A Hero Comes Home

by Sandra Hill

  She stood and was gathering her stuff, preparing to leave. “Not a chance! I’d probably find myself on the back seat of the Buick with my legs through the sunroof.”

  He grinned. That didn’t sound like a practically engaged woman to him.

  “Tsk-tsk! What happened to the shy, modest girl I used to know?”

  “She grew up.”

  “Too bad,” he said, but he liked this new version of the old Laura. Maybe too much.

  If Izzie thought he’d dodged a bullet with Laura, he was wrong. No sooner did Laura leave and he was standing, about to leave himself, when Sally approached.

  “Are you looking for Jake?”

  “No, I sent him home with the kids. He’ll pick me up later at the bakery. It’s you I’m looking for.”

  “Uh-oh!” He tilted his head in question and sank back down into his chair. He nodded to the waiter for another beer and asked Sally, “What’ll you have?”

  She sat across from him. “A Bloody Mary sounds good.”

  While they waited for their beverages, Sally pulled an iPad out of her purse, set it on the table, and logged in to some news website. Turning it so that they could both see the screen, he saw that there was a Reuters news story from ten years ago with the headline “Nazim and Qadir Rebels Torture Villagers.”

  The hairs rose on the back of Izzie’s neck. “What exactly do you want me to see?”

  “This article, plus dozens of others that I’ve been Googling, all point to a totally different Nazim and Qadir government than what our administration is currently portraying. And this Nazim is the one who turned Jake over?” She gave Izzie a pointed look. “Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, my friend. So . . . ?”

  “So . . . ?” he repeated back to her.

  “Exactly what happened to Jake during those three years he was MIA, lounging in a cave, waiting to be rescued?” she asked in a scoffing tone.

  Fuck, fuck, fuck! Jake is in such trouble! Durand is going to be furious. If Sally could figure this out, or be suspicious, the news media must be digging even deeper. The shit is going to hit the fan, one way or another.

  “Have you asked Jake about this?”

  “In the beginning, I did. But not lately. He’s clearly hiding stuff. And he’s hurting, Izz. Real bad. And I don’t just mean physically. I want to help, but I don’t know how.” She had tears in her eyes.

  “I hope you haven’t been discussing your concerns with anyone else.”

  “I haven’t.” She paused. “Why?”

  “It could be dangerous.”

  “For whom?”

  “Everyone. Starting with Jake.”

  “Dangerous in what way?”

  “Nazim wouldn’t want him talking. Our government wouldn’t want him talking. I can think of a dozen different people and agencies that wouldn’t want him talking.”

  “Oh, my God!”

  “You need to discuss this with Jake. In the meantime, I’ll speak to Durand.”

  The waiter brought Izzie’s beer and Sally’s drink. They each drank for a few moments.

  “You think I’m meddling, don’t you?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “No, I think you love the guy.”

  A tear slid down her cheek. “He’s planning to leave. I know him. I see the signs.”

  And if he finds out you or the kids might be in danger because of his presence here, he’ll be off like a shot. “Sal, don’t say or do anything until after the holiday. Let me see what I can do.”

  “And in the meantime, I just twiddle my thumbs?” she asked.

  “Just continue to screw his brains out, like you have been.”

  On that happy note—at least Sally was laughing as she left—Izzie planned to scoot out of the bar and make a quick call to Durand, who wasn’t supposed to arrive until Friday. But he was trapped again. For the third time!

  This time it was Jake’s father, Joe Dawson, and Old Mike, both of whom looked as if they’d just stepped off their fishing boat, complete with suspendered hip boots and canvas bucket hats. Izzie didn’t even bother to stand, just waved for them to sit down and put up two fingers for the waiter to bring two more beers.

  “How can I help you gentlemen?” he asked with a long sigh.

  “We need help keepin’ Jake in Bell Cove,” Joe said right off.

  Why me?

  Because I’m his best friend.

  But maybe staying in Bell Cove isn’t the best thing for him.

  “We already got him and Sally havin’ sex like rabbits,” Old Mike added.

