He missed it, truth be told. The teams.
Retirement wasn’t his decision.
A bullet to the shoulder in Kabul, more serious than the rounds he took in Yemen and the machete wounds in Columbia, hadn’t even sidelined him for long. A severely torn ACL in Syria did him in. Decided his military fate.
Doing the nation’s business snatching terrorists across the globe wasn’t what he missed. Although blowing the door off a supposed safe house and pointing a suppressed weapon up a HVT’s nose was a helluva good time. If that HVT was linked to a cowardly suicide bombing that injured or killed Americans, then capturing and subsequently introducing that gent to Hell was like a trip to Disneyland. Color him the happiest dude on earth.
What he missed was the brotherhood. The camaraderie.
Because, yeah, damn near every guy walking into their first day of BUD/S was sporting a broken heart. They walked off the stage at graduation sporting a shiny gold trident but still nursing that done-wrong grudge.
God help the bad guy at the end of their rifle. It was a jacked-up kind of catharsis. It helped him get over Chloe.
Or so he thought.
She sailed out of Maine Lane this morning on the fresh, honeysuckle-scented breeze, leaving a trail of dust from the gravel driveway behind her, and Jameson wondering why he ever came back.
It was a mistake. He’d clearly never gotten over her. If he had, he would’ve held her feet to the fire.
I was seventeen.
Instead, he let her off the hook with a weak excuse.
Instead, he basically told her he might still love her. After repairing the goddamn door she caused him to break in the first place. The one he owned, and she stole.
That was what a sucker did.
Shaking his head, he parallel parked in one of the many empty spots in front of Maine Hardware, the store shuttered for weeks.
An old-fashioned bell jingled overhead when he entered, using a spare set of keys found in his father’s study. The smell of raw lumber assailed him. Took him back to childhood. When he was too short to reach the front counter but the perfect height for the cash register drawer to bonk him on the forehead when it opened automatically after each sale. Hundreds of times, he was bonked. Never learned.
That might explain his near confession to Chloe this morning. Brain damage. Which also explained why he was here, grabbing a belt sander and a can of wood stain to finish fixing that goddamn door.
The bell jingled again when he closed the door behind him, reminding Jameson of Hell Week. And the temptation of tapping out.
It meant relief. It also meant failure.
“Think you’re gonna ring it?” Easy Lee prodded, a skeptic for good reason. So far, dozens had.
“Fuck, no,” he replied, his confidence on day five of Hell Week no less than day one of BUD/S.
“What makes you so sure?”
“You gotta be worse than the devil to get through Hell.”
“And you think you’re worse?”
“So I’ve been told, sir.” By a blonde beauty who never much liked him. Nor her own daughter.
The wide-planked pine floor creaked as he navigated the store’s aisles, walking toward the far wall by memory and hitting the switches, causing fluorescent light to flood the space.
Surprise washed over him.
He’d expected it to be the same. It wasn’t.
Yes, the clanky bell and creaky floors remained, as did the old tin ceiling. But the child-abusing cash register was gone, replaced with a touchscreen POS system. And the shelves might hold a few months’ worth of dust, but they were new and made of solid metal, not a sagging center or bent corner on them.
And merchandise. There was so much product stacked in neat rows with the labels facing forward, it’d take him months to inventory.
There was a vast assortment of hand tools, lawn and garden materials, paint and painting supplies, and plumbing and electrical options. A modern key-making machine sat in one corner, next to a laminated sign promoting in-store window rescreening and small motor repair.
If the flies had a private entrance to your home or your weed eater needed a tune-up, this was your place. If you needed just about any kind of nut, bolt, or screw under the sun, then we could hook a brother—or sister—up.
It was still an old-fashioned hardware store, for sure. But unlike the last time he was here, when money was tight and sales were scarce, this charm was by design.
Maine Hardware was in business. And once again, that obvious question nagged him.
Where was the money?
The bell over the door suddenly jingled, and Jameson looked that way. “Hey, we’re closed.”
Jesus, couldn’t they see the sign?
A teenage boy appeared, staring at him with awe. “It’s you.”
“Have we met?” Pocketing the keys, Jameson stepped toward him, holding out a hand. “Jameson Maine. I haven’t been in town for a while.”
Shaking his hand, Jameson realized he was older at second glance but barely twenty if he was a day.
“No, I, uh . . . I work for your pops. He told me about you.”
“You worked here?”
“Yeah, work,” he said, noting the distinction between past and current tense. “He talked about you non-stop. You’re like a soldier of fortune. A real American hero.”
“Sailor,” he murmured, the two identities commonly mistaken. “But not of any fortune. And I’m no hero.”
The kid smiled, then grew serious just as fast. “I’m damn sorry about Jonah. He gave me a chance when I thought I wasted all of mine. I owe him. I’ll miss him.”
“Thanks. I will, too.” When the kid all but shuffled his feet, appearing awestruck, Jameson added, “And you are?”
“Oh, geez, I’m sorry. I’m Cade.” He reached out to shake Jameson’s hand, then quickly realized they already did that and scrubbed both palms down his thighs instead. “Cade Pompeo.”
“How’s it going, Cade?” ’Cause he seemed a little shaky. “You okay?”
“Much better now, sir.” He blew out a relieved breath, glancing out the front window. “I’m glad you’ve finally opened up the store. We’ve been waiting.”
“Waiting for what?” But he already knew.
Poor kid thought they were ready to do business.
Pointing to an older model truck parked behind his, a striking difference in eras, Cade smiled. “We were coming back from lunch at her parents’ house and just happened to catch you here. Lucky break. I’m a little embarrassed to say it, but I need to get back to work. Missing those paychecks has been tough, I’m not gonna lie.”
“How long have you worked here?”
Jameson wasn’t aware of any employees. Whenever his dad visited, he closed the store, dismissing any concern over the loss of income.
“Oh, about eighteen months, I guess. If you count the time the store’s been closed.”
Based on that, he was hired just after Jonah’s last visit to Florida.
Movement on the sidewalk caught his attention. Cade’s, too, as the girl sitting in the passenger seat of his rusty truck got out, then unbuckled a baby from a car seat in the center of the cab.
She gave them a weary look as she paced the sidewalk while bouncing a fussy, sweating baby, her face lined with worry as she glanced between the child and the hardware store.