My Foolish Heart (5 page)

“We can always learn from the classics.”

“But looking ahead to the future wouldn't hurt. Late Night Lovelorn Network is willing to pay for your trip, set you up in a hotel, provide you with transportation and a staff to make this happen.”

She stepped through the door, surveyed the damage, and sighed. “No.”

“I don't understand your phobia. What, do you think you're going to get hurt? I'd fly out, be right there with you.”

Most people didn't understand panic attacks, really. It wasn't a fear of leaving the house. It was a fear of being out of control, of something happening that she didn't expect and then reacting poorly. Poorly, aka running away, hiding, dropping into the fetal position, weeping. Making a scene for the entire world to watch.

It was a fear of being in a place that reminded her of that moment when life careened so far out of control that she simply unraveled. She couldn't let that happen again. Ever.

“Unless you have had fear rule your life, you can't understand. But I'm trying, Elliot. Really. And you knew this about me when you contracted my show.”

Elliot sighed. “I'm on your side, Issy. Really. But management wants you to do this. Your numbers are down recently, and we're losing advertisers. They think if you broadcast in Napa, you could pick up some new markets, add some new life to your show. You need to do something to boost ratings. Your contract is up for renewal at the end of September, and I'm afraid if you don't agree to cover this, Late Night Lovelorn just might drop you.”

Drop her? So she could disappear back into the darkness? The show connected her with real people, safely. She couldn't lose the show. But—

“Issy?”

She sat down on one of the stools at her kitchen island. “I can't go to Napa, Elliot. I'm sorry. The fact is, I want to. I don't want to lose my show. If there was a way to boost my ratings, believe me, I'd be doing it.”

He had no idea how she'd love to visit Napa. Or . . . anywhere. She'd even settle for downtown Deep Haven, just to make it to World's Best Donuts and have a hot skizzle instead of waiting for leftovers. She'd long tired of the view of the pine boards of the backyard fence, the vacant, paint-peeling A-frame rental next door.

“Are you still seeing your counselor?”

“Of course.”

“Then you're making progress.”

“If you call being able to finally run around the block and visit the library across the street during quiet hours
progress
, yes.”

“I do. There's no way you could talk yourself onto a plane?”

She considered it a moment. “I think that would take a miracle of epic proportions.”

Elliot was silent as the words hung between them. Finally he said, “Hang in there.”

“Where else am I going to go?” She meant it as a joke, but it fell flat.

He gave her a courtesy laugh anyway. “Do me a favor and get those recordings done.” He hung up without a Minnesota good-bye.

A miracle of epic proportions.
She glanced outside at the blue sky, cloudless after last night's storm.

“Please, Lord, send me a miracle. Set me free, if that's even possible.”

She let her words hang there, just in case God still cared. She'd long ago figured that after everything she'd done to embarrass Him, He'd probably washed His hands of her. And why not? Christians were supposed to overcome fear. She'd embarrassed everyone, especially God.

Pocketing the phone, she slipped on her flip-flops and ventured out to the garage.

The storm had littered sticks into her yard, flattened more than her bleeding heart. She had hours of gardening before her today.

Sunlight poured through the grimy garage windows, over her father's boat and the shiny Chevy the insurance company had purchased to replace her car. Actually, Lucy had purchased it for her, driven it home from Duluth before the insurance check expired. Now, it radiated a barely-been-driven sheen.

She ran her fingers over the hood, then flipped on the overhead light and spotted the refrigerator box in the corner. Her mother had had the new appliance installed just two weeks before her death.

The perfect size to cover the back door.

She pressed the door opener and retrieved the box, pulling it into the driveway.

It was then she noticed the shiny white truck. Like a behemoth, its girth sprawled over the neighbor's driveway. Its giant wheels had ground up the pansies she'd grown from seed and planted, one by one, along the border between the houses.

She stalked over to it, glanced at the A-frame rental. Which, until yesterday, had been empty for nearly two years.

She had a new neighbor. And on his porch lay the furry culprit of last night's attack.

* * *

Seb Brewster just wanted to sneak back into town before anyone noticed.

