My Foolish Heart (22 page)

Caleb blew out a breath, then returned to the store. He avoided Ryan and picked up a box of spaghetti, Italian sausage, and the fixings for his mother's homemade sauce.

He could make a mean spaghetti.

Three hours later, he had his tool belt on and had nailed the loose board in Issy's fence into place.

“Make sure you put a lot of nails in—he's pretty big!”

Issy stood on the porch looking clean and pretty in a white short-sleeved blouse and a pair of jeans. She had a way of making the evening beautiful, with her long brown hair, those freckles over her nose, the way she wandered through her garden, picking flowers.

Good thing he hadn't attempted a bouquet—he might have insulted the spray she'd put on her deck table. Dahlias and roses. That, however, constituted the extent of his flower knowledge, thanks to the limited time he spent in his mother's garden. But it allowed him to sound a little like he knew his stuff when Issy toured him through her masterpiece.

“My mother planted these.” She stopped next to a bush of yellow roses. “Pilgrim roses. She loved them.” She moved to a V trellis. “But these are mine. Pink climbing tea roses.” She smelled one, then held it out toward Caleb.

Yeah, it smelled good. Whatever. But he could stand here with her all night, probably. Because between this afternoon when he'd intercepted her running and tonight, he didn't exactly recognize the girl next door.

Not with the way she'd unlocked her world, invited him in. Whoever she'd become, he liked her. A lot. Liked her easy smile and the way she seemed to relax with him. Liked the way she watched him fix her fence. Liked the way she ran her hand over Roger's mug, tousled his ears.

More, if his radar hadn't completely fried out from lack of use, Issy liked him, too.

She'd finished clearing the table of the spaghetti plates, pouring the last of the lemonade from a glass pitcher. He'd already measured her door for a new pane of glass—he'd stop by the lumberyard tomorrow and see if he could order one. Until then, the cardboard was ingenious.

For the rest of the evening, he'd enjoy the whisper of the wind in the leaves of the birch and poplar, the lavender twilight on his back, the sweet taste of victory.

Miss Foolish Heart and BoyNextDoor had finally won the heart of the Girl—or at least a date with her.

He just had to play this evening correctly, not spook her with conversations of the past, keep it easy and friendly.

He finished driving the last nail into the wood, then slipped the hammer into his belt. Unhooking it, he set it on the porch, easing himself down on the steps.

“Want some more lemonade?”

He nodded.

She came down the steps, handed him the drink, sat beside him.

“That was amazing spaghetti.”

“My mother's.” He took a drink. He really needed to lay his leg straight. “She would be proud that I remembered how to make it.”

She looked at him, a smile creeping up her face. “So you cook.”

“My mother told me that all her boys should know how to cook and dance. Lessons in the kitchen every Sunday night.”

“Cooking?”

“And dancing.” He grinned, hoping she wouldn't ask him to do a waltz. Someday, maybe he'd dance again.

“I can't dance. Or cook, really. It sounds like you have brothers.”

“Collin—he's the oldest. Lives in Minneapolis with his wife. And Levi. He's a basketball player, in his last year of college.”

“What do your parents do?”

“My dad owns a hardware store in town, but we also worked a farm.”

“Hence the tool belt.”

“It helps to be handy. That's from my dad.”

“Wise man.” Issy clasped her hands between her knees.

“Are you cold? We can go inside.”

She shot him a look, shook her head fast.

Okay, not inside. Maybe that was too personal, too invasive.

“It's just that, uh—”

“Really, Issy, it's okay. I shouldn't have suggested it.”

Her eyes widened. “Why?”

Why? “Because it's more comfortable out here, right?”

She drew in a breath, seemed to accept that.

“Can I ask what you do for a living? You seem to be . . . always at home.”

“I . . . I work at home. E-things.”

“E-things?”

“I work online.”

Oh.

“How's the team?”

“Good. They're getting their kinks worked out. I think they'll be ready for the game next week.” The run-in with Ryan skidded through his head. “Most of them, at least.”

