Issy stacked the books, shoved them into the bookcase, and came over to sit on a stool at the island. She wore her hair pulled back today in a long French braid and the slightest hint of makeup. She appeared, in a way, as if she’d woken from a deep sleep, a vibrancy about her face that Lucy barely recognized. “I can’t remember what she called it. My mom was in the process of putting all the recipes on the computer, so who knows where she filed it. But do any of these look familiar?” She dealt them out like playing cards. “I have to find that salad recipe.”
Lucy read them over. “I thought you said you weren’t going to see him anymore.”
“Oh, it’s Miss Foolish Heart. She said something a couple nights ago that I can’t get over.”
Lucy stared at her. “Are you having a split personality moment? You’re Miss Foolish Heart.”
“You’re right. Foolish.” She shook her head.
“Okay, what is up with you?”
Issy sighed. “BoyNextDoor called in on Tuesday night.”
“Uh-oh, here we go again.”
“His Girl dumped him. He asked if he should try again, and I told him yes. But it wasn’t his call that bothered me so much. PrideAndPassion called too.”
“Isn’t she the one who invited you to her wedding?”
“Yes, only now the wedding is off. She got cold feet. And I foolishly told her to wait for a ten.”
“That’s foolish? It’s how you live your life.”
“And look where it’s landed me. Maybe having such high standards isn’t a great idea.”
“I think high standards are a very good idea.”
“What if I reject a guy because I think he’s not the one, but he is? What if Caleb is my last chance?” Issy got up and went to the counter, where a spray of fresh-cut red roses fanned out in a vase. “This is the second bouquet he left on my porch in two days. This one came with a card.”
“I thought those were from your garden.”
Issy handed her the card.
Please let me in. Barbecue Thursday night? I promise to be on my best behavior.
Lucy returned the card. “That’s very sweet.”
Issy slid back onto the stool. “Elliot called during the show and yelled at me. Told me that just because life is scary, you don’t stop living it.”
Lucy folded her hands on the table. “Profound. Wonder where you’ve heard that before.”
“Stop. I just think I’m finally ready to start believing it.” She studied the card, rubbing her thumb over the writing. “I left a note on his door this morning and told him that we’d have the barbecue anyway. I wish I could have apologized, too. And I wish I hadn’t run away from him the other night. I was so lured by this guy who understood my situation that I totally forgot he was a normal guy, a guy who would want to do normal things. Like go to football games. Be out in public. I just can’t believe he wants to be with a woman he has to talk off the ledge every time he suggests a social event.”
“Oh, Issy. I wish you could see what I see—what Caleb sees. A strong woman who is trying to put her life back together. You’re better than you were a month ago, even two weeks ago. You went to the store today—on your own! And now you’re actually inviting Caleb and a crowd of rowdy boys to your house.”
Issy smiled.
“The fact is, we see our own limits much more than others do.”
“Like BoyNextDoor not even caring about the Girl’s disability.”
“Yeah, uh, I’m starting to wonder at your attachment to him, Issy. I think you have a real crush on him. But you know he’s as close to a figment of your imagination as you are going to get. He’s not really real—he has his own life, probably in Houston or Milwaukee. You’re never going to meet him—and never mind that he called you because he’s interested in someone else.”
“I know. I know. He just seems like the perfect guy. But you’re right. He’s only a name on a forum. For all I know, he’s sixty-two and married.”
“Okay, now you’re creeping me out. He’s not real, and Caleb is. And more than that, he’s everything BoyNextDoor seems to be and more. He’s sweet and encouraging and a good listener, and . . . Caleb is a good guy. A guy worth making two gallons of potato salad for.” Lucy leaned over to sort through the recipes. “Which, I might add, is a pretty big step for you. Are you sure this is a good idea?”
“It doesn’t freak me out at all. They’re in my house. I grew up with football players in my house. Shall we start with how many times Seb ate Saturday breakfast with us? No, this isn’t hard. It’s the idea of attending the game that makes my chest tighten. I can’t control the game. I can control dinner. If I can find that salad recipe.”
