by Nan Rossiter
“I can make room,” Macey assured her sister, moving the hamburgers and hot dogs to the bottom shelf and then rearranging several bowls of salad. “See?” she said proudly. “Plenty of room!”
Maeve shook her head. “Are you letting anyone else bring stuff, or are you like Mom and have to make everything yourself?”
“I let people bring stuff,” Macey said innocently, biting her lip and trying to suppress a smile. She knew all too well what her sister meant—their mom, Ruth Lindstrom, was famous for making too much food . . . and doing it all herself! Her daughters considered themselves lucky if she ever assigned a dish for them to bring.
Maeve eyed her sister. “You’re turning into Mom.”
“I am not.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Mom is much more set in her ways . . . and I let you bring stuff.”
“You did, but when I asked you if you needed anything else, you turned me down.”
“Oh, stop! I’m letting you help now,” Macey countered, “and I’m not like Mom.”
“Mm-hmm,” Maeve replied.
“Anyway,” Macey said, putting an onion on the cutting board and changing the subject, “if you don’t want to cry, it helps to leave the root attached.” She showed her sister how to quickly and systematically slice an onion without having to chop it.
“How’d you learn how to do that? Because that’s definitely not how Mom does it—she just chops and cries.”
“From Gordon Ramsay,” Macey said, handing her sister the knife and then watching her wield it toward the second onion and her fingers. “Don’t cut yourself,” she warned. “I don’t have time to take you to the ER!”
“I won’t, Mom,” Maeve said, rolling her eyes.
Finally, confident her sister had Onion Chopping 101 under control, Macey started on the peppers. “Sooo . . . when are you moving?”
“Well, my lease is up at the end of the month—which is this week, so this week.”
“You don’t sound very excited,” Macey said, looking up.
“I’m excited.”
“Really? It’s a little hard to tell,” Macey said, eyeing her. She hesitated, uncertain if she should ask what she was thinking. “Do you wish he’d proposed instead of asking you to move in?”
“I don’t know,” Maeve said with a sigh. “I wish he’d open up a little more about his family. The other day he told me this great story about a cat he had when he was little, and the cat—who already had kittens—adopted a baby bunny.”
“No way!” Macey said in surprise.
“I know, crazy, right?” Maeve replied, smiling, “I love hearing stories like that—from when he was younger. It makes me feel closer to him, but he so rarely opens up. He never talks about why he doesn’t go home—even around the holidays—and, Mace, even if he did ask me to marry him, I don’t know what I’d say. I love him like crazy, but I want to know what happened. I have a feeling it has something to do with his dad because I’m pretty sure he talks to his mom. At the same time, there’re some things that I—” But before she could finish her sentence, there was a commotion on the back porch. Macey looked out, and saw Keeper and Gus—sporting his new bandanna—greeting each other, nose to nose, tails wagging, and then Gus bounded off the porch and raced across the yard with Keeper hopping after him.
“Hey, Gage!” Macey said, holding open the screen door.
“Hey, Mace. Hope you don’t mind me bringing Gus.”
“Are you kidding?! We love Gus—he’s the reason we invite you,” she teased, giving him a kiss on the cheek.
“Ha ha. I figured.” He smiled and held out a paper bag containing his usual contribution—sparklers and the ingredients for s’mores.
“Thank you, my dear! Your sweetheart is over there trying not to cry as she chops onions.”
He smiled at Maeve and then turned back to Macey. “I brought beer and ice, too,” he said, gesturing over his shoulder. “Is Ben around?”
“He was just outside with Harper, setting up,” Macey said, looking past him into the yard. “Maybe they went down to the river.”
Gage nodded. “Well, if the cooler’s around, I’ll just fill it.”
“Hmm . . . it might be in the basement.”
“I can go down and get it.”
“No, no, you don’t want to go down there,” Macey said, laughing. “We might never hear from you again.”
“Oh, it can’t be any worse than my parents’ basement,” he said.
