Читать книгу Bright Hopes - Pat Warren - Страница 9

“A WOMAN FOOTBALL COACH?” Patrick Kelsey laughed out loud. “Come on, Miss Mackie. You’ve got to be kidding!”

Josephine Mackie sat back in her desk chair, adjusted her round, rimless glasses on her long, thin nose and looked up at the tall gym teacher. “Why, Patrick, don’t tell me you’re a chauvinist. Not with that superachiever mother of yours and three charming sisters.”

Patrick ran a hand through his short, dark hair. That was the one drawback to growing up and living in a small town like Tyler, Wisconsin. Everyone knew you, your family and most of your business. Miss Mackie had been principal of Tyler High School when he was a freshman twenty years ago. She wasn’t meddlesome so much as knowledgeable—about everyone. He flashed her what he hoped was a disarming smile.

“Not me. It’s just that...well, these are guys, Miss Mackie. Young men, really. There’ll be problems, like the locker room, for instance. They’re going to hate having a female around when they’re changing.”

“I don’t imagine she’ll shower with the boys, do you?”

Patrick reached for patience, never his strong suit. “How about the game itself? I never heard of a woman who knows football inside and out.”

“Really? Ever hear of Phyllis George, to name one? I thought she did a highly commendable job, and on national television at that. And now there’s Pam Casals. Have you read her credentials?”

Patrick felt his irritation grow as he paced her small office. “I know she was a runner in the Olympics.”

“A little more than a mere runner. She won a silver medal when she was seventeen, then returned and won a gold medal at twenty-one.”

“Okay, so she can run. But does she know football?”

Disappointed in his reaction, Miss Mackie nevertheless continued unruffled. “She went on to become an exhibition performer, earned a degree in phys ed, was head coach at a college in the east and an Olympic coach for a year in Seoul. For a young woman who’s just turned thirty, I would call that an impressive list of accomplishments.”

Stopping in front of her desk, Patrick braced his hands on the edge and leaned forward. “I repeat, does she know football?”

“I would think so, having coached football at the college level. Surely she can manage high school boys.” Josephine Mackie felt her gaze soften as she studied Patrick’s stubborn features. She thought she knew exactly why he was so upset, and chose her words carefully.

“I realize that when I asked you to join our coaching staff ten years ago, Patrick, your dream was to one day be football coach here at your alma mater. I believe you took on coaching basketball temporarily, thinking that when Dale McCormick retired, you’d shift over to football. But you’ve done such a tremendous job—guiding the basketball team from class B to class A status and giving us a championship season for the past two years. We don’t want to lose you in that capacity.”

Patrick’s blue eyes were serious as he straightened. He’d figured that was what she’d thought, and the rest of the town, too. But they were wrong.

He’d been a star quarterback during his years at Tyler, and at the small Midwestern college he’d attended while earning his teaching degree. Then there’d been problems—serious problems—and he’d had to rearrange his dreams. When he returned to his hometown, he’d been pleased to be asked to coach basketball and assist Coach McCormick occasionally in football. Even now, what he really wanted was what was best for the Tyler High boys. But he knew that changing the thinking of a whole group of people who had their minds made up wasn’t something he could do without revealing more than he felt comfortable doing.

“Miss Mackie, I’m perfectly happy coaching basketball. You’re aware, I’m sure, that many of the boys on the football team also play basketball. I know these guys, and they aren’t going to accept a woman coach.”

She narrowed her pale gray eyes and zeroed in. “They will if you encourage them to accept her.”

Settling into the old wooden chair facing her desk, Patrick scowled. “I don’t know if I can do that, in good conscience.”

Propping her elbows on her desk, Miss Mackie leaned forward. “Patrick, I don’t have to tell you that this town gets greatly involved in our school athletics. And the football team’s been on a long losing streak. Dale McCormick was a good coach once, back when you were playing for him. But for some time now, he’s been merely coasting along, counting the days to retirement.”

“I agree,” Patrick admitted.

“The school board felt we needed new blood, someone to get the boys all stirred up. Of our six applicants, Pam Casals is by far the most qualified. I’ve talked with her on the phone and she’s personable and intelligent. I’ve hired her on a one-season trial basis and she’s arriving next week. Won’t you open your mind and give her a chance?”