Lucy picked up a recipe. “Try this one. It says, Salad for the Hungry. If that’s not a football player, then I don’t know what is.”
Issy took the card, read it over, and looked at Lucy with a triumphant smile. She pulled a pot from under the stove and set it in the sink, followed by a ten-pound bag of potatoes.
“Hey, your dad’s playbook.” Lucy reached out and snagged a bound, thick book with Presley Plays scrawled on the cover.
Issy opened the bag of potatoes, dumping them into the empty side of the sink, then fished out her potato peeler. “I was thinking I’d show it to Caleb. He might like to see some of the plays Seb might cook up.”
“The magic Presley plays. Yes, I’d bet Caleb would give his right arm for these. Especially since . . .” She glanced at Issy, who had begun to wash the potatoes.
Issy paused. “Especially since?”
Uh-oh. Issy would have mentioned Caleb’s disability if she knew, wouldn’t she? “Since . . . he’s never run them.” Caleb should be allowed to tell her, right? “Has . . . has Caleb talked about his scars at all?”
Issy turned off the water, grabbed a towel. “No. But I think he will, when he’s ready. I haven’t even told him about my parents’ accident yet.” She came back to peer over Lucy’s shoulder. “Oh, I remember this one. The Quarterback Chaos play.”
Lucy read it through. “Are you serious? Is this legal?”
“Yeah—he did it in the state championship game. Don’t you remember—the last play? Seb ran to the sideline shouting that Deej didn’t know the play? Totally baffled the defense. It’s funny and completely legal. Dad thought it up himself—didn’t have the guts to call it until Seb came along. But I don’t think he’s used it since because everybody in the league has heard about it.”
“That’s hilarious. Your dad was so funny.”
Issy looked at her, her face pale. “Is so funny. Is. He’s not dead.”
Oh. Yes. “I’m sorry, Issy. Of course he’s alive.” Lucy closed the playbook, cleared her throat. “I think Seb is worried about my business plan. He spent last night drawing up plans for my walk-up window.”
“Have you heard anything from the bank?”
“No. But Seb said the meeting with Bam on Monday went well, so I have high hopes. He’s already talked to Gary about starting work on Saturday. He thinks if the crew works hard, they could finish it over the weekend, in time for Labor Day. I’ll probably have to hire more help, but according to his plan, we’ll make enough to pay for my current back debts as well as go into the black.”
“The Sebanator,” Issy said. “Always the champion.”
“I think he does want to be my champion, a little.” Lucy let herself linger on the memory of his hand in hers, the taste of his lips. And this time around, it didn’t feel quite as dangerous, as if he’d keep his promises. “I think he wants to be the town hero, too. He’s really worried about tomorrow’s game.”
Lucy fished a stack of letters out of her bag. “I probably need to stop by my PO box more than twice a week, although all I get is junk mail. Oh, the bank sent me something.”
She sawed her thumb through the lip of the envelope, then pulled out the letter and read it. “Are you kidding me?”
“What?” Issy dumped a clean potato in the pot.
“T
hey’re foreclosing on my loan.”
“What?” Issy grabbed the towel again.
“It’s from Bam. He says that due to loan default, he’s calling in the loan on World’s Best.”
“Can he do that?”
Lucy laid the letter on the counter. Drew a breath. “Yes. Because the loan is technically a contract for deed. And the previous owner of our property can take it back if we default.”
“Why would they do that?”
Lucy shook her head, but she had a pretty good idea. And it all started in Bammer’s office, probably when Seb handed over her stellar—his stellar—predictions of her earnings with her new addition to Bam the banker. Bam the all-state blitzer.
Bam, the holder of her contract for deed.
Bam, the married womanizer who’d made a nonfootball pass at her during the Fish Pic street dance a few years ago, one that ended with her climbing out of his truck in the wee hours of the morning, a moment she wanted to erase. Unfortunately Bam wasn’t used to having a girl slam the door in his face. Add that to his high school crush and he had a pride to soothe.
