From the Start

by Melissa Tagg

  He’s back in Maple Valley. Colton’s back.

  And then she was moving off the glass and someone else was taking a turn and her heart was hammering for a reason that had nothing to do with height.

  She whirled around to Marcus and Hailey. “Guys, I’ve gotta go. Sorry. Brey, thanks for forcing me to come up here.” She leaned down to hug him, then turned toward the elevator.

  “But where are you going? What are you doing?” Hailey called.

  Kate spun as the elevator door opened. Grinned. “Calling an audible.”

  20

  Had it really only been five months since the last time Colton gave a press conference?

  And could this one be any more different? Fewer cameras, more familiar faces. And a sense of purpose so energizing, it could have fueled him for a year.

  “We need to get moving, Logan. It’s almost three.”

  “Five more minutes. The reporter from Channel 8 is still interviewing Webster.”

  Colton glanced around the packed living room. No, it wasn’t nearly the crowd who’d flocked to his NFL retirement announcement. Mostly state and local reporters. And instead of the white walls that’d wrapped around that stadium conference room, this living room boasted warm tones—Raegan’s choice, of course—and comfortable red-almost-burgundy leather furniture. Plants, bamboo blinds, new carpet, all of it completed the relaxed feel.

  Not that he could claim credit for the décor. That was all Raegan and Ava.

  So far, this was the only room to have gotten a complete makeover. There was still plenty more to do. And he’d have to wait until spring to tackle the exterior—replace aging siding and add a deck in back. Might have to completely pull off the existing porch and build a new one.

  Logan waved at Charlie, who was perched on Case’s shoulders at the back of the room. “I can’t believe this came together so fast. I thought you’d spend forever working out zoning issues, getting permits, applying for tax-exempt status, all that.”

  Colton turned to his friend. “Wouldn’t have come together even close to this quickly without the help of your family. And you. Seriously, man, thanks for coming home for this.”

  Logan brushed off the thanks just like he had every time Colton offered his appreciation. “I was going stir-crazy once election season was over. It was good to have an excuse to get back to Iowa for a couple weeks. Plus, Charlie’s grandparents always love the chance to see her.” He scanned the room. “You sure you’re ready for all this?”

  Tall windows ushered in streaming sunlight and peeked into the neighborhood whose residents had clamped on to Colton’s vision as soon as Amelia’s story ran in the paper two weeks ago. “More than ready.”

  His gaze moved from the window to the gathering of people behind all the cameras. Case and Raegan, Seth and Ava, Bear . . . Everyone had come to show their support.

  “You know, if you would’ve let any of us mention this whole thing to Kate earlier—”

  He shook his head before Logan finished the sentence. “I’m going to tell her.” He had a plan . . . kind of. It started with the folder he’d rolled up in his back pocket.

  “How hard is it to say ‘Kate, I moved to your hometown. I bought that house you love. I’m turning it into a home for guys aging out of the foster system. I restructured and renamed my foundation and—’”

  “Logan, can you let me do this my way?”

  “Your way is annoyingly slow.”

  Maybe it was slow, but at least it wasn’t reckless.

  Thing is, he would do it all over again. Getting to know Kate—falling for her, even losing her—it had freed something in him. Led him to a place of honesty and shined a light on the shadows that once held him back.

  Without Kate, he might still be desperately grasping for a future he knew now he wasn’t meant for.

  “Let’s get started.”

  Logan gave up the argument and nodded. “I’ll round up the troops.”

  The chatter of the group quieted as Logan collected their focus. Colton caught sight of Case Walker through the opening into the dining room. He still held Charlie, probably ready to make a run for it if her attention span waned.

  Over in one corner of the living room, Webster Hawks straightened from his sprawled position on the recliner and stood. Did the kid realize his role in inspiring this day?

  “Thanks so much for being here,” Logan addressed the group. “We’re keeping things easy and informal today. You should all have a packet of information about the Parker House, but here to tell you a little more about its purpose is its founder, former NFL quarterback and one of the finest men I know, Colton Greene.”