Miss Mackie was a good administrator, her judgment usually on target, Patrick felt. This time, though, she was wrong. “I have nothing against this particular woman, you understand. I just don’t feel any woman can coach football. It’s too rugged a game, too physical.” He picked up Pam Casals’ file and flipped it open, to where her picture was clipped to the inside front cover. “See how small she looks? She could get hurt out there.”

Josephine Mackie sighed. Patrick Kelsey was an instructor who seldom gave her problems. He was making up for lost time today. Glancing at her watch, she stood, realizing she could debate this issue with Patrick all day and neither would bend. “It’s only the first of August. We have several weeks before classes start. During that time, we’ll be observing Pam and her training and practice methods closely.”

Picking up her purse, she walked around the desk. The school was deserted; she’d come in to get a head start on some paperwork and had been somewhat surprised when Patrick cornered her. “Why don’t you study her file a bit more and then leave it on my desk? I have an appointment.”

The gentleman in him had Patrick rising and smiling at the slim principal. “I don’t mean to give you a hard time. But you know what these guys mean to me.”

She smiled back at him. “They mean a great deal to me, too.”

Patrick nodded. “You off to a board meeting?”

Josephine found herself blushing as she patted her sparse gray hair. “No, actually I have an appointment at the Hair Affair.”

He grinned at her. “Big date tonight, Miss Mackie?”

Girlishly, she pursed her lips, turned from him and opened the door, choosing to ignore his question. “Please lock up when you leave,” she said, then hurried down the hallway.

Chuckling, Patrick sat back down, wondering why Miss Mackie had never married. Too wrapped up in her job, he supposed. Few women could juggle work and children, and still maintain a happy marriage. His mother, Anna Kelsey, was about the only one he knew of. But she was one of a kind.

He opened the file again. Pam Casals did not look like his idea of a football coach. From the picture, she appeared to be of medium height and quite slender, with the muscular legs of a runner. Her shoulder-length brown hair, wind-tossed, framed an oval face, and her large brown eyes gazed directly into the camera. She didn’t appear aggressive or arrogant, but there was a hint of determination to the angle of her chin. Still, if this woman could handle that rowdy group of high school boys, then he was the Easter Bunny, Patrick thought with a frown.

Quickly he read through her file. Like millions of people, he was always drawn to watch the Olympics. He’d heard countless stories of the dedication, perseverance, sacrifices and sheer guts it took to win a medal. She was a winner, he’d give her that. But could she make the Tyler boys into winners?

Doubtful, he thought, closing the file. He knew these boys better than anyone, certainly better than an outsider. And a woman at that. He would give her a chance, but he would remain in the picture. He’d keep an eye on her, check out her methods, look out for his boys. He’d mention to a couple of the guys—Ricky and B.J. and Moose—that he’d be interested in knowing what Coach Casals did during their training sessions.

It wasn’t really spying, Patrick told himself as he placed Pam’s file on the principal’s desk. It was protecting.

Digging in the pocket of his jeans for his keys, Patrick left the office whistling.

* * *

A RAINBOW. Pam Casals glanced to the right as she drove along the country road, and smiled. Slowing, she pulled to a stop by a wooden fence bordering pastureland. Shifting into park, she slid out of her sporty white convertible and went to lean on the weathered fence.

It had been raining that morning when she set out from Chicago, a light drizzling summer rain. Wisconsin being north of Illinois, it wasn’t quite as warm here. Fall would be along all too soon.

The rainbow shimmered in the sky, where the last of the clouds were moving off to the east. Rainbows were a sign of good luck—Pam remembered reading that somewhere. She certainly hoped so. It was time for a bit of luck.

On an impulse, she made a wish. “I wish that I might find happiness in Tyler,” she said aloud.

