The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club (13 page)

Finally Lacy turned to look at him and said in a whisper, “Does it happen often?”

He didn't pretend to misunderstand her, but he wasn't sure how to answer her question. How many times did it take to make a pattern? How often qualified as often? One flashback was too many for him. He settled for a shrug.

“Do you want to talk about it?” she asked.

“No.”

Birdsong erupted in the woods. A breeze set the trees whispering to each other. Now that Jake was warming up, he felt a little drowsy. He closed his eyes, letting the tension leach out of his body. At least Lacy hadn't run away from him screaming her head off.

“If you won't talk to me, are you at least talking to
somebody
about it?” she asked after a few minutes. “A doctor? A therapist?”

“No,” he said wearily. “Are you seeing a financial adviser to help you get back on your feet after your trouble in Boston?”

“Touché.” She stood, pulling the quilt tight around her wet jeans and T-shirt. “I guess you should take me home now.”

“We haven't had lunch yet. It won't take long to grill those steaks,” he offered, though part of him was relieved that she was ready to call it quits and declare this date officially dead.

“I'm not really hungry. Besides, I didn't bring a change of clothes. You may look good in your dad's old things, but I'd be swimming in them.”

She thought he looked good. It was all he heard and he hugged it close. Not that Jake was vain or anything, but he'd been considered attractive for most of his life. It was hard to accept that women might not find him so now. Lacy was one of the only ones who still did. She'd even seemed to forget about his leg.

For a while, he had, too.

One corner of his mouth lifted as he rose and headed toward his pickup. He helped her into the cab of the truck. Then he came around to the driver's side as quickly as a man with two good legs. He hauled himself in and revved the engine to life. She still had kind things to say to him. It was more than he'd dared hope.

But then hope faded as they passed the trip back to town in uncomfortable silence. After he pulled into the small parking lot behind her building, he started to get out to walk her up to her door, but she stopped him.

“Really, there's no need, Jake. It's a flight of stairs you shouldn't have to climb. We can say good-bye here.”

Good-bye.
That sounded final. But then she didn't open her door to get out.

“Something on your mind?”

She glanced at him. “Promise you won't be mad?”

“Lacy, I wasn't mad at you before. I was mad at myself because . . . I wasn't myself.” The words he'd bottled up came tumbling out now. “I'm sorry I scared you, but I'm even sorrier that I . . . hurt you.”

“I'll heal.” A hand went to her upper arm. The red marks had faded. Perhaps she wouldn't bruise after all. “And you'll heal, too, Jake. But you can't do it alone. You need help. You need to talk to somebody about this. If not to a doctor, what about your pastor? Or another veteran?”

It would mean admitting he had a problem. Admitting he was weak. The only way he kept going was by telling himself he was still a marine. Still strong. Still dangerous. He could take whatever the world dished out and throw it back at the buggers.

But if his own mind was doing the dishing, where did that leave him?

Because she looked so concerned, he mumbled, “I'll think about it.”

“Good.” She hopped out of the truck, shut the door behind her, and then leaned on the open window. “Next Thursday, bring that chair we're redoing for your mom over to my dad's garage. We can work on it there.”

Just like that. As if nothing had happened. He wished he could have pulled her back into the truck and kissed her. But after the way he'd manhandled her when he was in the middle of that flashback, he decided he'd better go slow.

“And maybe by next Thursday you'll have figured out who you want to talk to about . . . things,” she said with a hopeful smile.

“Is that a requirement for us to spend next Thursday together?”

Her smile grew brittle. “Yes.”

Jake swallowed hard. He didn't want to talk to anyone about it. He just wanted the flashbacks to go away without having to rehash it all. When he'd shipped out in that med-vac copter, he was only skimming the surface of consciousness. He'd come to for a moment as the ground sank beneath him and he'd closed the door to Afghanistan in his mind. Now his time in Helmand province kept breaking through around the cracks, but talking to someone about it meant he'd have to pry open the door completely.

He badly wanted not to have to ask for help. But he wanted just as badly not to mess up this chance to be with Lacy.

