Return to Glory (Hqn) (17 page)

“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.

“I guess it’s interesting how time can provide a little clarity.”

“You’re right. I think that I expected you to be waiting for me, Betsy. I guess because it always seemed like you were waiting for something. I just assumed you’d wait for me, too.”

She had been, she realized. Whether she was conscious of it or not, she’d always been waiting for Jack. She still was, if she was being totally honest with herself.

Maybe France was what she needed? This kind of opportunity presented itself rarely. Now here it was again, knocking at her door and daring her to reach for it. Caleb said they’d find a way to manage the shop for her. Her father had paid her rent on the place for five years with a bonus he earned on his last trip for the DOD. She didn’t have to worry about the money.

Betsy studied Marcel again for a long moment. She remembered what it was like for him to touch her, how he made her feel. She remembered why she thought she’d loved him. The way he made her laugh, what it was like sharing a kitchen with him. That was something she’d never shared with anyone else—that was why she’d thought she was in love with him. The way their culinary arts meshed together.

His honesty now endeared him to her more than any memories they shared.

“You’ve changed, too.”

“Not so much, I don’t think. A bit more humble, maybe. I thought as soon as I opened my own restaurant, I’d be the toast of the city. I’m struggling to keep the doors open. But I know that once you complete your training, we’d be unbeatable.”

They’d shared a dream of opening a café together once, but now it just seemed hollow.

“That was a long time ago.”

“Not so long, Betsy.”

It seemed like another lifetime to her.

She wanted desperately to change the subject. “Are your bags at Mom’s?”

“Yes.”

After that, they rode in awkward silence to her mother’s house. It was difficult to navigate the maze of one-way streets of downtown with so many sections blocked off for the dance at Haymarket, so she focused on the street, the traffic and everything but the man sitting next to her.

She unlocked the door and asked, “I guess Mom put you in my room?”

“She did, but I was hoping we could talk for a while yet.”

“Betsy, is that you and your young man?” Her mother called.

Her young man? No, her young man was back at the dance. Without her.

This was so surreal, seeing him standing in her mother’s foyer. She’d never imagined what it would be like to bring him home to meet her family.

“I appreciate what you’ve done for me, Marcel, but I should warn you, I’m probably going to say no.”

“Give me some time to try and convince you.”

“I think it would be easier to convince her if you were already in Paris. Can you imagine Paris at Christmas? All the little cafés, and the lights?” her mother said helpfully.

“You told my mother why you’ve come?” she blurted.

He nodded. “I did.”

“I wish you hadn’t.”

“Why? So she won’t tell you to go?”

She sighed and wanted to look anywhere but at the man, and the choice in front of her. Her eyes rested on a bottle of blackberry cordial on the sideboard.

“Mother.”

“What?”

“Not now.” Because blackberry cordial was all about Jack.

“What’s this?” Marcel asked.

“Besides a long story?” Betsy asked. She didn’t want to explain to him. It seemed wrong sharing anything about her and Jack with him.

He laughed. “Okay, then, do you have any short stories?”

Betsy knew he thought he was being funny, but it made her think of Jack. Of the stories they’d made up together that morning at the Corner Pharmacy.
Everything
made her think of Jack.

It hadn’t been like that when she and Marcel broke up. She’d been hurt, but she hadn’t really thought about him very often—unless he was voicing that nasty narrative in her head.

But it seemed she’d made him into the bogeyman. He was nothing like the caricature she’d built of him in her head. Either he’d changed, her perception had or both.

“I’ll get the Rosa Regale instead.” Her mother offered her a smile. “It pairs better with the chocolate torte anyway.”

“Is this Betsy’s chocolate torte?”

“Yes. She keeps my freezer well stocked with goodies.” Lula smiled.

This was so strange to be standing here playing the polite game with Marcel. Maybe the struggle to keep his restaurant open had humbled him.

“Why don’t I go cut the torte?” She used it as an excuse to flee, leaving her mother to carry the burden of the conversation. It was pointless anyway; she wasn’t going back to Paris and that was the end of it.

CHAPTER TWENTY

J
ACK HATED BURPEES
more than poison ivy, and after the scorching case he’d developed on his last campout as an Eagle Scout, that was saying quite a bit. He especially hated them now that he had his prosthesis to deal with. It was much more work.

Squat, palms flat on the floor.

Kick his feet out into push-up position.

Two-count push-up.

Return to squat position.

Jump up.

Rinse, repeat.

His drill instructor told him that burpees had been designed by the devil himself in the deepest pit of hell.

