Return to Glory (Hqn) (12 page)

“Why are you still waitressing if you’re a writer?” Betsy asked her.

“Insurance and people-watching. You learn a lot about people by serving their food. One of these days, Scottie is going to make me a granny, and when he does, I’ll probably quit to devote myself to spoiling that baby full-time.” She smiled. “Let me go check on your order.”

“Jack, you might have been pretty close to the mark.”

“You think Connie is a spy for the former Soviet Union?”

“No, but the way you gave her this history and then to find out all of these things we never would’ve guessed. There is a lot hiding beneath the small-town veneer. You have to write this book.”

“I’ve never written anything longer than a term paper.”

“Writing could be for you what baking is for me. With your imagination, you could lose yourself in it, if you had to. Or maybe just whenever you want to.”

“So you want to write spying cookbooks?” Jack tried to turn the subject away from him and writing. Betsy was stuck on it and now he knew whether it was something he wanted to do or not, she’d wring a book out of him.

“No. I want more of these stories. Let’s do another one.”

“Okay, but it’s your turn.”

“Me?” Betsy looked around and studied the crowd before indicating to a large, balding man who’d just shoveled himself into one of the half booths. “Mr. Boetcher. Dread of gym students everywhere.”

“He looks like he ate a class of students. What happened to him?”

“He says it’s an adrenal thing, but I think it’s because he eats here three meals and three snacks a day and comes to Sweet Thing for coffee and a second dessert.”

“Are we playing still or does he really do that?” Jack raised an eyebrow.

She laughed. He loved the sound. It was musical and light, like silver bells. “He really does that. He was a prima ballerina until a car accident shattered his knee and his dreams. All the steroids she was on turned she into a he and he started lifting weights to deal with her anger issues. As a way to make money on the side, he became a gym teacher.”

“That would explain why he was so angry all the time and why he told us constantly that football was an angry dance.”

Betsy snorted and brought her napkin up to face, eyes watering, as she tried not to cackle and honk like goose. “Oh my God, Jack. He did not.”

“I will swear on a stack of Bibles that he did. Ask Caleb.”

Coach Boetcher looked their way and nodded. Jack nodded back with a curt wave.

“You’re so much better at this than me. One more? Do Mindy Kreskin.”

“Who?”

“Over there, I— Damn,” Betsy swore.

Suddenly a woman in skintight leggings, leopard heels and a low-cut blouse bent over the table. “Why, Jack McConnell. That is you.” She pushed her way into the booth next to them and if Jack hadn’t scooted over for her, the woman would’ve been in his lap.

“So, what are you two darlings talking about?”

It didn’t seem right to share this with her, and he couldn’t, for the life of him, remember her name.

“Just conversation,” Jack answered.

“I could’ve sworn I heard her say ‘do Mindy Kreskin,’ so I came over to volunteer.” She flashed a syrupy smile.

Realization dawned bright and sharp. He had, in fact, already done Mindy Kreskin. He’d taken her to homecoming and they’d had sex in the back of his car. Not one of his finer moments.

“Kind of you,” he acknowledged.

“How long are you back?”

“I don’t have any solid plans at the moment. It’s been nice to see everyone, but Betsy and I have a lot of catching up to do.” He hoped she’d take that as a dismissal, but instead she took it as an invitation. Her hand rested on his thigh.

“So do we. You should come by. It’ll be like the old days.”

For as much as nostalgia had comforted him, Jack didn’t want the old days. They were over and gone. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “My injury prevents anything from being like it was in the old days.”

“Oh you poor baby.” She wasn’t fazed.

“Mindy, two of your kids are climbing the counter. You better come mind them,” Connie called.

Mindy slid out of the seat and stomped, in her platforms, over to the counter.

“So, Mindy Kreskin.” Jack nodded. “Head cheerleader, who was not so good at giving head, got knocked up end of senior year. She doesn’t have a job, but keeps getting pregnant to get a man to stay. Currently doesn’t have one.”

“That one was right on the money. She just had baby number four.”

Jack shuddered.

“And just think that could have been your life.”

“I’d hang myself.”

“She told me the night of homecoming—”

“Wait, how did you see her the night of homecoming?”

“I snuck out, of course,” Betsy said as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. “Anyway, she came outside and found me seething in the bushes.”

“Why were you seething?”

“Why do you think? Will you let me finish my story?”