  The pride in his friend’s voice warmed Colton as light applause broke out. His gaze landed on Raegan, who stood by a cherrywood buffet topped with platters of homemade cookies. And the Clancys, now flanking Webster. Coach Leo.

  These people had become his family. This community, his home.

  Assurance pooled inside him. If God could get him back to Maple Valley, fill him with a new dream, a new purpose for his life . . . well then, He could show him what to do about Kate, too.

  He turned his focus to the cameras, none of his old fear of their stare left in him.

  “When I was nine years old, my life changed forever. My parents were killed in an accident and I began a nearly decade-long journey through foster care.” He couldn’t help another glance at Webster, saw Laura Clancy place her hand on the teen’s shoulder.

  It hadn’t been easy, facing the reality of what had happened with his parents. Such glaring light after so many years of darkness had felt like an assault. He’d taken Norah’s advice—visited a Christian counselor back in LA for those couple months before moving to Maple Valley.

  “It’s not something I’ve talked about often because, frankly, it was a miserable time for me. But I realized something in recent months—in refusing to talk, I wasn’t only silencing my story. I was missing out on an opportunity to honor someone who made an incredible difference in my life—even if I had too big of a chip on my shoulder to recognize it at the time.”

  He told them about Norah then. About her years of patience and persistence.

  “The transition from high school to adulthood can be an iffy enough time for anyone. But for eighteen-year-olds aging out of foster care, it’s a complete upheaval. The statistics about post-foster-care homelessness, addiction, and incarceration are staggering.” He took a breath. “God used Norah Parker to keep me from becoming one of those statistics.”

  How he wished Norah could’ve been here today. But with a three-month-old, she couldn’t travel. She’d sent a gift, though—a wall decoration made of old wood that spelled the word Home.

  “I bought it at this shop where all the stuff is made of wood from old barns. Seemed fitting because you’re in Iowa. But also because you and I have a history with barns.”

  He’d smiled and hung the thing over the front entrance—the house’s first piece of décor.

  “So that’s why I’ve decided to name this home Parker House. My hope is to make the kind of difference in young men’s lives that Norah made in mine. And if all goes according to plan, this home is the first of many just like it I hope to start across the country through the recently renamed Parker Foundation.”

  He finished his remarks minutes later. This is right. It was good.

  And when the question-and-answer portion of the casual press conference ended in clapping, it wasn’t the applause of those gathered in the room he heard . . . but the applause of his own heart.

  He’d shaken at least a dozen hands before Laura Clancy wound her way through the crowd to reach him. “Colton Greene, I liked you when you were a football player. But now, I love you. And I can say that without it being awkward because I’m at least twenty years older than you.”

  She pulled him into a hug, then lowered her voice. “And just so you know, we’re taking Webster out for dinner tonight. Asking him how he’d feel about adoption.”
<
br />   He stepped back. “Seriously? That’s . . . that’s . . .” The lump in his throat stole his words.

  “I think the word you’re looking for is awesome.” She patted his cheek and moved on.

  Case Walker approached next. What started as a handshake turned into an embrace. “You found your eleven inches.”

  And a peace he couldn’t begin to describe.

  “Also,” Case stepped back. “I think there’s something you should see. Take a look out the window, why don’t ya.”

  Just a house. Just a big, old house—but according to the article she’d read, Colton must have seen in it what she had.

  Kate stood outside her Focus, car door still open, February breeze grazing over her cheeks. Her coat and scarf warded off whatever cold the tangle of nerves and jittery emotions heating through her didn’t. She reached inside to grab the newspaper on her dash, the one she’d found in her mailbox yesterday after she’d raced home from the Willis. If she’d needed any other nudge to pack a suitcase and hit the road, well, she’d gotten it.

  “Be the girl who takes the risk and goes after what she wants.”