  Izzie wasn’t about to ask what he meant by that.

  “But that might not be enough to keep my boy in town,” Joe continued.

  “We see the signs,” Old Mike said with a nod at his partner.

  “A baby, that’s the answer. We need to find a way to get Sally pregnant again. And this time Jake will stick around to see it born.” This from Joe.

  Izzie’s eyes widened at that outlandish statement. And he didn’t like the sound of that “we.” Do they mean me, too? “What? Are you serious? What can you—we—do about Sally getting pregnant? I don’t understand.” And wasn’t an unplanned pregnancy supposed to be the worst reason for a couple to stay together?

  “Well, she takes them birth control pills,” Joe told him. “Maybe you—bein’ in Special Forces and knowin’ all kinds of tricks—could tell us how to doctor ’em up so they’re just placebos or whatever you call them dummy pills.”

  Izzie put his face in his hands. “That is the dumbest idea I ever heard. Unethical at the least. And illegal. Don’t . . . you . . . dare!”

  “Okay. So, what’s your idea then?” Old Mike asked.

  Izzie’s only thought was, I’ve landed in Bedlam. No, I’ve landed in Bell Cove. Same thing.

  Chapter 18

  And then they hit him with their best shot, and it was a shot to the heart . . .

  He just needed to get through the Labor Day weekend.

  Jake felt pressure building all around him, and he was being pulled in five different directions at one time, which had to stop. If he wanted to avoid a recurrence of the nightmares or, God forbid, one of the red-tide rages, he needed to step back, and, yes, he had to admit it, just breathe, like Dr. Sheila had advised. Furthermore, once the hassle of all the Bell Cove hoopla was over, Jake had some important decisions to make, the least of which involved PTSD counseling.

  The rages, he’d come to conclude, were triggered when some huge anger issues popped up, and hadn’t happened at all since he’d left the hospital in Germany. Then, the red tide had been sparked by the news that his “rescue” was being announced to his wife and the world, without his consent. He had feared a recurrence when he first met “Uncle” Kevin, but that hadn’t happened. So, no sweat on the rages. So far.

  The nightmares, or night terrors, on the other hand, followed a pattern that he was better able to understand now . . . and control. They usually followed a day when he’d overdone things, physically and mentally. In other words, stress. With a determined effort to cut back on overexertion and tense situations, he’d thus far avoided the humiliation of having his kids witness him in the throes of a wild flashback.

  Now, he was in uniform for the first time in years, preparing for the friggin’ parade. “It’s a little big. What do you think?” he asked Sally.

  “It’s fine.” She walked around him in their bedroom, adjusting the jacket in places and patting the myriad colored stripes on front, including the Silver Star bar he’d attached for the first time. “In fact, don’t you dare take it off when we get home later.”

  He turned to look at her in question.

  “You are so hot. Seriously, dude, you can still make my bones melt when you’re in uniform.”

  He grinned.

  “And you know it!” She slapped his arm in fake reprimand.

  “And when I take it off? What happens to your bones then, baby?”

  “Up in flames, baby.” She gave him a quick kiss a
nd darted away before he could grab for her.

  She was looking damn good herself. “Thanks for wearing the dress.”

  “Pfff. This thing is going to be in shreds pretty soon. I’ve been wearing it so much.” She said it with a smile, though. He could tell that she liked doing things to please him. And that made him want to do twice as many things to please her. If only he could!

  It was the peach sundress, of course, the one that reminded him of that time when they’d first met in Central Park. A time when things were so much . . . less complicated.

  Just then, the boys barreled in. They never just walked into a room. They stopped dead in their tracks when they saw him in full uniform. “Wow!” Matt exclaimed, immediately echoed by his brothers.

  “‘Wow!’ back at you, guys,” Jake said. They were wearing their scout uniforms with all their impressive badges, including Luke’s recently earned one for knots, which you would have thought was a Medal of Honor. “I still think all of you should ride in the convertible with me.”

  The boys’ faces lit up.

