After getting ready, I take a cue from Cateline, and march into the hall, ready for war.
I follow a raucous round of laughter coming from somewhere in the vast building, hoping it will lead me to the Seaview dining room where I’m supposed to meet Declan. I take a few wrong turns but eventually find my way with a minute to spare.
A long table with enough space to seat at least twelve people spans the center of the room. A fireplace is on one wall with a massive oil painting over the mantle, depicting an old-fashioned man—or is it a woman? I can’t tell with the big curly wig and waistcoat. Windows fill the other wall. In the distance, the sun has nearly set over the sea, painting the room in muted golden light.
I’ve only seen a bit of Concordia so far, but love it. It has everything from mountains to ocean, a city, towns, villages, and the countryside.
The grandfather clock chimes. Candles flicker. My thoughts carry from the romance of this setting to why I’m here. I have a job to do, and Declan is late. Not surprising given his grand entrance.
I have to compartmentalize the Declan I knew and the rich and famous, entitled guy he’s likely become. I imagine the first big paycheck he got came with the stipulation that he value his time above that of other people. Typical. My parents are like that, too.
A server brings me water and then hangs back, the picture of a wallflower. Much like I’ve been most of my life. But isn’t that what I want? Not to be noticed? Then again, I don’t particularly want to be lonely or invisible either...and certainly not stood up for the first official lesson.
I study the place settings, reviewing what I’ll need to teach this jock when, at last, the door swings open. Declan enters as raucous cheering fills the room like at a football game. There is a pause, then it sounds a second time and I think I hear them chanting his last name.Printz, Printz, Printz.
This is a new level of ego mania, even for him.
Declan pauses, pulls his phone from his pocket, and clicks it off. We have the same plain black protective phone case—the kind people have who frequently break their phone or can’t afford to replace it if it breaks.
But there is a notable difference to bring to his attention. “Your ringtone is the sound of a cheering crowd?”
“Good evening to you, too,” he says with a wry smile.
I catch my blunder. No way can I successfully coach him in etiquette if the first thing out of my mouth are words of criticism.
I square my shoulders. “Good evening, Mr. Printz. Thank you for taking the time to join me for dinner. In the future, please be punctual.”
Declan drops heavily into the chair. “Ah, yes, dinner at seven and dash out the door before twelve so no one risks turning into a pumpkin. Got it.”
Once again, his phone erupts with raucous cheering. I glance down at mine as it vibrates. When I see the name scroll across the screen, I hurry from the room.
12
DECLAN
Igrumble because, of course, I didn’t intend for my phone to blare the moment I walked into the dining room. That makes for grand entrance number two. Not exactly the foot on which I want to restart things with Maggie.
However, I’ve been getting calls all day. People wonder where I am, why I left town, and compliment me or criticize me for #BruiserButt.
Coach wants the other guys to keep a low profile, but the incident on top of the team’s notoriety, and my prominent position in the spotlight, make keeping off the public’s radar nearly impossible.
What delayed me was an interview and photo opportunity with a local children’s charity connected to the Touchdowns for Teens program that I fund. Likely, Maggie thought I was late because I’m irresponsible or self-centered, but I’d been doing outreach. Sure, I soak up attention and like to have a good time, however, I’m a man of my word. I’m also a person who always goes the extra mile.
A kid connected to the local branch of the charity had been in a terrible accident and subsequently endured several surgeries.When I stopped by earlier, he’d asked me an important question. He’s struggling, so I couldn’t just give him a quick, superficial answer and leave it at that. I had to show the boy how to keep going when his hope flagged.
We took a walk around the block. I pointed out the natural beauty surrounding us, and the impressive technology that’s often taken for granted—cars, electricity, mobile phones. The fact that he can walk again. The former provided inspiration. The latter highlighted the fact that everything that exists comes from somewhere—from creativity and the minds of people. People like the kid.
I wanted to show him that, despite his struggles now, God has a plan for him. That anything is possible. The world is at his feet. He’s back on his. He has a second chance to live. I know that lesson all too well.
I told the kid that he needs to find histhingand go after it like his life depends on it. It just might.
I was supposed to be at the dinner assessment at seven, and because I took the extra time with the kid, I’m ten minutes late. I get that in this situation it’s a big deal, but she didn’t have to run out of the room just when I arrived.
Dropping my napkin on my chair, I follow her. When I reach the door, she’s on the other side of it, eyes closed, and drawing a deep breath as though she’s at her wits’ end.
The wordsI’m sorryare on my lips when she blinks her eyes open. Up close, and in the flickering candlelight, summer gold and threads of amber fleck her hazel eyes. They contain a soft sadness—something I want to turn into joyful laughter.
We stand there a moment, staring at each other like the hallway is a secret place where we can start over...again.
