by Nan Rossiter
6
THE EGGS WERE STILL WARM WHEN GAGE CRACKED THEM ON THE EDGE OF the cast-iron pan his mom had given him. He watched their translucent whites turn opaque, flipped the sizzling popping bacon, and then looked out the kitchen window. Eggith, Eggel, and Eggna, his Rhode Island Red hens, and their faithful protector, Pilgrim, a Plymouth Rock rooster, were all members of a tiny flock that had arrived in a peeping box two years earlier. They were now scratching and pecking the dusty earth along the fence, foraging for insects in the tall grass. He took a sip of coffee and thought about the day ahead. Between working all week and spending most of his free time with Maeve, he rarely had a day to himself, but when Maeve announced she was going shopping and out to lunch with Macey and Harper, he realized he’d finally have some time to catch up on projects around the cabin—and maybe even do a little drawing. He’d meant to get up early, but he’d lazed in bed, stroking the snoring blond head on the pillow next to him, and, feeling his light touch, the lanky yellow Lab had rolled onto his back, exposing the long curve of his belly, and waited expectantly, his front paws hanging in the air like a basketball player who’d just taken a jump shot. Gage had teasingly withdrawn his hand and waited, watching him with a half smile. Finally, Gus had opened one eye and looked over. Well? he seemed to say, and Gage had chuckled. “You’re silly, you know that?” he’d said softly, making the dog’s tail thump the strewn-about sheets.
He turned the eggs and watched the lacey edges turn golden before sliding them onto a plate next to the bacon. He buttered a slice of toast, spread orange marmalade across it, and licked the knife. He rarely had time for breakfast—he was usually gulping coffee as he headed out the door, so today was a luxury. He refilled his mug, pushed aside the pile of mail on the old oak table, and took a bite of toast, savoring the sweet orange rind and sugar of his childhood.
When he was growing up, his mom had spent the long summer days canning and preserving every fruit and vegetable under the sun. Gage pictured her now, and knew—since it was late May—she’d be checking her strawberries for ripeness, and soon, she’d be picking string beans and peas. Then there’d be the endless parade of juicy red tomatoes, so fat they’d be splitting their skins, and the abundance would provide spaghetti sauce all winter. Next in line would be her candy cane and burgundy red beets. In between, she’d preserve all the berries—from the lush raspberries and blackberries that grew wild along the south pasture to the blueberries from the net-covered bushes in the side yard. He and his brothers, when tasked with the job of picking them, would pop more plump berries into their mouths than into their buckets; and then, of course, was the aforementioned—and his favorite—sweet orange marmalade.
Later in the summer, when the cicadas droned in the trees, the unmistakable aroma of apple cider vinegar, sugar, kosher salt, onions, and turmeric would waft from the kitchen windows, filling the boys’ hearts with both expectation and melancholy. They would peer through the screen door and spy their mom’s big white ceramic bowl filled with crushed ice and piled high with thinly sliced onions and cucumbers, and it would suddenly dawn on them that the lazy summer days were waning, and the school bus would soon be rumbling down the dusty road again. Libby Tennyson’s last big day of canning always began in the coolness of an early morning in late August with the harvesting of her bumper crop of cucumbers hanging heavily on the vine, and it would culminate in the hazy heat of late afternoon with dozens of mason jars lined up on the kitchen counter, their metal caps popping like tiny suction cups, making the boys’ mouths water at the thought of their mom’s succulent bread-and-butter pickles—a memory of sunshine, warmth, and buzzing bees they would savor on winter nights when her pot roast had simmered all afternoon.
Libby gave away countless jars of her prize-winning pickles at Christmastime, and Gage always received two in the mail, along with two jars of marmalade, four jars of tomatoes, and a bottle of eggnog. Years ago, she’d enclosed a copy of her pot roast recipe, too, written out in her long, neat handwriting, but Gage had never been able to replicate the tender melt-in-your-mouth dish he’d savored as a boy. You’ll just have to take me to your parents’ sometime so I can have hers, Maeve had teased when he lamented about its lack of tenderness, but Gage had only responded with an unenthusiastic mm-hmm.
