by Sandra Hill
Back to the present. The aerial scene was beautiful, too, especially on this morning with the early-August sun sparkling off the whitecaps of the pristine blue waters. A squadron of brown pelicans with their distinctive oversized bills and throat pouches glided on a wind current that mimicked the waves. They were just waiting for the opportune moment to plunge-dive for a tasty breakfast of finger mullets or cigar minnows.
Home, Jake mused. Beautiful, beautiful home.
“Yeah, I know what you mean,” Ethan said. “Every time I cross Bell Sound I get the same ache in my chest. The view never gets old.”
Jake hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud and cringed. Even so, he admitted, “I never thought I’d see the place again.” And I certainly fought tooth and nail against returning . . . at this time, anyhow. But they forced my hand, as only Uncle Sam and his military brass can do.
Ethan gave him a quick questioning glance, but when Jake didn’t elaborate, he reached over to squeeze his forearm. “Things will get better, pal. You’re home now. Your family and friends will help you forget.”
No one can do that, and I shudder to think how they might try. Time to change the subject before he asks about my three years “hiding” in a cave. “This plane is new, isn’t it? Last time I was here, you had that old Piper model. The Christmas-tree business must be doing well for you.”
“Yeah, business is booming, even those stupid Rutledge trees,” Ethan replied, then grinned. “Remember how embarrassed I used to be over those Charlie Brown–lookalike trees that my dad grew here on the island? Now they’ve become a holiday must-have, a conversation piece for the yuppie crowd all along the Outer Banks. I swear, I can sell thousands of traditional Douglas firs from my mainland tree farms, but the ones that get the most hype are those damn scrawny evergreen mutants, the only kind of Christmas trees that can withstand Outer Banks weather.”
Jake recalled that Ethan had resisted ever going into the family business, just as he himself had baldly refused his father’s offer of a partnership in Lazy Days, the Dawson commercial fishing boat, which followed the various fish through their seasons on the Outer Banks . . . sea trout, bass, flounder, red drum, bluefish, king mackerel, crabs, shrimp, and the prized tuna. Having been forced to help out from a young age, Jake used to hate fishing. Now, he wondered if, like Ethan, he might have grown into the career, if he hadn’t opted for the military after college.
Well, that was the past. No sense dwelling on what-ifs.
He glanced sideways at Ethan, who was fiddling with one of the dials. “Your trees were even highlighted on a holiday segment of Good Morning America, according to Izzie.”
“Izzie has a big mouth,” Ethan commented.
Jake had to smile, having made the same observation more than once. “Yep, your trees and Izzie’s uncle Abe with his Reuben sandwich being featured on the Food Network are Bell Cove’s very own celebrities,” he teased.
“Pfff! That was last week’s news. These days, the big BMOC . . . Big Man on the Cove . . . is Merrill Good, the former Navy SEAL who started a salvaging/treasure-hunting company and hit pay dirt the first time out.”
Jake winced inwardly, needing no reminders of ex-SEALs in Bell Cove.
“Then, there’s Good’s new wife, Delilah, who just reopened Clyde Jones’s old diner and motel.”
“You mean the Heartbreak Motel? Oh, man! Remember the time after senior prom when we . . . never mind.”
The two of them grinned at each other.
“Of course, you won’t be laughing long about me or anyone else being in Bell Cove’s celebrity crosshairs. You have to accept that you are going to be the celeb du jour, my man.”
Not if I can help it! “Holy shit! That is the last thing I want or need.”
“Like that matters! Do you think my appearance on Good Morning America was my idea? No way! I blame Laura Atler at The Bell. You remember her, don’t you? She took over the weekly when her grandfather went to the great tabloid in the sky.”
Jake did know Laura from back in high school. She’d been dating Izzie at the time. More important, there had been several text messages on Jake’s phone this week from Laura wanting an interview. When tuna fly! How she’d gotten his private number was beyond Jake. Note to self: change cell number. Neither Sally nor his father would have given it out. But then, the people in Bell Cove had their own network of sleuths. The FBI could learn a few things from them.
