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  Praise for Susan May Warren

  “Warren’s characters are well-developed, and she knows how to create a first-rate contemporary romance. Highly recommended for Christian fiction and romance collections.”

  Library Journal on Tying the Knot

  “Vibrant characters and vivid language zoom this action-packed romance to the top of the charts. This is a one-sitting read—once you pick it up, you won’t want to put it down.”

  Romantic Times on The Perfect Match

  “[Taming Rafe] has all the marks of a great romance, including realistic characters, page-turning intrigue, numerous subplots, and a satisfying ending.”

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  “Warren surpasses every expectation in [Taming Rafe]. The characters are gritty, down-to-earth, and downright dangerous. Warren crafts a journey that’s worth our time and investment many times over.”

  Romantic Times

  “If you’re in the mood for a good contemporary cowboy romance with thoughtful undercurrents, then you’ll enjoy Susan May Warren’s Reclaiming Nick.”

  Faithfulreader.com

  “Susan Warren writes with a fresh, new voice and creates characters that will delight her readers.”

  Karen Kingsbury

  Author of the bestselling Redemption series and the Firstborn series

  “Warren’s third PJ Sugar novel is filled with humor and mystery. Warren’s ability to weave faith elements seamlessly into the plot elevates the book above others in the genre.”

  Romantic Times on Licensed for Trouble

  “Warren’s story is exciting and heartwarming, with a unique ending that makes the story very real.”

  Publishers Weekly on Double Trouble

  “PJ’s adventures . . . are hilarious and the resolution of the fast-paced mystery is thoroughly satisfying as well. Think of this series as a more wholesome version of Janet Evanovich’s Stephanie Plum series.”

  Booklist on Double Trouble

  “Susan May Warren’s wit, charm, and dead-on characterizations always make me laugh.”

  Lori Copeland

  Bestselling author of the Brides of the West series

  “Warren does it again with an excellent blend of humor, romance, mystery, and some much-needed spiritual lessons.”

  Romantic Times on Nothing but Trouble

  “Susan May Warren is an extremely gifted storyteller, always keeping her readers in suspense to the end. . . . Warren’s books are guaranteed to entertain, thrill, and inspire. Without question, they fall into the can’t-put-down category.”

  D.M.

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  Visit Tyndale’s exciting website at www.tyndale.com.

  Visit Susan May Warren’s website at www.susanmaywarren.com.

  TYNDALE and Tyndale’s quill logo are registered trademarks of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc.

  My Foolish Heart

  Copyright © 2011 by Susan May Warren. All rights reserved.

  Cover photograph of woman taken by Stephen Vosloo. Copyright © by Tyndale House Publishers. All rights reserved.

  Author photo taken by Rachel Savage. Copyright © 2010 by Rachel Savage Photography. All rights reserved.

  Designed by Jennifer Ghionzoli

  Edited by Sarah Mason

  Most Scripture quotations are taken from the Holy Bible, New Living Translation, copyright © 1996, 2004, 2007 by Tyndale House Foundation. Used by permission of Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., Carol Stream, Illinois 60188. All rights reserved.

  Philippians 4:23 taken from The Message by Eugene H. Peterson, copyright © 1993, 1994, 1995, 1996, 2000, 2001, 2002. Used by permission of NavPress Publishing Group. All rights reserved.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons living or dead is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Warren, Susan May, date.

  My foolish heart / Susan May Warren.

  p. cm. — (Deep haven)

  ISBN 978-1-4143-3482-0 (sc)

  1. Women radio talk show hosts—Fiction. 2. Disabled veterans—Fiction.

  3. Minnesota—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3623.A865M9 2011

  813'.6—dc22 2010054361

  To the Cook County Vikings football team—

  coaches, staff, and players. You make us proud.

  Table of Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  A Note from the Author

  About the Author

  Discussion Questions

  Acknowledgments

  Like any great football team, a book needs a team of great players to help score a goal. I’m deeply grateful to the following people for their specific contributions to this story:

  Coach Mitch Dorr—Head coach of the CCHS Vikings, who constantly impresses me with his vision of sports as a way to build character and football as a way to build boys into men. My sons are becoming “men built for others” because of the excellent coaching staff. I am deeply grateful for all your help on the specifics of football in this story and especially for writing the Quarterback Chaos play. (What a fun play! May it win a state championship someday!) All mistakes in calling the game are mine alone.

  Peter Warren—My amazing fullback/middle linebacker, who helped me break down practices and drills, and for answering the question “What would you do if you were the coach?”

  Noah Warren—My amazing defensive end and the inspiration for Caleb.

  David Warren—Oh, how I miss you and your plotting abilities! Thank you for helping me sort out those story kinks during your summer break.

  Andrew Warren—The football player of legend in our family. Thank you for helping me understand football and for being my cohort as we trek to every football game, rain, sleet, or shine.

  Sarah Warren—My daughter with the advice for the lovelorn. Thank you for helping me create the callers on the show and for the “top-ten” list.