“Oh, it can!” Macey said, heading for the basement door, and as she passed her sister, she raised her eyebrows—Gage had, without provocation, mentioned his parents!
“Hey,” he said, walking over to give Maeve a kiss.
“Hey back,” she said, smiling.
He eyed the onion. “No tears?”
“Nope,” she said. “Turns out, it’s all in the way you cut it. Who knew?” She nodded to the box of doughnuts on the counter. “Help yourself.”
“Ooh,” he said. “Thanks!”
Just then, Harper charged into the kitchen. “Uncle Gage!” she shouted, almost bowling him over.
“Hey, Harp,” he said, hugging her back.
Maeve looked over and smiled. When Macey and Ben had first adopted Harper, she’d looked around the dinner table, trying out all the monikers for her new family members, including calling Gage uncle. When Maeve had tried to explain—without going into great detail—that Gage wouldn’t really be her uncle, he had interrupted her and said that Harper could absolutely call him Uncle Gage if she wanted to, and the name had stuck. It had turned out to be fitting because Gage—who loved to play games and never turned Harper down when she challenged him to checkers—was the perfect uncle. Anytime they had a family gathering or summer picnic, he was the biggest kid there and always rounded up all the other kids to play Wiffle ball, or volleyball, or badminton, or cornhole. There was no trying to entice Gage into a game—he was their ringleader!
“I’ll beat ya in cornhole, Uncle Gage,” Harper said.
“Cornhole?!” Gage said. “Don’t you know I’m the cornhole champion?”
“You are not!” Harper said, laughing.
“I am!” He looked to Maeve for confirmation. “Maeve, tell her.”
Harper looked at her aunt, and even when Maeve raised her eyebrows and nodded, she wasn’t convinced. “I don’t believe her, either!”
“Game on!” Gage teased, grinning.
“All right!” Harper said, heading for the door, but just as she reached it, they heard a clunk, and Macey pushed open the basement door carrying a big cooler with a metal tub on top.
“I would’ve brought that up, you know,” Gage said, taking them from her, and then looking at Harper. “We have to finish setting up first.”
“Okay,” Harper said.
They disappeared outside to put the drinks on ice, and Macey turned to her sister. “Gage is such a great guy, Maeve. I’m sure you two will eventually work through this.”
Maeve nodded, but Macey was still eyeing her. “Is there something else?” she asked, but Maeve just shook her head and kept slicing the onion. If the tears stinging her eyes accidently spilled down her cheeks, at least she had an excuse.
12
PERSPIRATION TRICKLED DOWN MASON’S BACK AS HE STOOD IN LINE, waiting for rehearsal to begin. Graduation was still two days away, but the excitement in the gym was palpable. Finals were over, grades were posted, summer vacations and college orientations loomed for many of the students, and all the yearbooks—which had been handed out that morning—were, at that very moment, being inscribed with well-wishes, reminiscences, and the bittersweet sentiments of reaching the long-sought milestone and the end of an era. All the yearbooks, that is, except Mason’s. Mason had decided to spare his friends the awkward task of trying to write something that was both upbeat and sympathetic. After all, he thought, How do you wish good luck to someone whose mom is dying?
He brushed the perspiration from his cheek and wished it
was over. If it wasn’t for his mom’s tenacious determination to see him walk across the stage, he would’ve happily spent the day working; even spreading mulch would be better than watching her struggle. He’d tried to tell her it wasn’t a big deal—he could arrange to have his diploma mailed or presented to him in her hospital room, and he’d even wear his cap and gown—but she wouldn’t hear of it. My son is class salutatorian, she’d said, and although he knew how much she wanted to be there . . . and be a normal, happy, proud, cheering mom, he also knew how much watching her expend every ounce of energy she had to be there was going to shatter him.
“Hey, Mase,” a voice called.
He turned and saw Ali walking toward him. “Hey,” he replied, mustering a half smile.
“Where’s your yearbook?” she asked, eyeing his empty hands.
“In my locker.”
“How are people going to sign it there?”
“They don’t need to sign it.”