“Sorry, go on.” His mouth turned up into a grin.

“She told me that I should hurry up and get you out of my system because she was going to marry you.” Betsy pursed her lips as if the memory still knotted her panties.

“Whoa. That’s crazy.” He thought women like that were only caricatures on bad sitcoms and teen movies.

“Jack, for being a smart guy, sometimes you’re not so bright. Her mom was the head cheerleader and married the quarterback. That’s what she was taught to aspire to.”

“That’s just sad.”

“Why?” Betsy cocked her head to the side.

“What do you mean, why? Weren’t we just talking about how sad and pathetic she is?”

“Yes, she is, but not because she had dreams of getting married and having a family.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Oh it was. You can’t imagine having never left here, never tried to see the world.” She said this like an accusation.

“That is foreign to me, but I came back, didn’t I?”

“Only for me. You never would’ve given this place a second thought if I wasn’t here.”

“Is that so bad?” Didn’t she want to be the reason he came back? What else was here for him?

“Maybe not. Do you still want to be out in the big world, Jack?”

“I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.”

“You should.” She said this decisively, like a primary-school teacher assigning homework.

Their food arrived and when he took the first sip of his Green River, he was disheartened that he couldn’t taste it.

Or the toast, with its real sweet cream butter.

Or the eggs that looked fried to perfection and just a bit peppery.

The bacon, however, was an experience in decadence. He tasted salt.

It was sharp and stark on is tongue, but he liked it. It reminded him of a plethora of salty things that were all tied to memory. Blood, sweat and tears. They were all salt.

But so was sex.

Betsy and bacon. The best flavors in the world. He might have decided he liked the salt better than the sugar.

CHAPTER TWELVE

J
ACK WASN’T READY
to say goodbye to Betsy on Saturday, but she had things she had to do for Sweet Thing, her mother and the life she had that didn’t consist of playing nursemaid to him.

So he walked around downtown exploring some more. Revisiting his past.

The stunted half howl of a police siren caught his attention.

Caleb rolled down the window. “You want a ride?”

“Depends on where we’re going.”

“My house. I’m on my own for lunch. India’s stopping by her mother’s.”

“So you guys do everything together? Does she burp you and change your diaper, as well?” Jack taunted.

“Some days,” Caleb agreed good-naturedly.

He opened the door and slid into the car. “Look, man, I’m not going to say I’m sorry for what happened at your house. I’m not.”

“Didn’t ask you to.”

“If you screw up with Bets, it’s going to happen again.”

“Fair enough.”

“You’re too cheery and way too accepting. What happened to the guy who was going to kick my ass for telling him to stay away from my sister?”

“He talked to India. And Betsy.”

Caleb drove the short distance to Esplanade and to the ragged old Victorian he was restoring in his off time. “I, uh.” Caleb stumbled over the words. “I’m still here for you.”

Jack knew that, too. “Sometimes there are some things that can only be said with a good sparring. It’s my own fault I didn’t get the gear.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got a billon hours of community service to do to keep my job.”

“That sucks. Didn’t we get community service that time we toilet-papered the Oskaloosa mascot?”

“I think the police chief is that judge’s cousin or something.” Caleb snorted.

When they pulled up to the house, Jack said, “Looks like the project is coming along.”

“Yeah.” He tossed him a block of wood that had fine-grained sandpaper wrapped around it. “This is great for thinking. A lot of time in your own head.” Caleb handed him a piece of lattice trim. “Sanding off the ugly is meticulous work.”

“Don’t I know it.” Jack didn’t balk at the work, not even that Caleb just expected him to do it. That’s how things were done. They’d spent many a summer afternoon doing this for neighbors. At fourteen, they’d started a “business” together where they did odd jobs for spending money.

It felt good to have something to do with his hands again. Something where there was a physical measure of his effort. He felt useful.

“Are you going to sell it when you’re done?”

“To India. This was her favorite house on the street.”

“I’d forgotten that. She told us her life would be perfect if she could just live in this house.” Jack studied his friend. “You didn’t tell her you bought it for her, did you?”

“I sure didn’t.” Caleb grinned. “You know how she is, but I couldn’t tell her now if I wanted to. She’d always think it would be some debt she owed me. Hmm. I wonder why that sounds familiar.” He eyed Jack.

“Because it would be. You bought her a house. The Badass Barbie dream house. It’s not like you loaned her a hundred bucks to get her by until payday. For someone who’s never had what you and Betsy have with your family, it’s a big deal.”

