by Nan Rossiter
“What’s he doing in Savannah?”
“He didn’t say—just that he was gonna be in town if I . . . we . . . wanted to get together.”
Maeve nodded, her stomach suddenly twisting into a knot as she thought about the obituary she’d found that morning. She looked out the window, wanting to ask Gage about Cale, aching to know what had happened.
Gage looked over again. “There’s something I should tell you, though . . .”
Maeve’s heart pounded—did Gage know, somehow, that she’d found the obituary? Had she not put his Bible back in the right spot? Had something else fallen out that she hadn’t noticed?
“Chase is bringing a friend,” he began. “I’ve never met him before—in fact, I haven’t seen Chase in a couple of years.”
“Okay,” Maeve said. “Honestly, I’m just looking forward to meeting someone from your family.”
“Good,” Gage said. “I just didn’t want you to be surprised . . . or wonder.”
“Hey! You know me—I’m easy,” she said.
“Mm-hmm,” Gage replied, eyeing her skeptically as they passed through the campus of the Savannah College of Art and Design.
“Your old stomping grounds,” Maeve observed, looking out the window.
“Yep,” Gage said, glancing up at the darkened window of an apartment overlooking Liberty Street. “Anyway, Chase has had a hard time because our dad . . . well . . . he hasn’t really been . . .”—he paused, trying to think of the right word—“receptive.”
Maeve nodded uncertainly. Suddenly, she wasn’t sure what Gage was trying to say. His brother was bringing a friend to dinner. . . . What did that have to do with their dad? She gazed out at famous Forsyth Park. At least she was getting to meet one of his brothers, and maybe she would learn more about Gage. It was like watching an onion being peeled back, layer by layer.
Gage pulled into a parking garage on Liberty Street, and as they hurried toward his former place of employment, the Savannah Distillery Ale House—a hip craft beer and cocktail bar—he reached for her hand. “The Distillery,” as it was better known, was in an old brick building in Elbert Square—one of the original wards of historic downtown Savannah. Even though it hadn’t always been a bar—it had once been a pharmacy, and then, a furniture store—it did have roots in alcohol production. From 1904 to 1907 the building had been home to the Louisville and Kentucky Distilling Companies, and during the Temperance movement—when all the spirits in Savannah were being dumped in the streets—bathtub gin and beer were still being distilled and brewed upstairs.
They came around the corner and Maeve saw two young men sitting at an outdoor table under a red café umbrella. There was no mistaking Gage’s younger brother. Slender and tan with short blond hair, Chase Tennyson looked like a younger version of Gage, and when he saw them coming, he stood to greet them. He was wearing faded jeans, a slim-fitting button-down oxford with sleeves rolled to his forearms, and stylish Ray-Ban sunglasses.
“Hey, big bro,” Chase said, grinning as he gave Gage a hug.
“Hey, yourself,” Gage said. “When the hell did you get so tall?”
Chase laughed and then propped his sunglasses on top of his head. Eye contact, Maeve noted, and then realized he had the same pale blue eyes as his brother. “So, is this the famous Maeve—the girl who’s finally stolen my big brother’s heart?” he teased.
“This is,” Maeve said, laughing and shaking his extended hand, surprised that he knew her name. “It’s really nice to meet you, Chase.”
“It’s really nice to meet you, too,” he said, and then he turned and gestured to his friend. “This is Liam . . . Liam Evans.”
Liam smiled, revealing perfectly straight white teeth, and shook their hands, too. Like Chase, he was stylishly dressed but had short dark hair and wasn’t quite as tall, and instead of Ray-Bans, he wore expensive Maui Jims, making Maeve wonder what in the world they did for a living.
“It’s great to meet you, Liam,” Gage said, smiling. Then he looked over his brother’s shoulder at their table.
“We were a little early,” Chase said, “so we thought we’d try a couple of their beers.”
“Which ones?” Gage asked, all too familiar with The Distillery’s offerings.
“I’m having Wild Heaven and . . .” Chase looked at Liam and frowned. “Which one did you get?”
Liam smiled. “Let There Be Light.”
Gage nodded approvingly.
