My Foolish Heart (7 page)

“Owns it, I think. Hey, the parade's about to start. Aren't you gonna be on the float?”

Seb shook his head as Mike jogged away, probably to inform what remained of their senior class that the Sebanator had returned.

He didn't even want to imagine the look on Lucy's face.
What was I to you, Seb? A fling? A mistake?
Her words could still turn his throat to fire. Of course, no. Never.

But in the end, yes.

And what had happened to Issy? He should stop by and see her.

The crowd began to push toward the sidewalk along Main. He found a place next to the kettle corn stand and stared up First Street to watch.

The Deep Haven parade lasted an entire twenty minutes. But crowds packed the sidewalks, anxious for everything from the old-fashioned cars carrying the Huskies Booster Club Fan of the Year, to the Humane Society float with children holding abandoned puppies and kittens, to the mayor giving a thumbs-up from the back of a convertible, to finally the North Shore Queen and her subjects, waving from a float decked out in green. He read the name on the side—Sarah Mulligan. Lucky Sarah, she'd have her face immortalized in a block of butter at this summer's state fair dairy pavilion.

Issy had been the North Shore Butter Girl the summer after their senior year. He'd made a point of avoiding the dairy pavilion.

He'd always believed the Butter Girl should have been Lucy. But Lucy had never been the kind to stand out, to vamp up onstage for a crown.

And by the time the pageant came along, Lucy had disappeared into her donut shop.

The “Class of” floats started in the sixties, sporadic as they worked forward by year until they reached his decade.

He had to admit that he was curious.

Curious about P-Train, his running back, and Bam, and DJ Teague, his wide receiver who could catch any of his passes, even when he threw them wide or long.

But most of all, yes, he wanted to see Lucy. Wanted to see that she'd made something of herself, that she'd healed. Even gotten over him.

He wouldn't dare to hope that she'd forgiven him.

The float came into view—a flatbed pulled by a Ford truck, and of course, Big Mike rode in the bed, waving for his fans. Seb waved to Bam, barely recognizing him with his beard and fifty extra pounds. Behind him—was that P-Train? What had happened to his running back's hair?

He searched then along the people sitting on the flatbed, their legs dangling off the edge. Monica Rice, Abby Feldstone, Bree Sanders.

No Lucy.

Except . . . there, behind the float, a slight girl—er, woman—wearing skinny jeans and a black T-shirt with white type that read
Got Donuts?

She handed out flyers to the crowd, one by one, behind the float. A smile on her face, and although she'd cut her beautiful, silky long hair, she looked . . .

Breathtaking.

And was coming his direction.

For a moment, he panicked. He should slink into the crowd before she saw him. But maybe, maybe she'd smile at him. Remind him of their happy moments.

Tell him that she'd forgiven him for betraying her.

He blew out a breath, tried to keep his body from freezing, tried to keep his stomach from roiling.

Lucy handed a flyer to the man next to him.

Seb reached for one. Met her eyes. “Hi, Lucy.”

Time stopped, or perhaps just his heart, as Lucy's gaze found him.

Her beautiful smiled dimmed. “What are you doing here?”

So much for his welcome home.

* * *

“I have a new neighbor. And I'm hungry.”

“I just saw Seb Brewster.”

Issy let a beat pass. “You win. Go.”

“I don't have time. I've got a donut rush after passing out flyers at the parade. But . . . well, he looks good. Too good.”

Issy switched the phone to her other ear. “Seb was at the parade?”

“Yep. Listen, if you need food, I'll be by after work with leftovers.”

“So we're not going to talk about Seb's return? Okay, then I need something more than donuts. Vegetables, fruit. Diet Coke.” She opened the cupboard. “What kind of lunch could I make with a stale half package of Ramen noodles, two packets of ketchup, a mail-sample bag of some new brand of healthy cereal, and a box of hardened raisins?”

Lucy laughed, then greeted the mayor. “You know, you could go to the grocery store.” The ring of a cash register. “You're ready. This is the next step. You can do this, Issy. I believe in you.”