So why was he doing them? To get his body back in optimum shape in hopes that his brain would follow. When it did, then maybe he could start using logic again instead of his heart.

His phone rang, but he ignored it. Jack kept moving through the motions, working his body and pushing it to the brink. Sweat dripped down his forehead, but he didn’t swipe at it. He simply repeated the motions, doing five more burpees today than he’d done the day before.

His phone rang again and didn’t stop ringing. He thought it might be Betsy, that she might be in some kind of trouble. It was Caleb.

“She’s still waiting for you.”

“Will you please mind your own business? I can’t help what she does.”

“My friend and my sister are my business. And I think you can. You need to tell her that she has to go.”

“I did.”

“Not just away from you, but away from Glory, too.”

“What do you mean?” A hard knot of dread twisted in his gut.

“Marcel is here. I know you saw him.”

He’d seen him all right. Jack had despised him on sight.

His teeth were too white, his mustache too thin and his eyes too narrowly set. He reminded Jack of a rodent. His first instinct was to charge over to where they stood and stake his claim.

But he had no claim. Betsy wasn’t his and she never could be. Even so, she sure as hell wasn’t going to be Marcel’s. “Look, if you think I’m going to push her toward that jacka—”

“She has another chance at Paris, Jack.”

The words slammed into him, each one a bullet of larger caliber than the last. Betsy’s dream.
Paris.
Tutelage that could launch her career and give her the way out of Glory that she had always wanted.

“I already broke it off with her. I don’t know what else I can say that would do more than just picking at the wound.” Yes, he did. He knew exactly what he could say to her.

What he didn’t know was if he was strong enough to do it. To watch the light in her eyes dim and finally strip him of that hero’s mantle she’d pinned to his shoulders. Jack thought he didn’t want it, didn’t deserve it, but he didn’t know if he could bear to give it up. It was the only thing he let himself keep—the memory of the way she looked at him. The man he could be, the man she believed he was.

There was the conundrum.

If he did this, if he made her leave, he’d really be all those things she’d painted him as. Only she wouldn’t believe anymore. He’d have finally crushed it out of her. If he didn’t have Betsy as his guidepost— He knew before he finished the thought what his choice would be.

The irony of the whole situation wasn’t lost on him. For his shot at redemption, he had to give up the one thing he cared about.

“I understand.” He’d make her go if he had to haul her kicking and screaming on the plane himself. His whole body ached, but it wasn’t from the burpees.

“I knew you would. If it’s any consolation, I know you’re the right man for her.”

Caleb’s words were worse than bullets. Now they were more like dumping gasoline on a hundred open wounds. They cut, they hurt, but they were like some strange disinfectant, too. He knew it was the right thing.

But he wasn’t doing it because it was the right thing. He was doing it because it was the right thing
for her.

He disconnected the call with Caleb and dialed her number. She answered on the first ring.

“Can we talk?”

“We are talking,” she said, her voice shaky.

“Can I see you?”

Betsy was silent for so long he thought she’d hung up. He’d understand if she did. He kept waiting for her to say that he couldn’t keep doing this to her, dragging her close and then pushing her away. He couldn’t have her but keep her at a distance, too. He knew that. He waited for all of those things, but she said none of them.

Instead, when she finally answered, she said, “When?”

“Twenty minutes. The place by the river.”

“I’ll be there.”

The call disconnected and his hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. Yes, he’d already told her she had to go, but now he had to make her.

Jack thought about the scent of her hair, the feel of her in his arms and the certainty that after today, he’d never know those things again. Even though he’d broken off things between them, he guessed he realized that part of him always expected Betsy to be there.

All along, it hadn’t been her who needed him.

He needed her.

And for her to be happy, he had to stand on his own.

Jack wouldn’t be a coward. He showered and dressed, focusing on the simple act of moving forward, and it got him where he needed to be.

Their special place by the river where they’d said goodbye what seemed a lifetime ago. Jack hated it. He hated that it was special, that it was where they took their pain. The land itself seemed to draw it from them like a sponge, a sin eater’s loaf of bread and salt.

She arrived shortly after he did. When she stepped out of the car, he saw Betsy had brought their blanket, the red-checkered one, and a picnic basket.

“It sounded like you had something important to say, so I thought I’d bring the blanket.” She held it up like some kind of peace offering.

“That’s good, Bets.” He nodded.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” She clutched the blanket against her chest.

“I talked to Caleb.”

“Ah. He told you about Marcel and Paris, didn’t he?” She spread the blanket out and they sat down.