He sopped up the last of the egg yolk with the last of his toast, and eyed Gus, who was gazing at him longingly.
“What will it be, sir? Toast or bacon?”
Gus sat up and thumped his tail happily, thankful to be remembered.
“Can you gimme five?”
Immediately, the overgrown puppy slapped Gage’s hand with his saucer-size paw.
“Good boy!” Gage said, tousling his ears and giving him the last of his toast topped with a small piece of bacon.
He wiped his hands and sifted through the mail, making two piles—junk and bills—and then glanced through the pages of the new Cabela’s catalog, surprised to discover they were already promoting their fall line of products. Everyone is always in a rush to start the next season! He tossed the catalog on top of the junk pile—there was nothing he needed—and cleared his dishes.
As he filled the sink with hot, sudsy water, he looked out at the ribbon of river curling along his property and felt oddly thankful—there really was nothing he needed. Before he’d started working for Ben, Gage had been trying to survive as an artist, but the truth of the term starving artist had become a little too real. During the day, he’d spent long hours working at his big oak drawing table—a table that took up half of his tiny studio apartment. When he’d had enough drawings, he’d begun showing his portfolio to several galleries in downtown Savannah, and although the owners had all promised to keep him in mind, he’d never heard back from any of them. Finally, out of desperation, he’d taken a job as a bartender, but every night, he’d come home dead tired and dismayed that his only contribution to the world was helping people get drunk. He’d get back to his apartment well after midnight—which was way past his longtime bedtime of 10:00 P.M.—strip off his clothes, drop them in the hamper, and stand under the hot shower, trying to wash away the stale, sticky scent of alcohol. It had all seemed so pointless—a dead-end job with no future. His dad had been right—art was not a reliable way to make a living, but there was no way he’d ever let him know that. His father’s dismissive words had stung him to his core, and he would never forgive him—especially after everything that happened later.
Before Gage knew it, twelve years had gone by and he had nothing to show for it. The only artwork he’d sold were commissioned pet portraits, a time-consuming endeavor that didn’t pay well. In fact, when he’d started keeping track of the time he put into it, he’d realized he barely made minimum wage. Finally, one morning, after another long night of mixing craft cocktails and pouring craft beers, he’d poured a mug of black coffee, taken a sip, and with bleary eyes, scanned the Help Wanted section of the paper for the millionth time. As per usual, it was filled with ads for restaurant help, trolley and ghost tour drivers, groundskeepers, and hotel staff—the standard industry of a tourist destination, but none of the jobs had appealed to him. God help me if I ever have to narrate a ghost tour! He’d been about to close the paper when a small ad at the bottom of the page had caught his eye: “Small restoration and construction company looking for help. Willing to train the right person.” He’d sipped his coffee, recalling all the fence posts and barn siding he’d repaired as a boy. How hard could it be? he’d thought. He knew how to measure twice, cut once, and swing a hammer, so he wouldn’t need a lot of training. Plus—and this was a big plus—he’d be outdoors! Without giving it another thought, he’d thrown caution to the wind, tapped the number into his phone, cleared his throat, and clicked call. A second later, Ben Samuelson had answered, and the trajectory of his life had changed.
He’d met Ben at the jobsite on a quiet country road outside of Savannah—and they’d instantly hit it off. Ben—desperate for another set of hands—had hired him on the spot.
On his way home, Gage had felt elated at the prospect of never having to bartend again (although he had given two weeks’ notice), and it had been on the drive home across that quiet country road that he’d noticed a Rent to Own sign. He’d slowed, wondering if serendipity—his mom’s favorite word—or her constant prayers for him had taken him down this road because suddenly everything had seemed to be falling into place. He’d been wanting to move out of his tiny apartment for years—he hated living in the city, and now that he’d secured a stable, well-paying job, maybe he could finally afford a place of his own. Curious to see what was hidden at the end of the long driveway, he’d turned in, but it had been so overgrown it was more like a tunnel. The low-hanging branches draped with Spanish moss scraped the sides of his old pickup, but at the very end, the driveway had opened into a bright, sunny meadow filled with daylilies and wildflowers—a slice of heaven—and in the middle of the meadow was what looked like an old hunting cabin.
