by Nan Rossiter
“Whatever you’d like,” Macey said.
“Your world-famous deviled eggs and blackberry cobbler are always a hit,” Ben suggested hopefully.
Maeve laughed. “Okay . . . maybe.” She gave them each a hug.
“Thanks for niece-sitting!”
“My pleasure,” she replied and then leaned over to kiss Keeper’s head. “Anytime.”
4
THROUGH A BLUR OF ANGRY TEARS, TALL, SLENDER MASON CALLAHAN gazed up at the pink and coral clouds drifting across the Georgia sky. How could a God who is supposed to be loving let someone so caring endure so much suffering? He walked across the empty hospital parking lot—still steaming and puddled from a passing thunderstorm—unlocked his car, and opened the door, but instead of climbing in, he leaned against it, wiped his eyes with his palms, and waited for the trapped summer heat to drift out.
Mason had bought the old car the previous summer from a man whose family had decided he shouldn’t drive anymore. At the time, Mason had been on the opposite end of the spectrum—he hadn’t even had his license yet, but when he saw the FOR SALE sign propped on the windshield of the ’67 Chevelle, he’d spun his bike around to take a closer look. He’d walked around the classic car, noting—but undeterred by—the rusty rocker panels and chrome bumpers. Not a minute later, an older gentleman emerged from the house and made his way slowly across the lawn with the assistance of a cane, and Mason moved toward him, held out his hand, and shyly introduced himself.
“Bud Hawkins,” the man replied, shaking the offered hand. He was tall and slim, and under the brim of a US Navy hat, his eyes were dark blue. “I knew a Callahan—flew his Wildcat off the deck of our carrier.”
Mason’s eyes lit up. “My grandfather was a pilot during the war,” he said. “His name was Winton Callahan.”
“I never knew this fella’s first name,” Bud said, rubbing his chin, “but I’ll never forget his call sign—Whiplash.” He chuckled. “Probably got it from being catapulted off the deck!”
Mason smiled. “I don’t know what his call sign was.”
Bud nodded and gestured toward the old Chevelle. “She’s a great car,” he said. “N’er gave me a lick o’ trouble. Just routine oil changes and tune-ups I done m’self.”
“How come you’re selling her?” Mason asked, adopting the inferred gender of the old car.
Bud sighed and leaned heavily on his cane. “My wife passed away last year, and she had sorta taken over all our driving. I’ve tried to get back into it, but my family thinks it’s time for me to give it up.” He nodded to the dented bumper. “Too many fender benders.”
“Oh, man, that stinks. I’m sorry about your wife.”
“Yeah, thanks. She was the love of my life—I miss her.” He shook his head. “Now my family thinks I need to move to a nursing home, too. They say it’s so I’ll be closer to them, but I think they’re just tired of driving all the way up here to see me.”
Mason nodded, not knowing what to say.
“Anyway, that’s why I’m sellin’ her. I don’t want them sellin’ her after I’m gone. I want her to go to the right person—someone who’ll appreciate her, and I honestly don’t care what I get. They can’t control everything I do.”
Mason nodded. “What does she have for a motor?”
“Three ninety-six big block,” Bud said, lifting the hood.
“Nice,” Mason murmured, nodding his approval.
Bud watched the boy lean under the hood for a closer inspection and was reminded of himself at the same age.
“Does she run?”
“Oh, yeah, she runs,” Bud said, beaming proudly and pulling the keys from his pocket.
Mason opened the car door, and the pine scent from a tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the cigarette lighter drifted out. He climbed in and looked around. The leather seats were cracked and faded, and the carpeting was worn in spots, especially under the pedals, but the interior was spotless. He slid the key into the ignition, turned it, and the car rumbled to life. “Oh, man,” he whispered.
“Wanna take ’er for a spin?”
Mason hesitated. He knew how to drive, but he only had a learner’s permit. “Sure,” he said. “Just around the block.”
Bud stepped back, and Mason put the car in gear and slowly pulled out of the driveway. The powerful engine was begging him for more gas, but on the quiet street—and without a license—he couldn’t take any chances, so he drove slowly around the block and eased back into the driveway.
