by Sandra Hill
What an odd thing for him to recall!
But then he also noticed a huge yellow ribbon tied around the feet of St. Michael the Archangel in a recessed side altar where his statue was fighting a dragon. St. Michael was the patron saint of warriors—all fighting men and those serving in dangerous situations, whether they be soldiers or policemen, or mariners since this was an ocean-related church. His mother had given him a St. Michael medal on a heavy chain when he was last deployed. Fourteen-karat gold, she’d emphasized at the time.
More memories of his mother!
The jewelry was probably sitting in a bedroom drawer of Nazim’s villa, or wherever the hell he was living these days now that he had a cabinet position in Balakistan. Or else he’d melted it down with all the Balaki treasure he’d pilfered over the years. Men in that part of the world, even in remote tribal villages, tended to shower their women with gold and silver and precious gems, considering it a form of portable wealth, which could be taken with them on the spur of the moment whenever the terrorist du jour hit their villages.
He thought about going up and removing the yellow ribbon from St. Michael’s feet, but wasn’t sure if the ribbon was there for other lost servicemen, not just him. Plus, he wouldn’t want to be caught in the act. Talk about a media circus. He could just see the headline, “Long Lost Soldier Steals from Church.”
Despite his lack of religious fervor, old habits died hard, and he bowed his head, praying silently, Thank You, Lord, for bringing me home.
Glancing at his watch, he saw that it was almost one o’clock. He should get going if he wanted to be on time for his lunch appointment with Laura. When he came out of the church, though, he saw that his “stalkers” had caught up with him. The truck which now somehow sprouted a satellite dish and the sedan were blocking the side street. Knowing Bell Cove, Sheriff Henderson would be here soon with his ticket pad in hand.
One guy with a bald head and a salt-and-pepper beard, wearing a golf shirt and dark slacks, motioned to a camera guy behind him and stepped in front of the ramp. “Carl Brandt from CNN. Welcome home, Captain Dawson. Can you tell us how you survived for three years in Balakistan? Did you have help from the Qadir tribal leaders? Do you resent the fact that they didn’t send you home sooner?”
Jake schooled his face not to show any reaction to that incendiary question.
A thirtysomething woman, who looked harried and not too happy to have been sent to the Outer Banks, probably because she’d been sitting around for days, twiddling her thumbs as she tried to get an interview with him, said, “Celeste Novak, Time Magazine. We’d like to do a cover story on you and your family, tentatively titled ‘Hero Comes Home.’ I’m sure you’re familiar with the importance of our magazine and its international circulation.”
She said that as if he should be honored.
He ignored both of them and continued down the ramp, about to go around them, not an easy task when he had to rely on his cane to keep his balance.
“Hey,” the CNN guy inquired, pushing a microphone in front of his face. “What are you hiding?”
“Yeah,” Ms. Important Magazine Reporter added. “Why are you blocking all our calls? We’re not out to do a hatchet job. We just want to know about your experience.”
“Why are you wearing an eye patch? And that leg looks gnarly.” Back to CNN guy. “How did you get those injuries, Captain? And how about the two soldiers who traveled with you to Afghanistan? How did they die?”
Jake gritted his teeth and refused to say a word. He was out on the street now, as a means of getting around the newshounds, and they were beginning to draw a crowd. Luckily, Sheriff Henderson showed up then, as expected, and, yes, he was carrying his yellow ticket tablet when he exited his police car.
“Are these folks bothering you, Jake?” the sheriff asked.
“Nah. I’m all right,” he said.
“But we can’t have people parking willy-nilly on our streets, creating a traffic hazard. Didn’t you people see that sign? Maybe you folks speak a different language up there in New York City.” The expression on his face when he made reference to the Big Apple made it sound like another world, a distasteful one. He glanced at Jake and, with a straight face though he was clearly joking, an inside joke, remarked, “City slickers!”
