My Foolish Heart Page 9

  Coach Presley’s voice had chased Seb across three states, all the way to Deep Haven, and now, even into his sleep. You can’t blame others for your mistakes!

  Seb lay there, blinking into the early dawn, his narrow bed soggy with sweat, and everything hurt. His shoulder. His head—probably from too much sun on Saturday, because he’d turned down Big Mike’s offer to hang out. Definitely his chest, where Lucy’s razored gaze had left a bruise. What are you doing here?

  Why did he think that coming back to Deep Haven would help him find the man he’d wanted to be? Because no, he didn’t respect himself, and it had all started right here.

  Seb pushed himself out of bed, wandered to the bathroom, hearing his father’s snores motor down the narrow hall. He’d scrubbed away the mold layering the tiny shower and now could almost make out his warped image in the mirror over the sink. He’d also tamed the kitchen, moved the weaponry out of his bedroom, and opened the window to encourage fresh air to scour the trailer.

  After Seb threw water onto his face, he pulled on a shirt, some shorts, then grabbed his running shoes. He took them out to the deck and put them on as the sun heated his shoulders.

  Mostly out of a latent habit, he took the town route, the one that passed in front of the grocery store, the gas station, and along the lake. Today, the breeze from the lake slicked off the sweat as he settled into his pace.

  As if he’d traveled back in time, the memory of Lucy rose from the quietness of the morning and latched on to his thoughts.

  You want to study with me?

  He’d sat on his motorcycle outside the school, too much hope in his voice.

  She’d stood there, hands on her tiny hips, a messenger bag over her shoulder, wearing a pair of jeans and a pink blouse, looking so clean and smart. Then she’d smiled, and his words had vanished.

  Even now, the memory of that spring, the summer months with Lucy, could fill him with a new breath, a sort of happiness that could deceive him. In those moments, he wanted to rewrite their ending.

  Perhaps he could blame that hope of a new ending for driving him back to Deep Haven.

  He ran past the fish house, where Arnie and Bubs were pulling out on their fishing boat for their early morning trip. Across the street, the bookstore remained dark. He ran up the hill, pushing hard.

  He’d lucked out by partnering with Lucy, out of all the girls in their junior English class, for their spring semester project on Jane Eyre and her Rochester, a man throttled and deformed by his early mistakes. Sometimes, after they worked on their presentation together, after Seb had spent two hours watching Lucy twirl her beautiful caramel hair between two petite fingers, after she’d laughed so easily at his stupid jokes, after she’d made him feel smart and heroic, he imagined himself as Rochester, calling to her across the moor.

  He could still hear that voice, sometimes, calling in his thoughts.

  Seb cut his run past the care center, toward the school, picking up his pace.

  Indeed, he’d become Rochester, a man unable to forget the one woman he ever loved, despite his mistakes.

  I’m waiting, Seb, until I find the man I’ll spend forever with.

  The dawn slid across the tennis courts in front of the school, and Seb angled toward the football stadium. He always ended with a couple quick forties, then jogged the last half mile home in low gear.

  I’m right here, Lucy. Right here.

  As he rounded the school, he heard voices.

  Or rather, a voice.

  “Push through the pain, boys! Don’t let your body control you—control your body!”

  The words had the power to whisk him back through time to hell week under Coach Presley, when he’d lost ten pounds in two days, mostly in sweat and vomit. Sure enough, there they were, eighteen football hopefuls in workout gear, running bleachers.

  The other coach stood on the track, watching. Taking notes.

  “Push it, and you’ll find out your new bounds.”

  Seb recognized the words, had heard them a thousand times in his own practices. Hearing them from his competition, however, raked a chill through him.

  He’d returned to Deep Haven believing he could finally return to the man he’d wanted to be. The man of honor that Coach Presley had wanted of him. And that meant taking up the Presley coaching mantle. No, Seb didn’t have a degree or even years volunteering, but he had Coach Presley’s old plays in his head and the desire to reach into the past and find the old glory.

