Читать книгу From The Ashes - Sharon Mignerey - Страница 8

Stunned by the news and hoping her expression didn’t reveal that, Angela watched Brian look away from her, then back, his own gaze challenging.

“Now you know why I need a driver.” He gestured toward Sam.

“Yes.” As with every other person she had met who had lost their vision, she knew there was a heartbreaking story here. As a professional athlete in the public eye, Brian would have an extra set of challenges. Not necessarily worse than what others faced. Just different.

His expression was so implacable that she suspected he was waiting for that moment he’d undoubtedly had with others. The outpouring of heartfelt sympathy and the “I’m so sorry.” She was, but telling him so would only make him feel pitied. He didn’t need that, surely didn’t want that.

“The first step is filling out an application, then getting you scheduled for a class—”

“You mean after my sight is totally gone?” He shook his head. “Listen, I know others are ahead of me in that whole process to get a dog. I’ve done my homework, and I know about the two-year training stint. And I know about the preparation and class work that I need to do ahead of time. The thing is, I’m in a unique situation here—”

“Privileged?” She hadn’t intended to interrupt, but the idea that he might think he could circumvent the system simply because he had money made her suddenly, unreasonably annoyed. With that, she became aware of the vehicle’s leather interior and the latest in gadgets on the dashboard. With his wealth, why was he seeking her help?

“Fortunately, yes,” he said simply. “But that’s not what I mean. To me, having this warning that I’m losing my vision is like training camp. You’ve got a set of things you need to do to get ready for the season—get in shape, learn the new playbook, do the work to build a team out of a bunch of individuals. What I’m going through is the same thing.” His expression lightened. “A Braille playbook isn’t going to be easy to learn.”

Surprised at his ready agreement to being privileged and intrigued by his comparison to training season, Angela saw the passion in him that had undoubtedly driven him to become an athlete good enough to be a professional.

“Exactly what do you want from Guardian Paws?” she asked, her annoyance diffused by his explanation.

“To participate in picking out and training my guide dog.”

Like his statement about going blind, this one was equally forthright, as though he had given the idea a lot of thought.

“Why Guardian Paws?” she asked. “There are other organizations, more experienced trainers—”

“Who could help me?”

His gaze searched her face, making her wonder just how much of his sight was left and what was causing his loss of vision. Diabetes? Macular degeneration? Glaucoma? Some irreversible injury?

“First, you’re local, so it seems reasonable that the logistics would be easier. Second, because your organization is small, I’m hoping you’ll be able—willing—to take a chance on this.”

“So you’ve already asked one of the other schools.”

“Several.” He nodded. “They have a set protocol that works, and I understand that.”

Sam turned the SUV onto her street.

“You’ve given me a lot to think about,” she said to Brian. “I’ve got to talk with my partner.”

“Is this the right house?” Sam asked from the driver’s seat.

Angela looked out at the small ranch-style home where she lived. Her twelve-year-old Honda Civic was in the driveway. “Yes.”

He pulled into the driveway, then got out of the car to open the door for her. She unbuttoned Brian’s overcoat and left it on the seat as she got out of the car. A gust of wind hit her, and she shivered.

On the other side Brian was getting out, as well. Like the well-trained dog she was, Polly waited for her command before hopping out of the back of the SUV and immediately coming to stand next to Angela.

“Thanks for the ride,” she said as Brian walked her to the door.

“I should be thanking you for listening,” he said. “Anything you need from me to help you make a decision—” He laughed suddenly. “Well, make a decision that I like.”

“I’ll call you.” She smiled at him, liking the way he turned his humor and his expectations back on himself.

“I’m looking forward to it,” he said, heading back down the walk, this time getting into the passenger seat of the SUV.

Another car came slowly down the street, the driver looking in their direction. Angela watched, hoping it wasn’t Tommy Manderoll.

It wasn’t, and she breathed a sigh of relief as the car drove past her house. Sam backed into the street while Brian gave her a brief salute from the passenger seat as they drove away.

