My Foolish Heart (10 page)

“Your mother and I would get along.”

Wendy, their daughter, carried in a plate of meat loaf. “Daddy's favorite,” she said and glanced at her father, pouring iced tea into glasses.

Dan winked at her. “Go call your brothers in for lunch, please.”

Caleb watched her open the sliding door, call out over the deck to where twins Ethan and Joseph swung on their jungle gym. Caleb had learned their names this morning when they'd nearly knocked him over running down the center aisle after church. Thankfully, Ellie blocked for him. She had the moves of a right guard.

“Great sermon today, Pastor. I love Philippians and especially the 4:19 passage.”

“‘This same God who takes care of me will supply all your needs from his glorious riches.'” Ellie added a Jell-O salad to the table. “Including lunch. We're so glad you could join us. Sorry the place is such a mess. I had to cover an extra shift at the firehouse last night because of the picnic.”

A mess? The house—more of a log cabin—had the look of a firehouse. Everything in order, gleaming stainless steel appliances, a picnic table in the kitchen, a couple of comfy suede sofas in the open living room. A loft above the kitchen looked over the giant picture windows facing town. Caleb had stood way too long drinking in the view of the little hamlet perched on the curvature of the harbor.

“This is a beautiful place.”

“Thanks. Ellie and I built it together.” Dan pulled out his wife's chair.

Caleb took the one next to Wendy. “Built it? As in, hammer and nails?”

“Yep,” Ellie said. She held out her hand for Dan, who took it.

Wendy nudged Caleb, her hand lying on the table. Oh. He caught it up, took Dan's on the other side. Bowed his head as Dan prayed.

In those brief seconds, he was home, sitting at the table, his father at the head, with the traditional words, the smell of a pot roast, carrots, onions, potatoes, and rosemary nudging open his eyes. Collin sat across from him, kicking him under the table—

Wait. He peeked open his eye. Sure enough, Ethan suppressed a grin.

“Amen,” Dan said. He reached for the meat loaf. “I have to admit, I was surprised to see you today in church.” He handed the plate to Caleb.

“Why? You invited me.”

Dan loaded up some squash. “That I did. It's just . . . well, it's good to see the football coach sitting in the pews again. It's not an easy job, coaching all those boys into manhood. It's great to see that you're willing to accept some help.”

He wouldn't exactly call it that. More like following through on his word to the Almighty. After all, a guy could only expect so much help. “I grew up in the church.”

“Where was that, Caleb?” Ellie scooped squash onto Joseph's plate, despite his grimace.

“Little town on the border of Minnesota and Wisconsin called Preston. It's a farming community. My father ran a hardware store.”

“So were you a Packers or Vikings fan?” Dan asked.

“‘It's not whether you get knocked down; it's whether you get up,'” Caleb said, quoting Vince Lombardi, the Green Bay Packers' legendary coach.

Dan shook his head. “Well, we're going to have to keep it friendly when the Packers play the Vikings.”

“Not too friendly,” Ellie said, handing Caleb the salad. “So why did you choose Deep Haven?”

“I love small towns. I like the simple life, the slower pace.”

“You won't think it's so slow when the school year starts.” Ellie moved a napkin to Joseph's lap. Gestured for Dan to do the same for Ethan. “We can barely keep up with the sports, the carpools, ministry, and our shifts down at the firehouse.”

“Actually Ellie is the only full-time firefighter.”

“I was the chief a few years back. But now I just run the EMS department and do fire investigation.”

No wonder Dan had obeyed his wife and helped his son sit up straight, use his manners.

“Is this your first coaching gig?” Dan asked.

“I coached in the pro summer camps through college, but I got called up for the National Guard and went to Iraq right after I graduated. This is my first real job after . . .” He glanced at the kids. “After my injury.”

A beat passed, and he took a breath.

Ellie smiled at him. “You're going to do a great job.”

“How did you get hurt?” Ethan asked.

“Ethan!” Dan said.

