Bright Hopes

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.”