Strange, once upon a time, it had been Issy comforting Lucy. A different lifetime.

Issy stared at herself in the microwave door. “Yes. Yes, I can do this,” she said. Yes. She refused to let fear trap her in her house. First this, and then . . . maybe she'd tell her neighbor to get off her grass.

Then, someday, Napa.

“Go to the grocery store. I'll see you tonight.” Lucy hung up.

How hungry, really, was she?

She grabbed the sample bag of cereal, worked it open, and peered inside. Granola of sorts.

Nudging open her back door, now covered in refrigerator-box cardboard, she walked out to her porch, sat on the steps, and surveyed her tiny piece of heaven.

Yes, sitting here in the backyard might be enough to nourish her, with the August breeze reaping the fragrance of the Pilgrim roses next to the porch, the dainty tea roses along the path.

Issy could live right here, in her mother's backyard, forever.

To think, there'd been a time when she couldn't wait to escape it.

Thank You, God, for leaving me my mother's garden.
But the thought twined around her like nettles.

She emptied the last of the cereal into her mouth and blinked back the moisture in her eyes.

Her stomach still growled.

Really, how hard was it to walk two blocks to the grocery store, fill her canvas bag with essentials, and walk home? She didn't have to talk to anyone. She could paste on a smile and not meet any gaze straight on. She visualized herself walking through the automatic doors of the tiny store. Saw herself picking up a red plastic basket. Plotted her route through the aisles. She'd start at the bakery for bread, then head to the frozen foods and finally the dairy section, grab some eggs, yogurt, milk. She'd end at the vegetable aisle for lettuce. Maybe pick up some dressing. All that could fit into her tote bag, the one just big enough to keep her from buying too much to carry.

She'd pay with her bank card, then walk home. Still smiling.

She could do this.

Take your time. There's no rush. You're in control.

Rachelle's voice pulsed in her head, and it pushed Issy off the back porch, to the front door. She found her flip-flops, her canvas grocery bag, her purse, her sunglasses. Glanced in the mirror by the door. When was the last time she wore makeup?

Probably the day of her mother's funeral.

The thought caught her up, filled her throat.

Use your tools.

“For God has not given us a spirit of fear.”

“If God is for us, who can ever be against us?”

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

She had no problem walking to the end of her block or the next. See? She was making progress. In fact, she'd pushed the boundaries of her world out that far just recently with her daily run. Only a light sweat beaded her skin as she crossed First Avenue diagonally into the parking lot of the Red Rooster Grocery Store.

Which, she noticed, overflowed with cars. What was wrong with these people? Didn't they see the celebration going on downtown?
Please don't let the place be packed with familiar faces.

Including hers. Just her luck, someone would notice her.
Hello, Issy. How's your father?

Of course, people had stopped offering condolences for her mother more than a year ago.

Issy pulled in a breath, something stalwart and deep, before she stepped onto the mat that opened the automatic door.

Cool, canned air, the beep of the scanners, voices and conversations, and the smell of produce sucked her into the store. She kept her sunglasses on under the fluorescence and went to grab a basket.

The bin was empty.

No problem.
No problem.
She took a breath in, out, then unhooked a cart from the stack and dumped her bag into the seat in the front.

She gripped the handle with two hands.

Bakery section. She kept her eyes on her goal even as she noticed a familiar face in the cereal aisle—Mark someone, from the Elks Club. And there, by the deli, Diann, who used to work in the school library.

Issy grabbed a loaf of wheat bread, dropped it into her cart, then cut toward the frozen foods.

She kept one hand on her cart while she opened the door, the air raising gooseflesh as she grabbed for a frozen entrée; she didn't care what flavor.

Across from her, Nancy from the café glanced at Issy as she grabbed a carton of ice cream. Her toddler daughter kicked her feet against the cart. Was that baby one or two?

Issy didn't stop to ask, kept her smile affixed as she nodded, despite the swelling of her throat.
Just keep moving.

She picked up a carton of yogurt, a package of cheese, then beelined for the refrigerated dairy case.

