Return to Glory (Hqn)

by Sara Arden

  “Where I want to be? I want to be a SEAL.” And I want to be with Betsy. He left that unsaid.

  “You’ll always be a SEAL. No matter where you go in life or what you do, nothing can ever change that.”

  But Jack felt that it had changed. As soon as he’d found out the navy didn’t want him anymore, he felt like a compass with no north. Being a SEAL wasn’t just his job; it was who he was.

  “I want you to start keeping two journals. One about your everyday life. Think of it like a logbook. The other about whatever comes into your head, okay?”

  “Whatever comes into my head? Like fiction?” Jack seriously doubted that this man or anyone else wanted to know the things that were swirling around in his head like some giant crap stew.

  “Anything. Everything. Freewriting.” Andrew must’ve seen the doubt because he added, “Can you do that?”

  “I can, but I don’t know if I want to.”

  “You think about it. Maybe try it for a week and then if you don’t like it, if you don’t think it could be a useful tool, we’ll try something else.”

  Jack wouldn’t say it couldn’t hurt to try it, because it seemed the most innocuous things were the most painful. But he wanted to feel some semblance of normalcy again. If this would help him find his stop so he could get off the crazy train, he’d try it.

  “Okay,” he agreed.

  “Good.” Andrew nodded. “By the way, this Friday is the Halloween dance down at Haymarket Square. Some of the guys are going to have a booth to raise money for the group. We do fund-raisers all year and then we choose a veteran’s family to adopt at Christmas. If you think you can tolerate the crowd, you should come. The hometown hero would bring in a lot of donations.”

  “Guilt-trip much?” Jack asked without rancor.

  “Hey, whatever it takes, right?”

  Whatever it takes, Jack agreed silently.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  BETSY HAD ZERO interest in Halloween this year.

  Usually, it was one of her favorite holidays. She loved dressing up, she loved the excitement in the air, the way the weather changed and pumpkin flavored everything. She especially loved the apple fests in nearby Missouri, the orchards and farms that had their wares for sale. The tiny country stores that the city people flocked to so they could stock their cabinets with homemade jellies, jams, local honey and fresh cider.

  The Red Barn Farm was one of her favorite suppliers. Only this year, she hadn’t bought anything. There were no treats brightening up her front window, and Betsy feared she’d lost the ability to bake.

  She didn’t want to go to the dance. There was no one there she wanted to see. Betsy had even had a couple offers for dates, but she wasn’t interested in that, either.

  Jack hadn’t called or written, sent smoke signals or runes, so he obviously didn’t want to have any contact with her.

  Betsy looked at the costume she’d laid out on the bed.

  The poodle skirt she’d made herself, but instead of a poodle embroidered on the hem, it was a large, glittery spider. The fitted sweater set looked as if it had been spun from iridescent cobwebs, and she’d appliqued bats on the toes of the vintage saddle shoes.

  She’d go, if only to show her face and assure everyone that Sweet Thing would be back open soon. She’d give herself some time to grieve losing Jack McConnell. Then after that, it was business as usual.

  It had to be. She had too many responsibilities to curl up and die just because Prince Charming had lost his saddle.

  Betsy shimmied into her Spanx, not minding the extra layers. The nights were already turning chilly. She pulled on the rest of her costume, tucked her house key into the small pocket she’d sewn inside her bra and walked down to Haymarket.

  It was only a few blocks and the street had been blocked off for the dance anyway. The square was lit up with hundreds of little orange lights. They twinkled like happy little fairies, and fat orange pumpkin faces grinned at her from every surface. Most of the local restaurants had booths on the far side of the square and there were vendors of all kinds. An upbeat tune blared from the speakers, and some of the townspeople were already dancing.

  India was suddenly beside her. “Not one word,” she warned.

  Betsy paused to take in her costume. She was dressed like some comic book character in an outfit that put everything on display.

  Betsy snorted. “You know, in those boots, you’re almost as tall as Caleb.”

  “Too bad I’m not taller. It would serve him right. It’s his fault I’m in this stupid getup.”

  “Oh really?”

  “Dare gone wrong.” She shifted, obviously uncomfortable. “One would think he’d at least have gotten my size.”

  “I think he did. You look really—”

  “If you say I look really hot, I’m going to strangle you. I’m never going to live this down at the station.” She huffed and blew her bangs out of her face.

  Betsy had actually been about to say that India did indeed look very hot. She never did much to play up her feminine side, and dressed as a superhero, she was smoking hot. “Well, you do. You’re gorgeous, India.”

  She was thankful for their exchange. It was normal. It was expected.

  And seeing her brother dressed as a superhero was not.

  The tights, dear Lord, the tights. What had been seen couldn’t be unseen.

  He strutted toward them, and India’s face turned the same shade of red as her boots.

  “Where is the brain bleach?” Betsy teased.

  “Right over there, and you know, you can kill me for it later, but right now I’m going to go dance with Jack.”

  Betsy followed India’s route of retreat and saw it ended in the circle of Jack’s arms. She knew there was nothing between India and Jack, but that didn’t stop her from wishing it was her instead of India dancing with him.