“We were only here for a few minutes,” CNN guy protested. His cameraman was already packing up his gear.
But Henderson was not to be deterred. He was writing down the license numbers of both vehicles. “Let’s see your licenses and registrations, please. And be quick about it. There are cars behind you that can’t get through. The fools are backing up, probably more city slickers, and those idiots could very well cause an accident, which would be your fault. Then I’d have to arrest you.” The doleful expression on his face at that prospect wasn’t fooling anyone. “Of course, we don’t have a jail here in Bell Cove. So I’d have to lock you in the basement of The Honey Hole, Delbert Brown’s fish shop, until the magistrate hits town on Monday. Hope you like the smell of mackerel.”
The woman muttered something about small-town crooks posing as crime stoppers.
“What did you say?” Henderson asked.
Jake mouthed “Thank you” to Henderson as he passed by and made his way to the Cracked Crab. Hopefully, the word would spread among the news media about how these two were treated by an overzealous local sheriff, and the rest of the horde would be more cautious in crossing the line.
Along the way around the square, Jake was stopped repeatedly by folks he’d known his entire life, but hadn’t seen for more than three years. They all wanted to shake his hand and thank him for his service, but then added a few words. Some offered sympathy on his mother’s death. Others expressed a wish that he would be sticking around for good. Still others gave him news on sons or daughters or nephews or nieces that he knew from high school or earlier—marriages, births, divorces, new jobs.
He would have liked to stop in Sally’s bakery, which was only a few doors down from the restaurant, but he was already ten minutes late because of his stop-and-go walk. When he went inside the Cracked Crab, Laura was already seated at a far table. She stood and waved for him to come in, bypassing the hostess. Once again, along the way, his progress was stopped repeatedly by people greeting him warmly. Not one of them asked an uncomfortable question. Yet.
He shook hands with Laura, who wasn’t satisfied with that. She took his face in hand and gave a quick kiss to one cheek, then the other. Then, leaning back slightly, her hands on his upper arms, she perused. “Hey, big guy! Looks like you been through the wars.”
“You could say that,” he replied and dropped down into the chair, with his back facing the room. Laura sat down, too, opposite him.
She, on the other hand, looked good. A platinum blonde with masses of wavy curls, a petite body shown off in a white sleeveless blouse over tight black calf-length pants, and white sandals. In fact, she looked lots better than she had back in high school when she’d been shy . . . a bit pudgy and plagued with the usual teenage acne. He couldn’t wait to tell Izzie about the transformation. Izzie must have seen beyond the physical appearances back then because he sure as hell had been crazy about her. Somehow, somewhere, post–high school, the love connection had been broken. Maybe just a case of absence not making the heart grow fonder when they’d been separated by the distance of different colleges.
He noticed right off that there was a recording device sitting on the small table.
“Do you mind?”
He thought a moment, then said, “As long as you turn it off, if I ask you to.” Frankly, he didn’t intend to divulge anything that might be newsworthy, or objectionable to the higher-ups at the DOD.
After they placed their orders—the restaurant featured a mix of Italian and seafood cuisine—and exchanged a few pleasantries, Laura clicked on the device.
“Captain Dawson, welcome home and thank you for your service.”
He nodded.
“Where’v
e you been the last three years?”
Talk about blunt. “Afghanistan.”
“In a cave? Doing what?”
“That’s classified information.”
“How did you get those injuries, and exactly what are they? I can see that your eye and leg have sustained some damage. Are there other injuries that we can’t see?”
“Whoa, that’s a lot of questions. The eye and leg are the most serious. As to how . . . shit happens when a soldier is on a live op.”
“How about PTSD?”
What? “Why would you ask that?”
She shrugged. “Just that it appears to be the norm for POWs, doesn’t it?”
“I believe the official news release from the Pentagon mentions that I was MIA, not POW.” Was that ambiguous enough to save him from telling an outright lie?