After she let herself into the house, she remembered there had been a newspaper article about him recently. Something non-sports related. Looking through the stack of newspapers she had set aside for recycling, she found the article on the front page of the Family Living section of last Saturday’s paper—a huge piece about his foundation and the work he did with inner-city teens. With the loss of public money to fund after-school programs, the foundation had quietly and effectively filled in the gap. Sports was the cornerstone, but there were also activities for kids interested in other things, all designed to build teamwork and burn energy.

“The programs of the Beanstalk Gang are built around traditional activities, like sports. But we do more than that. Imagine field trips that take these kids behind the scenes where they can see people doing jobs they might aspire to. These outings are styled after reality shows and are fun and require skill,” the article quoted Brian. “It’s all about being somewhere safe and being where kids know somebody cares about them. You can’t let them know that in a sentimental way, of course, so it’s all in the guise of competition and learning life skills—teamwork, decision making, sportsmanship. It’s about basic tutoring when it’s required—you’d be surprised how many of these kids can’t read. Compared to the cost of doing nothing, these programs take an insanely small amount of money.”

The article concluded saying that he was proof that one person could make a difference.

Indeed. The man was attractive inside and out, a man she could seriously like. And like is the furthest it could go, she firmly told herself, imagining the field day a reporter would have if either of them acted on the attraction. Assuming, that is, that her awareness of him hadn’t been one-sided.

The convict and the blind quarterback. That was a headline she never wanted to see.

She had been the object of a reporter’s insatiable curiosity once before and the means to a front-page story. No way did she want that again.

Despite the warning she had given him that she needed to talk to her partner, Angela expected Maisey Erdmann to go along with the idea of involving Brian in the training of his own dog.

He couldn’t know how tempting his offer was. They had narrowed the focus of their training to working with dogs for the blind and the deaf. And they knew they could have the most impact by remaining a small local organization. Angela dreamed of one day having access to dogs specifically bred to be guide dogs, but she’d also had good luck so far with the carefully chosen dogs they had found from the pound and through various rescue organizations. And because they worked with local clients, they could get them involved in the training for six to eight weeks instead of the typical four.

Brian had said he wanted to pick out his own dog, and she had one that she hoped he’d want. She suspected he would hate Jasper on sight, but they would be perfect for each other—two athletes in the midst of a transition.

Just after sunrise the following morning, Angela arrived with Polly at the farm where Guardian Paws did business. Their training facility occupied one small corner of land and included a tiny farmhouse used for the office and a six-stall barn they had converted to a kennel. The barn was new, but its old-fashioned gambrel roof and deliberately faded red paint made it look as though it had been on the property for years.

Tim Warren had donated this part of his farm for them to use, a generous gift that he said was his way of giving back to the community. He farmed the rest of the sixty-acre property, growing organic fruits and vegetables along the Platte River.

In the distance, old-fashioned cornstalk teepees covered the field, Tim’s homage to a simpler time. The black soil gleamed with a layer of frost. The place was quiet, unlike summer when everything was growing and people came in all day long to pick their own vegetables. Personally, Angela thought Tim and his wife had been brilliant in their concept. Give their customers the rewards of having a garden without any of the headache of weeding and watering.

The harvest-theme decorations that had lined the driveway had been replaced by garlands of evergreen, along with a sign that counted down the days until the day after Thanksgiving, when Christmas trees would be available for sale.

Angela turned on lights in the house and put on a pot of coffee to brew before heading out the back door to the kennel with Polly obediently close behind. The small barn had a center aisle and three stalls on each side that had been perfect to convert for their purposes. Four of the stalls could hold the dogs, supplies were stored in one and the final one was their examination room.

She turned on the light and was greeted by wagging tails from the four dogs occupying two of the kennels.

“You guys are already awake?” She opened the gates and was immediately surrounded. If any of them had been jealous that Polly had gotten to go home with her last night, none showed it. Instead, they sniffed her in greeting, and when Angela opened the door to their fenced yard, they raced outside.

As happened every single morning, Angela’s heart swelled with gratitude. She didn’t simply like her job—she loved it.

After hearing about the program to train service dogs shortly after she was sent to prison, she had applied, hoping she’d be chosen. At first, she had imagined it would be a way to fill the time that had loomed endlessly in front of her. Instead, she had found a calling, the work she was meant to do.