“You’re awfully conservative on the gas pedal,” Bud teased.
Mason laughed as he handed the keys back to him. “Wish I could buy her,” he said wistfully. “Maybe someday.”
Bud eyed him. “Why not now?”
“I don’t have enough money—just what I’ve earned landscaping.”
“I haven’t even told you what I’m asking.”
“Well, I’m sure it’s a lot more than what I have.”
“How much is that?”
“A little over three grand.”
“That’s a lot of landscaping.”
“It is, but I’m sure it’s still not enough.”
“I’ll take twenty-five hundred. That’ll leave you enough to register her and fill the tank.”
Mason looked astounded. “She’s gotta be worth a lot more than that!”
“Not in this condition—she needs a ton o’ work.” Bud eyed Mason’s tall, slender frame and short reddish-blond hair, searched his blue-green eyes, and sensed that he’d found a kindred spirit—a young man who was honest and sincere and who appreciated the car’s value. “If you promise you’ll take good care of her . . . and restore her someday, she’s all yours. Besides, if you’re related to Whiplash, I know you’re a good man . . . not to mention it’ll totally annoy my kids,” he added with a mischievous grin, “so you’d be doing me a favor.”
A slow smile crossed Mason’s face and then he held out his hand. “Deal.”
One month later, on the first day of his senior year, Mason had pulled into his newly assigned parking spot and climbed out, the envy of all his buddies.
A month after that, his mom had been diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer and their lives had been turned upside down.
5
AS MAEVE WALKED TO HER JEEP, SHE RECALLED THE FIRST TIME SHE EVER attended Ben’s Croo-Picnic, as he liked to call—and spell—it. He and Macey always invited the guys on his construction crew and their families over for a picnic during the Memorial Day weekend, but Maeve had never paid much attention to it because . . . well, she didn’t work for Ben and she’d never been invited. But two summers ago, Macey—under the guise of needing her help—had invited her, and because she hadn’t had anything else on her calendar (per usual), she’d made deviled eggs and a blackberry cobbler and arrived early to help set up. But if she’d spent more than two seconds thinking about the oddness of the invitation, she would have figured out that her sister was up to something.
That Saturday, after everyone had eaten their fill of hot dogs and hamburgers and summer salads of every variety—from potato to pasta to tossed—and the kids were trying to entice the adults into playing cornhole and volleyball, Maeve suggested they wrap up the salads and put them back in the fridge. Macey responded by looking at her phone and reluctantly agreeing, but when she stood up to help, she spied a man wearing faded jeans, a Kenny Chesney concert T-shirt, and a tattered John Deere hat walking up the driveway with a little yellow Lab puppy traipsing along after him. “OMG, what an icebreaker,” she murmured, and Maeve, who was standing beside her, trying to find the elusive end of the Saran Wrap, followed her gaze and exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness! How cute!”
The man stopped to shake hands with a couple of his coworkers, but the puppy, smelling food, trotted straight to the picnic table, plopped down at Maeve’s feet, and looked up longingly.
“Well, you have that down pat, don’t you?” she said, laughing. She leaned down to stroke his soft head. “You are a cutie!” she wh
ispered. “Do you have a name?”
“It’s not official, but I might call him Gus,” a deep voice drawled.
Maeve stood up with the puppy in her arms, and met the gaze of its owner. “That’s a great name,” she replied, feeling instantly—and oddly—drawn to the man with the roguish scruff on his chin and whose eyes were the color of the pale blue Savannah sky.
“Hey, Gage! Glad you could come,” Macey said, unwittingly interrupting the spark-charged moment her sister and the newcomer were sharing.
“Thanks for the invite,” he replied, pulling his attention away from Maeve’s strikingly Caribbean Sea–blue-green eyes. “Sorry I’m late.” He held out a brown paper bag. “Ben said not to bring anything, but my mom wouldn’t be happy if she knew I showed up to a picnic empty-handed.”
Hearing his concern over what his mom might think, Maeve studied him more closely, trying to discern his age. Late twenties or early thirties . . . maybe?