“He did. The question remains, why didn’t you?”

“You said you didn’t want to see me.”

“No, you had to know about it before he came. He wouldn’t just show up. It was that day you said you had a crappy day, wasn’t it? Where you just wanted to hide in bed. Why would you want to hide from that? You always wanted to escape Glory, and this is your opportunity.”

He studied her face, the range of emotion that waxed and waned over her features.

“Because I already failed once, Jack. I almost killed people with my mistake and I lost everything. Why would I deserve another chance?” She flopped on her back and stared up at the sky.

He’d learned her cloud watching was a tool she used to hide from things. If she could see different things in the clouds, she didn’t have to face what was in front of her. She’d done it when she told him she loved him the first time.

“Why do any of us? Why did I? I didn’t almost kill people. I did. I failed, too. Can you really look at me and say you lost more than I did?”

“I didn’t choose to be a SEAL. I didn’t choose to go to war.”

“No one chooses to go to war. We choose to stand up and fight for what’s right, for what we believe in, for the people we love. Sometimes that takes us to war, but no one ever chooses war.”

“Maybe I didn’t lose a leg, but I did lose a piece of myself, Jack.”

“And now you have to go find it. Marcel has given it to you on a platter. Don’t you think if I had the chance to be whole again, I’d take it?”

She didn’t say anything. She put the back of her hand over her mouth and closed her eyes, breathing in deeply as if she was trying to steady herself.

“Don’t piss this away because you’re afraid.”

“I’m not like you, Jack. I
am
afraid. Would you reach for what you wanted if you thought it was just going to be jerked out of your reach at the last second? Or worse, if you thought you’d get close to the gold ring only to throw it away yourself?”

He knew exactly what she meant. He was feeling that very thing. He swallowed hard. “You think I’m not afraid? How convenient for you, and that painted-up image you have of me. Don’t you remember the thunder and lightning, the whiskey so I could bear to sleep? That was rooted in fear and you wouldn’t let me do it, would you? So how can you let yourself? Hiding from what you want is just as destructive. If you don’t go, you’ll always wonder what it would’ve been like if you had.” He held up a hand when she would have spoken. “No, maybe not tomorrow, maybe not even the day after that. But there would come a time when you would be rotten with it.”

“I just can’t, Jack. I can’t go. I don’t want to go. Why can’t anyone accept that? Dreams change. You forget, I’ve been once. It didn’t work out. I was laughed out of Paris. Why would I sign up to endure that again?”

“Because it’s what you want. You’ll never be happy with a small life.”

“My life isn’t small!” she snapped.

“I know that, but do you?”

“Save this Zen finding-yourself crap for your support group.”

He might’ve believed she was angry if her voice hadn’t cracked on the last word. She was hurting. She needed him to do this, needed him to give her a hard push out of the nest.

“You came home, baby bird.” He couldn’t resist brushing his knuckles against her cheek in a forbidden caress—her skin was so very soft. “But now it’s time to spread your wings again.”

“And crash to the ground and be eaten by wild coyote puppies.” She sniffed.

“Why do you think you’re going to crash? Look at everything you’ve done with the shop. Do you know fifty percent of new businesses fail in the first year? You have your own shop. Your own business. You’re making enough money to support yourself and you still give away a lot of your product. The guys at the V.A., even if you never speak to half of them, you’ve made an impact on their lives for the better. And me? You saved my life. You’re magic, Betsy. It’s time to use that power for yourself.”

“Some cultures believe that once you save someone’s life, it belongs to you.”

“If that was true, I’d already have your ass on a plane.”

“Really?”

She looked so wounded. As if she hadn’t heard anything he’d just said except for the part about how he’d get rid of her.

“Yeah, really. Go to Paris.”

“Will you at least let me say goodbye?”

“What do you mean?”

“The last time you touched me, you just walked away from me. I didn’t get to say anything, do anything. You didn’t listen to me at all. Then you were just gone.”

He knew where she was going. She wanted to have some goodbye fu— No. He couldn’t call it that. Not now. There was nothing he’d ever done with her that could be anything so crude as fucking. He made love to her. Even that wasn’t enough to describe what touching her meant to him.

“Betsy—” he began, intending to warn her.

“Let me have this and I’ll go to Paris. I’ll do whatever you want. Just, please. Let me have this one last thing.”

He could see the effort it took for her to speak the words.

“It’s your turn to send me off, but this time I won’t keep your tags, and I won’t demand you come back.”