A man dressed in a blue oxford, a red baseball cap on his head, stood contemplating the sour cream. He didn't seem familiar, but she didn't expect to know everyone in Deep Haven. Especially after all this time. She turned away, stepping back from her cart to grab a half gallon of milk.

The heat fogged the glass on her door even as she heard his section slam, heard his cart rattle.

She grabbed her milk, closed the door, turned.

No cart.

She looked up to see the stranger hauling her food away, dragging the cart behind him like an afterthought.

Wait.
“Hey!”

The word came out more strident than she intended, panic laced in her tone.

He didn't stop.

She clutched the milk to her chest. “Hey! You!” She ran up and grabbed the cart, jerking him to a stop. “That's my cart.” Had she shouted it? A woman looked at her from the cleanser aisle.

The thief turned to face her, his back to her momentarily, and that's when she saw it. On the opposite side of his body, emerging from the neck of his shirt and crawling up his head to underneath his cap, a wave of reddened skin, rumpled and shiny, as if it had been peeled back from his body. It touched his jaw and wrinkled his ear and she had no doubt that his cap hid something brutal.

“This is your cart?”

He was speaking, and she barely managed to rip her gaze from his scars to his eyes—blue, so blue that they sucked her breath from her with their intensity. “Uh.”

“Oh, it is. I'm so sorry. I thought that was mine.” He leaned down to take out his sour cream.

Her gaze followed his movements and affixed on his scars. The skin on the top of his hand snarled into a tight ball, and where his pinkie finger had been, there remained only a nub.

He'd been burned.

She froze, all other thoughts stripped.

Burned.

Her breaths came fast. She opened her mouth again, but only a mangled whimper emerged.

“Are you okay?”

Please, don't make a scene.
But what was the man going to do with a woman hyperventilating before him?

“Can I help you with something?”

From the meat section, Diann looked up.

No. Don't look. Please, don't—

The cruel hand of the past reached up for her. She smelled the smoke, heard her mother's screams. Her own screams.

“Ma'am?”

A keening filled her brain and she prayed it wasn't audible as she pushed away from him, leaving the cart, her groceries, her bag right there. She quick-walked past the cereal aisle, the bakery, and heard her own breaths rip out of her as she picked up her pace, nearly crashing into the automatic doors.

As if in a tunnel, she heard the slapping of her feet against the pavement as she fled across the parking lot.

She lost a flip-flop, came down hard on the ball of her foot, scraping skin against pavement. But she didn't care, just ran, eyes on her house.

She climbed the stairs, threw open the door, and slammed it hard, breathing out. Her hands palmed the cool wooden floor as she dropped to her knees.

Then, losing her other flip-flop, she crawled over to the piano in the front parlor and slipped underneath, pulling her legs to herself.

So much for miracles.

4

After three years, Caleb thought he'd be used to the reaction of a pretty girl to his scars. Thought it wouldn't hurt so much for someone to freeze, polite words ripped from her mouth, leaving only a mumble in reply. Sure, culture had conditioned most people into a cool,
hey, I don't see that you're hurt
sort of facade, but Caleb could still read it in their eyes.

He was damaged. Scarred. Frightening.

And sometimes, when he looked at his body in the mirror, he might agree with them. When he stared at the pucker of scars along his arm, his back, down his leg, and remembered the body he'd had, it could cripple him into seeing only what he wasn't.

But he'd long ago refused to focus on his wounds.

And today, at the celebration, he'd actually forgotten them.

However, he'd never driven a woman away in a state of horror before. Caleb had watched her go, torn between wanting to run after her and apologize—for what, really?—or quickly walk away, pretend it never happened.

Pretend he'd never served his country? Pretend that he hadn't survived when others didn't? No, that didn't seem right.

Which left only frustration.

And of course, a fresh wound where he thought he'd healed. Thankfully, the checkout girl smiled sweetly at him as he paid. He loaded his two bags of groceries into the back of his truck and drove the less than two blocks home. Probably he could have walked, but the jaunt around town had fatigued him and he needed to save his energy for practice.