Two years had passed since that day and so much had changed in his life. He’d moved out of his apartment in downtown Savannah and into the rustic cabin; he’d rescued a little yellow Lab puppy from the local shelter, met Maeve, and fallen in love . . . and although he was sure she was “the one,” there were some things he hadn’t shared with her—memories that haunted him, and memories he didn’t want to talk about. He wished he could forget the past and forgive his father, but his pride stood stubbornly in the way, and the more time passed, the harder it became to tell her about it. He dried his hands on a dish towel and shook his head. Why does life have to be so complicated?
He reached for the pile of junk mail and was just about to throw it in the trash, when he noticed a light blue envelope sticking out of the last page of the Cabela’s catalog. He pulled it out, recognized his mom’s familiar handwriting, and frowned. He’d almost missed a letter from home!
7
“IT ONLY HURTS FOR A SECOND,” MAEVE SAID.
“Will it bleed?” Harper asked, frowning. “Because I’m not good with blood.”
“I’m not good when it’s my own blood, either, but if it bleeds at all, it will only be a little,” Macey replied as they turned onto Abercorn Street.
“Thanks a lot,” Harper said, her voice edged with sarcasm.
“Hey, you’ve been through a lot worse than this,” Maeve consoled, putting her arm around her.
Harper rolled her eyes, knowing Maeve was referring to the heart transplant she’d had the previous winter. “That was different—I was asleep.”
“Well they can’t put you to sleep to pierce your ears,” Macey said. “It’s just a quick pinch.”
“Should we have lunch first?” Maeve asked, hearing her stomach rumble and realizing they weren’t far from her favorite lunch spot.
“Noo,” Harper answered quickly. “I might throw up if I eat first.”
“You’re not going to throw up,” Macey said, shaking her head.
“Sandy did,” Harper countered.
“Sandy who?” Macey asked with a frown.
“Danny’s Sandy—you know, the girl in the movie we watched the other night. She puked in the bathroom when Frenchie tried to pierce her ears.”
“You mean in Grease?” Macey asked, chuckling. “Well, she was drinking wine . . . and that will make you throw up.”
Parenting—on all fronts—was a new adventure for Macey and Ben, and Macey often felt like she was wading into uncharted waters, especially since Harper—who was nine years old when they adopted her, was now ten—the age Parenting Magazine warned was very impressionable. Ever since she’d come to live with them, Macey had had so many questions and worries that she’d started reading every magazine and book she could about raising a well-balanced child. One of her biggest concerns was knowing when to talk to Harper about things like peer pressure and drinking. She also wondered when she should broach the subject of menstruation, knowing she’d get no help from Ben on that one! Macey wasn’t sure what Harper already knew, but—because she worked in a pediatric office—she understood all too well that kids experimented with alcohol and sex at younger ages, and Harper, after spending her early childhood bouncing from one foster home to another, was more streetwise than the average ten-year-old.
“You drink wine and don’t throw up,” Harper pointed out.
“That’s because I don’t drink very much . . . or very often.” Macey shook her head, suddenly wondering if she—since Harper was so perceptive and had obviously been observing her—should give up alcohol completely. She’d been reading about how parents’ habits and behaviors affect children, and she’d realized she had to be more careful about everything she said . . . and did! She also remembered the crazy things she’d done as a teenager, and even though Harper wasn’t a teenager yet, it wouldn’t be long. Heaven help them if she even came close to tempting fate like she and her friends had!
“Whatever you say, Mom,” Harper teased, and Macey smiled. They were both still getting used to Harper’s new moniker for her, and Maeve, knowing how much her sister had been through—wanting more than anything to be a mom and enduring five heartbreaking miscarriages—before becoming Harper’s mom, looked over the little girl’s head with raised eyebrows and smiled at her sister.
“Here we are,” Maeve said, stopping in front of the business that advertised body piercings. Harper sighed. “Maybe we should wait.”
“I thought you were looking forward to this,” Macey said. “You’ve been bugging me for weeks.”