“Umm, yes, they do . . . I do.”
“You can sign it anytime. It doesn’t have to be here.”
She sighed and looked around the gym. “When are they gonna get this show on the road?”
“I don’t know, but if it isn’t soon, I’m leaving.”
“You can’t walk if you miss rehearsal.”
“Fine with me,” he said, knowing the rules for walking across stage included attending rehearsal. “I’d rather be working.”
“Are you goin’ to the party at the lake after graduation?”
“I guess so,” he said. “I was gonna skip it, but I made the mistake of telling my mom about it.”
Ali grinned. “I love the way your mom is still in charge.”
Mason smiled. “She will always be in charge.”
Just then the high school band began to play the traditional entrance music and Ali raised her eyebrows. “I guess I better get back to my spot. Meet me after?”
He nodded and watched her go, and as he did, he thought about her comment. Being in charge was definitely in his mom’s DNA, and it paired well with her indomitable can-do spirit. Laurie Callahan had grown up in the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Slender and petite and every bit a tomboy with short brown hair and kind hazel eyes, Laurie was the only child of Winton, an air force pilot, and Lena, a schoolteacher who filled their home with books. When Laurie hadn’t been reading—one of the much-loved pastimes she’d passed on to her son—she and her mom had baked pies—half of which they gave away. She’d also spent most Sunday afternoons hiking with her dad in the sun-dappled Chattahoochee Forest or fishing in the crystal-clear Ellijay or Coosawattee Rivers. She was a nature lover and a book lover and, living in the “Apple Capital of Georgia,” she could also bake a mean apple pie. When it came time for college, Laurie had applied to one school—nearby Chattahoochee Technical College—to which she could commute from home, and from where she earned her degree in nursing. She had been a devoted daughter who put her life on hold when her parents could no longer care for themselves, and she was by their sides when, in their nineties, they passed away within days of each other. Soon after, however, she’d been back working in the maternity ward at the hospital—a job she loved so much she’d often gone in on her day off to “cuddle” the preemies in the NICU.
Mason closed his eyes, remembering her enthusiasm for the program. She would pick him up at school after volunteering—something she did in addition to working at the hospital—and tell him all about it. “The baby was so little, Mase, you wouldn’t believe it, but he was perfect in every way—just like you. His whole little hand barely wrapped around the tip of my finger.”
Six years old at the time, Mason had listened in wonder, trying to imagine a baby’s ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. “Did you sing that song to him that you always sing to me?”
“‘Someone to Watch over Me’?” she’d asked, and he’d nodded.
“I did,” she’d said, laughing and tousling his hair.
“I’m going to be a cuddler someday,” he’d announced proudly, looking out the window. Then he’d looked back at her. “How old do I have to be?”
“You have to be eighteen, and you should definitely do it because it’s so amazing. You would make a wonderful cuddler!”
“Okay,” he’d said, beaming. “I’m gonna do it, Mom . . . just like you!”
Suddenly, Mason felt a nudge. “Mase, you going?” Joe Cameron asked, and Mason opened his eyes and realized his line had begun moving. He nodded and took a step forward, still lost in the memory of the conversation he’d had with his mom when he was little, amazed that he’d forgotten it, but even more amazed that he’d remembered it today, the day before he turned eighteen.
13
MAEVE SWEPT UP THE DIRT THAT HAD SPILLED WHEN SHE WAS PUTTING her plants into the last box. She’d already cleaned the bathroom and kitchen, and Gage had just left with the last load in his pickup. She couldn’t believe how much stuff she had accumulated while living in the apartment! So much, in fact, they’d had to rent a storage unit. It seemed like they had two of everything—two beds, two couches, two kitchen tables, and two—or three!—of everything else. From TVs and toasters to pots and pans and coffee makers, they took the best of each and put the second—or third—item in storage.