  He hung on the fence, stretching, watching, reluctant to take the track. Instead he’d just stay and watch and chew himself out for not assembling his team at 6 a.m., in the cool of the day. In fact, he had nothing but a vague idea of what he might do this afternoon during their first practice, intending to lean on his instincts. Back in the glory days, they’d never failed him.

  When he’d lost his last job just weeks ago, instincts—and possibly desperation—had sent Seb home. Desperation also landed him on Mitch’s doorstep begging for the coaching gig, a chance to coach their old team back to victory.

  As he watched, the players descended the bleachers, and the coach wound them in, ordering them on a water break. The teens hunched over, grabbing for breath, some of them holding their sides, others falling to the turf, breathing hard. Coach Knight walked up to a few—he had a funny walk, as if he might be nursing a football injury too—bent down, and talked to them. He stepped away fast, awkwardly, as one spewed his breakfast onto the turf.

  Knight even looked like a coach—thick, sculpted arms, wide shoulders, a red baseball hat. Probably an Ohio State logo on the grid.

  Seb would have to order a Cyclones hat. Or perhaps he could find an old Huskies cap in the closet. That, at least, should inspire his team.

  As Knight seated the team on the turf, began to talk to them, giving them a break before more conditioning, Seb turned away and jogged for home.

  In fact, if he had any sense, he would just keep going, right out of town.

  * * *

  Lucy’s earliest memory had to be of sitting on the front porch of World’s Best Donuts in her cutoff jeans and flip-flops or swinging from the railing of the narrow blue steps, then pushing her face into the hole of the giant donut sign and grinning for the lineup of customers.

  They sometimes took her picture. She always posed.

  Her mother, clearly recognizing her strengths, moved her behind the counter at the age of eight. She’d been peddling donuts ever since.

  And most of the time, she knew her customers by name. Even the ones from Missouri, Iowa, Nebraska, and California.

  “Two chocolate cake donuts and a skizzle.” She handed the white wax bag to the Geertsens, from Wisconsin. “Nice to see you again. And Annie is getting so big!” She leaned over the counter and blew a kiss at the eight-year-old. Annie grinned, a gap the size of a truck between her two eyeteeth.

  “Hello, Margie!” Lucy yanked out a wax sheet, grinning at a red-haired, middle-aged woman in a jean shirt and sandals, who, as soon as she opened her mouth, would deliver the most charming Texas drawl. “Are we going with the chocolate raised or the six-pack of donut holes today?”

  Margie leaned over the counter, kept her voice low. “I have the grandkids with me this time. So let’s try a dozen powdered sugar cake donuts.”

  “You won’t be sorry.” Lucy grabbed a box, then pulled out the tray.

  In the back, the two girls she’d hired for summer help loaded up trays with freshly fried donuts. They came in around 6 a.m. to keep the supplies replenished, but by then, Lucy already had the dough for the day mixed together. Part of the World’s Best secrets . . . the secret dough recipe.

  “How are your parents, sweetie?” Margie said, handing over her cash.

  Lucy pulled off one of her cellophane gloves to work the cash register. She could go through an entire five-hundred-pack on a good day. “Loving their house in Florida.” She returned the change. “And of course, if you ever get to Fort Myers, they’d love to see you.�
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  “Did they open a shop in Florida?”

  “Oh no. This is the only World’s Best Donuts.” Lucy winked and grabbed another glove.

  “But I noticed another donut shop in town.” Margie opened her box, then glanced at Lucy with a grin, clearly seeing the extra donut she’d thrown in.

  Lucy’s day soured immediately, her stomach twisting. “It’s not a shop. Just a . . . menu item. Next!”

  She let the words tunnel through her, however, and drain the energy from her smile. Another donut shop in town. So the word already made it to the tourists.

  She always stopped making fresh donuts around noon, and usually by two she’d run out. Today, the shop’s doors lingered open until three fifteen. Finally she bagged up the remains—two long johns, three cinnamon cake donuts, a soggy skizzle, and a glazed danish—and dropped them off at the local newspaper office. “Jerry here?”