A small herd of cows grazing nearby, brown shapes on a field of still-damp green grass, didn’t even glance her way. She breathed in deeply, air so fresh it almost hurt to inhale. No automobile fumes, no pollution or even smoke. On the drive she’d passed dairy farms, many with large wooden barns, as well as cornfields, orchards and several horse farms. She’d taken the scenic route instead of the highway, enjoying the twisting rural roads and the lakes tucked in among rolling green hills. The clean country atmosphere was a welcome change from the city she’d left behind.

She’d left a lot of things behind, or so she hoped. Pain and confusion and doubt. Frustration and anger and broken dreams. And a shattered love affair. A few good things, too, like her father, Julian Casals, still living in the family home in a suburb of Chicago. And her two married brothers, Don and Ramon, who’d taught her so much more than football.

Pam swung around, leaning her elbows on the fence. She was only a short distance from Tyler, and she hoped there were more two-lane roads like this one around. It was a perfect place to run—smooth blacktop, very little traffic. And run she must, while she could. For her health and her mental well-being and the sheer, physical pleasure of it.

A low-throated bark drew her attention to her car, and she grinned. Her old, white, long-haired English sheepdog sat in the back seat, his head cocked in her direction, his pink tongue hanging low. “All right, Samson,” she said, slipping behind the wheel again. “I know you’re impatient to get going.” With another glance at the rainbow, Pam shifted into drive. “I’m anxious to check out our new home, too.”

Flipping on the radio as she pulled away, she heard Willie Nelson’s unmistakable voice ring out. “On the road again...”

Pam glanced back at Samson, whose ears were blowing in the breeze. “That’s us, pal. On the road again.” Laughing for no apparent reason except a sudden happy sense of anticipation, she headed for Tyler.

* * *

IT WAS EXACTLY two o’clock when she arrived in the middle of town. There was a central square—an open, grassy area with huge old oak trees and well-maintained flower beds. The downtown business section consisted of a few blocks of two-story brick buildings, predictably lining Main Street. The small-town atmosphere pleased Pam as she pulled up in front of the post office. High on its pole, the flag rippled in the wind, but the building had a Saturday-afternoon-deserted look. Stretching, she got out of the car.

According to the map Rosemary Dusold had sent her, she was only a couple of blocks from her friend’s house. But there was no time like the present to get oriented. Across the way, she spotted the Tyler library and the brick town hall. On the opposite corner was a beauty shop, the sign heralding it as the Hair Affair. Cute, Pam thought.

Around a corner, she saw a sign for Marge’s Diner. She patted Samson’s shaggy head. “I’ll be right back, fella,” she said as she headed for the square.

A bank on another corner featured a tower clock. The usual array of grocery store, drugstore, cleaners and so on filled out that side of the block. She walked on.

A couple of older ladies seated on a park bench smiled up at Pam as she approached, giving her a feeling of friendly welcome. A handful of youngsters were playing tag on the far side. In the center of the green, she spotted several adults involved in a loosely organized game of touch football. Her interest heightened, Pam stepped closer.

Watching took her back in time to her early teens, when she and her father and two brothers would spend many an autumn afternoon tossing the pigskin. Soon, playing catch hadn’t been enough for Pam, so she’d organized a group of neighbors and divided them into two teams. Then she’d mapped out strategies for her side, trying to make up for her size by outwitting the opponents. Much to her brothers’ surprise, her maneuvers worked more often than they failed. Their respect had spurred her on to try even harder.

She’d already been running then, her dreams focusing on the future Olympics. But her love of football had never died. She’d learned the game first by playing, then by watching the college teams on television, as well as the pros. Fun times, Pam thought. Times that had bonded their small family closer after the devastation of her mother’s early death. Shoving her hands into the pockets of her white slacks, she leaned against a tree.

There was one big guy, a solid wall of muscle, who wasn’t much on speed but nearly impossible to get past due to his size. She noticed a woman about her age with dark hair, a tall rugged outdoor-type man with black curly hair and, to Pam’s surprise, her friend and new roommate, Rosemary Dusold, leaping high to catch a pass, her blond ponytail bobbing. Smiling, Pam stepped out of the shade, hoping Rosemary would notice her.

As she stood on the edge of the green, she saw a wild throw coming her way. No player was out this far. Forgetting herself, she ran a few steps, jumped up and caught the ball. Acting instinctively, Pam began to run toward the makeshift goal line, hotly pursued by two or three players she heard running behind her.

