night burger and ice cream parties in her mother’s backyard, the game of touch football in the front yard.

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good. Come here and smell these Pilgrim roses.” Her mother snipped off a bloom, held it out to Issy.

  “You’re not taking them all off, are you?”

  “I’m pruning them down so they’ll produce more blooms.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yes, but I promise, it’ll come back fuller.” She had stood, kissed her daughter on her forehead, leaving Issy standing in the sunlight, a line of sweat dribbling down her back.

  Her mother hadn’t lived to see how the roses bloomed again, double in size.

  “Roger! Come back here!”

  Issy heard a thump next to her and turned to see a football stuck in her burning bush. “Hey!”

  A second later, Duncan blasted into a loose board in her father’s impenetrable fence. He wiggled his beefy body through the opening and plowed headfirst into the burning bush, emerging with the football in his mouth.

  “Duncan!” Issy stood. The dog trotted over. Peered up at her, then dropped the football at her feet. Spittle and slime slid off the brown hide. He backed away, his tail wagging.

  “I’m not throwing that.”

  “Please?”

  She looked over, at the escape hatch. Her now-groomed neighbor had stuck his head through the fence.

  “At least I know how he got into my yard.”

  Coach Knight made a face. “I promise, I had nothing to do with this.”

  She picked up the football, ignoring the slime, glad she wore gardening gloves. “And this?”

  “Sorry. My throw got off. It bounced on the fence and angled into your yard.” He glanced at the dog. “C’mere, Roger.”

  Roger? The dog so did not look like a Roger. “Duncan. We call him Duncan over here.”

  “We? You and your hosta?”

  “They’ve earned the right, I think.”

  He grinned, and for a second, she felt her heartbeat in her chest. She lined her fingers up against the laces.

  “Uh . . . do you want a burger? It’s my brother’s secret recipe. Herb butter in the middle.”

  Her stomach roared. Traitor. “Oh . . . uh, no thanks. I have to get to work.”

  “On a Friday night?”

  “Yeah, actually. I work from home. But . . . maybe . . .” She swallowed, pushing the words out fast. “I’ll take a rain check?” She added a smile. No need to break his heart, right?

  “Rain check it is.”

  She held out the ball.

  He stuck his hand through the fence. “Pitch it to me.”

  Pitch it to me, Issy! For a second, her father stood there, his hand outstretched. You take the hike from Mom, then pitch it to me. No law says a girl can’t play quarterback.

  She had a great throw—always did.

  She considered Caleb, then waved him off. “Go long, neighbor.”

  He gave her the oddest look before disappearing.

  She fired it over the fence, wishing she knew whether he caught it.

  * * *

  “It’s your lucky day, Rog. Or I guess it’s Duncan?” Caleb crouched in front of the dog and slid him the plate of leftover burgers. He’d slapped two extra on the grill . . .

  Just in case.

  Apparently he couldn’t tempt Isadora with the smell of ground beef cooking over an open flame. Or a game of catch.

  Although, admittedly, she had a nice spiral. He’d nearly caught it, too, but avoiding the potholes in his yard slowed him down and he opted to let it bounce rather than dive for it, land on his face.

  She didn’t check on him, however, so he might not fess up that he hadn’t caught it.

  At this rate, he’d be better off dating Miss Foolish Heart than trying to make friends with his neighbor. He even caught himself thinking about Miss Foolish Heart, her show, her voice in his ear . . .

  Except her methods simply didn’t work.

  He patted the dog on the head, climbed the stairs, and sat on the back steps, his residual leg stretched out on the top step, the pressure easing as he ate. He could go for fries, maybe a chocolate shake.

  And someone with whom to enjoy dinner.

  Next door, he heard her gate latch. He should fix that broken fencing, but . . .

  Coach here has been praying for someone like you for a long time. He put his hamburger on the plate, his appetite gone.

  More than anything, seeing a man like Presley—a man so much like the person he wanted to be—taken out, sidelined . . . it could turn Caleb’s bones to liquid.

  God had spilled out more than his share of mercy on him that night in the ditch.

  What if he’d been sent here not just to help the team, but Coach’s daughter, too?

  Caleb got up, wishing he could see her from his porch, but the fence blocked the view. He’d have to climb upstairs, but that felt too much like spying.

  How did he coax a woman trapped inside her own fears out into the world? He threw his burger to Roger, who caught it in the air, before hobbling into the house, where he lowered himself onto the sofa, worked the suction seal away from his leg, and eased out of the prosthesis. When—okay, if—he got the coaching job, and once people knew about his injury, he’d switch to his athletic prosthesis, one that allowed him better flexibility to move and cut and even run, even if it did expose his disability with the metal compression foot.

  Until then, he had to prove himself with two supposedly good feet.

  He settled his leg on the sofa, the daily burn already lessening. Lying against the arm of the sofa, he just wanted to throw his arm over his eyes.

  Nope. He still had plays to work out for Monday’s practice. And his limb exercises to do, and his prosthesis to clean, and . . .

  What he really wanted to do was talk to Miss Foolish Heart. See if she had any brilliant ideas for cracking his neighbor’s thick shell.

  Reaching over, he hauled his computer onto his lap. Maybe he could dig around that forum.

  He logged on, ignored the welcome page full of crazy literary quotes, then clicked on the discussion tab.

  Three hundred posts since his argument with Miss Foolish Heart. Didn’t these people have anything better to do?

  Still, the speculation over his mystery girl had him smiling.

  She’s probably his boss and he is just trying to get a promotion.

  He broke her heart years ago and now wants to win it back.

  I think he’s shy. I want his number.

  Good thing these things remained anonymous.

  On a few of the posts, Miss Foolish Heart herself had replied.
/>   Would she show up if he started his own discussion?

  He clicked on the Start a Discussion tab and named it “How to Get the Girl.” Pressing Enter before he could change his mind, he immediately wanted to delete it. But there it appeared, on the front page of the forum.

  It felt a little like standing out in the rain in his skivvies.

  How did he delete? He clicked on Help. A list of options popped up and he chose FAQs. Discussions could only be deleted by the administrator.

  Perfect.

  But when he scrolled down, he discovered the Privacy settings. He went back to the discussion page, and since he’d started it, it allowed him to set it to private.

  Good.

  Except how was he supposed to get any advice?

  A screen popped up. MissFoolishHeart would like to add to your discussion. Will you allow?

  Would he allow? He clicked Okay.

  Her daisy avatar popped up on his discussion.

  MissFoolishHeart: Hello, BoyNextDoor. Do you need help?

  Caleb stared at the screen, the blinking cursor.

  MissFoolishHeart: I’m sorry; am I intruding? I see you made the discussion private. I just wanted to see if you needed help.

  Help, oh, did he need help, because suddenly all the moisture had sucked out of his mouth and his hands turned slick.

  BoyNextDoor: Hi. Yes, I need help.

  MissFoolishHeart: I’m not a technical wizard, but I am an administrator, so I can try.

  BoyNextDoor: Well, I mostly need help with . . . how do you get a girl to go out on a date?

  MissFoolishHeart: Ask her.

  He made a face. Yeah, the idiot meter went into the red with him sometimes.

  BoyNextDoor: No, I mean, so far your advice hasn’t exactly worked.

  He stared at the blinking cursor. Oops. He wasn’t sure how this online communication worked, but he hadn’t said it with his angry voice. Just a fact.

  MissFoolishHeart: I’m sorry to hear that. Are you sure she’s not involved with anyone else? She could be sending you the go-away signals.