Being with the dogs made her thankful, and she felt blessed to have this work. Dogs didn’t have an agenda. They didn’t have expectations she could never meet. They lived in the moment. Important life lessons, every one.

Prior to the end of her sentence, she had scoured the entire state, looking for someone who would hire her to pursue the calling she had discovered in prison. Not only had Maisey taken her on, she had stunned Angela after her parole was over by making her a partner in the business. It was a gift that Angela cherished, most especially because she knew she hadn’t deserved it.

One by one, almost as though taking turns, the dogs ran to her before taking off again. Bailey, the gorgeous golden retriever whose training was just beginning and who had been too high energy for the family who gave her up. Checkers, the smart shepherd–border collie mix who had been found in the pound without any tags. Gatsby, the black Lab mix, who was also a rescue from the pound where he had been taken after being found tied to a tree at a campground in the mountains above Golden. Polly, who was scheduled to begin training with her hearing-impaired master within the next month.

And the dog she had in mind for Brian—Jasper, the year-old elegant standard poodle who had been a socialite’s accessory. Maisey had thought Angela was crazy when she asserted that he’d be a wonderful guide dog, since the conventional wisdom was they had to be German shepherds, golden retrievers or Labrador retrievers, but she had signed on to the project with enthusiasm after reading the success stories about other poodles that Angela had uncovered.

“How are you doing, boy?” Angela said to him. He dutifully sat in front of her, his dark eyes on her as she rubbed the tips of his ears, which practically made him smile. Within the first month, he had learned more commands than any other dog she’d ever seen. That had been three months ago, and he continued to be the most responsive dog she had ever worked with. High energy and smart, he was going to need someone who was active and disciplined. To Angela, that sounded exactly like Brian Ramsey.

She had spoken with him briefly last night and suggested that he come out to the farm to meet their dogs in training. He had promised to come late this morning, his voice filled with anticipation and relief as though he somehow knew she was on the verge of agreeing to his proposal. She wondered if he’d be quite so pleased after he met Jasper.

The back door to the house slammed, and Angela turned to see Maisey coming toward her. Fiftyish and plump, the woman was smiling, just as always.

“Every single morning I think I can get here before you, and you’ve beat me again.” She held her bracelet-encased arms out to the dogs who came to greet her.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Angela said while Maisey murmured greetings to each of the dogs. “So I decided I might as well get up and come in.”

“Thinking about that good-looking Brian Ramsey, I bet.”

Angela had called her last night before talking to Brian. “Yes, but not because he’s good-looking. I invited him out here today so you can meet him. I want to know what you think before we agree to let him participate in the training.”

Maisey laughed at her prim tone. “I told you already. I trust your judgment.”

“I know you do.” Angela headed back toward the kennel to set out breakfast for the dogs. “But let’s face it. Since he’s a high-profile kind of man, we have to take the bad with the good. If this doesn’t work out the way he hopes it will—”

“It’s all going to be fine.”

“Says the eternal optimist.” Angela followed Maisey inside, holding the door open for the dogs.

Maisey headed to the cupboard and set out five dishes. “What are you afraid of?”

Angela stared into space a moment before saying, “I want to make sure it’s not my ego with grandiose ideas that makes me think this can work.” She began measuring out the kibble for each dish.

“I’ll meet him,” Maisey promised. “But the choice is still yours.” She grabbed a couple of the bowls, setting them in front of Checkers and Gatsby, who like all the dogs were patiently sitting, as they had been trained. “I picked up the messages. There were three for you from a Tommy Manderoll. ‘Urgent,’ he said.”

Angela sighed. “He’s a lowlife from my past,” she said, setting down the remaining bowls. Just because he had called her didn’t mean she had to call him back. She was sure he’d take any contact, even in the form of go-fly-a-kite as some sort of perverse encouragement. “Throw away the messages.”

“Anything else I can do?” Maisey asked.

Angela shook her head. “Anything else would be illegal.”

Maisey laughed. “Well, we can’t have that, can we?”

