The Thursday night special. Hector had never managed to make perfect dumplings no matter how many times Mama had showed him her technique.
Alisa met Nick’s gaze and held it. “No, Hector. I’ll make the dumplings tonight,” she said.
His dark brows tugged together. “I thought you hadn’t mastered the technique.”
“I haven’t, but what other choice do I have except to cancel the special for tonight? Our customers would love that, wouldn’t they?” She’d have a small riot on her hands. “It would be hard to explain our regular chef took off without notice.” Her tone challenged him.
He jammed his hands in his jeans pockets. “You said Mama was coming back tomorrow?”
“Yes.” She held her breath. She could almost see the wheels churning in his brain as he tried to think of an excuse to leave now. Or decide to wait one more day.
“You know if I go back in there, in the kitchen, I could have another flashback. Someone could get hurt again.”
“You’ve been cooking in the kitchen for more than a week without having a problem.”
“Sometimes I see things. On the stainless steel equipment. Reflections of the attack that hit our outpost.”
He visibly shuddered, and Alisa’s heart went out to him. He’d been fighting those memories for years and they still had an unbreakable grip on him. If he’d told her, maybe they could have done something. Put curtains over the refrigerator doors. Painted everything a dull black. He’d carried so many burdens. An abusive father. A mother who died young. Injured in the war. No wonder he hadn’t learned how to ask or receive help. He felt he had to stand strong on his own. He’d been doing it for thirty years.
“Don’t you think it was the storm, the thunder and lightning, that set you off?” she asked. “The weatherman isn’t predicting another storm tonight.”
He turned around and braced his outstretched arms against the hood of the truck. His head dipped.
“Okay, I’ll try. I’ll stay ’til Mama gets home, but then I’m gone.” He turned back to her, his eyes bleak. “Do you understand? I can’t take the risk of staying here any longer.”
Alisa did understand. She had twenty-four hours to get him to change his mind.
And the same amount of time to prepare Greg for Nick’s departure if she failed.
* * *
Nick’s gut tightened into a knot as he dragged Rags out of the truck and used his old rope to tie the dog to the porch railing. He didn’t know which had been harder, seeing Greg’s broken hearted expression when Nick had told him he was leaving. Or being hammered by Alisa.
A hammering he deserved.
The last thing he wanted to do was step back into that kitchen where every reflective surface could bring back memories. Yet if he didn’t get in there to prepare the chicken and dumplings for the special, he’d be letting Alisa down. And Mama.
Maybe he’d be letting himself down, too.
Chances were good it wouldn’t be any easier to leave tomorrow than it had been today. Greg would still be upset. Alisa mad.
He stood on the porch for a long time before he built up the nerve to open the door. His heart was pounding hard when he stepped inside.
Without looking around the kitchen, keeping his eyes averted from the stainless steel surfaces, he grabbed a white jacket from the fresh linens and washed his hands at the sink.
“You okay?” Hector asked, eyeing Nick with some apprehension.
“Fine.” If you called being crazy fine.
He tensed as he retrieved the milk from the refrigerator for the dumplings, trying hard not to focus on any reflections that might appear. The flour was easier. But then he had to work at the prep table that was polished to a high sheen.
You’ve been doing it for more than a week, Carbini. Nothing’s going to leap out and grab you now.
Unless another thunder and lightning storm roared through the Bear Lake valley again.
The big pots of water rose to a rapid boil. He mixed up the dough for the dumplings and got out a supply of quarter chickens, thighs and drumsticks. A container of sour cream. The aroma of paprika and garlic began to soothe him. Good seasonings could do that. He’d learned that in his mother’s kitchen.
He was finally getting into the rhythm when Alisa walked into the kitchen, dressed in her usual slacks and white blouse for work. She probably wanted to see if he’d wrestled anyone to the floor lately.
“How’s it going?” Her furrowed forehead indicated she wasn’t sure what his answer would be.
“Your customers will be satisfied with the special tonight.”
“I really appreciate you staying. I know it’s hard for you.”
“Mama will be home tomorrow.”
“Yes.” Unable to hold his gaze, she glanced away. “If you feel another flashback coming on, tell Hector to come get me. I’ll understand if you have to step outside away from all this.” She gestured vaguely toward the stainless appliances.
“I don’t usually get much notice. It just happens.” Like being hit by a ton of bricks. Or a rocket-propelled grenade.
“I understand.” She backed away by a couple of steps. “The crowd is beginning to pick up. I’d better get out there and help Jolene and Tricia.”
“Sure. Go ahead. I’ll try not to tackle anyone tonight or knock over a dinner tray.”
Her lips pressed together, she shook her head from side to side before pushing her way through the swinging doors into the diner.
She’d said she understood, but Nick knew better. No one who hadn’t experienced the terror of flashbacks could possibly understand the horror of reliving, time and time again, the fear that immobilized him.
The knowledge that he’d been a coward.
* * *
Nick was cleaning up the stove at the end of the shift when Alisa walked into the kitchen.
“Nick, let Hector finish the cleanup,” she said. “There are some people out front who want to talk to you.”