  She’d worried over him for no reason. He was doing fine without her. He looked better than he had the last time she saw him. Betsy was glad he was doing well, but it flayed open her wounds to see that being away from her hadn’t affected him at all.

  He was dressed as a pirate, peg leg and all. The knee breeches he wore clung to his hard thighs, the silk shirt open at the chest... She was torn between despair and arousal. She continued to drink him in— the silk bandanna he’d tied around his head, and even the gold clip-on earring added to the aura of his look. It was Halloween, it was a costume, but damn if she didn’t want to be pirated by a reprobate such as him.

  His eyes scanned the crowd and suddenly fixed on her. His face was unreadable, and Betsy just wanted to flee. She wanted to hide from the sight of him, from the weight of his presence, and the sharp edges of all the dreams that had shattered like glass.

  The song ended and she watched as Jack maneuvered India toward Caleb. When they met on the floor, he handed her off, almost like a father giving away the bride. India’s face was still red, and Caleb looked like an angry bear.

  Jack was suddenly next to her. “Do you want to dance?”

  No. She didn’t even want to look at him, let alone dance with him, but she found herself caught up in the circle of his embrace anyway. It was so good to touch him, to feel his warmth wrap around her, the scent of him. A familiar ache thrummed inside her to touch him more, to be touched more, but she restrained herself.

  “A pirate?” She struggled for something to say.

  “I figured I already had part of the costume.” He flashed her a grin.

  She would’ve laughed if she hadn’t been on the verge of crying. Betsy had to fill the space between them with words; otherwise she’d fill it with her need of him. “So, how are you?”

  “Trying.”

  “That’s good.” She didn’t know what else to say. Betsy never wanted to leave his arms, but becau
se she felt that way and knew he didn’t, she also wanted the song to be over so she could run and hide from these feelings she’d been avoiding.

  “I’ve been thinking about that night,” he said.

  “Me, too.” Hope flared, dangerous and sharp.

  “We didn’t use a condom.”

  That burgeoning hope was snuffed like an errant candle. “No, I guess we didn’t.”

  “I wanted you to know that if there are consequences, you can come to me.”

  Whereas the hope had been a tiny flicker, her anger was like a rocket. “I can come to you?” she hissed. “Are you kidding me? Why would I do that?”

  “Because that’s what adults do.”

  “Oh really? Well, if you’re too dangerous, too broken to be with me, you’re sure as hell not stable enough to have anything to do with a child.”

  Her dagger struck home and drove deep. She saw it hit its mark when his smile froze and his eyes emptied like a bottle that had been turned on its side.

  “I’m sorry, Jack. I didn’t mean that.”

  “No, you’re right. You’re absolutely right. If something happens, I’ll meet my financial obligations.”

  Her dagger had been a double-edged sword because it sliced her just as deeply.

  “You’d tell me, wouldn’t you?”

  She swallowed hard, unable to dislodge the lump in her throat. “Of course.”

  “Take care of yourself, Bets.” He released her and disappeared into the growing crowd.

  In that moment, all that could’ve been hit her hard and fast. The house, and the yard, the dog...a flaxen-haired baby in her arms. Jack’s son. All of the things she’d been afraid to want outside of a teen fantasy.

  She didn’t want the fantasy. She wanted the reality. She wanted Jack and she wanted forever and she couldn’t have it.

  Betsy was standing there among a crowd of people, shattering. And no one could see it—the fine cracks that dug deep through the whole of her, as if she were some figurine who was just waiting to fall apart.

  “Betsy?” A familiar voice rang in her ears. He said her name like Beht-see. As if it were two separate words.

  She spun to see Marcel.

  * * *

  MARCEL BABINEAUX, SOON to be master chef, and deflowerer of virgins, was in Glory, Kansas.

  The place he’d once referred to as the innermost circle of small-town hell. What was he doing? What was even more insane was that after the way they’d left things, he thought she’d be happy to see him.

  Happy to see him after he’d been the one who started calling her bouchon de mort girl. The chef had just thought it apt and it had stuck.

  “I have the most exciting news, chérie.”

  “I didn’t think you’d actually show up here. I thought you despised small towns.” She couldn’t believe he was here or what he could possibly want from her.

  “Oh I do, but this was worth it.” He grinned.

  She waited, having no idea what he’d possibly think was worth flying to Kansas.

  “Truth be told, petite, I really thought you’d find a way to come to New York.”

  “Why would you think that?” Betsy fixed him with a hard appraisal.

  “You wound me. My, how life has changed you.” He cocked his head to the side. “I thought it would be New York that stripped you of your innocence. But it wasn’t. It was living here without passion.”

  “Without passion?” She almost choked on her incredulity. “Are you stoned, Marcel?”

  “Ah, no. You are so different. Once, you would’ve been waiting with bated breath to see what marvelous thing I had to share with you. Now it’s as if you don’t care.”

  It wasn’t as if. It was a fact. There was nothing he could say that held any interest for her.

  “I’ve convinced Chef Abelard to accept you back.”