“I know, but I’m not a fan of pain.”
“Don’t worry,” Maeve said. “You’ll be fine. I’ll even go first.”
“You are getting something pierced?” Harper asked.
“Yep. I’m getting a second earring.”
“You are?!”
“Mm-hmm.”
“She’s having a midlife crisis,” Macey teased, eyeing her sister. “Seriously, Maeve, if you want to surprise Gage, you should pierce your belly button.”
“Or your tongue!” Harper chimed. “He’d really be surprised when he kisses you!”
“Why would he be surprised then?” Maeve said, feigning innocence. “I only kiss on the lips.”
“Yeah, right!” Harper said, laughing.
“I don’t know what you mean,” Maeve said, trying not to smile even though Harper’s laugh was contagious.
“Umm . . . remember . . . in the movie? How Frenchie got her name?” Harper asked, trying to regain her composure.
“Because she was good at French?” Maeve asked.
“At French kissing,” Harper said, rolling her eyes and unable to believe her aunt was so naive.
Macey bit her lip, trying not to laugh, too, and eyed her sister. “I told you that movie was a bad idea.”
“Hey, don’t blame me!” Maeve said. “You’re the one who started singing ‘There Are Worse Things I Could Do.’ . . .”
Harper finally regained her composure and straightened up. “I wasn’t born yesterday, you know. I didn’t learn anything new from that movie. I saw Animal House when I was eight.”
“Good Lord!” Macey exclaimed, shaking her head in dismay, and then changed the subject and asked, “Are we going in, or not?”
“We are,” Harper confirmed, pulling open the door.
Macey shook her head, and Maeve laughed, knowing her sister was going to have her hands full.
A half hour later, they were all sitting at a table by the window in Back in the Day Bakery. Maeve and Macey ordered Sunny Day Biscuits—one of the bakery’s signature menu offerings—and Harper opted for a Cinnamon Swirl.
“See? That wasn’t so bad,” Maeve said, taking a sip of coffee.
Harper reached up and touched her new earrings. “It hurt, but it was worth it. How do they look?”
“Ahh-mazing!”
“I can’t wait to wear the second pair we got—the silver and pink ones,” Harper said, grinning.
Macey eyed her. “You have to wear the gold ones for at least a week and you have t
o wash your hands before touching them.”
Harper rolled her eyes and looked at Maeve. “Don’t touch your ear, Aunt Maeve!”
“You don’t want to get an infection,” Macey said, eyeing her sister, too. “Either of you!”
“Got it, Mom,” Maeve said, laughing. “We have our instructions, right, Harp?”
“Yup! Wash your hands. Use rubbing alcohol and ointment twice a day, and gently turn your earrings . . . but only after you wash your hands.”
Now it was Macey’s turn to roll her eyes. “I’m glad you both understand—you really don’t want an infection!”
Just then the waitress brought their orders and Macey took a bite of her biscuit. “So when’s the next convening of The Pepperoni Pizza and Root Beer Book Club?” she asked, brushing the crumbs from her lips.
Maeve raised her eyebrows. “I thought it was tonight . . .”
“I thought so, too,” Harper said. “We have to find out what’s happening in the garden!”
Macey pulled out her phone. “Didn’t you get my text?” She opened her messages and realized she’d never finished sending her most recent text to her sister. “Dang. I forgot to hit send. Well, anyway, Ben’s coming down with a cold—he probably caught one of the many germs I bring home from the office, so I thought we could do it next weekend.”
Maeve nodded, knowing her sister’s job as a physician assistant at Savannah Pediatrics put her in constant contact with sneezing, coughing kids. “Next weekend works for me . . . but won’t you all be getting ready for the picnic?”
“Oh, shoot! Is that next Sunday?!” Macey asked. “Honestly, I’d forget my head if it wasn’t attached!”
“It’s not a big deal, right, Harp? We’ll reconvene in a couple of weeks.”
“It’s fine . . .” Harper said, nodding and thinking about how much she wanted to find out what was happening in the world of Mary, Colin, and Dickon. “Or I could read on my own and we could watch the movie at our next meeting.”