“No, it's okay.” Caleb smiled at the boy. “I was transporting some wounded back to base and we got hit with a roadside bomb. It blew up the truck and . . . hurt me.”

Editing out his missing limb seemed the right move at the moment. They didn't need to know the darkness of those hours he'd lain in the ditch, the fear that he'd be captured so deep that it could scour out his breath, the pain so overwhelming that he just wanted to sink into it and die.

Until he'd cried out to God and discovered that God's grace was deeper than his lowest moment.

“We're glad you survived, Caleb. I'm so sorry.” Ellie touched his hand. His wounded hand.

He didn't move it away, but neither did he clasp her grip. “Thanks.” He drew a breath, then looked at Dan. “So what can you tell me about Seb Brewster?”

“He was the starting quarterback of the Huskies as a freshman. I remember him as young and cocky. But a nice kid. His mother used to attend church occasionally. His father drove OTR, would be gone for a week or so at a time. I do remember seeing him in the stands, though. They separated when Seb was in high school. Kid took it pretty hard. So did his father—he starting drinking. I remember Coach Presley praying for them in men's Bible study. I think Seb spent a lot of time on Coach's sofa.”

Dan took a drink of his tea. Set it down. “Coach is a real prayer warrior. He might have been benched, but he's still very much a part of the game. You should stop by the care center and meet him. He's been praying for someone to fill his shoes—hasn't found a coach he could endorse yet.”

“I'll do that, but I can't imagine that he'd endorse me over Seb.”

Dan said nothing.

“Some apple pie, Caleb?” Ellie said. “Wendy made it.” She glanced at her daughter, smiling.

“I won't be able to run tomorrow,” Caleb said, now able to quip like that without a flinch. “But I wouldn't be a Minnesotan if I turned down a piece of apple pie.”

Wendy grinned.

“What's your coaching plan?” Dan asked as he handed Ellie his empty plate.

“My plan is to focus on fundamentals. Teach them how to block and get off the line fast, how to get their head across the defender's body and drive, not to be soft on the block.” Caleb smiled as Wendy brought him the piece of pie. “Yum.”

“You'll have to run a few extra laps with your boys tomorrow. Thanks, honey.” Dan leaned back as Wendy put a piece in front of him. Caleb noticed Dan's piece was considerably smaller than his.

“I called an early practice—6 a.m. It'll be a conditioning practice. At least for the first few days. Later we'll start to break out into positions. We'll work on tackling, how to handle the ball, stance for the linemen. Only after we have the fundamentals down will we start running plays.”

“You have a lot of work to do before the scrimmage.” Dan sipped his coffee. “Word's gotten around. I think you're going to have a pretty big turnout.”

Caleb drew in a breath. Sometimes it did feel overwhelming.

Not unlike learning to walk again.

“They'll be in pain, for sure. But I want to teach them to fight through it, control their bodies instead of their bodies controlling them. I want them to learn what it means to get back up and even see a part of themselves that they never knew existed. Be men, not boys, or at least on their way.”

Ellie wore a strange look. She smiled and glanced at Dan.

“Yes,” Dan said, “you need to meet Coach Presley. You just might be the guy to fill his shoes.”

The words lingered as Caleb drove home, as he greeted Roger, who had clearly decided that he belonged on Caleb's front porch, and let him into the house. Meet Coach Presley. Yes, he'd do that, maybe tomorrow after practice.

He couldn't deny the swirl in his gut at the thought of practice.

Caleb stared in his bathroom mirror, trying out his coaching face. “The man with the most heart wins!” He said it loud, full, and his voice thundered through the house.

From the sofa, Roger raised his head.

Okay, so he didn't exactly want the neighbors rushing in to check out the crazy new guy on the block, screaming at himself in the mirror.

They had to learn to play with their hearts, with every fiber of their bodies. Sure, it sounded cliché, but Vince Lombardi said it first, and when was he ever wrong? Unless a man believed in himself and made a total commitment to his career and put everything he had into it—his mind, his body, his heart—what was life worth to him?

Caleb ran water down his face, then shut off the light.

