by Nan Rossiter
Bud didn’t answer, and Maeve saw something flutter past his sliding door. She stepped forward for a closer look and realized he’d hung a small bird feeder from the branch of the dogwood tree next to his patio. “You put up a bird feeder?” she asked in surprise.
He nodded. “It didn’t take ’em long to find it, either.”
She stood next to him, watching the little flock, chirping and swooping in from the branches to the feeder. There were finches, titmice, chickadees, nuthatches, and woodpeckers. There was even a female cardinal. “You know what they say about cardinals, don’t you?” she asked.
He shook his head, watching the female hop around on the patio picking up seeds the finches had dropped.
“They say a cardinal represents a loved one who’s passed, and they appear when you miss them the most and need reassurance that they’re near and always with you.”
“I didn’t know that,” he said, smiling. “Thank you for telling me.” He looked back at the little female cardinal, and she stopped what she was doing and cocked her head. “Look at that,” he said. “Ethel used to give me a look like that when she was teasing me.”
“There you go,” Maeve said, smiling. “She’s keeping an eye on you.”
He laughed. “That would be just like her.”
Maeve marveled at the cardinal’s appearance on his patio—she had heard this lore many times over the years but had never actually witnessed it. “I have a few minutes,” she said. Even though she knew dinner would be getting under way in the dining room soon, she also felt like this—a possible breakthrough with their newest resident—was more important. “Would it be all right if I stayed for a bit?”
“Of course,” he said, gesturing to the couch.
They sat together, watching the birds, and then Maeve looked around the room and noticed what looked like a violin case leaning in the corner. She gestured toward it. “Do you play the violin?”
The old man followed her gaze. “That’s a fiddle case,” he corrected, “and I haven’t played it since Ethel got sick. I don’t know why I even brought it. I should have given the damn thing away.”
Maeve nodded. She wanted him to open up, but she didn’t want to pry or upset him. “What’s the difference between a violin and a fiddle?”
“The difference is the type of music—you don’t play any of that classical stuff on a fiddle.”
Maeve smiled. “How long were you and Ethel married?” she ventured softly.
“Sixty-four years,” he said, smiling wistfully. “Best damn years of my life. I think there’s a picture of her in that box there,” he said, pointing to a box at the end of the couch with the word Pictures printed on it in black magic marker.
Maeve smiled. “May I look?”
“Oh, sure,” he said, waving at it as if it was no big deal, but when she opened the box and lifted out the packing paper, he immediately sat up, his face brightening.
Maeve pulled out a framed picture and carefully unwrapped it. It was a black-and-white photograph of a young Bud wearing his dress uniform and, on his arm, was his lovely bride wearing a beautiful satin wedding dress. “Wow!” she said. “Look at you! And your wife—she’s stunning!”
Bud nodded, smiling, and when she handed him the picture, he gazed at it, his eyes glistening. “She was the most beautiful bride . . . and she was so good to me.” He looked up. “There’re more,” he said, motioning to the box.
Maeve nodded and, one by one, she unwrapped and admired all of Bud’s photos, handing them to him, asking him questions, and then, at his direction, placing them on empty shelves and tables around the room. Finally, she sat down again. “I just moved, too,” she said, “so I know how hard it is.”
Bud nodded. “Ethel and I bought our house when we were first married. It was brand-new. After she died, I continued to live there by m’self, but my kids wanted me to move closer, so here I am.” He shook his head. “I’ve been here two weeks and they’ve only stopped by twice.”
“They must be busy. I’m sure they’ll stop by when they can.”
He shrugged. “They have kids o’ their own and they’re always goin’ somewhere.”
Maeve nodded. “Well, the folks upstairs are a lot like a family,” she said softly. “Not real family, but they’re all very nice and many are widows or widowers, so they know how hard it is. I think you’d like them. Aristides Lincoln was in the navy, too, and I think Landon and Loren Olivetti were in the army.”
Bud looked up in surprise. “I didn’t know there were other vets here.” But then a shadow crossed his face. “I don’t need that woman comin’ ’round.” He shook his head. “She’s a piece o’ work!”
“You mean Gladys?” Maeve asked.
“I don’t know her name, but I am not interested!”
Maeve nodded. “You don’t need to worry about her. I told her you weren’t interested.”
“You did?”
Maeve nodded. “She understands.”
“Some women come on too strong.”
“They do,” Maeve agreed, and then, hearing a sound, she turned and saw Tallulah peering in and realized she’d left the door open. “Have you met our Tallulah?” she asked.
Bud frowned. “No, who’s Tallu . . . ?” he started to ask, but before he could finish, the little orange tiger cat padded across the floor and swished between his legs. “Oh!” he said in surprise. “Is this Tallulah?”
“It is,” Maeve replied. “She’s our resident hall monitor.”
“What a cutie,” he said, as Tallulah hopped on his lap and sniffed his chin. He laughed, and she seemed to approve of him, too, because she immediately curled up on his lap. Tallulah then spied the activity going on outside his door and gazed intently at the little flock of birds. “Hmm, I hope she’s not a hunter,” he said worriedly.
