My Foolish Heart (31 page)

Seb Brewster simply couldn't help turning her into a fool. She closed her eyes. See, there was a reason she hung on to the donut shop. Through the eyes of her customers, she saw the woman she wanted to be. Sweet Lucy.

But thanks to Seb and Bam, she didn't even have that anymore.

She walked down the hall, catching the blinking red light on the answering machine in the den.

She paused by the door. Then, going in, she pressed the button.

“Lucy, it's me, Seb. I'm on my way to Issy's house—I was just hoping to catch you. Bam told me he denied your loan, and I wanted to say how sorry I am. We'll figure something out. Call me back.”

She deleted his message. Stood there, seeing the pain in his eyes, as another came behind it.

“It's me. I . . . wanted to say that I don't care what happened in the past, Lucy. I know that I'm to blame for so much of it and—”

She deleted that one also.

Shoot, she would have liked a third. Maybe to not delete. Maybe to try and believe.

She returned to the living room and picked up her bag to read the foreclosure letter again.

Bam couldn't foreclose. Not on a Deep Haven institution. She sat on her parents' sofa—one of these days, she'd hoped to earn enough to buy her own place. But with her family in Florida most of the time, free rent had helped pay the bills.

At least, what she could pay of them.

What was she supposed to do if she didn't have the donut shop?

Leaning over, she brushed her fingers against the touch lamps. Light splashed over her, onto the brown plaid sofa.

She opened her messenger bag, pulled out the stack of bills, and . . .

Oh no. Coach's playbook. She must have simply scooped everything into her bag. Issy would be furious. Or maybe she wouldn't even notice, not with her attention on Caleb.

Finally, finally, Issy Presley had found a man who just might break her free. Who saw more of her than she saw of herself.

Lucy fought the burn in her eyes. Flipped open the front cover of Coach's book. He'd written an inscription on the front page in his tight handwriting.

“Receive and experience the amazing grace of the Master, Jesus Christ, deep, deep within yourselves.” Philippians 4:23

Lucy leaned her head against the sofa. Had she ever received that grace? Or allowed herself to receive it?

She closed her eyes, hearing her conversation with Issy—was it already almost two weeks ago?
Donuts have a hole in them. Which says that something is
missing
. Probably a good metaphor for my life.

Missing. Losing Seb had felt like having a piece of herself ripped away. And when he walked back into her life, he'd made her feel whole again—or at least nearly. But perhaps it had only patched the wounds on her heart. He couldn't heal the wounds on her soul. The wounds of her self-betrayal.

The wounds only grace could heal.

“Receive and experience the amazing grace of the Master . . .”

The voice whispered inside her. Resonant. Strong. Heat filled her eyes.

“Receive and experience . . .”

Had she done either, really? Had she let grace change her, make her whole? Was it even possible to feel whole after she'd given away so much of herself? She'd asked God's forgiveness long ago. But she'd never believed it. Never let it inside, to heal her, change her. Cleanse her.

No, she'd been trying to do that herself.

Lucy covered her face with her hands. “God, I'm so sorry. I don't know who I am. I don't know who I was supposed to be. I'm lost.”

She drew up her legs, buried her head in her knees.

“Lucy?”

She looked up. Seb stood over her, his hands out as if in offering.

Seb was here?

Lucy wiped her eyes with the heels of her hands. “You let yourself in?”

“I'm sorry. I knocked, but maybe you didn't hear me.” He swallowed hard, then got down on his knees. “I know I shouldn't have let myself in, but I . . . I had to see you. I keep thinking about what you said. No big deal? Of course it's a big deal. I slept with you. And I know it went against what you believed in. I know you did it for me, and I feel sick that I took that gift and I trampled on it. I manipulated you, and then I betrayed you. And I can't get past it. I keep thinking of you and how you told me you wanted to wait, and I pressured you anyway. If I could take that back and honor you . . .”

He looked so broken, his breath hiccuping.

