The more they walked, the more Chloe’s memories surfaced, and she was awash with sentimentality. By the time they entered Ella’s, she almost believed coming home was just the tonic she needed to shoo away the rags of death. Here she could ground herself in the truths that raised her.
Tina, Ella’s pretty and peppy owner, approached with two menus and surprise in her eyes. “Chloe! My goodness, the famous French pastry chef graces my humble diner.” Tina’s hug felt like a warm drink on a cold, blustery day.
“Stop, I’m not famous. Not even close.” Chloe slid into the second booth from the door and glanced out over Gardenia Circle, the park, and the slotted parking spaces filling up with folks coming to dine after a long workday. “But I do owe you for letting me bake and sell MeMaw’s vanilla cake here. Remember that?”
“I sure do. Even back then you were a whiz in the kitchen. And darling, ’round here, anyone who makes it as the pastry chef in a Michelin-starred Paris restaurant is a big whomping deal.” Tina handed Chloe and then Mom a menu. “Meredith, how you feeling? I’ve been praying for you.”
“I’m fine, but I’ll take all the prayers I can get.”
“I’ll be back with some waters, then y’all can order.” Tina propped her hand on her hip. “Welcome home, Chloe.”
The simple sentiment hit Chloe in the chest and her eyes flooded. Mom stretched her hands across the table and squeezed Chloe’s arm but, like the wise woman she was, said nothing. Chloe reached for a tissue in her bag as Mom saw a couple across the way and went over to say hi, which led to her talking to the couple in another booth and the big, long table of what looked like town council members.
Look at you, Mom.She looked more like a council candidate than a woman battling a cancer diagnosis. But Chloe had seen the mammogram, read the biopsy report, talked to the oncologist while she was still in Paris.
“Fast growing, but caught early”—thank You, God—“very treatable.”
So. Mom had cancer. People survived cancer all the time. Still, the thought stabbed icy fear into Chloe’s heart. She took a deep breath and smiled as Mom’s laugh echoed around the diner. She would be okay. She had to be.
Chloe dug in her bag for another tissue. Instead of the soft-pack that had taken up a recent permanent residence in there, her fingers brushed a stiff piece of paper, down at the bottom, wedged into the corner seam. With a gentle tug, it came free, and she smoothed it open on the table.
Oh my.She’d forgotten she’d stuck that list in her purse. How many months ago? Well over a year, it had to be. Our Goals for the Year, written in her neat script.
Jean-Marc’s list focused on business:Convince Papa to hire a social media manager. Research and contract with new microfiber vendor.Hers covered both her job and her marriage:Institute mentoring/coaching at restaurant. Weekly dates. Save 20% of our income for the café.
A tear landed on the page, smudging the percentage sign. She remembered now. She had put the list in her purse to have it laminated, so it wouldn’t curl and fade when she taped it to their bathroom mirror. But she’d forgotten about it. And then every time she had made a savings deposit, the balance was less than the last time. By the time she’d figured out Jean-Marc was making withdrawals, she’d been about to open a separate account to save for the café.
She crumpled up the list and stuffed it back into her bag as the waitress, Spicy, brought two glasses of water to the table. Chloe ordered a burger, fries, and a chocolate shake. Mom hurried over to say she’d have the same.
When Spicy left, Mom squared off with Chloe, thatmotherlook in her eye. “You always tried to take care of me. It was cute when you were ten and endearing when you were sixteen. But now you’re thirty and I do need some support. I admit it. We will get through this together, but darling daughter, I can’t have you hovering and worrying. You’ll drive me bonkers. So, here’s an idea.” Mom drew a deep breath and gave Chloe a tremulous smile. “Why don’t you get a job?”
Titans need a new franchise QB. One with two working knees. @SamHardyQB15’s career seems to be fading along with his knees. Save the $$ and give it to someone who can bring home the ring. #dumpSamHardy
– @No.1TitanFan on Twitter
Chapter 2
Football in the South was allFriday Night LightsandThe Blind Side. Sam Hardy was determined to get back into the game no matter what. If he didn’t play for the Tennessee Titans this season, he might never see the field again. He’d be sidelined. Listed as a has-been at thirty. And he wasn’t ready to be anyone’s “has been.” He was a champion, and this was his year for a Super Bowl ring—and the Titans were his team.
“We don’t have a choice, Sam.” The tension in offensive Coach Jenson Ryder’s tone could have shattered concrete. “Let’s face the facts. You’re just out of surgery from a torn ACL.” He arched a brow at Sam who sat on the table in the Titans’ Nashville training facility, his knee stretched out with an ice pack after physical therapy. “You know as well as I do, if you go out there without being a hundred percent, your career is over. So…you’re on injured reserve. For the season.”
He’d said it. Sam’s most dreaded phrase. Injured reserve. Sam pinched the bridge of his nose and swallowed the anger threatening to paralyze his breathing. Who was he without football? Without the Titans? He’d been playing football since first grade when he started as a Tiny Mite in the Pop Warner league. Even earlier, if he counted throwing the ball with his father in the backyard when he was four. Without a team, he’d be immortalized in YouTube videos likeGreatest Game Winning Touchdowns.Or exposés on theGreatest Quarterbacks Who Almost But Never Won the Ring. No, thank you.
“Bruce?” Sam looked over at his trainer who leaned against the wall, arms folded, his expression tight. “Got any ideas? Help a guy out here. There must be options.”
“What do you want me to say?” The muscled man pushed away from the wall and made his way to the table. “The doc told you up front, torn ACLs take nearly a year to recover. And you’re only three months out of surgery.”
The cold, white tile walls in the otherwise empty training room reflected Sam’s bleakness. Since the season had just ended, his teammates who were normally training—grunting and lifting—had cleaned out their lockers for the off-season.
Sam shook off the gloom of his situation with a fresh argument. “There are new methods and treatments. I read about them.” He glanced between Bruce and Coach Ryder. So what if he sounded like a kid begging to get off restriction? He’d worked too hard to be sidelined. “Erickson was back in nine months and led the Vikings to the playoffs. I can beat that.”
“He had a different injury. Never mind he’s six years younger than you.”
Thanks for the reminder, Coach.Only in football was a man of thirty anoldman. Sam took a deep breath, tamping down his rising frustration as he searched for another option. He’d missed the last two months of the season and the team had tanked.
Because the coaches had officially listed Sam as “injured reserve,” rumors swirled that the Titans were considering drafting the college national champion quarterback, Scott Fields, from Ohio State for the start of the next season. Just rumors, but still. What would Sam do with a year on the bench? He’d have way too much time to think. He could give more attention to his business ventures with his partner, Rick Moses. Some work with his charity foundation.
But when life got too quiet, when he wasn’t consumed with football, Sam remembered the vacancies in his life. His thoughts drifted toward home, toward Hearts Bend and—