  Except that.

  “You what?” She was sure she hadn’t heard him correctly.

  “I wronged you, Betsy. A slip of my tongue meant in jest shouldn’t follow you for the whole of your career. I told him about your shop, I made for him your lavender apricot soufflé and I told him I will eat the food you prepare. I believe in you and your talents. You’re in. You must pack immediately. Especially since he made this offer weeks ago. I have assured him you want this.”

  His words hit her in the face, one right after the other, like snowballs with a hard-packed ice center. “Marcel, I can’t leave. I have a business to run.” Her excuse sounded hollow even to her own ears. “And there’s this wedding cake commission—” Only it was Chef Abelard. He could launch her career. The career she’d dreamed about with big-city life and worldwide acclaim.

  Everything she thought she wanted was within reach.

  Everything but Jack.

  It was funny how dreams did that, the fluid nature of them, the ebb and flow. She dreamed of Jack, she dreamed of France, but never together. Now she’d had Jack and it was over. Was France the consolation prize?

  “This is not the reaction I expected.” He shook his head. “I was startled when you didn’t come when I first called. You are not the same girl I met in New York.”

  Yeah, because it was still all about him. She sighed. “You already said that, but I guess people are like dreams. They change. Thank you for everything you’ve done, but this is so sudden and unexpected.”

  Betsy was reminded of her mother’s old-school romances where the hero swept the heroine off her feet and after the hero’s passionate confession, the heroine would demure and say it was all so very sudden.

  But Marcel was no romance novel hero.

  “I hadn’t realized how—” he looked around “—well you’d taken to coming back here.” His nose crinkled in dismay. “Perhaps there is somewhere we can go talk? Maybe we can catch up?”

  Betsy looked around for Jack; she didn’t know why. He’d made it clear that he didn’t want to be with her, but just the sight of him made her feel stronger, more capable, as if she could conquer the world.

  And Marcel, he made her feel as if the world could conquer her if she wasn’t careful.

  “We could do that. Where are you staying? We can get my car.”

  “I was hoping to stay with you, but your maman told me that you’re seeing someone.”

  “I am.”

  “And this someone, he would mind greatly if an old friend slept on your couch?” There was a certain twinkle in his blue eyes, the fun-loving charm that had attracted her to him in the first place.

  “If you were just an old friend, there wouldn’t be any question. But we were more than that and I certainly wouldn’t lie about it.”

  “He is jealous, then? Passionate?”

  “No, he’s not jealous. Because he trusts me.” More like he didn’t want to be with her anymore, but Marcel didn’t need to know that. In her heart, she was still with Jack. Part of her always had been.

  She didn’t know what she was thinking when she tried to convince herself that she wasn’t in love with him. Betsy lived and breathed for Jack McConnell.

  “Perhaps I shall stay with Lula, then? I went to see her before I came to find you. I saw the picture of us still on your mirror.”

  Jack was right. She should’ve taken the stupid thing down.

  “Those were good times.” That wasn’t a lie.

  “They could be again, petite.”

  “We can talk, we can catch up, but I’m not ready to give you an answer today, and if you push, my answer will be no.”

  “Even though your family thinks that’s a mistake?” he asked gently.

  “Yes. I have to live in my skin. They don’t.”

  “You’re so much stronger than you were in Paris. You’ve always been beautiful, but now this power from you, you’re s
tunning.”

  Betsy turned to look at him as they walked and stopped. “That’s a different story than the one you were singing in Paris, too.”

  Marcel looked genuinely confused. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re pretty, but you’d be so much more beautiful if...” She let the sentence hang.

  “If what?”

  Betsy had always wanted to confront him about the way he’d treated her, the way she heard his voice in her head every time she thought something bad about herself. While she’d wanted it, she didn’t know if she’d have the gumption, but she did. As she looked at him now she realized he wasn’t perfect, either. A newfound sense of self filled her and she answered him. “If I lost thirty pounds, if I did my hair a certain way, if I did a million things to change myself. If I did things that weren’t me.”

  “Then I was a jackass. I don’t remember behaving so horridly, but if I did, you have my utmost and sincerest apologies. You’ve always been beautiful, Betsy.”

  She eyed him. She was faced with a choice here. She could accept his apology graciously or she could be petulant and hold on to the past. Betsy wanted to be petulant, but she also knew that forgiving him wasn’t about what it did for him. It was about what it would do for her. Maybe his voice in her head telling her that she wasn’t enough would finally be silenced.

  “Thank you.” She turned her attention back to the sidewalk and the path toward her shop and her car.

  “No wonder you didn’t want to come to New York again.”

  “It’s really not that I don’t want to go to New York, but what kind of life do you think I have that I can just drop everything to go to New York on a whim? Or France?”

  “One that you’d find any reason to escape. That’s how you made it sound before.” His tone wasn’t unkind and it made her pause to wonder: Had she?

  She realized she had. His worldliness made her humble small-town roots feel like something to be ashamed of, something to be scrubbed off in the bustle of the city and to be hidden under art, culture and her talent for lavender apricot soufflé.