  It sounded so good in her head back in Chicago, but now that she was actually here . . . she was a craggy, bare tree—stripped of cover and resolve, ready to crack, like an ice-covered branch.

  But this was right. The thought had rooted inside her. It fueled her drive to Maple Valley, pulled her from the car, and tugged her gaze to the house.

  She closed her car door now. There were no skyscrapers or city horizons here. Only fresh snowfall frosting the trees and a gleaming winter sun. And hope—the kind she’d craved for so long.

  The kind that’d been there from the start, really, just waiting for her to notice it.

  She started across the street, snow crunching under the white boots she’d tucked her jeans into. She wore the scarf Raegan had crocheted for Colton for the train pull. Would he notice?

  Of course he’d notice. Because the man noticed everything. He’d seen the hurt underneath Webster’s anger. The need underneath Dad’s strength. The heart underneath a quirky, storm-torn little town.

  He’d seen her.

  Shovel tracks led the way up the sidewalk to the stairs that led the way up to the porch. The floorboards creaked as her steps slowed, white front door staring her down. She took a breath and rang the doorbell.

  Nothing. No sound. Shoot, must be broken.

  She was just lifting her hand to knock, when the door swung open.

  And her heart knotted. “C-Colton. Hi.”

  “Katharine Rose Walker.” Surprise and maybe delight—oh, she hoped it was delight—mingled in his voice. He was semi-dressed up. Jeans and a black sweater that couldn’t hope to hide his football-player arms. Man, he had good arms.

  Stop looking at his arms.

  So she looked at his eyes instead—that same drenching, stunning blue as always, enough to sweep away her rehearsed words, leaving only quiet in its wake, hovering like the white of their breath.

  Talk, Walker. Talk.

  It’d help if he’d ask her why she was here. Or how she’d known where to find him. Something, anything, to tug from her the words she’d come to say. But he just stood there, watching her, his half grin tinged with uncertainty.

  You know what you want to say. Now say it.

  Just like she had with the book. Like Hailey said. Her heart on the page.

  She held up the newspaper. “When were you going to tell me about this?” She blurted the words with all the grace of the clanging wind chime hitting against the porch corner.

  Confusion flickered over his face. Oh man, he was cute when he was confused.

  “You bought my house.”

  He pointed behind him. “You know, we could go inside—”

  “And you revived your foundation and you didn’t even ask for my help. You know I’ve wanted to write for a nonprofit. I could’ve helped. I haven’t even been busy. Except, I guess I did write a new book, but—”

  “You wrote a new book?”

  “Yeah and it’s good, too.”

  “I’m sure it is.”

  Why did he have to lean against the doorframe like that? All, amused and . . . and adorable with the wind fanning through his hair and leaving circles of red on his cheeks. Not to mention that faint scent of his cologne she’d gotten used to in weeks of living across the hall from the man.

  Words and poise and confidence were lost under the sudden crazy-strong desire to launch herself at him.

  His hands dropped to his sides. “What am I doing? You wrote a book. You’ve been trying to write another book for years and . . . ”

  He reached to pull her into a hug, lifting her feet from the ground and swinging her around just like a character in an old movie. Surprise stole her breath, and the newspaper in her hand dropped to the snow as she wrapped her arms around him.

  “You wrote a book, Rosie.”

  “And you decided on a purpose for your foundation.” She said the words against his shoulder, a giddy energy stealing away the last of her reserve. Why had she waited so long to come back? “I’m so ridiculously proud of you.”

  He set her down but didn’t let go. “So proud that you came to scold me about not telling you?”

  His arms were like a second coat, warm and perfect. “Yes. I mean no. I mean yes and no.” It was too hard to think when she was wrapped in his arms. She forced herself to step back from their embrace. “My friend Hailey told me once that I needed to let myself want something enough to fight for it. To take a risk and go after it. Well, this is me, taking a risk and going after what I want.”

  “And you want . . . what?” he prodded her. “A job helping with my foundation?”

