Page 35 of A Hero Comes Home

Would she ever look at that blasted sofa in the future and not remember that this was probably the beginning of the end for them . . . or the end of something?

Chapter 8

Who needs internet matchmaking?

Joe Dawson’s heart was full almost to bursting, like a big old puffer fish, as he watched his son at the barbecue that evening.

Oh, not a heart attack approaching or anything like that. Not after what had happened to his precious Marge last year! He knew the signs now. And he kept his ticker in good shape with healthy food and regular checkups and exercise, though he didn’t need any fancy-pantsy exercise regimen with his hardworking job as a fisherman.

No, this was joy like he’d never felt before, not even when he’d seen his son for the first time, all red faced and pruney skinned when he came into the world thirty-two years ago. And it was a sadness that only a father would recognize when he knew his son was hurting real bad and could do nothing about it.

If only Marge had lived long enough to see her son come home! She’d been shattered when he was declared dead and lived in silent grief for two years afterward until last year when she’d died, too, thinking she would be meeting him “up there.” Well, she knew now, wherever she was “up there,” looking down on them.

Joe sighed. He was sitting on a glider on his back porch with Old Mike, the two of them nursing cold bottles of beer. Mid-August on the Outer Banks could be sweltering hot, and the temp had barely dropped below ninety all day. Even now, in the early evening, it was a humid eighty. Storm coming, for sure. Which could affect their planned five a.m. start to spend the day fishing stripers about twenty miles out at his favorite spot.

Mike had been renting a room from him ever since Marge died of that sudden heart attack. Mike had asked if he could move in because he was about to lose the lease on his trailer, but Joe suspected that Mike, good friend that he was, had just wanted to help Joe as he mourned.

Just then, Karl Gustafson walked into the backyard with his mother, Vana, who was carrying a bowl of what must be her famous, or infamous, Norse potato salad, which was heavy on salted herring. Don’t ask!

Gus was an impressive figure at six foot three or four, having been a professional football player at one time. Quarterback for the Dallas Cowboys. He now ran a convenience store on the island known as Gus’s Gas and Goods, and seemed content enough with his noncelebrity status these days. His mother, a longtime widow, had an equally impressive figure, Joe had to admit . . . as had half the male population in Bell Cove over the age of fifty. At six feet tall, still wearing her hair long and blonde at sixty-plus years old, she had a body that could only be called statuesque, if one were being polite. Va-va-voom, if one were being less than polite.

He and Mike exchanged a look, then sat up straighter when Vana noticed them on the porch and gave a little wave. She was wearing tight white jeans with a floaty kind of see-through top and wedge-heeled sandals that probably made her six foot three. If Joe were standing in front of her, which he had no intention of doing, his eyes would probably be planted dead center on her boobs.

“Lordy, Lordy!” Mike muttered under his breath.

“Yep!” Joe agreed.

Vana took her dish over to the folding table where food was being set out by Sally and Francine Henderson, owner of Styles and Smiles, a beauty salon on the square, and immediately began an animated conversation. From the minute Jake and Sally had arrived at Joe’s cottage this evening, Jake insisted on manning the barbecue, probably so he had something to lean on to relieve the obvious pain in his leg. And Sally went over to set up the food table. A mere twenty feet apart which might as well be twenty miles, Joe observed with a sigh.

In any case, Francine was sporting one of those old-fashioned beehive hairdos which she was attempting to bring back in style, apparently. Hopefully, to no avail. Was a time, years ago, when rumor had it that creatures took up residence in those hair nests, and he didn’t mean bumble bees. Francine was married to Sheriff Bill Henderson, who was at the back end of the yard supervising his daughter Mary Anne and Joe’s three grandsons in a game of badminton, which involved much giggling and shouting and barking. The barking coming from Joe’s mutt, Goofus, who considered the birdie his personal chew toy. Mary Anne, who was about ten years old, had a mini version of her mother’s beehive hairdo, most of which was falling down due to her energetic movements.

Back to the food table, which Joe intended to visit real soon, not having eaten anything since lunch, he noticed that Sally had put on a pretty peach-colored sundress before walking over with Jake an hour ago, a slow and obviously painful process that his son had insisted on. No walker or wheelchair for him! He was wearing dark sunglasses tonight, which were almost as jarring as the eye patch, considering the sun was no longer so bright.

Gus grabbed a cold beer from the cooler and went over to shake hands with Jake, who had to tug off one of the blue vinyl disposable gloves he’d donned to handle the meat, or was it to hide those nailless fingers? And what was that all about anyhow?

Joe didn’t know what Jake and Gus were talking about, but there was laughter involved; so, Joe relaxed, despite being on pins and needles, worried that someone might say something to Jake that would offend him or cause him to feel uncomfortable. Yeah, Joe was being overly protective. Came from being a father, no matter the age of the kid.

“Whattaya s’pose happened to the boy?” Mike asked out of the blue.

“What? You not buyin’ the cave hidey-hole story?”

“Hell, no! What about you?”

Joe shrugged. “Hard ta believe, but then him just survivin’ for three years, that in itself is unbelievable. A miracle.”

“Thank the Lord,” Mike said. And Mike wasn’t even religious.

“Amen,” Joe agreed. And he wasn’t very religious, either, although he might become more so with the “miracle” of his son’s return.

“We gotta do somethin’ to help those two,” Mike said.

Joe nodded. He didn’t need to ask what Mike meant. Jake and Sally hadn’t been within two feet of each other since they’d arrived. They pointedly avoided even looking at each other. It was obvious, at least to Joe and Mike, that Jake and Sally were as skittish around each other as strangers. And it wasn’t just the usual getting-acquainted-again that soldiers and their spouses faced every time they came home after a long deployment. And it wasn’t just that Jake had been MIA for three years and carried baggage Joe couldn’t imagine. And it wasn’t because Sally was an independent businesswoman now, who’d been about to hook up with a new man. Nope, these two had bigger problems than all that, ones that had been festering before he’d ever gone missing. Joe knew how devastating it had felt when Jake had chosen not to stay home and run the fishing business with him. It had to be doubly devastating to Sally that her husband chose, over and over, to stay in the military, on top of that, a branch of the military that had him constantly on the go to some dark and dangerous places, rather than stick in one place with her to raise a family.

And, yeah, there was patriotism and loyalty and bravery and all that. And, yeah, he was proud of his son. But still, he understood. That didn’t mean he was gung-ho for Mike’s suggestion that they fix Jake and Sally. “Oh, no! I’m not getting involved in my son’s marriage,” Joe said. Then asked, “What’d ya have in mind?”

“Those two need time alone ta work things out, even an ol’ bachelor like me knows that. How ’bout we plan a weekend fishin’ trip with the boys? We kin take them out to where the yellowfin will be hittin’ in a week or so. Eat and sleep on the boat.”

“Oh, Lord! I have a headache already just thinkin’ about the noise. Those kids don’t talk when they can shout. All at the same time. The last time I took them out, and it was only for a few hours, Matt caught a hook in his thumb, Mark almost fell overboard, and Luke released all our bait because he felt sorry for the little fishies.”