After the dogs ate, Angela put on their in-training vests, a signal that playtime was over. As she worked with each of the dogs, she made notations in the planning books she kept for each one. She kept thinking about Brian’s comparison to training camp.

She supposed the initial assessment they made of the dogs was like training camp—figuring out which ones had the aptitude for their intended jobs. Only a few of the dogs they had chosen for the program had made the grade. The dogs that didn’t were adopted out to families. For the dogs that did, the real work began, complete with a “playbook” where goals were set out, progress was charted and personality traits were noted.

When Brian and Sam arrived shortly before noon, Maisey hung around only long enough for introductions before leaving with a whispered, “He’s great. Snap him up,” behind Brian’s back. To Angela, that sounded way too personal. Personal would never do.

Brian told Sam he could leave for a couple of hours, which left Angela alone with him. Gathering several Frisbees and softballs, she took him to the yard where the dogs were.

“This is playtime?” he asked with a teasing smile. “And here I thought you’d give me a formal demonstration.”

“You saw that yesterday at the luncheon,” she said, handing him one of the discs. “These guys all love Frisbee and can go at it all day long.”

“Good thing I have a strong arm,” he said, taking the first one from her and sending it flying. “And that I don’t have to worry about interceptions.”

“Did that happen a lot?” she asked.

“Too much last year.” He threw the next three discs in rapid succession, a big grin on his face as the dogs chased down the yard, their eyes on their prize. “These guys could be NFL-bound with speed like that.”

“How did you first learn you were losing your vision?”

The first of the dogs returned and dropped the disc at Brian’s feet. “Good boy,” he said, patting the dog and throwing the Frisbee again. “I was having the worst headaches of my life. At first the doctor thought it was migraines.”

“Glaucoma?”

Brian stared at her, aware that the dogs were returning one by one and dropping their prizes at his feet. “How could you know that?”

“One of the symptoms.” She smiled slightly. “And not a huge leap since it’s a primary cause of blindness. It’s pretty unusual for someone your age, but not unheard of.”

He picked up the Frisbees and threw them one by one for the dogs already running away from him like well-honed running backs. “It’s more a case of reaping the rewards of my sins.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Steroids,” he said simply. “My doctor says he’s never seen a case quite like mine, but the theory is anabolic steroids plus genetics plus the physical abuse inherent to playing a contact sport is what led to the condition. Definitely not my smartest move.”

She nodded as though she really understood. “That goes along with one of my favorite sayings. Do you know what results in good judgment?” When he shook his head, she said, “Experience.”

He grinned. “If that’s not the truth…”

“And what results in experience?” She paused for a beat.

“Poor judgment,” he guessed, then grinned more widely when she nodded. “I have to remember that. I like it.” He threw the Frisbees once more. “Anyway, surgery last January wasn’t successful, and medications haven’t helped, either. The docs tell me that’s the way it is sometimes. Too much irreversible damage, and nothing can be done.”

“How much vision do you have left?” she asked.

He made a circle with his thumb and forefinger that was about four inches in diameter, and held it in front of his eyes. “Everything on the outside of that circle is black. My doc says it might stabilize and stay like this for a while, or the rest of the field of vision might close and be gone in a matter of days.”

“So you’re praying for a miracle now.” She said it as though she was teasing.

“Nope,” Brian said, turning slightly, so he could see her, comparing the circle of his vision to what he remembered from the previous day. “That would be taking away my responsibility for what I did to myself.”

Her smile faded to a softer expression, as though she once more understood exactly what he meant.

He noticed immediately. “You know?” he added, enjoying the connection with her. Especially because she hadn’t offered him any of the heartfelt—and unhelpful—sympathy or platitudes that others had.

“Oh, that.” She rolled her eyes and grinned. “I’ve been there more than once myself.”

“To the point you royally screwed up your life?”

He’d meant the question to be a rhetorical one so he was surprised when she nodded.

“Hard to believe. You look—”

“Looks can be deceiving,” she said, her smile fading. “Let’s just say that I’ve too much experience—” the smile came back, rueful and directed at herself “—you know, that thing leading to good judgment—and plenty of practice with the Serenity Prayer.”