Exhilarated, the ball tucked close to her body, she picked up speed. Almost there, she thought. Then she felt the hit. Strong arms settled around her waist, sliding lower to her knees, taking her down. Her tackler rolled, cushioning the fall with his lean, hard body, letting her land on him rather than on the unforgiving ground.

“Touchdown!” someone called out from behind as thundering feet arrived.

“She fell short,” yelled a dissident.

Still clutching the ball, Pam eased from the grip that held her and scrambled to her feet. Her opponent rose, too, and she found herself looking up into the bluest eyes she’d ever seen. Unexpectedly, her heart missed a beat and she found herself swallowing on a dry throat.

He was several inches over six feet, with curly black hair falling onto a lean face etched with laugh lines at the corners of those incredible eyes. He smiled then, his features softening as he reached out to brush leaves and grass from her shoulder. Pam’s reaction to his light touch was on a parallel with the way she’d felt when her gaze had locked with his. Dizzying. She took a step backward.

“I hope I didn’t hurt you,” he said. She was lovely, with warm brown eyes and skin the color of a pale peach. Who was she? Patrick wondered.

“No, I’m fine.”

She had on baggy white slacks and a comfortably faded green-and-white Jets football jersey with the number 12 on the back. “I see you’re a Joe Namath fan.”

“I was.” She couldn’t seem to stop staring into his eyes.

Strangers in Tyler—especially strangers who joined in impromptu games—were uncommon. There was something familiar about her, Patrick thought, but he couldn’t put his finger on what it was. “That was a great catch.”

“Thanks,” Pam said, giving him the football.

“I’m Patrick Kelsey.” He offered his hand.

Politely she slid her own hand into his grip, feeling the calluses on his roughened skin—and the warmth. “Hello,” she replied. Before she could say more, Rosemary came alongside.

“Pam,” Rosemary greeted her. “Glad you’re here at last.”

Pam withdrew her hand and turned to smile at her friend. “Me, too.”

“Hey, everyone,” Rosemary went on, “this is Pam Casals, a friend of mine from Chicago who’s come to stay with me for a while. Pam, this is Kathleen Kelsey and Terry Williams and Al Broderick. The big guy’s Brick Bauer. Watch out for him—he’s going to be our next police chief. That’s Nick over there and you’ve already met Patrick.”

Patrick frowned. “You’re Pam Casals?”

As Pam nodded, Rosemary chimed in again. “She’s going to be working at Tyler High with you, Patrick. Pam’s the new football coach.”

“So I’ve heard. Welcome to Tyler.”

Though his words were welcoming, his tone had cooled considerably. Pam couldn’t help wondering why. “Thanks. Are you one of the teachers?”

“Gym teacher. Also basketball coach.” Glancing at his watch, he tossed the ball to Rosemary. “Sorry to break this up, but I’ve got to run. See you all later.”

“Nice to meet you, Patrick,” Pam called to his retreating back.

“Yeah, you, too,” he said over his shoulder.

“Don’t let Patrick worry you,” Kathleen said as she smiled at Pam. “He’s my brother and I know he’s a little moody, but he’s a great guy. Glad you’re with us, Pam.”

“Thanks,” Pam said quietly. So she would have the pleasure of working with the moody Patrick Kelsey. Terrific.

Calling their goodbyes, the others left to go their separate ways. Rosemary fell into step with Pam. “Come on. My place is only a couple of blocks from here,” she said. Impulsively, she slid an arm around Pam’s shoulders and squeezed. “I think you’re going to like Tyler.”

Pam heard the squeal of tires and looked toward Main Street as Patrick’s truck zoomed out of sight. “I hope so,” she answered.

* * *

THE WHITE FRAME HOUSE was on Morgan Avenue, two stories high with a wraparound porch and green shuttered windows. There was a Victorian elegance to the old building, Pam thought as she parked her car in the side drive. She watched Rosemary hurry out of the car. Five foot eight, Rosemary was bigger than Pam and incredibly strong, yet she moved with a style and grace that Pam envied.