  Sally shook her head. “No. The boys should march with their scout troops.”

  “And you?”

  She shook her head some more. “I want to be on the sidewalk taking pictures of you all. Besides, I told my mother and father I would meet them in front of the bakery. Your dad and Old Mike will be with me, too. Your own personal cheering section.”

  Yippee!

  Luke tugged on Sally’s hand, and she leaned down to hear him whisper something in her ear. It had something to do with singing, which the little, still front-toothless guy pronounced as “thinging.” When she straightened, she told Jake, “Don’t forget. We’re going to the talent show over at the Conti mansion after the parade.”

  Jake groaned. They’d already attended the first of the shows last night, and it had been hokey beyond belief. Well, not all of it. There had been some surprisingly good solo songs, a performance by the St. Andrew’s Bell Choir that brought tears to the eyes, not his, but some other people’s, an acrobatic performance by a troupe of Nags Head teenagers, an amazing salsa by the Swinging Seniors dancers from the Patterson house in colorful, Spanish, very un-senior-like costumes, and a puppeteer who depicted the early history of Bell Cove, but there had also been the ten-year-old violinist who screeched his way through “The Star-Spangled Banner,” the ninety-year-old clog dancer who lost his false teeth on the makeshift stage, and the comedian who was quite funny but borderline X-rated.

  The town council, who’d first put out the call for talent for the Lollypalooza had been shocked at the number of entries they received, especially when the prizes were only fifty dollars in a number of categories. Thus, they’d had to put a limit of fifty contestants and break the performances into two parts, Friday and Saturday.

  He gave Sally a “Do I have to?” look, and she nodded, emphatically.

  The kids gave a visible sigh of relief, which he thought was kind of odd. But then, kids liked hokey crap. Besides, they were still unsure of their newly returned father. Jake supposed it was the least he could do for them.

  “Okay. Just so there are no more violins.”

  “Jacob!” she chastised, not wanting him to influence the kids in mocking the talent. But then she added, “There is a yodeler, though. Flossie McCormick from the Bayside Retirement Community.”

  “And Binky Jones is going to show his dog, Sparkie, doing dog tricks,” Matt said.

  All three boys gave Jake their doleful looks then. As in a silent “If only we had a dog!” It was a decision Jake felt unable to make when he was pretty sure he wouldn’t be around to help train and care for the animal, and Sally was too busy at the bakery.

  To forestall further questions on that subject, Jake commented, “Isn’t Binky the master farter?”

  “Yeah, but his mother says Sparkie can only do the high jumps and walking on his hind legs. No showing his dog’s farting tricks, or he’ll be grounded till Christmas,” Mark told him.

  “And that’s too bad ’cause the farting tricks are really cool. Binky feeds Sparkie chili dogs to get him gassy,” Matt explained.

  TMI!

  Sally put her face in her hands.

  “No more talk about farts,” Jake warned the boys.

  Before they left the room, he asked Sally, “Should I wear the eye patch or sunglasses?”

  “Either is okay,” she said, pretending to give him an extra study. “The patch makes you look wicked good and will have the women salivating. You better wear the dark glasses, but put the patch in your pocket in case you’re feeling in the need of an ego boost.”

  He pinched her butt on the way out of the room. “Wicked good, huh?”

  “I didn’t know it was okay for a boy to touch a girl’s hiney,” Matt remarked as they walked slowly down the stairs, all of them pacing themselves to Jake’s slower gait.

  “It’s not!” he and Sally both burst out at the same time.

  That’s all they needed . . . a sexual harassment suit against an eight-year-old for pinching Kindergarten Barbie’s butt, and Matt explaining that it’s what his daddy does; so, it must be okay.

  Man! The kids saw, and heard, everything. He had to be more careful.

  This being a father was harder than Jake had ever imagined. Still, as they all piled into the car, he was smiling.

  But not for long.

  Of course, once they were all loaded in Sally’s car and buckled in, one of the kids decided he had to pee, which resulted in Sally ordering all of the boys back inside to take care of business. “I swear those boys are going to frazzle my nerves today,” she said.