His head came up and he frowned. “I thought you’d closed up.”
“This is something a little special.”
Not at all sure what she was up to, and suspecting it wasn’t anything he wanted, Nick set aside his cleaning rag and took off his jacket. He tossed it in the linen bin and followed her.
The lights were turned down low in the main part of the diner, and the Closed sign was on the door. Alisa led Nick into the banquet room. To Nick’s dismay, Pastor Walker, Ned Turner, Ward Cummings and Mac McDonnell stood when they entered.
Nick stopped abruptly. He didn’t like the look of this. “What’s going on? If this is supposed to be a surprise birthday party, you’ve got the wrong date.”
The pastor stepped forward. “This is what’s called an intervention. Come, sit down, Nick. You’re among friends here.” His hand on Nick’s shoulder, Walker urged him toward the table where they’d all been sitting. “Alisa, under the circumstances, I think you should stay, too.”
A sense of anger building, Nick sat at the head of the table as he’d been told. An intervention? It looked more like interfering to him.
A coffeepot and mugs for everyone were on the table. Alisa filled a mug for him.
“I don’t know what you’re up to.” He gave the men a hard stare. “I’ll admit to being an alcoholic, but I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in four years. I don’t need an intervention.” That’s what families did when an alcoholic or drug addict wouldn’t admit he had a problem.
“This is a different kind of an intervention, son.” Walker sat next to Nick and gestured for Alisa to take the seat across from him. The other men settled into their chairs. “All of us are worried about you and how you’re handling your PTSD.”
Nick narrowed his eyes, the muscles in his throat flexed and he placed his palms flat on
the table. The urge to flee—or start a free-for-all—churned through him. He fisted his hands.
“I’m handling it fine.” He lifted one corner of his lip in warning. He wasn’t going to put up with a bunch of near strangers telling him how to manage his flashbacks. Nothing had helped him so far.
“Are you handling it?” the pastor asked mildly.
“Yeah. Now can I go?”
“We heard you had a flashback last night,” Ward said. “That doesn’t sound like you’re handling anything.”
Nick shot an accusatory gaze in Alisa’s direction for blabbing about him all over town. She didn’t even blink.
“How ’bout nightmares?” Mac asked. “My wife still has to wake me up a couple of times a month.”
“This stuff is none of your business,” he said. “I’m leaving tomorrow and you won’t have to worry about me again.”
Walker covered Nick’s hand with his. “All these men have been through situations similar to yours. They’ve worked through the trauma—some still are.” He gave a nod to Mac. “You can, too, if you’ll give us a chance to help.”
Nick shot a look at each of the men. “The VA wouldn’t give me the time of day. Said I could maybe have an appointment in like six months, assuming I wasn’t malingering.”
“We’re here now, sergeant,” Ned said. “Don’t turn your back on us. We’ve been there.”
For some reason, knowing Ned had suffered from PTSD, caused him to relax a little. But he still wanted out of there. Wanted them to leave him alone.
“I’m a cook, a trained chef,” Nick said. “Cooks aren’t supposed to get shot at. They aren’t supposed to get PTSD.”
“But you were and you did. Tell us what happened. That’ll be a start.” Walker nodded to encourage Nick to recall the memories that he’d been fighting for so long.
He wasn’t sure he could do that, relive the whole thing again. But he saw nothing but sympathy in their eyes, Ted and Ward and Mac. They’d understand.
Alisa seemed to be holding her breath. Could she possibly grasp what it was like to be in a firefight?
Despite his reluctance, Nick took a chance and began to talk. The words, the memories, were hard at first. Like bayonets piercing his protective shield.
As he got further into his story, the images came back to him. His voice shook with the same terror he’d experienced more than four years ago. The inability of his unarmed crew to protect themselves. The sight of body parts blown into the air. Blood spraying on every surface, tainting his kitchen with death.
Vaguely he became aware his cheeks were damp with tears and he wondered when that had happened.
As he came near the end of the tale, he said, “I was a coward. I should’ve protected my men or died with them.” He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bouncing. “Instead I crawled on my belly into the big walk-in refrigerator and locked myself in. I don’t know how long I stayed in there after it got all quiet. When I crawled out, they were all dead. I should’ve stayed with them.”
Silent tears cascaded down Alisa’s cheek. She squeezed his hand. “You survived, Nick. That’s what’s important.”
He shook his head, knowing he could never accept that as the truth. He’d left them all there on the floor, dead or dying.
“That’s good, Nick,” the pastor said. “Is that the first time you’ve told anyone the whole story?”
He wiped the back of his hand across his face. “Yeah, I guess.” Even in prison, when the chaplain had encouraged the guys to talk, he’d held back. Hadn’t told them he’d been a coward.
All the fight and anger had gone out of him, and he lowered his head. Alisa’s hand looked so small and delicate compared to his. She needed someone to protect her. Not a coward who crawled away when faced with danger.
Ned spoke up. “I used to blame myself for losing my whole squad. The thing is, there hadn’t been any way I could have stopped the Vietcong from attacking us. We were outnumbered and surrounded.”