  World’s Best Donuts—The best place on the planet to get donuts (including the skizzle!).

  Rachel Hauck—My writing partner. I’ll write your book; you write mine, okay? Thank you for helping me break free of the Paralyzing Premise!

  Ellen Tarver—Who knows how to ask the tough questions and make all the story threads tie together. You are my secret weapon.

  Sarah Mason—Wow. Again, wow. My amazing line editor, who makes me sound pretty good.

  Karen Watson—My Editor Extraordinaire. Thank you for believing in me.

  Steve Laube—You rock, O Amazing Agent.

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

  Philippians 4:13

  For Your glory, Lord.

  1

  For two hours a night, Monday through Saturday, Isadora Presley became the girl she’d lost.

  “Welcome to My Foolish Heart, where we believe your perfect love might be right next door. We want to send special greetings out to KDRT in Seattle, brand-new to the Late Night Love
lorn Network. BrokenheartedInBuffalo, you’re on the line. Welcome to the program.”

  Outside the second-story window of her home studio, the night crackled open with a white flash of light and revealed the scrawny arms of her Japanese plum, cowering under a summer gale. Issy checked the clock. Hopefully the storm would hold off for the rest of her show, another thirty minutes.

  And the weather had better clear by tomorrow’s annual Deep Haven Fisherman’s Picnic. She couldn’t wait to sit on her front porch, watch the midnight fireworks over the harbor as the Elks launched them from the campground, and pretend that life hadn’t forgotten her.

  Tomorrow, she’d watch the parade from her corner of the block, wave to her classmates on their annual float as they made their way toward Main Street, then linger on the porch listening to the live music drift up from the park. Maybe she’d even be able to hear the cheers from the annual log-rolling competition. She could nearly taste the tangy sweetness of a fish burger—fresh walleye and homemade tartar sauce. Kathy would be pouring coffee in the Java Cup outpost. And just a block away, the crispy, fried-oil tang of donuts nearly had the power to lure her to Lucy’s place, World’s Best Donuts. She’d stand in the line that invariably twined out the door, around the corner, and past the realty office waiting for a glazed raised.

  She’d never, not once in her first twenty-five years, missed Fish Pic. Until two years ago.

  She’d missed everything since then. She swallowed down the tightening in her chest.

  “Thank you for taking my call, Miss Foolish Heart. I just wanted to say that I listen to your show every night and that it’s helped me wait for the perfect man.”

  BrokenheartedInBuffalo had a high, sweet voice, the kind that might belong to a college coed with straight blonde hair, blue eyes. But the radio could mask age, race, even gender. Truly, when Issy listened to her podcasts, sometimes she didn’t recognize her own voice, the way it softened with compassion, turning low and husky as she counseled listeners.

  She could almost trick herself into believing she knew what she was doing. Trick herself into believing that she lived a different life, one beyond the four walls and garden of her home.

  “I’m so glad, Brokenhearted. He’s out there. What can I do for you tonight?”

  “Well, I think I found him. We met a few weeks ago in a karate class, and we’ve already had three dates—”

  “Three? Brokenhearted, I know that you’re probably smitten, but three dates isn’t enough to know a man is perfect for you. A great relationship takes—”

  “Time, trials, and trust. I know.”

  So Brokenhearted listened regularly. Good, then maybe Issy could slow her down, help her to part the heady rush of the “love fog”—another of her coined terms.

  “Then you also know you don’t develop that in three dates, although Miss Foolish Heart does advise calling it quits after three if there is no visible ten potential.”

  “But it feels like it. He’s everything I want.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I have my top-ten list, just like you said. And of course, the big three.”

  “Big three essentials. Sounds like you know what you’re looking for.”

  “That’s just it—he has most of them, and I’m wondering if it’s essential for him to have all of them. Isn’t . . . let’s say, seven out of ten enough?”

  “You tell me, Brokenhearted—would you settle for a seven romance? Or do you want a ten?”

  “What if I don’t know what a ten feels like?”

  What a ten feels like. Yes, Issy would like to know that too.

  “Good question, Brokenhearted. I think it must be different for everyone. Stay on the line and let’s take some calls and see if anyone has a good answer. Or you can hop over to the forum at the My Foolish Heart website—I see that Cupid27 has posted a reply. ‘Love feels as if nothing can touch you.’ Nice, Cupid27. Any other callers?”

  She muted Brokenhearted and clicked on another caller. “TruLuv, you’re on the air. What does a ten feel like?”

  A gravelly, low voice, the two-pack-a-day kind: “It’s knowing you have someone to hold on to.”

  “Great response, TruLuv. Here’s hoping you have someone to hold on to.” She muted TruLuv. “Go ahead, WindyCity.”

  “It’s knowing you’re loved . . . anyway.”

  Loved, anyway. Oh, she wanted to believe that was possible. “Love that, WindyCity. Anyone else?”