Maeve raised her eyebrows, recalling the scene she’d witnessed two weeks earlier when the fox had taken one of the hens. Gage had been heartbroken, and although he’d reinforced the fence around the coop as soon as he’d gotten home, he continued to worry that it wouldn’t keep the fox out, and he felt sorry for the hens because they couldn’t roam freely around the yard anymore. She’d also seen rifle ammunition on the counter and asked him about it. “What if the fox has kits it’s trying to feed?” she’d asked. “If you kill her—or him—they’ll go hungry.”
“What do you want me to do?” he’d asked. “Let it eat all the chickens?”
Maeve had sighed. It seemed like there was no easy solution.
Now, she watched Tallulah—who had hopped down and was sitting in front of the door with her tail twitching. Maeve knew she was very adept at catching mice and chipmunks, but she didn’t know if she would pose a threat to Bud’s little flock of birds. She hoped not—especially the female cardinal! “There’s no hunting down here, missy,” she warned.
“Well, I should head back,” she said, standing. “Are you sure you won’t come to dinner? It’s not too late—they’re probably just starting their salads.”
“What about the plate you brought down?”
“I can bring it back up or we can put it in your fridge, and you can have it for lunch tomorrow.”
Bud hesitated, considering. He didn’t want to have dinner by himself again, but he also didn’t want that woman bothering him. “Are you sure that woman won’t try to kiss me?”
Maeve suppressed a smile and nodded. “I’m sure.”
Bud nodded. “Okay,” he agreed. “I’ll come up.”
“Good!” Maeve said. “I’ll walk with you.” She picked up the plate. “Shall I put this in your fridge?”
He nodded and reached for his cane and his navy hat. “Lead the way, ma’am,” he said with a smile, and they walked side by side with Tallulah darting up the hall ahead of them.
23
MASON PULLED INTO THE HOSPITAL PARKING LOT AND LOOKED UP AT THE last window of the room on the third floor. It had been two weeks since his mom had died, and a week since they’d celebra
ted her life at a memorial service. In that time, Mason had avoided the hospital, taking a longer route home from his summer job on a landscaping crew—a job he’d jumped right back into—but today, he’d arranged to meet Mrs. Harrison at the hospital, so he had no choice. He sat in his car, and looked up at the window of the room in which his mom had died, and the memory of that night—and its aftermath—came rushing back.
It had started raining after he and Ali arrived at the hospital, and it had continued to rain all the next day—it was as if the heavens were joining Mason in his grief. In the early hours of the next day, he’d stood in the lobby with Ali and her mom, sipping the coffee she’d bought for him, and watching it rain. Mrs. Harrison had insisted he come stay with them, but he told her he’d be more comfortable at home and assured her he’d be fine. After all, he’d been living alone for the last two months. Mrs. Harrison hadn’t been easily convinced. He knew his mom had probably asked her to look after him, and she was now determined to keep her promise. “Do you want Ali to stay over?” she’d asked, but he’d smiled at Ali and shaken his head. They’d both given him hugs, and when Mrs. Harrison finally, reluctantly, let him go, she made him promise to call if he needed anything, and if he didn’t need anything, he had to call anyway, just to check in—which he’d done several times, but only when he was sure he didn’t sound stuffy from crying.
That first night had been the longest of his life—he hadn’t been able to sleep and he’d wandered through the empty house, wondering if he should’ve taken Mrs. Harrison up on her offer. Being at the house alone had felt completely different because, even though his mom had been in the hospital for the last two months, she’d been alive—and he’d clung to the hope that she’d be coming home eventually—but now, there was nothing to cling to. There was no hope. She was never coming home.
When the rain had finally stopped, he’d gone outside and looked up at the stars sparkling in the vast canopy of darkness and wondered if she was watching over him. When he was little, they’d lain together on a blanket in the yard, gazing up at the night sky, and she’d pointed to all the constellations. But the night after she died, he’d looked up at the Big Dipper and felt just as small and insignificant as he had when he was little. He’d also felt torn—he’d wanted her to be there, but he’d been thankful she wasn’t suffering anymore. He’d wanted her spirit to be free, but he hadn’t wanted to let her go, and he’d felt guilty because he’d wanted it to be over because he couldn’t bear it anymore . . . and then, suddenly, it had ended. “Oh, God. Help me,” he’d whispered, looking up at the stars as tears filled his eyes.
The following morning, Mrs. Harrison had picked him up and they’d gone together to take care of the arrangements. Laurie had given her friend ideas for her service, if they decided to have one . . . because they didn’t have to, but Sue had tearfully said they would absolutely be having one! Laurie had shared some of her favorite hymns, and Sue had dutifully jotted them down, and then Laurie had eyed her friend and said, “Keep it simple and small!”—and that had been the plan. But when word got out that Laurie Callahan, just forty-six and a lifelong resident of the little town, daughter of Lena and Winton “Whiplash” Callahan—not to mention one of the most caring nurses any of them knew—had died, the outpouring of love and support for her son had been overwhelming.