“You want to put old slobbering Samson in the backyard for now?” Rosemary asked with an affectionate pat on the dog’s head.

Pam nodded, and slipped on the dog’s leash as she opened the car door. Settling Samson inside the fenced enclosure, she returned to the front and climbed the wooden steps with Rosemary. A swing, painted red, hung from two chains at the far end of the porch. Very inviting, she thought.

“About five years ago,” Rosemary said, opening the screen door for her, “after the owner died, the heirs renovated the house, turning it into four apartments. They’re all very roomy and comfortable. Mrs. Tibbs, a sweet but somewhat nosy widow, lives on the right, a young married couple upstairs on one side and a piano teacher across the hall from them. Mine’s this one on the lower left.” She paused in the neat hallway, glancing at mail spread on a small mahogany table. “Nothing for me.” Pulling out a key, she unlocked the door.

Charming was the word, Pam thought as she looked about. A rich carved mantel above a huge stone fireplace, highly polished floors with gently faded area rugs in floral designs, and furniture you could no longer buy. Running a hand along an overstuffed rose couch, Pam smiled. “Are these your things?”

“No, not a single piece. I arrived with only my clothes.” Rosemary went through the arch into the dining room and past into the spacious kitchen. “It even came with dishes and pots. Don’t you just love it?”

Strolling past the drop-leaf table and an antique Singer sewing machine, Pam agreed. “Who owns this place now?”

Rosemary poured lemonade into two glasses tinted pale gold. “I don’t know. Relatives of one of the original families of Tyler, I think. When you get to meeting people around here, you’ll learn that half the town’s related in some way to the other half.” Handing Pam her drink, she tilted up her own glass and drank thirstily.

Sipping, Pam wandered back into the living room. Lace curtains billowed at the front bay window, dancing in a lively late-afternoon breeze. A large maple tree just outside shaded the whole front yard. She saw a squirrel with bulging cheeks scamper busily up into thick limbs and get lost in the leafy top. Turning, she sat down on the comfortably sagging sofa with starched doilies pinned to each armrest and sighed.

“It’s like time has stood still in this house. I feel like I walked into a fifties movie.”

Rosemary flung herself into the chair opposite Pam. “Maybe the forties, even. I was lucky to find this apartment.”

“Are you sure you don’t mind my moving in with you?” Pam asked with a worried look.

“I told you back in Chicago that I’d love the company. There’re two large bedrooms and a big bath with this marvelous claw-footed tub. And I’m not even here much, what with working at Tyler General Hospital, my commitment to the Davis Rehab Center in Chicago and my backpacking trips.”

“I’ll pay half the rent, of course. I can’t believe how low it is compared to Chicago apartments.”

“Isn’t it great?” Rosemary finished her drink and set the glass aside. “So tell me, how are you feeling?”

“Fine.”

“Honestly? No pain, no numbness, no tingling? Don’t lie to me now. I’m your therapist, remember.”

“I remember. I truly feel great. No symptoms at all. I think I’m solidly in remission.”

“Good.” Rosemary nodded. “If you have any problems—I mean any—let me know. Therapy works best if we catch the problem early. You know how sneaky MS is. One day you notice a little blurry vision, next day your big toe goes numb, and the third day you try to stand and you can’t feel anything from the knees down.”

Pam stared into the cloudy remains of her drink. “I know. Believe me, I don’t want that happening. I’ll tell you at the first sign.”

“This job at the school, do you think you’ll have a lot of stress with it? Stress can aggravate your condition, you know.”

Pam shrugged. “No more than anyone else starting in a new position in a new town.” She looked up, remembering the man who’d tackled her, the warm way he’d looked at her, then the way his eyes had frosted over when he learned who she was. “What do you know about Patrick Kelsey?”

Rosemary swung both legs over the fat arm of the easy chair, scrunching down comfortably. “His family goes way back. He’s a descendant of one of the first families. His parents own and operate Kelsey Boardinghouse on Gunther Street not far from here. Plus his father works at the Ingalls plant and his mother is receptionist for Dr. Phelps. Anna’s real personable. I want you to meet George Phelps, too. He’s a good man in case you need a doctor.”