  Lois, the first woman to ever work for the Deep Haven Herald, white-haired now, looked up from where she read ad copy. “He’s over at the Blue Moose Café.”

  Of course. The three-o’clock coffee break with the locals.

  Inside the café, the cadre of regulars sat in the far booth, the one facing the street so they could survey interlopers. She knew them all—Dan, the town pastor, and Joe, the bestselling author that the town did a good job of hiding. And of course, Jerry. Editor and newly elected mayor.

  “Howdy, boys,” Lucy said. “What’s the news of the day?”

  “Dan’s looking for more volunteers down at the fire department,” Jerry said, smiling at her. Jerry Mulligan, a deep-fried skizzle.

  Lucy flexed a muscle.

  “It’s like Minnie Mouse—”

  “Mighty Mouse, Pastor. Get it right.” But she smiled at him. Pastor Dan, cream-filled long john.

  “Don’t listen to them, Lucy. We’d love to have you.” Joe Michaels, a sugared cake.

  “I’d like to help you out, but actually, I need to talk to the mayor here. Official donut business.”

  Jerry moved to slide out of the booth, perhaps to follow her outside, but Dan caught his arm. “You stay. I gotta run. But I’m heading up to take a gander at Seb’s football practice. I want to watch the coach competition. I’m going to check out the new coach tomorrow morning.”

  “I’m on that.” Joe pulled out a couple dollars, dropping them on the table. “See you tomorrow, Lucy.”

  She slid in opposite Jerry just as Nancy came up and plunked down a coffee cup. Nancy Ryan, a six-pack of donut holes. “Thanks.”

  Nancy winked at her.

  Lucy poured herself a cup of coffee, just to have something to hold on to. Stared into it. “The Java Cup is serving donuts.” When she looked up, she found Jerry pursing his lips and nodding like he already knew. “Jerry, it’s just not right. I mean, when that other pizza joint tried to come in here, the council turned it down—”

  “As I recall, they didn’t have the right zoning. The coffee shop already has a license to serve food.”

  “But this is the home of the World’s Best Donuts. It’s—”

  “It’s competition, Lucy. That’s what makes our society strong.”

  Or crumbled it. She blew out a breath.

  “Listen—” he touched her hand, and she let him—“I know how much the donut shop means to you, to your parents, and frankly this town. But the fact is, your popularity is actually your demise. Your lines are out the door and halfway down the street. People don’t want to wait that long for a donut. You want to keep people from drifting over to the Java Cup, figure out a way to move them through faster.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know. Make an outside window.”

  “A drive-through? In this town? It’s so impersonal. People come to World’s Best for the donuts and . . . well . . .”

  “To see you. You can say it. Your family has owned the shop for three generations. But you want to stay in business? Then you’re going to have to sacrifice that hometown nostalgia.” He rose and picked up the check. “I’m on your side, Lucy. But even the newspaper had to change. We lost our routes, and we had to move online, create a different business model. It’s just business.”

  It wasn’t the donut business. “But I can’t afford to cut a hole in the shop. I’d have to hire a crew to move the electrical, the plumbing—I don’t have that kind of cash.” Not to mention the cash to pay this month’s mortgage . . . again.

  “Talk to Mark Bammer at the credit union. He’s doing business loans now, and he’ll get you fixed up.”

  Bam. Of course. He’d love for her to come slinking into his office. She pushed the coffee away. “Thanks, Jerry.”

  He gave her a smile before moving to the counter.

  “You want anything, Lucy?” Nancy stood over her with a pad and paper.

  Yes, but she didn’t see freedom, courage, or even a money tree listed on the menu. “No thanks, Nancy.”

  * * *

  Issy’s perfect romance might not be next door, but she could find it across the street.

  In the library bookshelves, of course.

  In fact, other than in her garden, Issy never felt safer than when she was sitting in the library, on the gray-carpeted floor between the shelves, authors like Jane Austen and Charlotte Brontë peering over her, not to mention the slew of contemporaries. She had a spread of three new romances in front of her, reading the first chapters.