  The forum had come to life, replies piling up. On the phone lines, PrideAndPassion723 appeared. Pride called at least once a month, often with a new dilemma, and kept the forum boards lit up with conversations. Issy should probably give the girl a 1-800 number.

  She clicked back to Brokenhearted. “Do any of those replies feel like what you feel?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know.”

  “Miss Foolish Heart suggests you hold out for the ten, Brokenhearted. The perfect one is out there, maybe right next door.”

  She went to a commercial break, an advertisement for a chocolate bouquet delivery, and pulled off her headphones, massaging her ears.

  Outside, the rain hummed against the house, a steady battering with the occasional ping upon the sill, although now and again it roared, the wind rousing in anger. Hopefully she’d remembered to close the front windows before she went on the air. Lightning strobed again, and this time silver leaves stripped from the tree, splattered on the window. Oh, her bleeding heart just might be lying flat on the ground, after all the work she’d done to nurture it to life.

  The commercial ended.

  “I see we have PrideAndPassion on the line, hopefully with an update to her latest romance. Thanks for coming back, Pride. How are you tonight?”

  She’d expected tears—or at the very least a mournful cry of how Pride had stalked her boyfriend into some restaurant, found him sharing a low-lit moment with some bimbo. Pride’s escapades had become the backbone of the show, ratings spiking every time she called in.

  “I’m engaged!”

  Issy nearly didn’t recognize her, not with the lift in her voice, the squeal at the end.

  “Kyle popped the question! I did it, Miss Foolish Heart—I held out for true love, and last night he showed up on my doorstep with a ring!”

  “Oh, that’s . . . great, Pride.” Issy battled the shock from her voice. No, not just shock. Even . . . okay, envy.

  Once upon a time, she’d dreamed of finding the perfect man, dreamed of standing on the sidewalk at the Fisherman’s Picnic with Lucy, hoping they might be asked to dance under the milky starlight of the August sky. But who had the courage to dance with the football coach’s daughter? And as for Lucy, she simply couldn’t put her courage together to say yes. Sweet, shy Lucy, she’d used up her courage on one boy.

  It only took Lucy’s broken heart their senior year to cement the truth: a girl had to have standards. She had to wait for the perfect love.

  Issy had come up with the list then, refined it in college. A good, solid top-ten list, and most important, the big three must-have attributes in a man besides his Christian faith—compassionate, responsible, and self-sacrificing—the super evaluator that told her if she should say yes to a first date.

  If any came around. Because she certainly couldn’t go out looking for dates, could she?

  “Oh, Pride, are you sure?” Silence on the other end. She hadn’t exactly meant it to come out with that edge, almost disapproving. “I . . . just mean, is he a ten?”

  “I’m tired of waiting for a ten, Miss Foolish Heart. I’m twenty-six years old and I want to get married. I don’t want to be an old maid.”

  Twenty-six. Issy remembered twenty-six, a whole year ago. She’d celebrated her birthday with a jelly-filled bismark that Lucy brought over, and they’d sung ABBA at the top of their lungs.

  And as a finale, Issy ventured out to her front steps. Waved to Cindy Myers next door, who happened to be out getting her mail.

  Yes, a red-letter day, for
sure.

  “You’re so young, Pride. Twenty-six isn’t old.”

  “It feels old when everyone around you is getting married. I’m ready, and he asked, so I said yes.”

  Issy drew in a breath. “That’s wonderful. We’re all happy for you, right, forum?”

  The forum, however, lit up with a vivid conversation about settling for anything less than a ten. See? Not a foolish heart among them.

  “Good, because . . . I want you to come to the wedding, Miss Foolish Heart. It’s because of you that I found Kyle, and I want you to be there to celebrate with us.”

  Issy gave a slight chuckle over the air. High and short, it was a ripple of sound that resembled fear. Perfect. “I . . . Thank you for the kind offer, Pride, but—”

  “You don’t understand. This is going to be a huge wedding. I know we’re not supposed to reveal our names on the air, but I am so grateful for your help that you need to know—my father is Gerard O’Grady.”

  “The governor of California?” Former actor–turned–billionaire–turned–politician?

  “Yes.” A giggle followed her voice. “We’re already planning the wedding—it’ll be at our estate in Napa Valley. I want you there, in the front row, with my parents. You’ve just helped me so much.”

  “Oh, uh, Pride—”

  “Lauren. I’m Lauren O’Grady.”

  “Okay, Lauren. I’m so sorry, but I can’t come.”

  “Why not?”

  Why not? Because every time Issy ventured a block from her house, the world closed in and cut off her breathing? Because she couldn’t erase from her brain the smell of her mother’s burning flesh, her screams, the feel of hot blood on her hands? Because every time she even thought about getting into a car, she saw dots, broke out in a sweat?

  Most of all, because she was still years away from breaking free of the panic attacks that held her hostage.

  “Our station’s policy is—”

  “I’m sure my father could get your station to agree. Please, please don’t say no. Just think about it. I’ll send you an invitation.”

  And then she clicked off.