Jake remembered something else. “Hey, man, I was sorry to hear about Beth Anne dying.” There had been a scandal right after high school when Ethan had been forced to marry a pregnant Beth Anne, despite being in love, for years, with someone else. “She must have passed right after I was last deployed more than three years ago,” Jake remarked. “I told Sally to send flowers or a mass card. I assume she did.”
Ethan acknowledged his expression of sympathy for his deceased wife with a nod.
“But then, you just got married again a few weeks ago. Good for you! Guess you and Wendy finally got your acts together, huh?”
“Between the Rutledge trees and my dumbass moves with Wendy all those years ago, I’ve given Bell Cove more than enough to gossip about.” Ethan grinned. “Your turn now.”
“Great!”
“My sympathies, too, on your mother passing. She was a good woman. A great teacher.”
That was one of the many painful aspects of Jake’s return to Bell Cove. His mother not being there to greet him. When she was alive, his favorite spicy crab and sweet corn chowder would be simmering on the stove, no matter the weather, with fresh-baked hot biscuits cooling on the counter. A chocolate layer cake sitting on the milk glass pedestal in the center of the kitchen table. Freezing-cold milk in a glass bottle in the fridge.
Sally had never been much of a cook, or she hadn’t been before. But then, she’d always greeted him in other ways that had been equally sweet and hot. He doubted that would be the case today.
He had no chance to react to Ethan’s remarks about his mother because they were descending now, not to one of the busier wharfs around town, but a deserted, rocky shore, at Jake’s suggestion. Ethan brought the float plane down into the shallow water and dropped anchor. They would both get wet wading through the lapping surf, but no big deal. Better that than making his reentry to Bell Cove in a public way.
Just then, he heard a horn toot. Glancing to the right, a short distance away, he saw his old pickup truck. God, the thing must be twenty years old by now. Sally hadn’t sold it, as she’d threatened many times over the years. Why?
But then the truck door opened, and there she was.
Her hair . . . the long, luxurious chestnut hair he’d loved . . . was super short and spiky now. Not unattractive. Just different. She wore a red tank top and white shorts and athletic shoes. Her body was average to her, perfect to him, but gave the appearance of being petite because she was so fine boned and delicate. Childbirth, three times round, hadn’t changed her much, although her breasts had gained a cup size, to his delight and her embarrassment.
He knew every inch of that body . . . every ticklish spot, every erotic trigger point.
Or he used to.
Jake was different now.
Sally would be, too.
He was still in the open doorway of the seaplane, watching her walk closer. The shoreline was rocky and uneven; so, she didn’t rush. Maybe she wouldn’t anyhow. Maybe she had as many mixed feelings as he did about this “reunion.”
Now, only a few yards away, she stopped. He could see a few freckles on her bare arms and her fresh-scrubbed-looking face. Sally was twenty-eight years old, or would be soon, but she could pass for a teenager, or the college student she had been when they first met. As for the freckles, which she hated and he adored . . . he’d dreamed about those damn freckles more than once these past three years.
At just that moment, the bells began to sound out the hour, the bells having been a feature of many of his POW dreams, too. First, Our Lady by the Sea Catholic Church
. Bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong, bong! Then, St. Andrew’s Presbyterian Church. Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong! And finally the clock in the town hall tower. Clang, clang, clang, clang, clang, clang, clang, clang!
Sensing his predicament, Ethan came around the side of the plane to help him out. Even with a cane, Jake would need to jump down the few feet into the shallow lapping waves. A jarring exercise in torture that would no doubt result in his falling flat on his face, sucking salt water. With Ethan’s hands under Jake’s elbows, practically lifting and lowering him, Jake managed to steady himself in the thigh-deep surf. He was wearing athletic shoes with no socks, and cargo shorts with a T-shirt; so, the wet didn’t bother him. Then, using the cane Ethan handed him, he hobbled up onto the rocky shore. He waved Ethan off, after he dumped Jake’s duffel bag in the back of the truck, mouthing “Thank you,” knowing Ethan needed to return to the mainland for some business. Only then did he glance over to Sally again.