“What could you have done, Nick, to stop the attack or protect your men?” The pastor posed the question in an understanding yet probing way.
“I don’t know.”
“None of you were armed?” he persisted.
“We’d all been issued M16s. We kept them in our barracks. I should’ve made them carry them every place they went.”
“Last time I heard,” Ward said, “an M16 wasn’t effective against rocket-propelled grenades.”
“They might have given us a chance,” Nick countered. “Hiding in the refrigerator sure didn’t help.”
“You tried to help Hank, didn’t you?” Alisa asked, her eyes pleading with him.
“He died. They all did.” Accepting the blame stood like a stone wall, keeping these men at a distance. Alisa, too. That’s what a coward deserved.
Lifting her chin, Alisa tried to stare him down with her compelling blue eyes, make him listen. “I don’t believe for a minute what you did was cowardly, Nick Carbini. And neither do these men who care about you. You have to quit blaming yourself. You have to let them help you.”
He didn’t flinch. He simply stared back at her and steeled his emotions. “You’re wrong, Alisa. Dead wrong.”
Pushing his chair back, he stood.
Pastor Walker did, too. “You know where to find me, Nick. Call when you’re ready to talk.”
Nick left the room without saying another word.
Chapter Seventeen
Alisa sat down with Greg at the kitchen table in the family quarters. Dressed for school, he’d fixed his own cereal and poured himself a large glass of orange juice.
“I need to talk to you, kiddo,” she said.
He stuffed a spoonful of cereal in his mouth. “Okay.”
“You know, instead of Nick leaving yesterday as he’d planned, he stayed around so he could make Mama’s special chicken and dumplings for our customers last night.”
Pretending disinterest, Greg focused on consuming his cereal. Milk dribbled down his chin, and he wiped it away with his shirt sleeve.
“Mama’s coming back today.”
The boy finally looked up. “I miss Mama. She’s cool.”
Alisa grinned. “I think so too.” She could also use some of Mama’s wisdom right about now. Some way to ease her son’s pain when Nick leaves. And her own broken heart. “Nick told me yesterday that he’d only stay until Mama gets home. That means he’ll probably leave, possibly before you get back from school.”
Another bite of cereal. A gulp of milk. A twitch of his shoulders. “I don’t care.”
“I’m sure you do care, honey.” She put her hand on his shoulder, rubbing gently. “I’m sorry he’s leaving, too, but we’ll be all right. We’re family. You, me and Mama.” She fought the tremble in her voice. “He may decide to leave Rags with you. If he does, I think we can build a run for Rags back by the shed and a doghouse—”
Greg threw down his spoon and jumped to his feet. “I don’t want Nick to stay, and I don’t want his dog. Rags will just try to go after him again. And he’ll get hit by a car and run over.” Angry tears filled Greg’s eyes. “Rags doesn’t want to stay with me. Nobody does.” He raced toward the stairs.
Leaping to her feet, Alisa ran after him.”That’s not true, Greg. Come back. We can talk...” She hurried down the stairs.
Billy Newton, the short-order cook, was at the stove preparing breakfast orders. He looked up as Alisa burst into the kitchen, but she ignored him.
She was too late. Greg was out the door before she got there, running as fast as his young legs could take him. Running away from his pain and loss.
Nick and her son were alike. Both running away rather than facing the truth. She could forgive Greg. He was only nine years old. Nick should know better.
* * *
“You got room for another puzzle afficionado?” he asked.
In unison, two pairs of gray eyebrows rose.
“Sure. Sit yourself down,” the older of the two said. “I’m Ezra Cummings. This here is Abe Packett.”
Scooting a puzzle shape into place, Nick introduced himself.
“The Carbini boy, huh?” Abe, whose hands looked like baseball mitts, eyed him curiously. “I knew your old man, Sam Carbini. Worked at the mill, didn’t he?”
“When he was sober.” Small towns had long memories. Maybe too long.
“Yep, that’s the one.” Abe lifted his mug to his lips. “I remember your mama, too. Nice lady.” He sipped his coffee. “Felt right sorry when I heard she’d passed on.”
Nick’s throat constricted, and he was grateful Jolene showed up right then with a fresh mug of coffee for him, ready to take his order.
“You want your usual eggs and toast?” she asked.
He cleared his throat. His mother used to make him pancakes...when they had enough money to buy milk. She picked wild blackberries in the fall to put on top.
“Let’s go for the wild side this morning. Ask Billy to cook up a couple of pancakes with blackberries on top, if he’s got any, and two eggs sunny side up.”
“You got it.” She checked with Abe and Ezra, who were good with their coffee, before going to the back to place Nick’s order.
Ezra reached across the table to pick up a puzzle piece. “Heard you been cooking the chicken and dumplings while Mama’s gone.”
“That’s true.” Nick studied Ezra’s selection, but couldn’t see where he was going to put it. This was one of those challenging puzzles with crazy geometric patterns that were tough to figure out. So far the old duffers had only gotten three-quarters of the border put together.
“We’re right fond of Alisa and her mama. The boy, too.” He tried to fit the piece in near the top border. It didn’t match up. “We’re all sort of family around here.”
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