Page 23 of A Hero Comes Home

Suddenly comprehension came to her. The fingernails. The eye. The injured leg. And God only knew what else.

Jake hadn’t been in hiding for three years.

But where had he been?

And what had the bastards done to him?

Chapter 6

Motherhood and apple pie . . . uh, chocolate cake . . . that’s what it’s all about . . .

Jake watched as Sally went into the house, leaving him alone for a few moments, at his request. “Don’t worry, I’m okay,” he’d assured her. “I just need a sec to regroup.”

She’d looked worried, but left him alone anyhow, thank God. He wasn’t sure how he’d react if pushed too hard, too fast, even by her. Especially by her.

Coming home to Bell Cove had been more of a shock to his system than he’d expected, and he’d expected plenty. This felt more like the g-force shots to the gut that jet pilots suffered, except his were hitting his heart. Zap, zap, zap!

But he would be all right, dammit. Buck up, chin high, soldier, he told himself. I will survive. Even this.

But, shiiiit! The problems just kept coming. He’d seen the question in Sally’s eyes when she’d noticed his fingernails, or lack of fingernails. Such a little detail, but often it was the little overlooked fine point that blew a whole operation. He couldn’t wait to tell Major Butt-inator, who thought he had all the angles covered, about his boo-boo. Then again, the less conversation with the asshole the better. They’d almost come to blows at their last meeting when the jerk had mentioned an “image consultant” he might want to meet.

Leaning back against the hood of the truck, he surveyed his surroundings. His house was one of a dozen Craftsman-style bungalows that had been built for Bell Forge workers a hundred years ago, each with a separate detached garage, and offered to them on a rent-to-buy basis. Six on each side of a residential street within walking distance of the once-booming factory, known for its high-end bells. Too far from Bell Sound on one side and the Atlantic Ocean on the other to be prime waterfront or water-view real estate—at least one mile either way—but they were still considered unique dwellings on a barrier island and had gone up in value dramatically the last few years. Or the last that Jake had checked, when he had been here more than three years ago.

His father’s cottage, across the street, catty-corner, had belonged to his mother’s family from the beginning. Jake had purchased his a year after he’d married Sally, when Matt was still in a crib, and Mark already a bun in the oven. Then, their three-bedroom home had seemed plenty big enough. Now, not so much. Cozy would be an understatement.

Am I ready for cozy?

Oh, fuck!

He noticed that the slate gray paint with darker gray shutters on his cottage was faded and peeling in places. The salt air and wind of the barrier island was brutal on wood. He would need to repaint. Maybe they would go back to the original white with black shutters, as Sally had always wanted, and he’d resisted. He couldn’t remember why now.

But wait. His thinking about painting implied his having conscious or unconscious plans to stay on the Outer Banks, long-term.

Do I?

Hell, no!

Well, maybe.

I can’t think about this now.

He studied his house again, looking for other improvements that would have to be made.

Yeah, he was procrastinating, putting off the big dreaded reunion. Hope I don’t trip over my feet and fall flat on my face in front of my kids. Hope there are no tears. From anyone. Especially from me. Hard to wipe at tears under an eye patch. Ha, ha, ha! I should have worn dark sunglasses instead of the patch, but then people would expect me to take them off indoors. Oh, God! Why is this so hard?

Back to his delays, he looked around some more. Over the years, the twelve bungalows that started out identical had changed colors, put on additions, patios, and unique landscaping. As a result, each was distinctive now. You’d never know they’d originated from Sears, Roebuck and Co. kits. Overall, his cottage had held up well, the whole neighborhood had, considering its age, probably because they’d used quality materials to start.

He loved them.

Is that another indicator of my plans, or nonplans, to stay on the Outer Banks?

No, it was just an observation.

Or was it?

So many decisions! So many problems!

Maybe I do need a shrink. An Outer Banks Dr. Sheila. Like that will ever happen! I am not going to bare my soul to a townie.