Macey reached into the bag and pulled out a box of graham crackers, a package of chocolate bars, a bag of Jet-Puffed marshmallows, and a box of sparklers. “Thanks, Gage! This is perfect.”
A slow smile crossed his face. “A picnic isn’t complete without s’mores and sparklers.”
“So true!” She paused and realized her sister was still staring at him. “Gage, this is my sister, Maeve Lindstrom . . . and Maeve, this is Gage Tennyson.” As she said his last name, Macey channeled her sisterly telepathic power, hoping Maeve would make the connection, and then smiled when Maeve raised her eyebrows in recognition. She searched Gage’s eyes, ruddy tan cheeks, short blond hair, and smiled the awestruck smile of someone meeting a celebrity. “Oh, wow! It’s so nice to meet you!”
Gage nodded shyly. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
“Well, well, it’s about damn time,” Ben interrupted, coming up behind them and slapping his newest employee on the back. “I see you met my pain in the ass . . . I mean my sister-in-law,” he teased, winking at Maeve.
“I did,” Gage confirmed with a grin.
“I hope you brought your appetite.”
“I did that, too.”
“Well, come fill a plate. I’ve got the grill all fired up—burger or dog?”
Gage looked at Maeve, still cuddling the puppy. “Want me to take him or are you good?”
“I’m good,” Maeve replied, laughing. “You go ahead and eat.”
Gage glanced at the table—still laden with everything from fried chicken, macaroni salad, potato salad, strawberry Jell-O salad with sour cream and bananas, and baked beans to cupcakes, brownies, and Macey’s famous chocolate chip blondies—and grabbed one of Maeve’s deviled eggs along with an ice-cold beer from the cooler and followed Ben.
Maeve watched him go and then turned to her sister and frowned. They’d only talked about Gage that one time when they’d been having ice cream on the porch, but Maeve had wondered, ever since, when she might meet him. “You didn’t tell me he was going to be here . . .”
Macey shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if he would be.”
“You also didn’t tell me how cute he is—he looks like he could be Brad Pitt’s younger brother.”
“I know, right?” Macey replied with a grin.
“When did you meet him?”
“A couple weeks ago . . . he stopped by right after Ben told us he hired him.”
“Soo . . . is he a Tennessee Tennyson?” Maeve pressed.
“He is indeed and, not only is he a direct descendent, but he’s also second in line to inherit the dairy dynasty.”
“No way!” Maeve said, her eyes growing wide.
“Way,” Macey replied, reaching out to take the puppy. “But Ben says he has no interest in the farm.”
“How come?”
Macey shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t get into it.”
Later that night, after they toasted s’mores and devoured Maeve’s blackberry cobbler topped with Tennessee Tennyson’s signature flavor—Plain Ole Vanilla—lit sparklers, and watched Ben’s stash of bottle rockets scream into the night sky, everyone packed up their weary, marshmallow-sticky kids, thanked Ben and Macey for another wonderful time, and headed home. Everyone, that is, except Maeve and Gage, who were kid-free, and hung around to help clean up. Gage and Ben wiped down the tables and chairs, folded them and put them away, and then cleaned up the games, and Maeve helped Macey carry the food inside and rinse out the bottles and cans. When everything was shipshape, Gage picked up his tuckered-out little yellow Lab—who’d spent all day chasing kids and vacuuming up dropped tidbits, and could now barely hold his head up—took one last cold bottle of beer that Ben offered him, a “roadie,” and said good night. Maeve—who was heading out, too—walked down the driveway with him. As they walked through the darkness toward her Jeep, a haunting sound filled the night air, and Maeve stopped in her tracks. “Is that a wolf?”
“You never heard that before?” Gage asked, undeterred, and continuing to walk.
Maeve hurried to catch up, still listening. “I don’t think so.”
“My brothers and I used to fall asleep to that sound all the time.”
“It sounds so mournful and lonely.”
“It does,” he agreed, setting Gus—his name, after lots of approval, now official—on the seat of his truck. He closed the door, and as he’d twisted the cap off his beer, there’d been another sound.