And Seb had helped his pal betray her.
* * *
“Stay in your lanes! Hustle all the way to the ball!”
Seb gritted his teeth as he watched the ball slip as if greasy through the hands of his receiver. It squirreled around the field while one player after another on the receiving team pursued it.
The defense and offense tangled up in the middle of the field.
“Grab the ball!” He couldn’t watch.
“They’re not wrapping up. They’re not staying in the hip pocket to tackle. They’re getting stuck on their man, not getting by.” Bam listed off his complaints under his breath even as, next to him, DJ nodded.
“You can’t make yards if you can’t hold on to the ball.”
Seb had taught these boys nothing in the space of two weeks. Not even spending the last three days in drills had made a difference, not when all they wanted to do was run the handful of plays perfected by the old state champs.
“Maybe you should run a few tackling drills.” He glanced at Bam, who had shown up for every practice since Monday without a word of apology. It didn’t matter—they were here to play football.
Bam shook his head. “It would take another week of hard practice, and we got a game tomorrow. Call ’em in; let ’em rest. We’ve already overworked them.”
Seb blew the whistle, his gut burning. The boys pulled off their helmets, ran in as he walked to the fifty. “Take a knee, guys.”
Most of them simply flopped on the grass. So much for discipline. He’d watched Knight’s team huddle up for another prayer today.
Not even praying would help, probably, although he hadn’t exactly sought God’s help—hadn’t really thought he needed it.
He threw his clipboard to the ground, his hands on his hips. Bam and DJ edged over, their eyes on him. The old quarterback, rallying his team.
Only he’d never had to rally his old team. Not with Coach Presley at the helm. Coach always knew what to say, how to encourage, how to push. And if this had been Presley’s team, they’d be barbecuing tonight in the coach’s backyard.
The sun hung low, the evening stretching dark fingers into the field. Gnats hovered in swarms over the boys’ heads, although fatigue kept them from shooing them away. Crickets sawed into the night, and a languid summer breeze swept through the air.
They were going to get slaughtered.
And they had no one to blame but Coach Brewster and his glory days.
He swept off his baseball hat, ran his hands through his hair. Blew out. “Boys, I owe you an apology.”
Bam narrowed his eyes. DJ looked at the ground.
“I failed you. I haven’t taught you what you needed to know these past two weeks.”
Eyes considered him, wary, angry.
“I taught you some fun plays, yes, but without knowing how to tackle, hold the ball, or even block, a great play doesn’t matter. Substance matters. Not flash.”
Bam shook his head and turned away from him. DJ folded his arms over his chest.
“The reason our team won state wasn’t Coach Presley’s fancy plays; it was because he drilled us until we knew how to play good football. How to be men who wouldn’t quit. Men built for others, for their team.”
He stared at the boys, the way a couple of them bore down on him with a hard look. Others looked at the turf or away, as if embarrassed.
He should have picked up that playbook like Coach said, stopped by Issy’s to ask for it. But what could be in it that he didn’t already know?
“Are you saying we’re going to lose?” Michaels asked. His sophomore quarterback, lean, blond, slippery as an eel with a throw that could make it all the way to the end zone with the right blocking, wore a stripped look.
Yes. But watching the boys . . . they deserved a coach who believed in them.
They deserved a coach they could believe in. A coach like Caleb Knight, who knew how to be man of honor, who didn’t let his past cripple him.
He’d given Lucy a chance to tell him about her past last night, and she’d said nothing. Why were Bam’s words eating him? So she’d dated—okay, slept with—other guys. He hadn’t exactly been a choir boy since leaving Deep Haven.
Bam watched him, one eyebrow up.