“So, how does it feel to be home? Were you surprised at all the yellow ribbons the townsfolk put up for you?”
“It’s wonderful to be home. And, yes, I was surprised by all the yellow ribbons. I didn’t realize so many people cared.” Well, that answer should satisfy Sally, at least, and nullify her disgust at his previous reaction to the yellow ribbons. “It’s time to take them down, though. Time to look for another hero.”
“Oh, not until after Labor Day weekend, at least. I hear that the Army is sending its marching band to take place in the parade.”
What? That was news to him. He would have something to say to Durand about that as soon as he got home. Holy crap!
“And you’ll be riding in the lead convertible with the honorary parade marshal, Phillip Franklin.”
“Who?”
“That World War II vet who was a POW for five years before becoming a US senator. I think he retired about ten years ago.”
“Are you kidding? That dude must be ninety years old.”
“Ninety-one.” She smiled. “We tried to get Bradley Cooper who played Chris Kyle, that Navy SEAL in the movie American Sniper, but Cooper is a hot commodity these days since he was such a hit in A Star Is Born last year. We couldn’t even get through to his agent.”
On and on the interview went, mostly with general questions about what he was doing now that he was home, his family’s reaction to his homecoming, what his plans for the future were—mostly a local view of a returning hero, rather than a gotcha-type journalism piece about the military involvement in Afghanistan or his opinion of the new Balaki government.
When they were done, Laura turned off the recorder and looked at him directly. “I’m no idiot, Jake. I might be the editor of a small-town paper that looks hokey to the outside world, but I know when I’m being snowed. Promise me this, old friend. When you’re ready to spill your guts, give me first dibs on the story.”
He thought about denying her assertion, but then he nodded. “Okay, here’s a headline for you. The bells of Bell Cove played a key part in getting me home, or at least helping me to survive until I could come home. When I was at my lowest, I seemed to hear these damn bells in my head—the two churches, the town hall tower—all of them distinctive and clearly Bell Cove. They pulled me up and made me stronger. Hokey, huh?”
“Oh, my God!” Laura actually had tears in her eyes. “The Sounds of Bell Cove Brought Hero Home.”
He would have rolled his eyes if he had two eyes to roll. Somehow, rolling one eye didn’t have quite the same effect. Trying for a lighter tone, he said, “So, Izzie is coming home for Labor Day. I gave him your message.”
“And? Bet he was overjoyed. He probably threatened to change his mind about coming home.” At Jake’s heated face, she hooted. “He did! The idiot!”
“Mind telling me what it is that you want to give him?”
“Not a chance! I’m relishing the prospect of seeing his face when he gets my ‘gift.’”
Jake was surprised when he left the restaurant to find that he’d been there for an hour. He was feeling good about the way the day had gone. His first foray into the public hadn’t been as bad as he’d expected. Thus, he was smiling when he entered Sweet Thangs, Sally’s bakery.
He just looked around at first. It was the same space as the bakery he’d grown up seeing here on the square, but totally redecorated. A sunny mural depicting the lighthouse beach scene covered one whole wall. There were a half-dozen small ice-cream-parlor-type tables and chairs. A long glass case showcased the bakery items of the day—all the monster cookies that Sally had mentioned, some artisan breads and rolls, cakes, and such. Another cold case held six flavors of homemade ice cream, including the local flavor of the month, Peach Passion, with fruit directly off the trees from a Rutledge orchard over on the mainland.
There were only a few customers in the shop at the moment, the lunch-hour rush being over, and one clerk, who looked about high school age, manning the counter. No sign of Sally. Maybe she’d gone home.
Jake waited his turn, and before he could introduce himself, the girl said, “Captain Dawson! Your wife thought you might stop by after your lunch with Ms. Atler. She’s in the kitchen. You can go through this door.”
He was smiling at the look of awe on the young girl’s face, a sort of hero worship that he in no way deserved and was really kind of embarrassing, when he went through the swinging door.