Though he was curious, he didn’t ask about the circumstances. But he wanted to. He liked her. In their all-too-brief meetings, all those reasons for not getting involved lost importance.

“That matter-of-fact way you talk about being responsible for your own stuff,” she added when he caught her glance, “you’d be surprised at how rare that is.”

He grinned at how neatly she had turned the subject away from herself. His own lack of responsibility had been a point of contention between him and his grandfather for years. Brian was trying hard to rectify that, so her observation pleased him. “Maybe the world wouldn’t be in such a mess if more people did.”

Even more, he liked that she hadn’t turned all clinical on him about how little he saw. One more thing that made her easy to be around, made him aware of her as a woman. Too aware. Once more, he reminded himself this wasn’t the time to get involved with anyone.

“Tell me about your foundation.” She threw the tennis ball for a couple of the dogs, grinning as the big sissy-looking poodle in the red sweater flew into the air to catch one. “Why is it named the Beanstalk Gang?”

“Because it was my favorite story when I was a boy,” Brian said. “I think we’re all given the equivalent of magic beans somewhere along the way in the form of opportunities—which are usually disguised as hard work—or advantages, like a talent to sing or play ball or be great with a computer. It’s what we do with those things that count. But, the story is also cautionary. Jack followed a calling by climbing up the beanstalk, but he also caused himself a lot of trouble by stealing from the giant. I think it’s a reminder that kids have to learn responsibility and let go of thinking they’re entitled to anything. My grandfather always told me that for every privilege there’s an equal responsibility.”

“The work you do there…you sound like you love it.”

“It’s what I’m supposed to be doing,” he said simply, meaning it. At one point, he hadn’t been able to imagine his life after football. Then a high school buddy who was now a teacher had told him about all the trouble the school had begun having with gang violence and vandalism, something he traced back to the suspension of after-school programs after funding was cut. That conversation had sparked Brian’s imagination, and when he’d realized that he had the money—and fund-raising ability—to do something about the situation, he’d thrown himself into the project, more satisfied with the charity work than he’d been about anything else in his life. Making such a confession to anyone, though, made him sound like some self-righteous do-gooder, and that wasn’t the case at all.

The newspaper article that had been in the paper last week was mostly accurate, a nice change for him, and it had done exactly what he had hoped in raising awareness—and money. The foundation Web site had received ten times the number of hits since the article, and the donations had gone way up.

He turned his head to look at Angela, not knowing what else to say that wouldn’t make him sound like some self-aggrandizing celebrity calling attention to himself.

“I feel that way about training service dogs,” she said.

The fact that she didn’t pry a bit surprised him. Pleased him.

They didn’t talk for a couple of minutes while they continued to play catch and fetch with the dogs. Angela was good company, quite unlike the women he used to spend time with. He had liked girls with flash, second only to playing football. When he was younger, the key to success with both sports and girls was being bigger, stronger than the other guys. He’d known taking steroids was wrong, but at the time he’d had the misguided idea that the end justified the means. Twenty years later, he was paying the price.

Forcing his attention away from those gloomy thoughts to the dogs playing in front of them, he sized up each one. The poodle in the sweater kept coming into his line of vision, and Brian decided it was a good thing the dog was wearing a sweater. Otherwise, he would have looked like a seventy-pound rat. The most alluring dog of the group was Polly, the dog he had met yesterday, even though he knew she was being trained to help someone else. He also really liked the golden retriever and the Lab mix.

With effort, he returned his thoughts to the topic Angela had started. “The work of the foundation—that’s the thing that drives me,” he finally said. “I have a few months left before most of my vision is gone if I’m lucky, days if I’m not. In the meantime, I want to get as much set up as I can.” He looked around at the dogs, able to imagine all of them except the poodle as his guide dog. “Is there a chance I could have one of these dogs?”

She nodded, a smile making her eyes light. “Polly, Bailey and Checkers are being trained for hearing-impaired owners. Gatsby and Jasper are being trained for the blind. Gatsby is already spoken for.”

“That leaves Jasper,” he said.

“It does. Why don’t you call him?”

Brian did, and the prissy poodle in the red sweater came to sit in front of him.