  He just grinned at her. Sexy Momma, that’s how she looked to him at the moment. Soon they were on their way again, with Sally warning Luke that his fly was open.

  Along the way, Jake could swear there were twice as many yellow ribbons as before, and miles of bunting, and enough flags to put a flag-making company out of business. The place was beginning to look like either a veterans’ convention, or a cemetery. Then, when they finally got to the center of town after parking behind the bakery, they saw nothing but bedlam. Traffic was a bottleneck of yelling and honking horns as dozens of vehicles vied for limited spaces in the off-street parking lots and were directed back to the ferry lot where hired buses would shuttle them back and forth to the town square. In addition, there were at least ten news vans taking up slots that some locals felt they were entitled to. A bunch of unhappy campers, to say the least. Sheriff Henderson and his temporary deputies had their work cut out for them today.

  The media hadn’t given up on Jake, and no doubt they would be approaching him again today. But he had his polite refusal speech down pat. He wasn’t worried . . . at the moment, anyhow.

  “Oh, no!” Sally said, noticing the line leading out of the bakery. She hadn’t gone in this morning, and must be feeling that she’d left her staff ill-prepared for the tourist rush.

  “Go ahead in and take care of business,” Jake advised. “I’ll take the kids to the scouts’ assembly place over on Cove Street.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a sigh of relief and had to reach up only slightly to kiss his cheek. With high heels on today, she was still several inches shorter than him, but at a more level playing field. And, yes, he meant “playing.” He had plans for those high heels, as well as the dress, later. If he was going to be wooing her with his uniform, she was going to . . .

  “Daaaad! C’mon. I hear a band tuning up.” Matt was tugging on his hand.

  Jake had his cane with him today, but he hoped to use it only if things got too bad. He had to limp, though, and his slower gait had the boys practically dancing in place with impatience. Along the way to the meeting spot for the scouts, Jake ran into Izzie who was also in full dress uniform. He accompanied them because the place where they were scheduled to be, midway through the parade, was along this route, too.

  “Hey, kiddos, you look hotter than asphalt,” Izzie remarked.

  “Huh?
” the boys said, and then they giggled, not knowing what asphalt meant, but homing in on the “ass” part of the word.

  “He means that you look really good in your scout uniforms,” Jake interpreted.

  The three of them preened and said a communal “Thank you.”

  Izzie arched his brows at Jake to show how impressed he was at their politeness. “Way to go, Father of the Year.”

  “I can’t take credit for that. Sally’s the etiquette police in our house.”

  As they walked along, he and Izzie got more attention than they wanted, or needed . . . well, their uniforms did. Many people stopped them to say, “Thank you for your service.” A few old vets saluted them. And females gave them a second and third look.

  Once Jake handed the boys over to the scout leader and promised to pick them up at the end of the parade, he and Izzie headed over to the street where new convertibles were parked awaiting the parade marshal’s signal to begin the festivities. In exchange for free advertising, local car dealers had donated convertibles in red, white, and blue colors. There were at least ten of them, two of which would carry Jake and Izzie. Others were designated for state and local politicians and a few notable folks of the Outer Banks, like a former Miss America, and last year’s winner in the Blue Marlin Tournament.

  Right off the bat, he and Izzie recognized Phillip Franklin, the World War II POW and longtime senator before his retirement a decade ago, who would be riding in the car with Jake. He was wearing his old uniform which was neatly pressed and as spiffy as it once had been.

  Hurrying up to introduce them was Mayor Doreen Ferguson, who operated a shoe store on the square since her husband’s death. Leonard Ferguson’s shoe store, named simply Shoes, had been a fixture on the town square for as long as Jake could remember.

  “Had to get a new pair of dress shoes today,” Izzie told him in an undertone. “Couldn’t find ‘Shoes’ until I realized its name was changed to ‘Happy Feet Emporium.’”

  “What’s an emporium?” Jake whispered back.

  “Hell if I know, but these black leathers cost me a hundred bucks, and they pinch.”