And saw Sally leaning against the frame of the open back door leading to the alley.
Staring up into the eyes—two of them, dammit—of a buff guy in a T-shirt and sweats. He wasn’t touching her, but then he didn’t have to. His gaze said it all.
Jake didn’t feel the red tide of rage rising, like it had at the barbecue when the doctor had touched her arm. This was more of a sadness. A soul-deep acknowledgement of how far apart he and Sally had grown.
Sally looked over then, noticing him, and the guilt on her face told him more than any words could who this guy was.
He turned on his heels and limped through the shop and out the front door. He heard Sally call after him, but he didn’t stop. He inhaled and exhaled several times once outside, his chest so tight he could hardly breathe.
Through the open door of the shop, he could see Sally had been stopped inside by a customer who wanted to place a special order. Which gave Jake time to head for home.
Oh, God! Do I even have a home anymore? he thought.
But then he reminded himself that he was a soldier, a man taught to fight the hardest battles. Was he really going to give up so easily? Wasn’t Sally, and his marriage, worth the effort?
On the other hand, if Jake wanted to be a real hero, he would let Sally go. She deserved better than what he’d become, better than what he’d been before, for that matter.
But there was that legend about the Dawson men. One love, for life. What a sad future he’d have without her! Or his kids—oh, God!—his kids!
Jake had a lot of thinking to do.
Chapter 10
Honey wasn’t home . . .
Sally was in the kitchen after the lunch-hour rush, making a list of supplies to be replenished, the baking menu for the next day, and a work schedule for herself and her four employees: José, an assistant baker; along with one full-time clerk, the indispensable and always reliable Mary Lou Tonelli; and two part-timers, college students at home for the summer. Plus, she needed to plan for special bakery items to provide during the Lollypalooza weekend, the theme of which seemed to waver from pirates, celebrating the recent shipwreck gold discovery, to patriotic military, celebrating her very own reluctant hero.
The OBX oldies station on the sound system that played both in the shop and back here was featuring 1970s beach music this afternoon. Suddenly, Sally had an image of a summer day in Central Park and two bands warring over whether West Coast or Southern girls were the best. It was where she’d first met Jake.
She smiled, sadly, at the memory and found herself singing along. She still had a good voice, as evidenced by José, who glanced her way and raised two flour-coated hands from the massive bowl where he’d just set aside several rounds of sourdough to prove for
a special event later today, giving her two thumbs-up.
Under ordinary circumstances, with the boys being gone all day on a field trip, she would have spent the extra hours on-site getting caught up. But with Jake being home, she felt pulled in several directions. A million things to do! So many worries! She would need to hire another clerk and perhaps another baker if she was going to be away from the shop as much as it appeared she would have to be now that her husband was home. So far, Jake had been understanding, but it wasn’t fair to him.
She heard a light tapping on the back door, which was open to let out some of the heat. Stepping inside was Kevin, whom she hadn’t seen or talked to since Jake got back. Supposedly, he’d been out on the salvaging boat searching a new site in the Atlantic for shipwreck treasure.
She got up and went over to greet him. “Kevin, how are you?”
He gave her a quick hug and a kiss on the cheek before saying, “How are you? I’ve been worried.”
“I’m okay. Surviving.”
“That doesn’t sound too promising.”
She shrugged. Oddly, this man, whom she’d been about to have an intimate relationship with—this good-looking man—seemed no more than a friend to her now. Maybe fate had intervened at just the right moment. “Can I ask you something in confidence, Kevin?”
“Sure.”
“As ex-military, trained in survival scenarios, how could a man end up with no fingernails?”
He frowned at her. “Other injuries?”
She nodded. “A damaged eye and badly injured leg. Lots of old and new scars.”
The alarm on his face was telling.
“Yeah, I’m thinking the same thing.”
“The eye and leg injuries could have happened when he landed or crashed or in any number of circumstances. But the nails . . .”
