From the Start (27 page)

But heading back to Iowa had been the right choice.

Case Walker shook his head and dropped a wadded-up wrapper in the fast-food bag between their seats. “If it was an interruption, it was a good one. Ever since the tornado, my life has been taken over by depot repairs and constant work. Felt good to ditch the Valley for a few hours.”

Colton had nabbed a spot on a plane leaving Chicago for Des Moines around five-thirty p.m. He’d figured he’d just rent a car in Des Moines and drive back to Maple Valley. But he’d texted Kate about his plan, and she must have alerted Case, who had insisted on meeting him at the airport.

Now it was just past eight and they weren’t far from town. They’d driven through a McDonald’s at the last small town when Colton’s growling stomach had given away his hunger.

“Well, all the same, I really appreciate the ride. Part of me isn’t sure why I felt the need to race home.”

Especially now. They’d still been in the Des Moines airport’s parking lot when the call came from Coach. Webster had finally shown up. Apparently he’d gotten in a fight, didn’t want to show up at the Clancys’ with a black eye. But after a night sleeping in temperatures that felt more like late than early autumn, he’d
decided to come home instead of spending another night in the elements.

Outside Colton’s window, a combine with beaming front lights moved across a field in the distance. Moonlit shadows wove in and out of rows of corn waiting to be harvested.

“Wish I knew why Web chose now to get in a fight and disappear and scare his foster parents half to death. I know how tough it is constantly adjusting to a new foster family.” He shifted in his seat, seat belt lancing into his chest. “But he seems to fit in real good with the Clancys. And on the field, I’m telling you, Case, he’s something else. A little inconsistent at the moment, but when he’s on, he’s on.”

Case pulled off the highway and onto the blacktop that would eventually lead into Maple Valley. Another fifteen miles or so to home.

Home.
When had Maple Valley taken on that description for him? It was only supposed to be a temporary stopover. Like a rest stop at the side of an interstate, where you got out of your car, stretched your legs, grabbed a coffee. But eventually the time came to slide back into the car and move on.

He propped one elbow on the passenger door’s armrest, cool night frosting through the window. The contents in his stomach continued to rumble. “Then again, maybe it makes complete sense that Webster would pick now to act up. Look at me—my game was peaking when I basically self-sabotaged.”

Case glanced over, sloping moonlight highlighting the lines on his face and the thoughtfulness in his eyes. “Do you remember much about your injury?”

“Quite a bit actually. Which is amazing considering how hard I got hit.” And considering his having no memory of the other traumatic moment in his life.

Every now and then dreams still carried him back to the
game. To the seconds right before the throw. If he closed his eyes even now, he could still see it all unfold.

He’d known even as the ball left his hands, it couldn’t hope to reach its target. It wobbled in the air, and as the sea of players parted, his focus landed on the defender who seemed to appear from nowhere.

Interception.

Anger hammered through him. Helmet hits and grunts, pads pounding into each other—all the sounds that together formed the field’s constant choir. But all he could see was number 24 from the opposing team, leaping to catch the ball, then landing and spurting forward.

In milliseconds, he scanned the field. Realized there wasn’t a single Tiger who could catch 24. Not one man open to make the tackle or chase him down.

Only me.

Emotion and regret and livid irritation at his own failure fueled his burst of movement. He found his route, around a pile of black and orange, past the first defender, eyes on 24 . . .

And in an instant, his quest came to a crushing end as two linemen barreled into him from opposite sides. He felt the wrench in his back upon impact, tasted blood as the hit sent his entire body airborne.

Knew as he slammed into the grass—shoulder first, knee smashed between helmets and pads and body weight—this could be it. Probably was it. The injury that’d end it all. He heard his own yell as if from a distance.

And then . . . nothing.

Until the beep of a hospital monitor. And the whisper of confusion. Lilah’s voice.
“He’s waking up.”

Except . . .

Colton opened his eyes. Up ahead flashing red lights pulled
him back to the present and announced a train nearing the place where the back road intersected with rail. His stomach churned.

“You all right, Colt?” Case.

Had that really been Lilah’s voice? He squeezed his eyes closed, trying to remember. He hadn’t actually seen her that first day he woke up, had he? And the voice in his memory . . .

It was lower. Older.

“Colton?”

It wasn’t Lilah.
“Not feeling so good. Probably the fast food.”

Red-and-white-striped barriers lowered into place, and Case slowed the truck. “Do you need to get out?”

The lights of the oncoming train chugged into sight, its whistle piercing the air. Colton unfastened his seat belt, hand to the door handle. “Think so.” His groaning stomach sent him from the car, toward the grass at the side of the road. The sound of the passing train, its panting movement and wheels grinding against the metal track, covered Colton’s heaves as he lost his dinner.

Case was at his side before he was done, crouching down with one hand on Colton’s back and handing him a water bottle when it was over. Colton drank half the bottle in one long swig and stood.

“Wow, sorry about that.”

Case shook his head. “No need to apologize.”

Was it the fast food that’d messed with his stomach? Or something else?

The train’s snaking form huffed around a bend and out of sight, leaving only the lifting crossroad barriers in its wake. The crossroad’s lights flashed to a halt. Silence, except for the cicadas humming in the field.

“I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Case stuck his hands in the pockets of his jacket. “Right now
I think getting back home, maybe finding some 7-Up, might be a good idea.”

Colton capped his water bottle. “I mean with my life. I walked out of an interview today. Just chucked it all. Ian has these plans, but I don’t think they’re going to work out. I’m a football player, not a TV show host. There’s the book, yeah. But I’m . . .”
Lost.

The rumble of the combine approached, its headlights roving over the road. And then Case’s voice, thoughtful slowness in his words. “Colt, how much do you know about Raymond Berry?”