“Shut up with that. You and India are both part of our family.”

“Yes, but it’s just not the same.” Sometimes Caleb was just as wholesomely naive as Betsy. No,
naive
wasn’t the right word. Maybe the word he was looking for was
whole.
He’d never had to listen to his parents fighting and wonder if there’d be food on the table. Neither his mother nor his father had ever laid hands on him to hurt him as India’s had.

Caleb rolled his eyes. “I’ll see you later. Are you coming to dinner tomorrow?”

“No, I’ve actually got a thing. I promised Betsy I’d go.”

“You’re going to the support group she was talking about?”

“Yeah. I told her I’d check it out. I don’t know if it’s going to work for me, but I told her I’d try.”

Caleb nodded. “I’m glad.”

“The doc from the Center for the Intrepid set up individual therapy sessions, but I haven’t gone.”

“Maybe you should?”

“Yeah. I guess.” They were both noncommittal, but a wealth of things surged and roiled under the surface.

“Good. You’ll be missed, though. Mama was glad you came last week.”

“It was good to see her. To see India. To see you.”

“You’re always welcome, brother.”

“Even though I’m sleeping with your sister?” Jack teased.

Caleb cringed. “Yeah, if you could
not
mention that ever again, that would be good.”

“I’ll keep that in mind when your dad comes home.”

“He’ll be home at Christmas. He would have been back sooner, but something happened and they needed him to stay in Sicily. He’d love to see you, though.”

“I’m not stupid. The man is an analyst for the Department of Defense. I know what
that
means.” Jack stuffed his hands in his pockets, and silence reigned.

Caleb locked up his tools inside the house. “Do you want a lift home?”

“No, actually. I want to walk.” He said his goodbye and headed down the quaint brick sidewalk. He especially liked the places where he could see the brick street underneath the new pavement. It required more concentration to keep his balance, but he liked it anyway. Jack enjoyed the walk across town back to his house. He took joy in the simple fact that he
could
walk home.

He hadn’t realized the town he’d tried so hard to get away from would be the balm he needed. A good deal of it was Betsy, but it was the people, too. Like Connie at the Corner Pharmacy. Even Mindy Kreskin. These people, these streets, they reminded him of himself. Not of only his past, but his present, too.

He cast a glance to the sky overhead and found it clear, but that didn’t mean much in this part of the country. Even though it had been a good day, better than he could’ve expected, Jack waited for the storm.

He waited for the black, gritty reminder of the dark. Pretty words, pretty people and kind smiles didn’t take away what had happened or the places he’d been. He wondered if the thunder, the lightning, would always put him back in the dark and bring the fear that made him little more than an animal.

If a storm rolled in right at that moment, would he have to run for cover?

He knew he would.

Jack was determined to try to pass the night with no whiskey. Even if the nightmares came, he wanted the things he’d seen that were possible more than he wanted relief.

After all, if it was just relief he wanted, he could have filled every chamber in his .357 with a round.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

J
ACK DIDN’T SLEEP.

He closed his eyes, but all he could see behind his lids was fire. His throat had been dry all night, his mouth cottony, and that amber liquid beckoned with a siren’s song promising him sleep, tranquility and peace.

Though like a siren’s song, he knew it to be a lie, and also like a siren, it would swallow him whole.

Every sound the house made caused him to go on alert, and every possible scenario crept through his head, a stealthy poison. What-if played on a continuous loop until he gave up and turned on Netflix. He clicked on the first movie that popped up and stared blankly at the screen, grateful for the distraction and faux company.

He dreamed, and he knew he was in a dreamscape. He was so thirsty, his throat parched and gritty. There’d been days when he knew what that felt like, to have sand up his nose, down his throat, in his ears, the corners of his eyes...

Jack was on fire, flames all around him, but through it all, he could see Betsy in the distance. He knew if he could just get to her, she could make the pain stop. He ran and ran, but he never got any closer to her. She was still just as far off as she’d been when he started.

When he awoke, fevered and sweating, he knew exactly what the dream meant. He was looking to someone else to put out his fires when he had to do it himself. Jack knew that. He didn’t need some dream to tell him.

His stomach roiled and his head pounded. Jack felt as if he’d been run over by a Mack truck. He had a hangover from
not
drinking. The light coming in the windows was bright and hurt his eyes. It made his head pound harder and feel as if his skull were trying to slide out through his nose.