“So, do you want to sit out here?” Chase asked. “Or we can see if there’s a table inside . . .”
Gage looked questioningly at Maeve, and she smiled. “It’s a beautiful night,” she said. “Outside would be nice.”
“Perfect,” Chase said, pulling out a chair for her. “Dinner is on us, by the way,” he added with a smile that immediately tugged on her heartstrings.
18
MASON WATCHED HIS CLASSMATES PUMP THE KEG, FILL THEIR CUPS WITH foamy beer, and then wander off unsteadily. He wasn’t a drinker. Occasionally, he sipped a beer, but it was only when one was thrust into his hand by a teammate—like tonight. He didn’t care for the taste, and he didn’t like the feeling it gave him. What was the point of numbing your senses? Of not being completely present?
Growing up, he’d never seen his mom drink. She’d rarely even gone out, and when she did, she was famous for having a cup of black coffee. One time he’d asked her why she never dated anyone, and she made a goofy face that told him it was a ridiculous question, and said, “Because my favorite date is right in my living room!” Mason had rolled his eyes, but he knew it was true—his mom enjoyed his company, and he enjoyed hers. They could almost always be found at home together—she in her favorite chair, the one that had been his grandmother’s, and he, stretched out on the couch—both with their noses in books, perfectly content just knowing the other was nearby. And if they weren’t reading, they were watching the History channel or a program on PBS. Recently, Laurie had subscribed to a video-on-demand service that streamed British TV shows, and they’d become instantly hooked on Midsomer Murders and As Time Goes By. They also binge-watched all the episodes of their perennial favorite, Keeping Up Appearances, laughing, over root beer floats, as snooty Hyacinth Bucket tried to prove her social superiority. For musical entertainment, there was an old upright piano in the corner that was regularly tuned. Laurie had started teaching Mason how to play it when he was eight, but by the time he was ten, he had far surpassed her skill level and usually played the more complex parts of the duets for Gershwin’s “I Got Rhythm” and “Someone to Watch Over Me.” It was also their tradition to take turns playing every Christmas carol they could think of while drinking eggnog . . . and laughing all the way!
Mason sat in one of the beach chairs that a classmate had vacated, leaned back, and watched the orange sparks from the bonfire shoot up into the night sky. Sue had taken his mom back to the hospital right after graduation, and when he’d stopped by to see her later that afternoon, she’d been sleeping. Now, as he listened to the celebration going on all around him—the laughter of classmates who had decided to go for a swim mixed with the country music drifting from a nearby radio—he watched everyone dancing on the sand with drinks in their hands . . . and felt completely out of place. What was he doing here when his mom was in the hospital? Suddenly, he felt hands gently cover his eyes, and he heard a whisper in his ear that said, “Guess who?” He smiled, put his hands over Ali’s, and pulled her in front of him, spilling the beer in the cupholder of the chair.
“Look out!” she said, laughing as she pulled him away from the deluge. “Come dance with me!” she pressed, but Mason just stood there, shaking his head.
Ali frowned. “C’mon,” she said, pulling him. “You only live once . . . and you have a reason to celebrate—you’re the salutatorian!” As she said this, Kenny Chesney’s “Summertime” started to play, and someone turned the radio up, and everyone started to sing. Mason smiled sadly—even though his heart wasn’t in it, he let Ali pull
him into the circle of their friends. He looked around at all the kids he’d grown up with and felt overwhelmed with bittersweet emotions—this was it. They would never be together like this again, united in their accomplishments, but all preparing to take different paths.
As the song ended, he felt his phone vibrate and he pulled it out and looked at the screen. He had just missed a call from Mrs. Harrison. He frowned. Why was she calling him? A second later, it pinged, alerting him to a message. Mason walked away from the noise and into the darkness so he could listen to her message, but her words made his heart pound: Mason, come to the hospital as soon as you can!