“All right.” If spilling his guts to somebody was the price of admission, he'd do it. “Since you want me to, I'll find someone to talk to.”

“Thank you, Jake. But I hope you'll do it for you, not for me.”

“OK.” Why kid himself? He was doing it for her. “Then once we finish the chair for Mom, you'll have to come back out to the lake house so we can show it to her together.”

His family was planning a start-of-the-season cookout in a few weeks. If he brought Lacy, it would get his family off his back about finding a girlfriend.

“After what I did to your dad's boat, are you sure you want me at the lake house?”

He wanted her all right. Anywhere he could have her. That was the one thing he was sure of.

“It'll be OK.” He flashed his best smile and, wonder of wonders, she returned it. “If they can raise the
Titanic,
I ought to be able to figure out how to raise a rowboat.”

 

—Ethel Ringwald, waitress at the Green Apple Grill

 

 

 

“I
saw that movie back when I was in Boston, but my attitude was pretty bad then. I was hoping that had colored how the story hit me.” Lacy and Heather Walker came out of the Regal Theater and headed toward their building across the street on the Square. “Unfortunately, my attitude wasn't the problem. The movie hasn't improved with time.”

“I know what you mean,” Heather said. “All rom-coms follow the same tired formula. The couple starts out hating each other with a purple passion. They're at loggerheads for the entire movie, and then when all seems lost, they suddenly discover they can't live without each other.”

“Right? Why can't they make a movie where the couple starts out as friends or at least able to tolerate each other? Instant hate that changes to eternal love in ninety minutes or less is a little hard to swallow.”

“Yeah, but we can't help hoping, can we?” Heather grinned as they turned down the alley that led to the iron staircase and deck they shared.

“So I'm guessing you're not seeing anybody,” Lacy said.

Heather shook her head as they climbed the stairs. “I work such weird hours at the hospital, it's hard to meet someone.”

“No workplace romance, then?” Lacy said. Heather was an RN in the emergency room at Coldwater General. “In my mom's soaps, hospitals are always hotbeds of romantic intrigue.”

“I make it a point never to date a patient. All the doctors are either married or hopelessly old or both. And the only male nurse is sweet, but he's gay. There's a cute EMT who comes in sometimes, but he's always out again before I can shake free of the emergency he brings us.”

“Too bad,” Lacy said as they continued to climb. “How did you come to rent from Mrs. Paderewski? I thought your family owns most of the buildings ringing the Square.”

“They do. Pretty much all of them except this one that belongs to Mrs. P. Oh! And the one that houses the Green Apple. Jacob Tyler owns that,” Heather said. “My folks have renovated most of the second stories around the Square into residential apartments, though I think a couple of college kids use the one over the ice-cream shop as office space. They're trying to put together an IT start-up. At least that's what my dad hopes they're doing. They keep the shades drawn so he's not really sure.”

“What else might they be up to?”

“Meth lab, online porn site, who knows? There's no end to my dad's ability to think the worst of people.”

“Well, why didn't you rent that place from your folks instead of Mrs. P's unit? It would've spared them the agony of wondering what's happening behind the drawn shades.”

“And why didn't you move back in with your parents?” Heather said with a roll of her eyes.

“Point taken.” When they reached the top of the stairs, Lacy said, “I'd ask you in for a drink, but I can't vouch for your safety. My cat isn't very sociable.”

“Is it your cat or did Mrs. P stick you with one of hers?”

“One of hers? She said Effie was left by the previous tenant.”

“Naw, that's just her way of finding a home for one of her rescue cats,” Heather said. “She bullies new renters into taking one and then charges them pet rent for the privilege.”

Lacy huffed indignantly. “You might have warned me. Did she get you to take one, too?”

Heather shook her head. “I told her I had a goldfish so I couldn't have a cat.”

“Wish I'd thought of that. Did you have a fish?”

“I do now,” Heather said with a grin. “Come on in and I'll introduce you to Errol Finn. If you don't want sangria, I've got some decaf or herbal tea.”