“I remember my dad coming home after the first week of practice. He'd ice his legs, just like the guys. He liked to get in the dirt with them, loved to show them new plays as a sort of taste of the new season.” She shook her head as if dismissing the memory. “Do you think you'll get the job?”

“I hope so. I've always wanted to live in a small town.”

“Why?”

“Because I grew up in one. I remember the games, and I loved—”

“Being the football star?” She gave him a smirk, one he didn't know how to read.

“No. I loved knowing everyone in town. I loved going to the malt shop and having the waitress know my order. And yes, I liked winning football games. I liked the way the team worked together. I liked being a part of something bigger than me.” Not unlike how he'd been a part of his unit in Iraq. Losing that life had been nearly as agonizing as losing his leg.

“Did you pull a muscle playing football?”

He removed his hand from his leg. Apparently he'd been rubbing it again. Oh, he didn't want to lie. Not when they were just getting started. But . . . “Something like that.”

“So do you think we can win? Go to state?”

“I think the year is early. And frankly—” he made a conscious effort not to rub his leg, forming a fist on top of it instead—“I'm having an issue with one of my players. He's . . . not happy with the fact that we keep working on the basics. He wants to be a star, I think, and I'm not fancy enough for him.”

“My dad spent the first week or two just on drills, on the basics, before he taught them any of his gadget plays.”

“Gadget plays?”

“You know, the trick plays? The ones that win championships?”

He did know. In fact he had a few of his own formulating. But nothing he could try on the team . . . yet. “Not always.”

“No, not if you can't execute them. Which is why you need the basics.”

“I think you'd make a great coach,” Caleb said and was rewarded with the wrinkle of her nose.

“Nah. I'm just the coach's daughter.”

“You have a great spiral.”

She looked away, and he couldn't help it—he pushed her hair from where the wind twined it into her face.

She jerked away.

“Oh, sorry, I . . .”

She swallowed fast, however, and he recognized a fake smile when he saw one.

“Issy, I'm so sorry. You're safe with me.”

Her lips closed. “Why would you say that?”

“Because . . . I . . . I guess I like you, and I want to get to know you better. I don't want to wreck anything.”

Had he really said that?

She seemed to take in his words, roll them through her thoughts. “Why do you like me, Caleb? You don't even know me. Why would you make me spaghetti and come over here and fix my fence?”

“Because you're my neighbor? Do I have to have a reason?”

She bit her lip and looked away.

He resisted the urge to brush her hair back again. And this night had been going so well.

She palmed her hands together. For a gardener, she had immaculate fingernails. “Seb Brewster was my father's trick play man. He loved running all the funky stuff my dad cooked up. They'd sit at the dinner table long after everyone went home—even after I went to bed—and sometimes I'd wake up and Seb would be crashed on our sofa.”

She looked at him, her mouth darting into a smile. “Seb was a great player. You'll need something up your sleeve to beat him.”

She had amazing eyes. Full of intriguing, silvery layers, they reached out to him and pulled his breath from his chest.

“One of my dad's tricks, too, was his Thursday night barbecue before the big game. He'd have the guys over after practice and feed them hamburgers. They'd sit around and talk plays and strategy. They trusted him.”

That's what Caleb needed—the boys to trust him. “I should do that. Have them over. Grill hamburgers.”

She pressed her hand to her mouth.

“What?”

“Have you taken a good look at your grill?”

“Yeah. I cook on it every night.”

“I know. And one of these nights, it's going to explode. Preferably not with the entire team standing around with paper plates, waiting for a hot dog.”

“What do you suggest, neighbor?”

“Uh . . . I guess you could have it . . . here.”

“Really?” He searched her face. “Listen, you don't want a bunch of teenage boys—”

“Yes. Yes. I want to.” The words came out fast as if she might be forcing them from her body.

“Issy—”

“Absolutely. Thursday night. We'll have the pregame barbecue here.” She nodded, smiling into the night, but it seemed tinny, almost too bright.