She was staring at him with horror. Or was it pity? Either one was equally unpalatable to Jake.
I knew this would happen. I knew it, I knew it, I knew it.
Thus it was that the first words out of his mouth were: “So, Sally, how soon do you want a divorce?”
Still an ass! . . .
Sally was shocked at Jake’s appearance.
She’d been warned, but somehow she must have expected the same old Jake, with a few bruises and, of course, the eye patch, which was actually kind of appealing. She hadn’t expected him to be so thin . . . and . . . and . . . so helpless. At least twenty pounds lighter, which made him appear almost gaunt. And the limp . . . well, that wasn’t just a limp. My God! He couldn’t get out of the plane on his own. He wore some kind of soft brace that ran from his thigh to his calf. And he needed a cane! How would she ever get him into his pickup truck with its high chassis? And up the stairs at home?
She was not prepared for this!
Most shocking of all, of course, were his words to her. A divorce? Really? That’s the way he wanted to greet her after all this time? Really? Once an ass, always an ass, I suppose, she thought. In the later years of their marriage, he’d often blurt out such nonsense in the midst of an argument, or for no apparent reason.
She would have smacked him upside his fool head, if it weren’t for the dark circles under his eyes and the expression in his beautiful eyes. Beautiful eye, she corrected herself. She wasn’t sure what that expression was . . . pain, regret, fear, anger, or a combination of all those.
Three years!
What happened to him?
Was he as broken inside as he appeared on the outside?
And did she care?
Acting on instinct, she launched herself at him, almost knocking them both over, and hugged him tight around his shoulders. Until she felt him relax and hug her back, so tight she could barely breathe.
Against her ear, he whispered, “You smell like sugar.”
“Well, I knew you were coming. So, I baked a cake,” she sang, a play on that old fifties song, “If I Knew You Were Comin’, I’d’ve Baked a Cake.” Then, she added, “Gracie Fields, 1950. Eileen Barton, 1950.” It was something she’d done throughout their marriage . . . bursting into old songs and then edifying him with some interesting facts about the background of the tunes from her music education days.
Usually he rolled his eyes at her silliness. She leaned back and smiled at him. No eye rolling now, with his one eye. He did make an effort to smile back but was having trouble shaking his dark mood.
What was wrong with him?
Well, she knew what was wrong with him. Sort of. He’d gone through three years of hell, the details of which she was still clueless about. He had physical injuries, the extent of which she was also clueless about. And he might very well be suffering from PTSD, although no one had mentioned that to her.
“Let’s go home,” she suggested and they started walking toward the truck. She slowed her pace down to accommodate his limp. “Your dad’s so nervous he started smoking again after being nicotine-free for more than a year. And the kids are dying to see you. They made a surprise banner for you. Make sure you act surprised, and pleased.”
He groaned.
She darted a glance to see why that upset him, but his face was set into emotionless mode. She hated when he did that.
“Won’t a banner alert the neighbors that I’m coming home? I thought we agreed that there would be no fuss.”
“The banner is inside.”
“Oh. Okay.”
The Grinch! Too bad he wasn’t around Bell Cove last Christmas. With his frowny face, he’d have been a contender for Grinch of the Year, for sure.
They’d arrived at the truck and she hesitated before asking, “Do you want to drive?” The question was, could he drive?
He shook his head. “I can drive, but I’ve been sitting for roughly twenty hours, and my leg can only take so much.”
She nodded and tried not to watch or offer to help as he struggled to lift himself up onto the seat using the grab bar and his cane for leverage. Once they were belted up, he said, “I’m surprised that you didn’t sell this old truck.”