This wasn’t what Pam wanted to hear. “Why would Patrick have turned so moody back there in the square, when before he heard my name, he was smiling?”

“Maybe he wanted the job you got. He teaches gym and coaches varsity basketball. He’s some kind of hero around here, dating back to his high school football days.”

“Sounds like the people of Tyler take high school sports seriously—and have long memories.”

“You got that right. Fierce loyalty around here. They give newcomers a hearty welcome, then sit back and wait for them to prove themselves. They accepted me, so don’t worry.”

“But you’ve been here three years. It seems I was here three minutes and managed to offend one of their favorite sons.”

“Patrick will come around. He’s really a great guy, always helping people, very family oriented. I’ve often wondered why he’s never married.” Rosemary eyed Pam as she slipped out of her running shoes. “Maybe he’s been waiting for the right woman to come along.”

Pam shook her head. “Don’t look at me. Besides, he seems a bit touchy. If he’s lived here all his life, it can’t be my fault I got the job and he didn’t. Or is it having a woman coach he’s against, possibly?”

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t worry about it. Don’t add to your own stress level.”

“Good idea.” Pam stretched and yawned. “I should unpack, go get some groceries and turn in early tonight. I want to look around tomorrow, and Monday morning I meet with the principal.”

“Oh, she’s nice. Everyone likes Miss Mackie. And she’ll understand about your limitations with MS.”

Pam leaned forward, her eyes serious. “I don’t plan to tell Miss Mackie or anyone else that I have multiple sclerosis. And I don’t want you to say anything, either.”

Slowly, Rosemary raised a questioning brow. “Do you think that’s wise?”

“I don’t know. I do know I need to prove myself, and I can’t do that if everyone’s waiting for me to fall over from fatigue or show up one day in a wheelchair.”

“But if they know, they can—”

“No. Please, Rosemary.” She had to make her friend see. “This is my life and my decision. When we first started working out together at the rehab center, I was going through the aftermath of depression, really feeling sorry for myself. Well, I’ve spent all the time doing that that I plan to. You’re the one who challenged me to learn to live with MS, and I’m honestly trying to. I realize that remissions are temporary, but I feel good and I don’t want constant reminders that I could slip back again any day.”

“Remission periods can last for months, even years.”

“I’m hopeful that’s the case with me. But I want no quarter given because I’ve got a problem here. I want to earn people’s respect, not their pity. Listen as my friend, Rosemary, not my therapist, and try to understand.”

Gracefully Rosemary untangled herself from the chair and walked over to Pam, hugging her as she sat down on the couch. “I do understand. I just don’t want to see you hurt. Over the past two years, I’ve grown to care about you a lot.”

Pam blinked back a quick rush of emotion. “Me, too. I just have to do this my way, okay?”

“Sure.” Rosemary stood. “Now, let me get your bag, so you can unpack while I start dinner. You can shop tomorrow. Tonight I’m cooking my specialty. Chicken chow mein.”

“Sounds great.” Pam searched for her keys. “I hope you’ll make enough so Samson can have dinner, too. He loves Chinese.”

“Not dog food?”

Pam grinned at her friend’s surprised look. “He never touches the stuff. And he likes a wedge of lemon in his water dish.”

“Of course he does.” Rosemary smiled at her friend. “I’m really glad you’re here.” Glancing down, she pointed. “Grass stains. I hope they come out of your slacks.”

Pam considered the green stain on her pantleg. “Think I could get Patrick Kelsey to clean them for me?”

“You really should get acquainted with him. He knows the boys at Tyler High better than anyone else. They trust him.”

Pam tossed her keys in the air and caught them in her fist. “Then I guess it’ll be my job to get them to trust me. Why haven’t you gotten to know him better, since you think he’s so swell?”

Rosemary shook her head. “I’ve been divorced five years and I intend to stay that way. Once burned is twice shy.” She sobered, studying Pam’s face. “Do you ever hear from Bob?”

“No, never. It’s best this way, really. When something’s over, it should stay over.”

“Amen,” Rosemary agreed.