Page 12 of Summer Rose

“No.”

“Why not? Don’t you think they’d want to know about Mom?”

Victor shrugged. “I’m sure they would.”

Rebecca’s ego felt bruised. As she backed the SUV out of the parking lot, she dared herself to face the truth. She felt the weakest and more accessible of the three Sutton sisters. Hers was the life farthest from the tracks. Therefore, Victor Sutton had come to pluck her up, perhaps as collateral to ensure Esme would see him again.

But with nowhere else to go and nothing else to do, Rebecca could do nothing but keep driving. Hyannis Port was a little more than three hours away.

Chapter Five

It was difficult for Ben Roberts to remember everything that had happened since 9/11. Like every other American, the event had terrified him so much that he’d sat on the couch for what felt like many weeks, holding his new wife, Terry, and wondering how everything in the world had gone so wrong. Unlike many other Americans, Ben had decided to do something about it. He’d dropped out of his college courses and enlisted in the Army with plans to go overseas. Terry had begged him not to go; she’d never signed up to be an Army wife. But Ben had told her he’d finally found his purpose. It wasn’t accounting, and it wasn’t landscape work. It was to fight for his country, just as others had before him.

What happened to Ben happened to thousands upon thousands of other men in Afghanistan and Iraq. Their first tour ripped them apart, either metaphorically or literally. Ben was one of the luckier ones, as his destruction was metaphorical. But when he returned to Terry’s warm embrace, she found he was no longer the Ben she’d once fallen in love with. He hardly slept. He paced the living room, muttering to himself, and looked at her as though she was a stranger. When the Army came crawling back to ask him for another tour, Terry served him divorce papers. She couldn’t do this anymore. She couldn’t wait around as he fought to destroy himself.

Ben completed four tours overseas. His fifth ended with a gunshot wound through the arm. He’d retired with honors and returned to a country he no longer recognized. He’d been overseas too long and given too much of himself to the cause. Maybe there was nothing left to salvage.

It was now nearly twenty-two years after 9/11 and ten years after his last tour. Due to the ever-weaving nature of life and a few lucky breaks, he’d found his way to Nantucket Island, a place prettier than any daydream. What had begun as a temporary vacation had extended for five years at this point. Anyone who asked him why he stayed so long just didn’t get it. It wasn’t like he had anywhere else to go.

Besides, Doug was on Nantucket. Doug was the only person who’d ever needed Ben. And Ben needed Doug just as much, if not more.

About six months into his stay on Nantucket, Ben had spotted a pamphlet. It read “Free Dinner for Veterans @ the Sutton Book Club.” Intrigued, Ben had left his part-time job early that night to shower in his ramshackle apartment and walk over.

Much like many other veterans, Ben had never had a lot of money. He’d never graduated from college, and he had a bad arm. His PTSD could be so debilitating that he had to take weeks off work, which wasn’t easy to explain to employers. On Nantucket, he’d bounced from washing dishes to serving at restaurants to loading the freights that brought food and beverages from the mainland. No matter where he worked, he always stuck out like a sore thumb. He was sunken-eyed and exhausted. His hair was unkempt, and his face, though handsome, seemed to echo the tragedies he’d seen.

On the night of the veterans’ dinner, the Sutton Book Club wasn’t an unknown to Ben. He’d passed the old colonial hundreds of times since his arrival to Nantucket. It was white with pillars, a long porch with a swing, and black shutters, and it demanded respect for reasons beyond its beauty. Ben had just never imagined he’d have an invitation to go in.

That first evening at the Sutton Book Club, Ben walked in the front door to the musty scent of books filling his nostrils. A sense of calm washed over his body as he looked around at the towering walls. Rows upon rows of bookshelves brimmed with the promise of new worlds and knowledge. The colorful array of books bore the titles of non-fiction, classic, and contemporary tales on their spines.

