Page 82 of A Hero Comes Home

“Later. For now, you might want to go wash your hands and eat with Gramp and Gram Fontaine. I brought some stuff from the bakery.”

“Cookies?” Mark asked hopefully.

“Yes, and some bread and hummus.”

The three were off like a shot to the downstairs bathroom shoving each other aside to get to the sink. She would have a mess to clean up later. Only then did she make her way outside to the garage where the door was open. Inside she found Jake sitting on her yoga mat, his free weights off to the side, along with a half-empty bottle of water. He was leaning back against a wall, his legs outstretched. His eyes were closed, his eye patch sitting on the tool bench along with his weight lifting safety gloves and an open tin of gym chalk.

She had to admit that she was looking for evidence of “funny cigarettes,” not that Jake had ever been into illegal substances. He’d always been too health conscious and law-abiding for that. Still . . .

“No, Sally, I haven’t been zoning out on weed,” he said, without opening his eyes. “Just cooling down. Mmm. You smell so good. Even from here. Like a donut. No, it was a cake you were decorating when I called, right? Wanna come down here and share some sugar with me?” He opened his eyes, automatically reaching for the eye patch to cover himself. Then, looking up at her, he motioned with the fingertips of one hand for her to sit beside him.

“Not a chance! You’d have me flat on my back, licking me like an ice cream cone.”

“Now there’s an image!” He grinned.

She remained just inside the door, arms folded over her chest, refusing to budge.

“C’mon. You know you want to.”

“My parents have already remarked on the healthy flush that covers my skin.”

“You gotta love the sex flush, baby.”

“And José says I look like I’ve been having my maracas rattled on a regular basis.”

“I am fond of your maracas.” He continued to waggle his fingertips toward himself, beckoning her forward.

“You’re impossible,” she said with a laugh.

He was already shrugging out of his running shorts, which was all he wore.

She glanced anxiously behind her. “You’re crazy. The boys, or God forbid, my parents, could walk out here any minute and get an eyeful.”

“Now see, that’s where you’re wrong,” he said. Reaching up behind him on the tool bench, he grabbed a small black box. With the button pressed on the remote control, the garage door began to close behind her. “Don’t you love technology?”

“I give the kids fifteen minutes and they’ll be out here banging on the door,” she warned, but she was already walking slowly toward him.

“Fifteen minutes, huh?” Jake thought a moment. “Piece of cake!”

She didn’t know if he was referring to the cake she’d been working on, or the efficiency with which he could make love under time constraints. Turns out it was both.

But the embarrassment factor went through the roof when they left the garage and noticed another party had arrived. Also early.

Her parents were still inside, apparently, but sitting on an Adirondack chair, enjoying the hell out of their surprise and discomfort, was Lieutenant Isaac Bernstein, peering at them over the top of dark sunglasses, which he’d moved halfway down his big nose. Izzie wore fatigues, the shirt open at the neck. His booted feet rested on the porch rail.

“Well, well, well!” Izzie remarked. “Dare I say, ‘commando’?”

It wasn’t a (pity) party, but he’d cry if he wanted to . . .

“I have concerns,” Jake said.

“No shit!” Izzie replied with his usual succinctness.

They were sitting in The Live Bass, a local tavern, sharing a few beers and catching up on the news.

After Sally had gone with the kids to help her parents settle in at the Heartbreak Motel, Izzie had walked down the street to his uncle’s house to shower and change clothes, promising to be back in a half hour to pick him up. Jake had also showered and changed clothes, and they rode to the center of town in Uncle Abe’s pristine twenty-year-old Buick, which prompted mutual grins.

“Ah, the memories!” Jake had remarked.