“Tea would be great,” Lacy said as she followed Heather into her place. “Well, this is cute.”

Heather's apartment was the mirror image of Lacy's. Her tastes ran more to shabby chic than the spare clean lines Lacy favored, but the place was neat and well pulled together. It was as restful as Heather's company, and Lacy needed restful after the time she'd spent with Jacob at the lake that afternoon.

“And here's Errol.” Heather waved a hand toward the small bowl on the end of her kitchen counter. A little goldfish swam in slow circles around the perimeter.

“Bet he's a lot less trouble than Effie. I hope she's a good mouser.”

Heather's eyes widened in alarm. “You have mice?”

“No, but I just keep hoping the cat has at least one redeeming quality. I never met a more aloof, more . . .
entitled
creature in my life—and bear in mind I've worked with the upper crust of Boston!” Lacy said. “The only good thing Effie has ever done is rub on Jake's prosthetic leg as if it were a real one.”

“At least the cat has good taste in men. Jacob Tyler. Now that's a topic I was hoping would come up. I heard you two were going out,” Heather said as she put on the kettle. “Spill.”

“Word travels fast around here. Even if it isn't on the Methodist prayer chain.” Lacy sat on one of the two bar stools at Heather's counter. “But I wouldn't say Jake and I are going out. More like just spending time together. As friends.”

Heather cast a skeptical glance her way and plucked a couple of mint tea bags from the tin. “Can any girl really be ‘just friends' with Jake Tyler?”

“She can if she's trying not to get her heart broken. You know how he is.”

“How he
was,
” Heather corrected. “He's changed since we were in high school. And I don't mean just his leg, though I'm sure that'll do a number on any guy.”

“I really don't want to talk about him.” If Lacy did, it would feel like a betrayal. In the short time they'd spent together, she'd discovered a number of his secrets. She didn't want to let one slip.

“Okay.” Heather switched topics and asked about her new job at the
Gazette
. Then when that subject dried up, Heather steered the conversation to Lacy's old job in Boston.

She seriously didn't want to talk about that either. “So, Heather, since you're a nurse, maybe you can help me. I'm thinking about doing a piece for the
Gazette
about PTSD.” She was thinking no such thing, but it was a safer subject than Boston or Jake. “What can you tell me about the disorder?”

Heather cocked her head to one side as if scenting a deception, yet not quite able to decide what it might be. “Well, some experts describe PTSD as a natural reaction to an unnatural circumstance.”

“What do you mean?”

“PTSD happens when a person has been subjected to a traumatic event. Something really out of the ordinary. An assault, a terrible accident, something life-threatening.” The kettle sang out so Heather removed it from the burner. She filled their cups and dunked both teabags. “Statistically, women are more likely than men to experience PTSD.”

“Oh? That's news. I always thought of it as an issue for the military.”

“Well, that's true,” Heather said. “It's definitely a problem for the armed services and has been since they called it ‘shell shock' back in World War One. They described soldiers returning from the trenches as having a ‘thousand-yard stare.'”

Lacy lifted her teabag and dunked it again. A minty aroma rose from the cup. A thousand-yard stare? While Jake was having that flashback, his eyes had been wild, but he didn't stare like that all the time. “How can you tell if someone has PTSD?”

“A doctor needs to make that diagnosis, but there are some strong indicators anyone can observe.”

“Like flashbacks?”

“Yes, and nightmares. A change in personality. They become detached from the people they used to care about. Their symptoms start to interfere with work.”

Jake was still involved with his family and he was the life's blood of the Green Apple. But while he and Lacy were together at the lake, he'd definitely had an episode when he didn't seem to know where he was or whom he was with.

“Shouldn't you be taking notes if this is for a piece in the paper?” Heather asked.

“Probably. But right now I'm just gathering a little background info. If I quote you, I'll run it by you before it goes to print.”

Heather shrugged her assent. “Do you like honey in your tea?” she asked as she took a jar down from the shelf and spooned some into hers.

“No, I learned to drink it straight up. It's easier.” And cheaper. In the early days when she was trying to get her business off the ground, she had economized any way she could. Lacy took a small sip so as not to burn her tongue.

