Page 16 of A Hero Comes Home

“Up and down, as usual,” his father said. Not to be diverted, he said, “I couldn’t believe it when they told me you were alive. Three years in a cave? Really? You, who hated tight spaces! Could barely stand to sleep overnight in the cabin of Lazy Days when we went out on extended trips.”

Jake had become adept at avoiding questions about his POW experience, per Major Butt-inator’s Do’s and Don’ts list. Mainly, he avoided any questions specific to his three lost years. Made a joke or sidetracked the conversation. Thus, he was prepared for his father’s comment. “It was a big cave,” he remarked. “But, hey, is that old rust bucket still staying afloat?”

“Bite your tongue, boy. Lazy Days will be riding the waves when you and I are both gone.” He seemed to realize what he’d said then, referring to Jake’s death, and muttered a curse under his breath.

Great! Now everyone is going to be overly sensitive over what they say around me. They’ll be avoiding any words like pirates (as in eye patch or peg leg), or missing people (whether soldiers or young girls off the streets), or caves. Well, fuck that!

“And you, Dad . . . no thoughts of retiring?” Another sidetrack.

“Hell, no! I’m only sixty-two. Why would I retire?”

Maybe to relax once in a while. Maybe to spend time with your family. Maybe to stop beating up on a body that could take only so much abuse hauling nets and two-hundred-pound fish. But then, Jake realized that those same suggestions could be applied to himself. An unsettling thought!

“Is Old Mike still with you?” Instead of answering a question, turn the tables and ask your own questions, Major Durand had suggested in one of their annoying “facilitation” sessions.

Old Mike had been his father’s first mate on the thirty-five-foot boat as long as Jake could remember. Even when he must not have been all that old, though he had to be close to seventy now. Jake had no idea where the crotchety character had gotten that nickname, or where he’d come from.

His father cleared his throat, then said, “You come home, son, y’hear? You and me have fences to mend.”

Jake could swear he heard tears in his father’s voice, which was impossible. His dad was not an emotional person, being a native New Englander who’d maintained his stoic, undemonstrative personality. In fact, he didn’t think he’d ever heard him use the word love. Not that he doubted his father’s love for him or for his mother, for whom he’d moved to her hometown in North Carolina after their marriage. It just wasn’t ever spoken of. Especially not when Jake had about broken his heart in leaving the Outer Banks for a military career, instead of the damned family fishing business.

In truth, Jake couldn’t ever recall telling his father that he loved him, either. Though he had loved him. Unconditionally. Despite his pigheaded, inflexible ways.

“Dad, there are no fences,” he assured his father. “We’re family. Always have been, always will be, even if you are a stubborn sonofabitch.”

“Takes one to know one,” his father choked out.

Definite tears. Especially when he said, “I wish your mother had lived to see this day. She prayed for you every day, even after we got the death notice.”

He had to ask something that had been nagging at him. “Dad, did I cause Mom’s death? I mean, she was only fifty-five when she passed. Was her worry over me what brought on the heart attack?”

“Forget that idea right now, son. Your mother had an undiagnosed heart condition. Runs in her side of the family. Good Lord! With all you’ve been through, don’t go looking for trouble.”

Jake didn’t argue, but he wasn’t convinced, either.

Then there were the calls to Sally, which were uncomfortable, to say the least. Mostly, they talked about all that had happened in Bell Cove the past three years, especially regarding the bakery she’d started with his death benefits. “A sweet reward!” he’d joked.

She hadn’t laughed.

A morbid joke, yeah, but give me some points for trying to break the ice.

He liked hearing her talk about the bakery, how she’d started out there, working part-time for the former owner, Delia Kohler, after his last deployment, then buying Delia out when she retired.

“At first, I was such a klutz in the bakery, as you can well imagine,” Sally told him. “Remember the time I made brownies and they were so underdone we had to eat them with a spoon?”

He remembered, all right, and he remembered where they’d eaten them, and where the splatters had landed, and how they’d cleaned them up. Smiling, he replied, “No, I don’t remember that, but I recall you asking me one time what a whisk was.”

“I’ve come a long way, baby. In fact, I bet I have a dozen different whisks in my bakery at the moment.”

“A girl can never have too many whisks, I suppose.” That was as lame a joke as anything I’ve ever heard. Jeesh! Stop trying so hard, man. “So, what’s the specialty in your bakery? Wasn’t Delia big on pies?”

“Cookies.”

“Huh?”

“That’s my specialty. Yeah, I offer artisan breads and special-event cakes, and six flavors of homemade ice cream in fresh-baked waffle cones during the summer, but I wanted something people could buy and eat on the street when they’re walking around the square. Something people could hold in their hands and not make a mess, like filled cupcakes. Donuts are good for that purpose, but practically every bakery on the Outer Banks does donuts, some very good ones. I had to have something unique.”

“Cookies are unique?”