“Now, I’ve heard that before.”
“Those are loons,” Gage replied. “They have four distinct calls. The first one—the one you thought sounded like a wolf—is the ‘wail.’ The male loon makes it when he’s looking for his mate—he’s saying, ‘Yoo-hoo, where are you?’”
“Nice,” Maeve said, laughing.
Gage took a sip of the beer and grinned. “And the one we just heard is the ‘yodel’—he’s telling everyone it’s his territory.”
“How do you know so much?”
Gage shrugged. “I dunno. Growing up on a farm, I guess, and listenin’ to all the old folklore from my grandparents, especially Dutch—my mom’s dad.”
“You called your grandpa Dutch?”
Gage nodded. “Everyone does. His real name is Henrik Jansen, but when he was a kid, he loved baseball—he was a star pitcher—and all his buddies called him ‘Dutch,’ and it just stuck. He was a great guy—he’d do anything for you. One time, there was this huge barn fire on our neighbor’s farm, and by the time everyone got there, the hayloft was fully engulfed, but Dutch ran straight into that barn and shooed out all the cows and chickens. The barn was a total loss, but not a single animal died.”
“That’s incredible!”
Gage smiled, lost in the memory of his grandad, and then offered her the beer.
She took a sip. “My grandmother was like that. I mean, she didn’t run into a burning building or anything, but she was always willing to help. We called her Grandy.”
Gage nodded. “Is she still alive?”
“No, she died when we were young. How about your grandfather?”
“He’s still alive, but he’s in a nursing home.”
“Do you ever see him?”
“Not recently. My mom says he’s getting pretty forgetful and sometimes he doesn’t remember people.”
“You should go see him. Elderly folks have unexpected moments of clarity—a voice or a song can trigger their memory, and seeing the light of recognition in their eyes—eyes that are usually far-off and lost—is like a gift from heaven.”
“Yeah? How do you know so much?”
She grinned and handed the beer back to him. “Because I studied cognitive impairment in the elderly—dementia, senility, Alzheimer’s. I’m drawn to old people, and I like to stay current on new studies.”
“Where’d you go to college?”
“Emory.”
“Did you grow up in Georgia?”
“I did, but I was born in Maine and lived there till I was in sixth grade, so I have roots in New England.”
He took a sip
of the beer. “Why’d you move down here?”
“My dad got a job offer from Gulfstream that he couldn’t turn down.”
He nodded, offering her the bottle again.
She took a sip. “Did you go to college?”
“Art school.”
“Which one?”
“SCAD.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Sooo, you’re an artist-slash-construction guy?”
“More like a construction guy–slash-failed-artist.”
“What was your major?” she asked, handing the bottle back.
“I didn’t stay long enough to pick a major, but I was leaning toward illustration.”
“How come you didn’t finish?”
“I didn’t have enough money.”
Maeve frowned. “What about your par . . .”
But before she could finish, Gage shook his head. “It’s a long story.”
She nodded and watched him drain the last of the beer. The conversation was over, and she opened the door of her Jeep, but after she climbed in, she looked back at him. “You said loons have four calls. What are the other two?”
Gage smiled. “Well, there’s the hoot,” he said. “It’s not very remarkable—just a little hoot like he’s answering roll call, but the last call is the tremolo. It sounds like this . . .” He cupped his hand around his mouth and the sound that passed through his lips was so realistic that, a moment later, there was a response in the distance.
“Wow, that was really good,” Maeve teased. “I think you’ve attracted a potential mate.”
Gage laughed. “I hope so.”
That had been two years ago, and as Maeve climbed into her Jeep tonight, she heard the haunting tremolo of a loon, and the coincidence made her smile, but the feeling that followed was bittersweet. Gage had attracted a potential mate; they’d started dating soon after and she couldn’t believe how time had flown, but even though they’d grown close, there were still things she hadn’t told him—things that had happened in her past that made her feel ashamed—and she sensed he had his own skeletons. Aside from his grandfather, he never talked about his family, and whenever she asked, he always found a way to change the subject. She stared up at the night sky. Why does life have to be so complicated?