19
GAGE WOKE WITH A START AND LISTENED, CERTAIN HE’D HEARD A SOUND outside, but all he heard was a summer breeze rustling the curtains. He found Maeve’s hand under the sheets and gently squeezed it. She murmured and stirred, but didn’t wake. He lay still, trying to fall back asleep, but the events of the evening before began to swirl in his mind. Finally, he got up, almost tripping over Gus as he made his way to the kitchen. He filled a glass with water, and as he drank it, his eyes fell on the bottle of whiskey Chase had given him. He picked it up and studied the label—it was an expensive, commemorative bottle celebrating Jack Daniel’s 150th anniversary, and instead of the usual 80 proof, this bottle of the Lynchburg-crafted amber liquid was 100 proof. Gage hadn’t had a glass of Old Number 7 in years, but Chase—when he’d handed it to him—had said, “This is for when you have something special to celebrate, or when times get tough . . . as they often do . . . or if you just can’t sleep.” With a smile, he had added, “No ice. Just neat.”
“Son,” Gage had said, eyeing him, “I tended bar for ten years. You don’t need to tell me how to drink my whiskey.”
His little brother had laughed. “Just making sure.”
Gage broke the seal as he twisted the top off and sniffed—yep, it would definitely help him sleep. He leaned against the counter and thought about the number of drinks Chase and Liam had had during dinner. They’d started off with one of The Distillery’s craft beers, and while they had waited for dinner to arrive, they each tried the craft cocktail he’d suggested—Sweet Georgia Peach, a peach vodka, iced tea, and lemon concoction. Maeve had loved the drink, but per usual, she only had one—she never had more than one, and he had never even seen her slightly tipsy. But the boys—as he and Maeve had started calling them—had switched back to beer during dinner, and declining dessert, followed up with tumblers of whiskey. If I drank that much, he thought, I wouldn’t be able to function!
Gage—who’d left home when Chase was only eight—wondered what experiences his brother had endured to make him reach for a glass of whiskey. Gage had heard from their mom that he’d had a hard time in high school, but she’d never gone into detail—even when pressed. It was only recently that he’d learned from their brother, Matt, that Chase was gay—a revelation, Matt said, that had nearly sent their father into orbit. Gage wasn’t surprised by this news, or by their father’s reaction. Chase had always been a quiet, sensitive kid, and although Gage had no problem with it—believing that everyone was created in God’s image and that the message of the New Testament was entirely about love and acceptance—he knew their father’s interpretation of the Bible was absolute and literal. He’d often heard his dad tell jokes that weren’t kind, and he knew he’d stopped going to church when the congregation decided to be open and affirming. There was no gray area in Jack Tennyson’s interpretation of the Bible . . . and there was no arguing about it. Gage was certain that, when Chase had finally found the courage to be open about the person God created him to be, their father had been more concerned about what people thought of him than about how his youngest son felt.
It must have been hard for Chase, Gage thought, but he could certainly relate. After he’d told their father he didn’t want to be tied down to the farm, his father had barely looked at him. And after their sweet Ayrshire cow Chestnut—with whom Gage had won so many blue ribbons—had died giving birth to a little stillborn calf, his dad hadn’t spoken to him for weeks. Later that fall, his mom had finally been able to convince him to let Gage apply to art school, but the tension between father and son had continued to grow.
The following summer, their fragile relationship was shattered when tragedy struck. After a heavy rain, Cale had been out in the field, helping their dad free a tractor that was stuck in the mud. He’d hooked one end of a rusty chain to the immobile tractor while Jack had hooked the other to the hitch of a second tractor, but just as Jack had begun to put tension on the old chain, it had snapped, sliced through the air like a whip, and struck Cale in the chest. Jack had looked back in horror as his son crumpled to the ground, and then scrambled to his side, shouting for help. He’d frantically administered CPR, but when he couldn’t revive him, he just cradled him in his arms and sobbed. Later, the doctor said there was only one tiny pink mark in the middle of Cale’s chest—the chain hadn’t even broken his skin, but it had instantly stopped his heart.
Jack had been despondent, blaming himself, but Gage, who was enduring his own staggering grief, fully believed—because his father wouldn’t even look at him—that he wished he’d been the son who had been helping him in the field . . . and he’d been the son who’d died. At least, then, the son his father loved most . . . the son who loved the farm most, would still be alive.
