Bright Hopes. Pat Warren

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      “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 СКАЧАТЬ