Now the apartment she’d lived in—and loved living in—for the last ten years was empty. She looked around at the bare walls and hardwood floors and remembered how excited she’d been when she first moved in. Finding such a lovely apartment in the upstairs of a downtown Savannah home had been a stroke of good luck, and the price had been a steal. Her parents had tried to convince her to move back home after college, but she’d been determined to spread her wings, and she’d loved making the apartment her own. She’d loved the dark mahogany trim and the ancient tile fireplace—over which she’d hung a long bayberry garland every Christmas—and she’d loved the big windows.
She sighed and shook her head, and then finished sweeping the dirt into a dustpan. She dumped it into the trash bag, set the dustpan and broom next to it, and went into the kitchen to rinse her hands. As she dried them on her jeans—because Gage had thrown the last roll of paper towels in a box—she realized he’d forgotten to take the plants. She carried them into the living room and set them on the floor next to the trash, and then walked through the rooms one more time. She had to admit she was excited about moving in with Gage, but she was also a bit nervous. It was a big step, and even though she loved his cozy cabin, she was going to miss her sunny old-fashioned kitchen, and her independence. Life goes on, she thought with a sigh and a wistful smile, and maybe this is the next step toward making a lifetime commitment to each other!
The late-day sun filtered through the tall windows, splashing light and shadows in all the familiar places, and filling her heart with melancholy. She gazed at the corner where she’d sat in her “prayer chair” every morning, saying countless prayers for loved ones and friends, and then she turned to the opposite corner—the spot where she’d always set up her Christmas tree. Oh, how she’d loved looking up from the street and seeing the tiny lights sparkling in the window. Next, she walked into her bedroom and smiled. If these four walls could talk! she thought. Although they wouldn’t have much to say about the first eight years, they certainly would have something to say about the last two with that country boy in her bed!
“Time to move on,” she whispered softly, “come what may.”
AN HOUR LATER, AFTER HER LANDLORD HAD WALKED THROUGH THE apartment, told her he was sorry to see her go, and given her back her security deposit, she turned into Gage’s driveway—and my driveway now, too, she thought. As she parked next to his truck, Gus gave a welcoming bark and then rocketed across the lawn. “Hey, there, Gussie,” she said, laughing. “You ready for another roomie?”
He wiggled all around her, thumping her head with his tail until she finally stood up. She hoisted her big leather bag—which contained her entire life—onto her shoulder, and the still-wiggling Lab es
corted her to the cabin. Balancing the box of plants, she pulled open the screen door. “Anybody home?”
“In the kitchen,” Gage called.
She made her way through the maze of boxes. “It smells so good in here!”
Gage looked up from sliding garlic bread into the oven. “Thanks,” he said, smiling. “I thought you might be hungry after all this moving.”
“I’m starving!” she said, and then she noticed the table by the window was beautifully set with candles, a glass milk bottle with a bouquet of lilacs in it, and cloth napkins. “Oh, my goodness!” she exclaimed. “It looks so . . . romantic.” She eyed him suspiciously and teased, “Who are you and what did you do with my boyfriend?”
He laughed and held up two bottles of wine. “Red or white?”
“What are we having?”
“Spaghetti.”
“Red,” she said and then looked down at Gus. “I don’t know why I didn’t move in sooner.”
“We don’t know, either,” Gage said, handing her a glass.
“You even have my favorite music playing,” she said, hearing Van Morrison’s “Crazy Love” drifting from the speaker on the counter. “Such a great song.”
“It is a great song,” he said, pulling her into his arms.
“Don’t start something you can’t finish,” she murmured as he pressed against her, already aroused, “or our dinner will get cold again.”
“The sauce is simmering and the pasta’s not in yet,” he whispered back, unbuttoning the top of her blouse.
“What about the bread?” she whispered back.
He frowned. “Damn,” he said, considering his dilemma. “I could take it out,” he suggested hopefully.
“I really am starving,” she countered.
“All right,” he conceded, stepping back, but as he reached for his wineglass, he pretended it was a microphone. “Yeah, it makes me mellow, down into my soul . . .”
“Do I know you?” she teased, laughing.
“I hope so,” he said, turning the flame under the water back to high. “You just moved in with me.”