She wondered how long it had been since Jake had lost his leg. He was home before his dad passed last year, so the blast that took his leg had happened before that. Since she was in charge of the “Ago” columns at the paper, no one would think it strange if she dug into the archives for that info. Surely there had been a piece about Jake's return home.

“You say PTSD is triggered by trauma. Do people show symptoms right away after the event?”

“Usually within a month. But not always. Sometimes it takes years to show up.”

“Is it curable?” Lacy asked.

“It's treatable, which isn't quite the same thing. Sometimes, the symptoms go away completely the farther you get from the event,” Heather said. “Then in other cases, the best you can hope is that symptoms become less pronounced over time. It's sort of like diabetics who monitor their blood sugar to help control the disease. Someone with PTSD can learn to live with it and keep away from triggers that launch an episode.”

Lacy wondered what about being at the lake had triggered Jake's flashback. “But what if it's not treated?”

“PTSD can lead to depression, which is a lot more serious than people think. It's much more than just feeling blue,” Heather said. “Then if patients self-medicate their depression with drugs or alcohol, it can end in addiction. And often in homelessness.”

“Do you suppose that's what happened to Lester Scott?” He'd been homeless since he'd left Daniel's mother a few weeks before Lacy's graduation. Back when she was dating Daniel that summer, he hadn't been one to talk about what had happened with his father. But she'd made some pretty good guesses. No one should need to go to the emergency room as often as his mother had. And Daniel had his own share of unexplained bruises and broken bones over the years, too, until Lester limped out of their lives.

With a shiner and a cast of his own.

Lacy hadn't had much sympathy for the homeless vet. But now she wondered if he was a victim of PTSD, too.

“Oh! So this is about Lester,” Heather said with obvious relief. “For a minute, I was afraid you were worried about Jake. He sure seems like he's adjusted well enough, but I thought maybe you knew something I didn't. Come on into the living room and let's get comfy.”

Lacy carried her warm cup into the next room and settled in a corner of the over-stuffed sofa. She missed Shannon so, but Heather was quickly filling up that empty friend space. They'd taken different sorts of classes in high school—Lacy gravitating toward the arts and Heather eating up as much math and science as she could—so they really hadn't known each other well then. Now it felt wonderful to be able to relax with someone who was smart, perceptive, and not overwhelmed by drama of her own.

Lacy was determined not to burden Heather with any of hers. She knew in her head that was what friends were for, but it was still hard for her to let anyone into her private space.

“Say, I've got an idea for an article for the paper.” Heather took the opposite corner of the couch. She set her teacup on the end table, kicked off her shoes, and pulled her feet up, crossing her ankles yoga style. “How about doing a piece on the Coldwater Warm Hearts Club?”

“The what?”

“The Coldwater Warm Hearts Club. That's what we call ourselves, though it's really not so much a club as, well, just a group of friends who meet for breakfast at the Green Apple. Tuesday mornings at seven-thirty. I'm just getting off my shift then, but it's before work or school for the rest of the gang.”

Lacy set her cup down, too. “What do you meet about?”

“About how to help other people.”

“Oh. It's another service club.” Wanda Cruikshank had already assigned Lacy a piece on the Rotarians and their upcoming spaghetti dinner to raise funds for school supplies in Guatemala. Then just to make it fair, over the next few weeks, Lacy would have to do articles on the Lions Club, the Benevolent and Protective Order of Elks, and the PEO.

“Yeah, I suppose you could call us a service club, but we're not all that organized about it,” Heather said. “We're different in another way, too.”

“How's that?”

“Well, we do good like the members of those other organizations, but unlike them, we have an ulterior motive.”

“Oh, my.” Lacy sat up straight, intrigued. “That sounds slightly sinister.”

“Not really. It has to do with the whole karmic, sowing and reaping thing. That's the reason we do good, you see,” Heather said. “All the members of the Coldwater Warm Hearts Club have things in our pasts we're trying to work through. In my case, it's survivor guilt.”