“Issy, really. You don't have to do that.”

“But I can. If you can bring the burgers and soda. And keep them from crushing my hosta.”

He smiled. Oh, he could like a woman who pushed past her fears. “I'll threaten them with laps if they do.”

She glanced at him, nodded. “I used to sit right here and listen to the guys talk, thinking,
Hey, there's more to life than football
.”

“No, there isn't. Please take those words back.”

She giggled. The sound dipped into his bones, stirred something there.

“I'm serious. Life is football. It's pushing ahead, and maybe you make yardage or maybe you don't, but you get knocked down all the same. And right then, you have the choice to stay down or get back up. If you have enough people cheering for you, and enough heart, you push to your feet and get back in the huddle and go another round. Life
is
football.”

“Sometimes, though, players get hit so hard they're slow to get up. And then they're afraid of getting hit again. Afraid of really throwing themselves into the game.” She looked at him, her expression drained of humor. “What do you tell those players, Coach?”

He wanted to wrap his hand around hers. Hold it. More than that, he wanted to say that he understood. For a long time, he'd been afraid to get up. To run full speed into life again.

“I tell them to shake it off. And then I tell them to get out there and give it back. Don't let them beat you. You'll never feel good if you don't play with all your heart.”

She wiped her cheek, and he stilled. Oh no, he hadn't wanted to make her cry.

“Issy?”

“I was going to leave this town and never really come back. I wanted a bigger life. I didn't need fame or glory, but I did want to prove to my town that I could step out of my father's shadow and be someone. Never in my life did I think I'd be . . . well, working in my garden.”

She looked at him with eyes that seemed so needy he knew he couldn't keep dodging the truth. “You have a beautiful garden, Isadora. But there's also a beautiful world out there, and if you'll let me, I'd like to help you see it.”

There, he'd laid out his cards.

She covered her mouth with her hand, turned away. “You talked to my father about me, didn't you?”

“No, not really. But it was obvious . . . your father loves you.”

“I miss him so much that it feels like I'm walking around with a hole the size of a fist through my body.”

Oh, Issy. He knew there was a woman on the other side of the fence that had a heart he wanted to know.

He drew in a long breath. “Maybe you could try visiting him.”

She didn't even pause before she shook her head.

“I don't understand. I'd go with you—”

“I'm not getting into a car. Maybe ever.”

“We can walk.”

She closed her eyes. Her fists tightened. “Here's what you don't get. I . . . can't cross Highway 6.”

She couldn't cross the highway?

“Every time I get near the intersection where the accident happened, I start to panic. And it's not just the intersection—it's the highway. I see the accident over and over and . . .”

He took her hand. Softly, winding his fingers in between hers.

She hesitated for a moment, then closed her hand around his.

“I'd like to help you get across the street, Issy,” he said. “Off the bench and back into the game.”

She didn't look at him, but he saw the edge of her smile, the way she ducked her head. Warmth layered her voice when she said, “Oh, brother, I'm back on the porch with the football players.”

He didn't let go of her hand. “You betcha.”

* * *

Issy had nearly missed her show. There she'd sat, holding Caleb's wide, warm hand, letting it bathe her with an unfamiliar heat, and she'd nearly lingered right there, through her radio show.

She'd had to figure out a way to disentangle and excuse herself, and . . . she hadn't wanted to.

For the first time since she'd started the radio show, something tugged her out into the real world.

But the lovelorn needed her.

Or she needed them.

Whatever.

So she'd done a not-so-sneak peek at her watch and Caleb had gotten the hint. He'd packed up faster than she thought necessary, gathered his tools, and bid her good night.

Without a kiss.

And she was fairly pitiful because she actually had hoped that . . .

No. She didn't need to lose her mind just because for a moment she'd felt not alone. Like she'd found a man who might look past her . . . her own disability, she supposed. In fact, more than looking past it, Caleb seemed to want to help her overcome it.