The warm glow of the overhead lamps on each table offered the perfect ambience for reading. The sturdy and smooth tables provided a comfortable surface for

people to rest their books on. As he looked around, he couldn’t help but notice the cozy couches placed strategically around the room, inviting patrons to sit and relax while they read.

As he made his way through the library, he couldn’t help but be drawn to the long sat counter, with an open entrance to the side leading to a mysterious back room. As he passed through the threshold, the scene before him was one of lively chatter and camaraderie. Veterans filled the long rows of tables, each one lost in conversation and reminiscing about their past experiences over steaming cups of coffee. He watched as they all chatted, laughed, and sipped their drinks, their eyes wide and skittish, and their limbs and faces presented a patchwork of scars. It seemed they represented every war, going as far back as World War II. A sense of warmth and community filled the room, so Ben couldn’t help but feel a sense of belonging as he took a seat among them.

Ben had sat across from two other men who’d been in Afghanistan. They seemed chummy. One of them got up to refill his coffee while the other asked where Ben had been stationed. He explained where he’d been and cracked open his can of iced tea. The smell of spices hung heavy in the air, presumably from whatever was cooking in another back room off to the side that he assumed was a kitchen. Ben’s stomach gurgled. It had been a long time since he’d had a good meal.

One of the oldest men Ben had ever seen sat at the far end of the table. His wrinkles folded onto one another, cascading like a waterfall down his face. His shoulders remained wide, and he seemed to have use of his legs, although he fiddled with a cane to the right of his chair. As the guy who’d gotten Ben a beer passed the older man, he patted his shoulder and said, “How’s it hanging, Dougie?”

The older man snarled. “I’ve told you time and again. My name is not Dougie.”

Ben stifled a laugh. Both men who’d gone to Afghanistan exchanged glances as though they couldn’t understand why Doug deserved the respect he demanded. But Ben, who hadn’t felt an ounce of respect since the day he’d signed up to go overseas, saw a soul mate in Doug. All he had to do was find a way to get close to him. All he had to do was show Doug how much he needed a friend.

That night, Ben had learned about the grand history of the Sutton Book Club’s Veterans’ Night. Just as she always did, Esme had told the story of her father, Thomas, who’d served in World War II before his return to Nantucket. At that time, he’d begun to collect books—everything from antiques to paperbacks—and he’d eventually founded the Sutton Book Club. Because he was a veteran and understood the horrors his brethren had faced, he’d begun Veterans’ Night as a way to draw Nantucket veterans together. The support had extended far past his death. Esme spoke of it as a necessity. It was a way to help her father’s tradition live on.

It was now four and a half years since that fateful night. Ben stood in the kitchen of the shoddy house he rented, which was perpetually on the brink of falling apart against the wear and tear of the sea air. Out the window, he could just make out Doug’s knees, where he sat on the front porch and smoked his pipe. For the first year or so after Ben and Doug had become real friends, Ben had asked Doug to quit the pipe. “What good is it doing you?” But now that Doug was ninety-eight years old and still going strong, Ben had decided to stop the nagging. The man could do what he wanted. It was his life. And he’d already done pretty good for himself. After all, not everyone lived to ninety-eight. Not everyone was stubborn enough to.

“How are you feeling?” Ben stepped into the June sunlight on the front porch and leaned against the railing.

Doug pulled the pipe from his lips. “You better not lean on that. It might be the only thing keeping this house standing.”

Ben laughed, then shifted his weight forward. “You want me to make you some tea?” Doug didn’t like to admit how sick he’d been lately. The chilly spring weather had seeped into the house and affected his sleep, resulting in a horrible cough.

“I’m tired of tea,” Doug confessed. “I want a beer.”

Ben saluted him. “You know what? You’re right. It’s five thirty. I’d say that’s beer o’clock.”

Ben collected two Buds from the fridge and returned to the porch, where he sat next to Doug and peered out along the soft sands of a quiet Nantucket beach. The house itself had been passed down from Doug’s father, who’d died more than forty years ago. It wasn’t lost on Ben that Doug’s father had been dead almost as long as Ben had been alive.

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