  “Not a job.” She met his gaze. It’s okay to admit what you want. She swallowed, tasting the crisp cold in the air and the sweetness of honesty. “I want you.”

  His slow smile could have melted every speck of snow whiting their surroundings. But instead of saying anything, he reached around to his back pocket and pulled out a folded manila folder. He handed it to her. “Take a peek.”

  She opened it up, scanning the top page . . . then the next and the next. Lists of marketing materials—newsletters, appeals, brochures. What looked like a strategic plan—not just for the Parker House but for what he was now calling the Parker Foundation.

  And the last page of the folder—a list of grant-makers and application deadlines. The word Rosie scribbled in the margin in Colton’s handwriting.

  “If I want to grow this thing, I’m going to need to find some new revenue streams. Word on the street is, there’s some grant-writing history in the Walker family.”

  She looked up from the folder, tears—the best kind—pooling faster than she could blink.

  “You’re not the only one who knows what you want, Rosie.”

  When he pulled her to him again, the paper fluttered from her hands. He kissed the tip of her nose, soft as the snowflakes drifting from the porch roof and landing on her cheeks, and then her lips, warmer than the pale sunlight that wove through the lattice.

  She melted into the moment. Better than any happy ending I could ever write.

  Not an ending at all, really. And maybe that was the best part. The beautiful peace that came with living her own story, knowing every turn of the page and tug of the heart was a new beginning.

  “Kate,” he whispered as he pulled away.

  “I thought we’d moved past the talking part.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” He looked over her shoulder.

  She circled around, hands sliding down to connect with his, still hooked around her, and saw what he saw: a crowd gathered in the front door, some now spilling onto the porch. Cameras. Grins. One lone flash.

  “You could’ve told me I was interrupting a party.”

  “Press conference, actually. Hey guys, check it out, the foundation just got its first employee.” He pulled her to him and touched his forehead to hers. “Rosie Walker came ho
me.”

  “You better not welcome all your staff this way, Colton Greene.”

  “Nope. Only the ones I’m crazy about.”

  And then, to the tune of applause and cheers, the glitter of snowfall like a wink from above, Colton lifted her from her feet and kissed her once more.

  Acknowledgments

  True story: I didn’t know much at all about football when I started writing From the Start. That fact and a few other circumstances made writing this book slightly reeeeally challenging. Let’s be honest: Previously, football was, to me, basically just a good excuse to eat inordinate amounts of snacks on Super Bowl Sunday. But guess what, I think I finally appreciate the game!

  But I appreciate the family and friends who helped me through this book even more:

  Mom and Dad, thank you for everything, but especially for those last couple weeks before both rounds of deadlines. Thank you for praying with me, feeding me, brainstorming with me, and putting up with the moodiest version of me ever.

  Amy, Nathanael, and Nicole, thanks for unknowingly loaning some of your coolest traits to the Walker siblings. Grandma and Grandpa, as always, thank you for your constant encouragement and prayer.

  My editor, Raela Schoenherr, and my agent, Amanda Luedeke—thank you both for being awesome. Raela, thank you for helping shape this story and in doing so, nudging me into being excited about it again. Amanda, thank you for being a voice of calm and direction and levity.

  Editor Karen Schurrer, your feedback, editing, and advice are awesome. I can’t thank you enough for that. And everyone at Bethany House—I couldn’t ask for a more wonderful group of people to usher this story out the door.

  Clay Morgan, thanks for being the best football source ever, for answering all my questions, and especially for that Raymond Berry story. By way of thanks, I will try to cheer for the Steelers now and then.

  Beth Vogt and Rachel Hauck, your phone calls on that deadline day when I needed it most meant so much to me. Lisa Jordan, thank you for months of cheerleading texts and emails and cards. And Susan May Warren, your voice is so often in my head as I write—I don’t even have words for how thankful I am for that or how much I look up to you. Thank you for reading my opening scenes and pushing me to take them further.