He had to find something to give them. “I’m not saying we’re going to lose. But maybe . . . maybe it doesn’t matter. Maybe we get out there and have fun and see what we can do. We worked hard and we owe ourselves—and them—a good fight. And we’re going to give it to ’em. We’re going to play hard, hit hard, and most of all, remember that you’re playing for your position for whoever the coach may be, so go out there and give all you got.”
He got a few nods, but nothing that would set the world on fire. He wasn’t particularly enthused either.
A good part of him wanted to run off the field and never look back.
“Go home and get rested. Be here at three tomorrow for warm-ups.”
The boys pried themselves off the field.
Bam walked over. “What kind of pep talk was that? Have fun? We’re not playing flag football here, Seb. We’re in it to win. Do you want Knight to get your job?”
Yes, maybe. “Knight is a good coach. The team would be lucky to have him.”
“He doesn’t belong here. You belong here. You’re the coach we need.”
Seb picked up his clipboard. “Hey, did you hear back from the board on Lucy’s loan? We got Gary’s crew lined up for Saturday—”
“Board turned her down.”
Seb looked at him. “What? Why?”
Bam drew in a breath. “Lucy’s defaulted on her loan for three months, Seb. I can’t fix that.”
“You saw it in the business plan—she’ll make the money back, and more.”
“She’s got a contract for deed. Which means the owner can call in the loan or foreclose at will if she misses her payments.”
“Let me go talk to him. Who is it? Let me explain—”
“It’s me, Seb.” Bam met his gaze when he said it.
Seb blinked, not sure how to process his words. “It’s . . . What do you mean it’s you?”
“My family owned the property where World’s Best sits. They want it back.”
“Only because you saw the moneymaking potential. You can’t open a donut shop. You don’t know the first thing about making donuts.”
“But Java Cup does. And I’ll hire them to come in and make donuts. People don’t care about the secret recipe. They care about having a donut with their cup of coffee. And yes, your business plan helped us see the potential of the place. It’s not our fault Lucy dropped her loan payments.”
“You never intended to give Lucy that loan, did you?”
Bam picked up a football. “Get over her, Seb. Everyone else has.”
Seb didn’t realize he’d dropped the clipboard until it banged on his foot, but by then, he didn’t care.
By then he’d launched himself at Bam. Tackled him into the turf, snuffing him so hard it rattled his own bones. Then he cocked his fist and committed the first of a string of personal fouls.
Practice ended with the team watching the quarterback of the Deep Haven Huskies get bloody with his star defensive end.
So much for team spirit.
* * *
Issy had traveled back in time to the days of the Thursday night Presley barbecue. Hickory-smoked hamburgers, hot dogs, teenage boys talking swagger and smack on the deck, some of them pitching a football around the garden.
“Watch out for the hydrangeas!”
“No problem, Miss P.!”
On the grilling deck, wearing a white apron and a pink oven mitt, Caleb served up burgers.
He looked way too much like her father after the Thursday night practice. Smiling, confident, trustworthy.
Safe.
“Is that number three for you, Jackson?” She remembered the names as Caleb had introduced them, mostly by their position. “Being a tackle doesn’t mean you have to be built like a brick.”
The blond, pimply kid had the girth of a moose. “Saving room for cookies, Miss P.!”
Caleb grinned at her as she came up to the deck after making the rounds with Kool-Aid. “That potato salad is a thing of joy and beauty.” His paper plate, scraped clean, lay on the railing.
“It was my mother’s secret recipe. She always served it at the barbecue.”
“No wonder the Huskies always won.” He winked at her.
Yes, she very much could get used to this.
It nearly felt like attending a game. She let that thought sink into her, waited for the swirl of panic. Nothing.
“I’ll get the cookies.”
“We do want these boys to be able to run tomorrow.”
“They’re my mother’s secret recipe too.”
“Bring them on.”
She had propped open the back door, still waiting on the glass from the lumberyard, and now nearly tripped over Duncan, sprawled in the middle of the kitchen floor. The team’s quarterback sat beside the dog, rubbing his head, reading—
My Foolish Heart Page 22
