"You know, buddy, I just got off a ship four hours ago and I'd just like to enjoy my beer." I tuck my dog tags back into my plain T-shirt and lock eyes on the TV. I've heard of men coming home being almost booed out of their hometowns, but those stories are mostly few and far between.
"You should probably find somewhere else to watch TV and drink… You should be ashamed of yourself." This time, one of the other men chimes in as I take another slurp of beer, and while I don’t know him personally, I recognize the face. Probably related to someone I know. He's older, likely the father of someone I graduated with more than a decade ago.
I look up at Alan who's still standing over me like an ogre, glowering with his fists clenched, and I realize he's not joking around. With a gut like that, I could take him easily. But I'm not interested in a fight, nor am I wanting a night in county lockup for a domestic charge.
"What's your problem?" I ask him, and he cracks his knuckles like he's ready to punch me.
His face contorts into a darker scowl, eyes narrowed to slits, and he steps forward. "This whole town's been picking up the slack for you, Jaxon. You got the nerve to come in here like you own the place. Have you even seen your daddy yet?"
The back of my neck burns as I take a few more gulps and finish the beer. The bartender seems to be hiding, head ducked as she dries a glass, and a second man, Lionel Price, comes around the corner from the back. He owns the place, and I'm sure he doesn't want any trouble, either.
"I'm on my way there now. Why?" The amount of self-control it takes not to stand up and put this jerk in his place is incredible. I push the few bills across the bar for a tip and stand, bending to pick up my bag.
"Just get outta here. And if ya don't mind, don't come back. We don't want deserters around here." Alan jerks his chin up at the door as I sling my bag over my shoulder again, realizing my hope for a ride across town to my parents' house isn't going to happen.
I stalk toward the exit, back into the bright light, and stand there for a second feeling pissed off. What right does that man have to judge me for anything in my life? I've sent every spare penny I made home to take care of my parents. He doesn’t know the first thing about me or my family, and if I have to stay stuck in a town with men like him, I'm gonna end up in jail because I have no control over my temper.
My feet carry me one step at a time all the way across town. I spot a few people I recognize and pass all the old haunts, though most of them have had a few upgrades since I lived here last. Including a few new coffee shops and a bakery on the boardwalk, which I'm forced to endure during the peak of spring tourism before it gets too hot.
By the time I get home, the house is locked up and Dad isn't home for the day yet. I rifle around in the flower bed for the hide-a-key, but it's not there. So I let myself into the back yard through the gate and find the kitchen window unlocked. It's not as easy to slip through as it used to be when I was fifteen sneaking in after a late night past curfew, but I manage to do it. But not without knocking about ten beer bottles off the counter to the floor.
When I struggle to my feet and look around, it shocks me. The place stinks like old food and beer, and if I didn’t know better, I'd have said someone died in here and the place had been locked up for months. The smell of rot is awful.
I open the windows immediately and then the back door, dragging my duffel bag in, and the extra light shed on the room only highlights more mess. It was no wonder Alan had been such a dick, chastising me and calling me a deserter. This room alone tells me what I had been wondering for months. My dad is struggling, and by the looks of it, quite badly.
2
EMILY
"Order up!" I hear Leah shout, and I turn from the display counter toward the pass-through window to find the fresh-baked apple pie slice heated and steaming. Everything about this feels perfect and right, and every day this place is open makes me love what I do even more.
"Here you go," I coo, carefully lifting the hot pastry and sliding it across the counter. Mrs. Haverfield grins at it and rubs her hands together before taking the plate.
"Oh, goodness, Emily, this looks so delicious. Are you sure I can't order a few pies for Easter?" The older woman has been begging for the privilege ever since I opened private orders for Thanksgiving last fall. But until I make enough money to warrant hiring extra help, I can't afford to do any private orders, at least not year-round. The holidays were chaotic.
"Sorry, hon, but we just don't have the time…" I grin, winking at her. "But if you find me in the supermarket someday and ask me if I have time to help a friend out, I may just stop by your place and teach you how I do it."
She chuckles and carries her plate away from the counter, letting the next customer step up. It goes like this every day now, a line that stretches to the door and sometimes out onto the boardwalk outside from opening until lunch, and every now and again, the line gets this long around dinnertime.
Business is good. I don’t know why the city is saying we could do this better.
"Welcome to the Carolina Crumb, what can I get for you?" I ask the next woman in line, a younger woman with a baby wrapped to her chest sleeping peacefully. Her eyes flick up to the hand-drawn chalk menu board mounted overhead, and while she studies the menu, I have a gander at the line, where a few more women stand perusing the menu themselves, and one strikingly familiar and devastatingly handsome man stands staring right at me.
My heart leaps into my throat and it's like my brain shuts off for a second as we lock eyes. Jaxon David Cole stands in my bakery smiling at me like a fool while my mind blurs a million miles an hour, shifting through every emotion I think I've felt in the past eight years. Panic pulls at the fringes of my thoughts, and it registers that someone is talking to me but not what they’re saying.
I thought he was dead?
I never kept up with Roger and Chelsie, though I did hear about her getting sick. But Jaxon never came to town when she died and I figured, well… My heart never believed there was even a chance he was still alive. He's been gone for so long. But now he's back?
"Excuse me?" The woman standing in front of me snaps her fingers, and I blink a few times, coming back to myself. "Are you okay?" she asks, offering a concerned expression.
I force a smile and clear my throat. "I'm fine, good… Thanks. What can I get you?"
For the next ten full minutes, I fight to keep my mind from going to a very dark place. These customers need my attention and all my brain wants to do is spiral out of control. Jaxon cannot be home, at least not for good. He's not come back, even for a visit, since he left for his boot camp. Why would he come back now?
My hands shake as I deliver one order after another, and then he's there, right in front of me, drinking me in like a tall glass of water after nearly dying of dehydration, and it does something to my chest I don't like. My heart flutters and my hands sweat, and when he speaks, the butterflies I'm feeling go nuts.
"Emily…"