  Sometimes she opened her show with a reading from one of her favorite scenes. It was what she loved best about My Foolish Heart—the freedom to sculpt the show to what suited the moment. Sometimes she began with a monologue about a celebrity romance. Sometimes a reader letter.

  Today, it would be a passage from a classic, one prompted by Pride’s . . . well, foolish heart. She hated to be the one to suggest it, but a reminder of ill-fated love might shake Lauren O’Grady free of her fog-induced agreement to marry a less-than-ten.

  Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.

  If that thy bent of love be honourable,

  Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,

  By one that I’ll procure to come to thee,

  Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite;

  And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay

  And follow thee my lord throughout the world.

  The last line still made her shake her head. And what if he led her into pain, heartache . . . death?

  See, Juliet might have benefited from a list, no matter what Lucy said.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a pair of feet walk by. Black-and-white Adidas under faded jeans. Whoever it was, he had a limp. She leaned out between the rows.

  What was he doing here? But now that she was prepared for the scars, they didn’t look so shocking in daylight. In fact, she had to look for them, because, oh, my, he looked good. The kind of good that should be outlawed, especially for neighbors—how was she supposed to keep her eyes off him as he mowed the lawn?

  If he mowed the lawn. But she could cling to hope, right?

  He had slipped into the row marked “Local Reference.”

  A guy who spent his afternoon in the library couldn’t be a Neanderthal, right?

  Oh, she just wanted to hide inside her book.

  He walked past her again, a case of tapes under his arm, a book in the other. And yes, he limped. Interesting.

  She waited until he approached the front desk, then darted into the aisle across from the desk.

  He’d asked to fill out a library card. What if he was a reader? What if he had hurt his leg, maybe broken it, and during his convalescence he’d taken to reading? Maybe the classics—Hemingway, Les Misérables, F. Scott Fitzgerald. She’d even tolerate a Jack London fan.

  The girl at the desk—Mindy Scott—giggled. She must be a sophomore by now; Issy remembered babysitting her.

  He picked up his stack—wait, was that a wink?—and lifted his hand to Mindy as he thumped out the glass doors.

  “Who wa
s that?” Issy hustled over to Mindy, not missing the blush pressing her face. “What’s his name?”

  Mindy’s eyes widened. Okay, maybe Issy had been a bit forward. And maybe she shouldn’t have picked up his freshly minted library card application sitting on the desk. “Caleb Knight.”

  “He’s new in town.” Mindy yanked the application from her grip. “And that’s confidential.”

  “If he’s new, then everyone will know about it by noon.”

  “Sooner than that. He had his first practice today. Had his team out running bleachers at 6 a.m.”

  His team? Bleachers? Oh. No.

  “And he wore the cutest shirt—it said ‘Sack ’em’ on the front.”

  “Sack ’em.”

  “You know, like in football?”

  “Yes, I know what it means.” She pushed her books toward Mindy, faked a smile. Slapped her card on top.

  “I just never thought the new football coach would be so cute.” Mindy zipped Issy’s card through the scanner. “Usually, they’re old men.” She looked up, her face suddenly white. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean anything by that.”

  “It’s okay, Mindy. My father would have said the same thing. But take it from someone who knows. A football player is the last person you want to give your foolish heart to.”

  Issy didn’t look back as she passed through the glass door.

  * * *

  “Are you doing your exercises? Keeping your stump clean? Making sure you’re changing your socks?”

  The way his brother acted, Caleb might be six years old again, with the chicken pox. “Collin, I’m good. Really.”

  Caleb leaned on his crutches, washing out today’s sweaty socks and the nylon sheath that covered his residual stump. He would also have to clean his prosthesis with rubbing alcohol.

  “You’re doing your exercises? It’s the little things that make a difference.”

  “Let’s pretend that you’re not my big brother, physical therapist extraordinaire, and that I’ve managed to live without your help for at least the last three years.”

  “I just want this to work for you.”

  “Me too. And it will. I promise.”