Maybe he should focus more on God's quotes.
“This same God who takes care of me will supply all your needs from his glorious riches.”
He had; oh, He had. Caleb hated to ask for more.

He knew in his gut that God had saved him that dark night, healed him, and sent him to Deep Haven for a reason.

Caleb wasn't going to let Him down.

He sat on the sofa and positioned his legs so they lay the length of it. Roger lifted his head from his paws, got up, set it on Caleb's knees. He toggled the dog behind the ears. “So now we're friends?”

Pulling his laptop from the floor, he connected to the Internet, found
The Bean
's channel.

“Welcome to
My Foolish Heart
, where we believe your perfect love might be right next door.”

He'd caught the week's recap of the show before it. He clicked on the link.
My Foolish Heart
, a talk show for hopeless romantics. He listened to the sultry-voiced hostess who called herself, appropriately, Miss Foolish Heart. Oh, brother. But
The Bean
would be on any minute.

He rolled his eyes at the responses to what it felt like to fall in love.

“It's knowing you have someone to hold on to.”

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

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

Loved, anyway. If that were even possible. Ashley hadn't loved him, not really. And after the dust cleared, he hadn't loved her, either. They'd simply clung to each other through college because they both liked the glory. Sure, she said she'd stay with him after his injury, but he saw the pity in her eyes.

He couldn't be loved because of pity.

No, he didn't know what it felt like to fall in love. But he did know what he wanted.

Someone who wouldn't give up on him. Someone who didn't love him
despite
his handicap but didn't see it at all. Someone who believed in him.

He let the show play as he went to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of milk. The hostess had moved on to a new caller, someone announcing her engagement.

He stood in the doorway, listening, as the hostess gave a sort of high-pitched, tremulous laugh when the caller asked her to the wedding. Something about the hue of fear in the voice nudged something inside him.

He sat down and turned up the volume.

A commercial break, and she returned with an excerpt of yet another show. She solved the problems of a workplace romance and a long-distance relationship and headed off a would-be affair.

And by the end, he'd become uncomfortably entwined by that soft, compassionate voice. Like she might really care about the saps calling in. Thankfully,
The Bean
came on and knocked him back to his senses.

What was a foolish heart, anyway?

Roger whined in his sleep, his legs twitching. Yes, that happened to him sometimes. He dreamed of running, or worse, his leg itched.

He turned off
The Bean
.

“Rog, try and stay home tonight, huh?” Walking past his bedroom, he saw the neighbor's light flick out. The summer wind, cool through his screen, drew him out onto the porch. He eased down on his front steps, stared at stars against the dark pane of night. The sky seemed so close, he wanted to reach up to heaven.

You just might be the guy to fill his shoes.
Yes, he'd like to someday have the reputation that Coach Presley had. But fill his shoes? No. He wanted his own pair.

* * *

If Issy could, she'd skip over Sundays and go right to Mondays. Not that life inside her house felt much different on Mondays, but Sundays seemed to bring to life all her limitations.

She'd listened to Pastor Dan Matthews's sermon on the radio and couldn't push from her thoughts the image of watching him from the third pew, right side, the sunlight streaming in through the tall windows. Sometimes she could even see her father sitting beside her, his arm stretched out over the pew. Hear his rich tenor singing “Amazing Grace,” the occasional “Amen!” muttered under his breath.

Yes, Sundays she missed him the most.

She tried to assuage the pain by sitting in his recliner under the puddle of lamplight, his marked Bible on her lap. Sometimes she read his playbook, the notes he scribbled in the margins.

Today, she simply tried to figure out just what Dan meant by his verse of choice.
“This same God who takes care of me will supply all your needs from his glorious riches.”

What was she supposed to do with that?

The teakettle whistled. She got up, went to the kitchen, took out a bag of chamomile, and dropped it into her mother's favorite cup, a souvenir she'd picked up in Germany during their twentieth wedding anniversary trip. Issy poured the water in, dunking the bag, the rusty brown bleeding into the water. Then she dropped the bag into the sink.