He needed time to paste on his game face.

The sun had just begun to peek over the lake, denting the sky with gold as he coaxed his Dodge Neon over the last hill and into the hamlet of Deep Haven. Opening the window, he tapped the brakes, cruised to thirty, and drank in the piney tang of the air after a storm, the sound of gulls crying over lost opportunity.

Cars lined the streets, and as he veered away from the Main Street cutoff, he noted a band shell set up in the harbor park. Today's lineup was sure to feature JayJ and his band of blues musicians, probably still plunking out the same tunes they had when they'd slapped together sounds in his garage over a decade ago. Seb lasted about two practices at the trap set before football overtook his life.

A few early morning power walkers pushed athletic strollers or followed obedient city dogs on leashes, and a couple teenagers in shorts and Lake Superior sweatshirts skipped stones into the hungry water. One, two, three, four . . . He'd made it to fifteen once.

Back in his glory days.

The sweet breath of coming home stirred inside him and nearly slid his compact into an empty parking space in front of the Footstep of Heaven bookstore, daring him to dash down the street to World's Best Donuts, grab a fresh donut.

What if Lucy still worked there?

Maybe she had finally forgiven him.

He sighed and kept going, through the one stoplight, past the grocery store, the auto parts lot—aka junkyard—the forest service building, and finally, at the town limits, turned left at Dugan's Trailer Park.

His buoyant spirit deflated as he passed the rows of trailers lined up like railroad cars. A few displayed the efforts of beautification—a potted clump of geraniums, a bed of lilies. A freestanding swing and a turtle-shaped sandbox with a collection of Tonka trucks, their yellow tin glinting in the hazy morning sun, suggested small children still lived in the neighborhood.

As he drove farther up the hill, the nostalgia died in the clutter of weeds and a rusty white pine that loomed over a single-wide green trailer with dented screens in the two-by-two windows. A blackened plastic Christmas wreath hung on the door. A sorry reminder of his mother's last Christmas before she left.

Seb parked next to a dented Impala. A splotch of oil darkened the gravel under it, and he had to arc his leg out to avoid stepping in the grease. By the end of the week, he'd probably be lying in the puddle, replacing the oil pan.

The birds chirruped as if remembering him, and the old porch creaked appropriately, but no sounds of life drifted from the trailer's screened door—no bacon sizzling on the stove, no canned laughter from the television. He peered inside for a moment, gathering his breath against the cigarette odor that would saturate his clothes. Once upon a time, the smell would cause him to fling open the door and search the rooms for his father, home from the road.

Later, the smell told him whether he should stick around or take off for Coach Presley's place. Seb had awakened most Saturday mornings on the coach's front room sofa, his stomach aching at the smell of pancakes.

He eased open the door. It caught and he had to wrestle it the rest of the way, as if forcing himself back into his old life.

Perhaps, indeed, that's exactly what he was doing.

Dishes marinated in the sink, a swarm of flies lifting in greeting. Spaghetti hardened in a bowl on the built-in dining nook table. No television at all—maybe it had broken, although he hadn't seen it on the porch. Instead dust layered the television stand, the deer lamp on the side table. The brown carpet hadn't been vacuumed this side of the last election.

He eased down the skinny hallway, past the bathroom, then his old bedroom-turned-closet for his father's hunting equipment. The Marlin 336 lay on the bed—
great storage, Dad
—and against the wall leaned the Ruger rifle, with what looked like a new scope.

Seb sucked a breath, then pushed open the master bedroom door, half-hoping he wouldn't find him, a skin-and-bones man, his teeth yellow, his skin bled of color, his hair long and tangled over his face, life shucked from him one drink at a time.

But there he lay, fully clothed in a pair of greasy jeans and a T-shirt, his mouth open as if surprised that he might find himself in his own bed.

Seb walked up to him. Nudged his knee. “Dad. Hey.”

Nothing.

“Dad, c'mon. Wake up.” He shook him again, harder, his heart just a little in his throat.

The man roused. Groaned.

