Page 45 of A Hero Comes Home

“Whoa, whoa, whoa! Wait. I’m not sure that’s a good idea. You need more prep first.”

“No. I can handle this. Don’t worry. I won’t upset your political applecart.” Not yet anyway. Where that last thought came from, he wasn’t sure. He had no inclination to become a hot football between the US and some foreign nation.

After that, he called Izzie. “What the hell? You’re coming to Bell Cove? And becoming bunkmates with the asshole? Why? Is the Army making you come to babysit me? Or do you and Durand have something going on?”

“What? I can’t come to sip a few suds with my best bud?”

“Bite me,” Jake said. “By the way, I’m meeting Laura Atler for lunch today. She asked me if ‘that loser Izzie Bernstein’ is coming to Bell Cove anytime soon. Says she has something to return to you.”

“Uh-oh.”

Izzie and Laura had had a thing going on in high school and even into college, but something had come up to break off their relationship. And later Laura got engaged to some other dude. As far as Jake knew, that engagement had ended rather dramatically, or so Jake had heard on one of his leaves. “Any idea what she wants to return to you?”

“No idea,” Izzie said.

He was clearly lying. “Well, well, well. Do I smell a relationship brewing?” Jake teased.

“Not a chance!” Izzie declared. “Maybe I won’t come to Bell Cove, after all.”

Jake laughed.

But then Izzie turned the tables on him by asking, “Speaking of relationships, has this been a commando week for you and Sally?”

Jake had made the mistake years ago, soon after his marriage, of confiding in his best friend—okay, bragging—that he and his wife had enjoyed a unique “commando” game week while he’d been home on leave. As in, they’d gone commando the entire time, him without briefs and her without panties, so that they could have sex anywhere, anytime. And whoo-boy did they ever! Jake still had dreams about the porch swing, and the outdoor shower, and the bed of his pickup truck on Lookout Cove, and the lighthouse restroom, and . . .

Which was nothing compared to the time that he’d heard that chewing cinnamon gum before engaging in oral sex could produce really amazing results on the receiving party. That leave home had been remarkably hot, in more ways than one.

Enough of that! “No, Izzie, we are not going commando with three kids in the house.” And, frankly, the sex has been nonexistent, period. But Izzie didn’t need to know that.

“See, all the more reason why I should never get married and breed a bunch of Mini-Mes. The commando game, though. I’m saving that for a special babe, minus the wedding ring.”

“Good luck with that.”

They both laughed, and that’s how they ended the call.

Jake took a shower in the outdoor stall then, and hardly thought about those other times with Sally. Who was he kidding? He got turned on just thinking about them and took care of business in the only way that had been available to him in recent times. He dressed in black running shorts, a plain white T-shirt, and sockless athletic shoes. His hair, which had been shaved when he first arrived at the hospital in Germany, was growing out and would soon need a cut if he was going to keep it military short, which was debatable at this point. Wearing the pirate patch today because the eye felt irritated after spending too much time in the sun with the kids sans protection, he grabbed for his truck keys and prepared to go into town to meet Laura at the Cracked Crab for lunch. It would be his first foray out of his neighborhood in the daytime hours.

He left off the brace for the few hours he would be gone, but he did take the blasted cane with him. Although he didn’t start formal rehab until next week at the facility Gus had recommended, he’d been working with his old free weights out in the garage, and the leg felt slightly better. Still, in the old days, Jake would have jogged the five blocks to the town square, easy peasy. He loved to run. Unfortunately, that might not ever be an option again. Although there were vets with more severe injuries who managed to run marathons, he reminded himself. He was playing it one day at a time.

He waved to the security guard who set aside the barricade for him as he drove down the street. Tentative plans were for the barricade to go down after Labor Day, but that depended on Durand and his Pentagon cohorts and whether the media would have given up by then. As it was, he was pretty sure those were news vultures following him in a plain panel truck and a black sedan. Just in case, he zigzagged through the neighborhood and down some alleys. He lost whoever they were.

If he had turned left at the end of the road, he would have shortly been at Bell Forge, but a right turn went past the Rutledge Christmas tree and landscape business, through the residential area, heading toward the town center. He cut through the back of the Rutledge property and reemerged onto the main road for town. On a man-made bluff along the way stood Chimes, the mansion built by the Conti brothers, original founders of the bell-making factory, and now owned by one of their descendants, Gabe Conti, an architect. When he got to the town square with its central parklet and gazebo he saw that it remained the same, and yet was different. There was no longer any on-street parking, but instead vehicles were directed to two parking lots one street over on either side of Beach Road, or Highway 12, that passed through the entire Outer Banks. And while the old standbys were still there—the two churches, a hardware store, Abe’s deli, a quilt shop, Sally’s bakery, several restaurants, including the Cracked Crab, and gift shops—there were some new boutiques and specialty stores.

After parking, he walked with his cane along the side street and came out on the side of Our Lady by the Sea Church. The handicap ramp there seemed like a sign to him, pretty much saying he had no excuse to avoid going in.

The church was empty as he slid into the back pew. Even if he’d lost his religion, he had to admit there was something peaceful about being in a church, and this was an especially beautiful one with its marble pillars and stained glass windows. There must have been a wedding recently because the altar was decorated with numerous baskets of red roses and fluffy white baby’s breath. He recognized the latter because his mother had a huge bush of the stuff planted in her backyard. She’d always said that anyone could make a beautiful bouquet in a vase, no matter the flowers, as long as you used baby’s breath as filler.

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.