“It comes in handy for hauling supplies for the store, or for delivering oversized cakes for special events, like weddings.”
He chuckled. The truck had been his dad’s fishing vehicle before he handed it off to Jake.
“What’s so funny?”
“Nice to know that eau de fish is covered by eau de sugar now.”
She grinned. “On a damp day, I can still smell fish.”
They rode in silence for a short distance as she left the bay and entered the residential section of Bell Cove. She could tell by the stiffness of his body and the fists resting on his thighs that he was nervous about anyone seeing him, until he was ready. “You should know, there are blockades set up at the end of our street so that cars can only pass through if they have a neighborhood pass. This is to prevent the press and nosey folks from coming to our house.” Luckily, the other end of their street was a dead end, which meant access to their house from only one source. “Guards are posted there, day and night. I’m not sure if they’re FBI or police or private security. No one will say, although they just arrived, without notice, following the visit from that general and senator. I don’t know how long they’ll be there, but for now, they’ve been a godsend.” She was babbling but felt like there was so much she needed to tell him, to prepare him for, and only a fifteen-minute ride in which to do so.
“Don’t the neighbors mind?”
“Nah. They think it’s exciting.” They were silent for a few moments, and Sally almost asked him what he was thinking, but she knew Jake hated that question. Most men did. Instead, she told him, “You have a couple of appointments set up for next month, according to some reminder cards sent in the mail. One at the Hospital for Special Surgery in New York City, and one at the Johns Hopkins Wilmer Eye Institute in Baltimore. I made note of them on the calendar on the kitchen wall. September 27 and September 30. I assume you know what they’re all about.”
He just nodded, as if he already knew this.
She would like to know what the prognosis was for his injuries. Heck, she’d like to know exactly what those injuries were. But he didn’t seem inclined to clue her in, at this point.
So, she went on, “And some psychiatrist from the VA hospital in Richmond left a message for you to call him for an initial consultation.” She assumed it might be related to some PTSD issues.
He made a snorting sound, but again said nothing.
Sally was trying to be tolerant of Jake’s silence, which was kind of offensive, but then this return home had to be traumatic for him. She told herself to be patient.
Just then he swore and accused her, “I thought you said no one knew I was coming today.”
“They don’t.”
“Then what’s with all the friggin’ yellow ribbons?”
He seemed to have just noticed that every residence had a yellow ribbon, some bigger than others, tied around a tree, or mailbox, or on a flagpole. Miles Gallagher, who had been Jake’s football coach in high school, had dozens on all three.
“And how did they know we would be following this route?” Again the accusatory tone in his voice.
“These ribbons started going up the day after the press conference announcing your rescue, and they’re all over town, not just on this street. They’re on businesses and churches, and the town hall. Everywhere. The bow on the town square gazebo is big enough to gift wrap a boat. The church decided to put yellow roses on the altar the first Sunday you came home, with congregants paying for one rose each, at two dollars a pop. Within hours, they had two thousand roses on order. The money will go toward new bells for the children’s choir.”
“Son of a bitch!”
“Nice!” she commented on his response. “And I’ll tell you right now, Jacob, you better soften that attitude. People care about you, and you have no right to insult them for that. Watch your language, too. You have sons who idolize you and will copy everything you say and do.”
He sank down in his seat and muttered something.
“What did you say?”
“I never wanted any of this.”
“Do you think I did?” Immediately, she realized how he might misconstrue what she’d said.
Which of course he did.
“It would have been better if I didn’t come back, if I had actually died.”
That would have sounded pathetic, whiney, as if he was looking for reassurances. But she could tell he meant his words.
She didn’t get a chance to explain herself, though, because they’d arrived at their street. The guard, who wore nondescript clothing, no particular uniform, gave Jake a surreptitious salute as he passed them through, thus indicating to Sally that he probably was military. And then they were in their driveway and three boys barreled through the front door and stopped on the wide, covered porch only because their grandfather held them back.