He stumbled from the couch to the kitchen, where he poured himself a glass of water and popped a couple ibuprofens and fish oil caplets.

Part of him wanted to call Betsy, curl up in her and lose himself. The only pain he wanted was to feel her digging her nails into his back while he made her come. He was under no illusions that he’d be in any kind of shape to be in her presence after the group.

He’d tried a support group once before, but all of the emotional vomit followed by backslapping and regurgitated self-help affirmations made him nauseated. He hadn’t been ready for it then, but he was ready to try it now. Affirmations and all, if that’s what it took.

Around four that afternoon, a knock on the door surprised him.

Betsy stood outside the screen, eyes hopeful and tremulous, with one of those purple boxes. “Hey.”

“That for me?”

“Sort of. It’s for you to take with you to group. If you’re still going.”

He accepted the box and peeked under the lid. “What flavor?”

“More of the anise pumpkin with cinnamon smiles. I made way too many of those. I also thought maybe I could give you a ride. You took me to the river all the time, so I’d like to. If that’s okay.”

“Yeah, Bets.” Something in him warmed.

“Do you want me to stay with you?”

“No, I’ll be okay. You go on and have dinner with your family. I’ll walk home after the meeting.”

“That’s a long way.”

“It is, but you know, I
can
do it.” That was important to him, to be able to do those things.

“I’m still advocating the trade thing we have going on.” Color stained her cheeks. “I asked you to go and I know it’s a big deal, so maybe think about what you want for your turn.”

“So this would be the time to ask for something big?” he teased.

“Whatever you want, Jack.” She bit her lip.

He couldn’t look at her mouth now and not think about the shower, her lush lips wrapped around his shaft, but he’d had that. He wanted a fantasy of her that he hadn’t experienced. Something to store up and keep. Something that only felt good, with no bad memories attached. The shower could never be a bad memory, but it had been born out of desperation and panic, rooted in fear.

“The kitchen in Sweet Thing. I want you to bake for me.”

“I already bake for you. All the time, I’m thinking about what you’d like, what you can taste.”

“No, Betsy.” He let his gaze rake over her slowly, memorizing every curve and remembering what it was like to have his hands all over them. “The fantasy we talked about. You. Naked. Cookies.”

“Monday after the shop closes. Four,” she said shyly.

Jack found it to be a paradox that when she was naked, she’d say or do most anything, but dressed and in the light of day, she blushed so sweetly.

“The things I’m going to do to you, sweet thing.”

“You can’t get too carried away until whatever you decide you want me to bake for you is done or we’ll burn the place down.”

“We might anyway.” He flashed a naughty half grin. This was when he felt the most confident. Jack knew he brought her pleasure. He knew just how and where to touch her, how to play her body like a finely tuned instrument. This was something he excelled at.

She put the cookies on the table and embraced him. “I want you, Jack. I want you so bad it hurts. Maybe you should come to the bakery tonight.”

He wasn’t going to turn her down, but he still wanted to wait for his fantasy until it was free and clear from the dark. “I still want my day on Monday.”

“Most definitely. Maybe Tuesday, too. Wednesday, if you’re not busy...”

“I like how your brain works.”

“Maybe then we should have a quickie before you go. Right here up against the wall, if you’re feeling spry, soldier.” She winked at him.

He was instantly hard and feeling more than spry. He felt as if he could conquer the world.

“I may not be wearing panties,” Betsy said, spurring him on.

“You’re a bad girl, Betsy. You wear this sweet little face, but deep inside,” he said as he pushed his hand up beneath her dress and between her thighs, “deep, deep down—” Jack thrust his fingers into her heat “—you’re all kinds of bad, aren’t you?”

“Mmm-hmm,” she agreed, wriggling to get closer to the sensation.

“This right now is my turn, too. Because I said so. I want to take something good with me, and this is what I’m going to remember,” he said as he manipulated her swollen flesh. “Not the pretty image of swollen lips after I kissed you and you said goodbye. Not the past, but now. Here.”

She moaned and rubbed herself against him. “Now is so good.”

“Yes, it is.” Her responsive body, slick and hot for him, was better than anything she could’ve said to him, anything she could’ve done.

For the first time, even though Jack was still waiting for the storm, he wondered if the sunny days like this one would be enough to balance out the darkness.