And then there was Chase. Damn! Gage thought. The manure must’ve really hit the fan! Yep, things definitely hadn’t turned out the way Jack Tennyson planned . . . and it served him right!
Gage reached into the back of the cabinet for a tumbler—one of two he’d taken as parting gifts from The Distillery. He poured two fingers, and then, because life was complicated, drizzled in a third. “Neat,” he said, smiling at Gus when he appeared at his side, hoping that his master would be having a cookie with his whiskey. Gage chuckled. “You’re silly,” he said softly, tousling the dog’s velvet ears. Then he reached into the ceramic canister full of dog treats and added, “Let’s go out on the porch where it’s cooler.”
Gage settled into one of the Adirondack chairs, and while Gus clumped to the floor at his feet—happily chomping on his midnight snack—he swirled the amber liquid, took a sip, and felt the heat trickle down his throat. He looked up at the stars, and the memory of the first time he’d had Jack Daniel’s—triggered by the warm sensation in his belly—suddenly came back to him, a memory he thought he’d pushed away for good. It was the summer he’d turned eighteen—the summer before Cale died.
It hadn’t taken long for heads to turn the summer River Jordan Raines had moved into the parsonage next to the church. She had corn-silk blond hair and eyes the color of jade—or the color of a John Deere tractor, as all the farm boys joked. Her long, tan legs were barely covered by her tattered denim cutoffs—so short Libby Tennyson wondered out loud, “Why bother?” Her full, perky breasts made all the country boys’ hearts skip a beat, but River had eyes for only one country boy—at least, in the beginning.
The youngest daughter of Pastor Tommy Raines—the new minister—and his wife Leigh, River was a preacher’s kid, and like every other “PK,” she got away with murder. Mischievous as a youngster, and seductive as a teen, River knew instinctively how to set the proverbial tender teenage trap, so when she first spied Gage, dripping with sweat as he tossed hay bales into wagons, the cogs in her mind started turning. Soon after, River saw him picking up supplies at the feedstore in town, and as she walked past him, she cast an alluring spell: “My, those feed bags look heavy,” she called, and poor Gage, a red-blooded teenage boy with raging hormones, took the bait—hook, line, and sinker. “She may be the daughter of a minister,” Libby warned her brooding artistic son, “but she is trouble!” Unfortunately, Gage barely heard his mom’s cautionary words—he was already head over heels.
“That boy is being led around by his testicles,” Jack observed one night when he saw the young couple walking through the dairy barn at the fair, hand in hand. And it w
as true: Gage’s testicles were fully involved—especially when River led him to a secluded spot overlooking the fair. River had pointed to the dark hillside from the top of the Ferris wheel. “Let’s go up there.”
Gage had nodded—they’d been seeing each other all summer, and he would have climbed Mount Everest if she’d asked him to. They got off the Ferris wheel, ditched their friends, and wandered through the food booths, the scent reminding him they hadn’t eaten, but oddly, he wasn’t hungry. “Want anything?” he asked.
“Just you,” she teased, pulling him away.
They walked up an old bridle path to the top of the hill and looked back at the lights of the fair. They could hear the escalating and sliding music of the games, the screams and laughter of people on rides, the announcer at the tractor pull—calling the names of the contestants and measurements of their draws—and they could hear the country band on stage covering an old Patsy Cline song. The sky above them sparkled with stars, while the fair below sparkled with dazzling colors, shooting and spiraling everywhere.
“It’s so beautiful,” River murmured. “I wish summer would never end,” she added, and then slid a half pint of Jack Daniel’s out of the back pocket of her tight shorts, took a sip, and ran her tongue seductively around the top of the bottle.
“What are you trying to do to me, girl?” Gage asked, laughing as he pulled her close.
“What do you think I’m trying to do to you?” she murmured, handing him the bottle.
Gage took a long swig, felt the surge of heat burn his throat, and then searched her eyes intently as she reached down, unzipped his jeans, and slid her hands inside. He closed his eyes, feeling the blood surging to his groin. “What do you want?” he whispered.
“You,” she said softly, pushing his jeans down and freeing his rock-hard erection.