“I'm just sick about what happened with Bam. I don't blame you, even if the thought of you with him eats me alive. I guess I deserve it.” He closed his eyes, looked away, a muscle pulling in his jaw. “Probably how you felt when you caught me with Bree. I'm so sorry.”

Oh, Seb. She wanted to touch his face, gentle the wounds of their past. “The worst part about seeing you with Bree was realizing that I had given myself away to a man who didn't cherish me. And then, suddenly, I was just like Bree. Thirsty for someone to love me. But that wasn't me, and I couldn't figure out how I got there.”

“We're all thirsty for someone to love us, Lucy.”

Lucy rubbed her hands together. “Yes, but—” she drew in a breath—“I did sleep with Bam. It was a bad moment during Fish Pic a few years ago. I was lonely and . . .” She closed her eyes, feeling again the dark shame that seeped through her. “I can't believe I did that. With him.”

“It's okay. I wasn't the guy I wanted to be either. After that night with Bree, I knew I'd destroyed everything between us, and I hated myself. I don't know why I did it—I didn't think. I let her make me feel like I owned the world. Until, of course, I didn't. Until I saw your face. I thought if I won the state championship, I could be a hero, but seeing everyone cheering me, knowing the kind of man I was . . . it only made it worse. So I left Deep Haven in hopes of becoming someone. And then got hurt and quit football. Then I thought if I got my degree, became successful . . . but I couldn't do that, either. So I thought I'd come back and try to coach football, but I realized I just wanted to feel good about myself again. I don't want to be a man who betrays the people I love. And I do—I do love you, Lucy. I always have. I was just so stupid about it.”

She pressed a hand over her mouth. Nodded. Tears shook out of her. “After what happened with Bam, I kept trying to believe that if I was just . . . just a good person, then maybe God would fix the broken place inside. And then, after the Presleys' accident, I thought,
Hey, I'll help Issy. I'll be her world.
And that worked until . . . until you came back.”

“Until I betrayed you again. Or you thought I did.”

“I know you didn't betray me, Seb. Bam did. I did. I was just so thirsty for someone to love me even though . . . I was no longer sweet Lucy.”

His voice roughened, his eyes red. “You'll always be sweet Lucy to me.”

“But will I be sweet Lucy to God?”

* * *

Seb wasn't exactly sure how he got into Lucy's family room. He'd sat in his car, his chest burning, until he drove to Lucy's house. There he'd let his car idle in her driveway for nearly an hour, dredging up the courage, listening to her voice in his head.

Get out of this house; get out of my life. Thank you for coming back and destroying me yet again. I am an idiot for ever trusting you.

Staring at her in Issy's kitchen, he'd known her hurt had nothing to do with the donut shop. The fear of losing it only brought the truth to the surface.

Instead of helping, he'd somehow stirred up the past.

It nearly took him out whole to find Lucy curled into a tight ball on her sofa. Now her question dug through him:
But will I be sweet Lucy to God?

“I . . . don't know, Lucy. I know I can't give back to you what I took. But I would like to prove that I can honor you.”

Lucy swallowed. But she nodded.

He closed his eyes.

“What is it?”

He opened his eyes, shook his head. “I don't know. What if I turn into my father? What if I hurt you again? What if I don't know how to be that man?”

She sat back, reached behind her, and handed him a book.

“Coach's playbook.” He took it.

“I accidentally took it from Issy's house. Look inside.”

He drew in a breath, then opened it in the middle.

Plays, and there, in Coach's handwriting, verses in the margins.

Philippians 3:13-14. “I focus on this one thing: Forgetting the past and looking forward to what lies ahead, I press on to reach the end of the race and receive the heavenly prize for which God, through Christ Jesus, is calling us.”

Lucy read it with him, then looked up and met his eyes.

He turned to another play. The Bronco. He remembered running it but didn't know it came with Ezekiel 36:25-26.
“Then I will sprinkle clean water on you, and you will be clean. Your filth will be washed away, and you will no longer worship idols. And I will give you a new heart, and I will put a new spirit in you. I will take out your stony, stubborn heart and give you a tender, responsive heart.”