Huh, random question.
“Wide receiver. Played for the Colts back when they were in Baltimore, right? Fifties and sixties?”

Case nodded, leaning against his truck. “And then he went on to coach. There’s a story about him. First day as the Cowboys’ receivers coach, he’s working with the rookies and demonstrating how to run a sideline route. The guy was notorious for his precision and practice ethic. So he runs the route, makes his usual practiced number of steps, cuts toward the sideline . . . and he lands a foot out of bounds.”

Colton took a drink of his water and nodded. “Happens.”

“Not to Berry. He says, ‘Guys, either the hash marks are wrong or this field’s too narrow.’”

“Based on one demonstration?”

Case nodded. “So they get a tape measure and Berry’s proven right. The practice field was eleven inches too narrow.”

Colton finished his water. “That’s hilarious. And a cool story.”

“And rife with analogies. If I were a pastor, I’d whip it out once a year. You can talk about living a life of precision. You can talk about boundaries. You can talk about taking the time to notice when life just feels off.” Case glanced over at him. “But for you, Colt, the story isn’t about the lines. It’s about the eleven inches.”

“Not sure I understand.”

Case pulled his hands from his pockets. “You’re playing on a field that’s too narrow, son. You marked off boundaries for your life and decided only certain things fit inside. Namely football and all its trimmings. And when those things dropped away, you felt like you’d gone out of bounds.”

That’s exactly how he’d felt. Not just out of bounds, but off the turf altogether. Directionless.

“But I’ll tell you what I think.” Case took Colton’s empty water bottle and tossed it in the backseat of the truck. “I think God might have eleven more inches for you.”

“Which means . . . ?”

Case rounded the truck bed, looked over at Colton, and shrugged. “There’s more.”

“That’s it? Just a vague
more
? I’d kinda like to know what’s in those supposed eleven extra inches.”

Case laughed and opened his door. “You will. Give it time, give it thought, give it prayer.”

“And in the meantime?”

“Get in the truck so we can go home.”

Home.
Colton got in the truck.

12

K
ate used to imagine this moment. What she’d say or do if Gil suddenly reappeared in her life.

But she’d never expected it to happen in a Chicago hospital. That she would meet him on the cancer floor.

Gil now pushed a perspiring red glass toward where she stood at the edge of the table in the cafeteria. “Diet Coke. Still your drink of choice?”

They hadn’t spoken for more than two minutes when they’d met in the corridor outside of Breydan’s room—had that really been five days ago?

Gil hadn’t said it, but she’d known as soon as she’d seen him—his thin frame, the purple under his eyes, the tufts of silvery black where a full head of hair used to be—he wasn’t at the hospital as a visitor. He was a patient.

She slid into the vinyl seat across from him now. “Diet Coke, yes.” He’d even remembered the slice of lemon.

“Thanks for agreeing to meet. The most I was ever hoping for was a reply to my email. Never thought I’d actually run into you. And here of all places.”

The smell of food—or maybe plain old nerves—had her stomach churning, and an unwelcome choir in her head belted out its disapproval.
Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea.

But she hadn’t been able to tell him no when she’d encountered him in the hospital hallway. Not with such relief playing across his face.
“I can’t
believe you’re here. You don’t even know what
an answer to prayer this is. I only have a
few minutes now, but can we meet sometime? Please?”

For a minute there, she hadn’t seen the man who broke her heart but the teacher who’d fueled her creativity and pulled from her a love for storytelling she’d never known she had.

No, Gil hadn’t always been a bad memory.

And so she’d agreed to meet today. She’d managed to put it out of her mind for most of the week, busy as she was running errands for Marcus and Hailey and entertaining Breydan, writing chapters of Colton’s book in between. And talking to Colton on the phone, texting, whenever she wasn’t writing about him.

“Definitely a surprise,” she said now. There, she’d pushed words out. It was a start.

Gil smiled. Despite his obviously waning health, he still had those mesmerizing ash-colored eyes behind stylish thick-rimmed glasses. Still dressed like the fashionable college professor he was—black oxford, metallic gray vest.

“I thought you were a chemo-induced mirage when I first saw you. But no, it was really you.”

Chemo.

He must’ve noticed her flinch at the word. Because his grin dulled. “I got the diagnosis seven months ago. It’s . . . grim. Only reason I’m even doing treatment is for my wife. She needs something to hold on to.”

Kate swallowed a drink of Coke, carbonation burning her throat. Maybe the mention of Gil’s wife should sting. Maybe she should feel the same anger she used to when she played and replayed the night he’d told her their relationship wasn’t working and—oh, by the way—he already had a wife.

And she’d wondered how in the world she could’ve been so stupid.

But looking at him now, all that just faded away. Because the man had just told her he was dying.

“Gil, I’m so . . . I’m so sorry.”

“You know what’s weird? When I tell people, I almost feel more sorry for them than myself. I’ve come to grips with it. Or maybe I’m just in denial.” He shrugged, an uncanny nonchalance in the movement. “I mean, it’s huge realizing you don’t have much time left. But it gives a person a pretty sudden and intense dose of focus.” He took a sip from his own glass—probably Sprite if his tastes, too, hadn’t changed. “And that’s why I’ve been trying to get ahold of you.”

“I don’t understand. Your email mentioned a script.” Why would he care about an old script now?

“I want to finish it. Katie, that was some of my best writing, the writing I did with you. We were good together.”

She had to focus not to wince.
“Good together.”
She could still remember the first time he’d said those same words.

She’d felt so special, the way he’d singled her out at the beginning of her senior year at Iowa State. Truthfully, every female student in her class had developed a crush on their young teacher. They’d even made a game of it, taking turns leaving cans of Orange Crush on the podium each class.