“Dad, it's me, Seb. I'm home.”

An eye flickered open. Then the other. For a long, suffocating moment, he stared at Seb, those green eyes unfocused or simply climbing out of someplace Seb didn't want to know about. Seb fought the urge to drop and bury his head on his father's bony knees and weep.
It's me, Dad. Seb. And . . .

I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I meant to be more.

But he pushed his hands into his jean pockets, fisted them.

Finally his father broke through the fog and blinked at Seb. He wiped his mouth, then reached out his hand, gripping Seb's wrist. “It's about time you got here, kid.”

About time. Yes, maybe.

“Do you need anything?”

A smirk tweaked his father's face. He followed it with a harrumph. “How about some breakfast?”

His father's grip fell away and he rolled back into slumber. At least the old man had made it home. Hopefully without hurting anyone.

Seb nodded, slipping into a rhythm, seventeen again, arriving home from practice to find his father passed out on the sofa, the bathroom floor, the bed. He'd fix himself a sandwich and watch the NFL channel until midnight, plotting his future. Back then, he'd planned on playing for the University of Minnesota. If he got lucky, if he did well at the Combine, he'd get picked up by the Packers or even the Bears. He wanted to stay close, in case his mother came home, in case she saw him in the papers.

Maybe she'd even want season tickets. He'd get her a box seat, of course.

Seb missed that, perhaps, the most—looking up out of a huddle when he was fifteen, already varsity quarterback, and seeing her, bundled for winter in the stands. Sometimes the only one.

But even his touchdowns hadn't kept her home.

As he reached the door, he heard his father rouse again. Seb stopped and swallowed hard before turning back to face what remained of his family.

“Welcome home, Son.”

“Yeah. Thanks, Dad. I'll get those eggs for you.”

3

Caleb could fall in love with a town that served fish burgers. Especially by a playful indigo lake that flirted with the laughing children running along the stone-tossed beach.

The intoxicating smells of grilled hot dogs, fresh kettle corn, and crispy french fries dripping with peanut oil had all conspired to draw Caleb to the annual Fisherman's Picnic. He'd put on a long-sleeved shirt, then walked down the street, crossed at the light—where glass and other debris still marked last night's tragedy—and sauntered over to the festivities along the harbor.

He'd beelined to the Elks Club's fish stand, where the “Have You Had Your Walleye Today?” sign made him fork over three bucks.

Walleye, deep-fried, slathered in tartar sauce, on a long hot dog bun. Only in northern Minnesota. Or perhaps, only in Deep Haven.

Yes, Caleb wanted to fit into this town. Wanted to look like the locals, in their cargo pants, their Gore-Tex jackets, their hiking boots. Wanted to know the kids skateboarding down the center of the blocked-off Main Street—all three blocks of it—and know who to recruit for his offensive line. Wanted the blonde at the coffee stand to know his regular brew, like she did with every other person in line. He pictured his own mug on the shelf at the donut shop, where this morning he'd purchased a raspberry-filled bismark from the petite, doe-eyed brunette. He'd stopped for a long moment and just read the fifty or so cups on the rack, their first initial and last name demarking the owner's place in the community.

Coach K. That's what his label would read. He'd rise early every day, slide into an orange molded booth with a fresh donut, a hot cup of black coffee, and raise a greeting to the mayor or the hotel owner from across the street or the booth of local contractors. “Hello, Coach,” they'd say without a trace of pity.

After Caleb grabbed a napkin from the stand, he ventured through the crowd with his fish burger until he found a place in the middle of Moose Park, below the stage. A long-haired guitarist picked out some bluesy tune, as behind him what looked like locals in their T-shirts, jeans, and Birkenstocks jammed to his beat. A few courageous souls danced on the cobblestones of the park. Caleb moved out of their way.

The rain seemed to have cleansed the clouds from the sky—only the clear blue remained. The town rose on a hill behind the harbor with unpretentious houses amid the lush backfill of white pine and cedar trees. He raised his face to the heat of the sun.

“Hey—if it isn't the new coach.”

He turned. “Chief . . . uh . . .”