He turned the page and found another play—a standard option play, alongside Ephesians 2:8.
“God saved you by his grace when you believed. And you can't take credit for this; it is a gift from God. Salvation is not a reward for the good things we have done, so none of us can boast about it. For we are God's masterpiece. He has created us anew in Christ Jesus, so we can do the good things he planned for us long ago.”

Whatever God had planned for him, Seb had messed it up but good.

Lucy took the book, flipped to the front cover. “This one, Seb. Read this one.”

“Receive and experience the amazing grace of the Master, Jesus Christ, deep, deep within yourselves.”

She wore a soft smile. “Maybe that's what we thirst for. What made me say yes to you, what made you say yes to Bree, what made us search for it in others. That need for grace. For unconditional love, despite our wounds and mistakes.”

She took his hand. “I think God did bring you back here, Seb. You thought it was for you, and I thought it was for me. But I think it was for us. I think He meant for us to have a second chance. To receive His grace. I think He did plan a good thing for us, long ago. And we derailed that. But maybe He's giving us another chance.”

He looked at her hand, then at her sweet eyes. “So we can do those good things?”

“Like be a coach?”

“Or a donut girl?”

Lucy smiled. “How about just your girl?”

Lucy. His throat thickened. “Yes. Please be my girl.”

And when he kissed her, it indeed felt like the first time.

18

As a matter of fact, we know each other very well.

Issy wanted to expel Caleb's words from her brain, but they lodged there, despite trying to focus on her calls.

“NorthernHeart, you're on the line.”

“Thank you for taking my call, Miss Foolish Heart. I've been dating a . . . well, he's definitely an eight, but he could be a ten . . . for about a month. Is it too soon to know if I love him?”

“Miss Foolish Heart's standard answer has always been the three-month rule—but sometimes, yes, you might be able to know if you can love someone . . . much earlier.”

“How?”

How? Was it the way he made you feel? The way you saw the woman you could be in his eyes? The way you saw him in your future, serving up hamburgers, maybe someday attending a football game?

Until Caleb's cryptic words, she had felt real courage building inside her. With Caleb on the sidelines believing in her, she could tuck herself into the crowd and be a part of the world again.

On the forum, replies already scattered in.

Is he a ten?

You haven't dated three months!

Does he share your values?

All her rules, her litmus tests. But none of it included the most important thing, the words coming from a place inside her that felt natural. Whole. “He sets you free of the things that trap you and helps you be the person you want to be.”

Silence over the phone line. Oops. “I mean, of course, he . . . We all have our own fears, right? Perhaps when you love someone, he shows you that you don't have to be so afraid. Maybe he holds your hand. Maybe he makes you believe in yourself. Does your man make you believe that you can be the person you want to be?”

“I think he does.” NorthernHeart sighed, and Issy understood it. “I know he does. Thank you, Miss Foolish Heart. You really helped me.”

No, NorthernHeart, you helped me.

She went to a commercial, looked down at Caleb's window. It remained dark. Perhaps he hadn't returned home from dropping off the boys yet.

As a matter of fact, we know each other very well.

Maybe he meant his conversation with her father. What exactly had her father told him?

If his light glowed after her show, she'd venture next door and . . .

BoyNextDoor popped into the phone queue.

She smiled. “Welcome back, Lovelorn; let's take another call. Hello, BoyNextDoor. How are you tonight?”

“I'm . . . confused. And frustrated.”

“Oh. Well, what can I help you with tonight?”

“I want to know if you have feelings for me. If you're ever going to let me in.”

“I'm not sure I understand. Let you in?” She opened a chat box, requested a chat, but he seemed to ignore it.

“How about I make it clearer for you.” His sigh niggled something inside her. “‘Everyone likes spaghetti'?”

“Everyone
does
like spaghetti.”

“‘Help her with yard work'?”

“Uh . . .”

“Like maybe fix her fence?”

She froze. She hadn't said anything about a fence, that she could recall. “That's a nice thing to do.”