The service had been set for the following Saturday, and the entire town, along with as much hospital staff as could get away without leaving the hospital utterly unmanned, had come out. The church had filled to capacity, and then overflowed. Among the many mourners were all the preemie babies Laurie had cuddled over the years, along with their grateful parents. Mason had looked around in tearful wonder—it was evident that his mom had touched countless lives.
When the service began, a young soloist sang “On Eagle’s Wings” and “I Can Only Imagine”—which had left no eyes dry—and then together, they’d sung her favorite hymns, “Here I Am, Lord” and “Lord of the Dance,” because, as Mrs. Harrison had said in her eulogy, Laurie had wanted it to be a celebration. She’d gone on to talk about her gentle, kind friend who was a veritable fountain of wisdom, who was authentic to her core . . . and who would be dearly missed. Others were invited to recall fond memories, too, and Mason learned things he’d never known about his mom—like the time she had changed Mr. Franklin’s flat tire in the pouring rain, or the time she had rescued a little girl that almost drowned in Blue Ridge Lake. It truly was a celebration of a life well lived, and it left Mason feeling inspired—more than ever—to be just like her. As people left the sanctuary, they’d reached into baskets to take one of the small smooth river stones inscribed with the word Celebrate, and everyone had agreed that there wasn’t a more appropriate keepsake—Laurie Callahan, lover of nature and books, had, indeed, embraced and celebrated life.
After the reception—which had been held in Fellowship Hall, and for which the women of the church had baked all week—Mrs. Harrison had tried again to get Mason to stay with them, but he’d declined. He’d gone home, pulled off his jacket and tie, closed his weary eyes, and replayed all the kind words and funny stories he’d heard, and then he recalled all the things she’d said to him in the days before she died. Finally, he’d reached for her Bible, opened the cover, and looked at the picture of him as a toddler, laughing as he took his first steps toward her . . . and then he’d studied the second photo of the girl with copper hair holding the tiny baby. He’d stared at it, wondering . . . and then he’d suddenly known what he wanted to do.
Now, as he sat in his car in the hospital parking lot, looking up at the third-floor window, he decided he wasn’t going to wallow in grief and anguish. He knew his mom wouldn’t want that. It was time to start honoring her life. He climbed out and walked through the main door into the lobby. He didn’t stop at the elevator, but took the stairs, two at a time, and found Mrs. Harrison waiting for him outside the conference room where they were having an orientation class for the new NICU volunteers. She gave him a hug and tousled his red hair. “Your mom would love this.”
24
MAEVE CLOSED THE BOOK IN HER LAP AND LOOKED OVER AT HARPER. “SO, what did you think?”
Harper sighed contentedly and stroked Keeper’s soft fur. “It was awesome. I love how they didn’t tell anyone that Colin was getting better so he could surprise his father.”
“It’s amazing what a little positive energy and positive thinking will do,” Maeve said.
Harper nodded.
“Mary was quite a character. She started off being ornery and grouchy, but she really turned around.”
“She did,” Harper agreed. “Colin did, too. I loved all the animals, especially that little robin who showed Mary where the key was.”
“That robin loved having them working on the garden and keeping her company.”
“She did,” Harper agreed. “She liked when they turned over the soil because it helped her find bugs and worms.” She smiled. “But I still like Dickon the best.”
“Still remind you of Sam?” Maeve teased, raising her eyebrows.
“Yeah,” she nodded. “I miss him . . . and Rudy.” It had been nearly a month since she’d seen Rudy. Rudy was the daughter of her caseworker at DFCS, Cora Grant—the wonderful lady who’d jumped through hoops to find a home for her. Harper had spent so much time at their house—because she’d been kicked out of so many other homes—that she and Rudy had grown as close as sisters, and when Harper had finally been adopted by Ben and Macey, the two friends had vowed to stay close.
“I’m sure you can have them over sometime,” Maeve said. “And before you know it, you’ll be back in school and you’ll see Sam every day.”
“When does school start?” Harper asked.
“Middle of August, I think.”
“Sheesh, summer just started.”
“I know,” Maeve said. “Summer always flies by.”
Harper nodded and then frowned. “That reminds me—I’m supposed to sleep over at Rudy’s
next weekend, sooo . . . no book club.”
“What?!” Maeve teased. “I already picked up our next book at the library.”
“You did? What is it?”
“It’s a surprise.”
“Tell me! I won’t read it!” Harper said. “That would ruin everything.”
“Okay, so long as you promise.”
Harper rolled her eyes, waiting, but Maeve didn’t say anything. “Well?”
“It’s called ‘Because of Winn-Dixie.’”
Harper frowned, thinking. “What’s it about?”
“It’s about a girl and a dog.”
“Is there a movie?”
“There is,” Maeve confirmed, “which reminds me! If we’re gonna watch this movie, we better get started.”
Harper nodded. “I’m gonna have another slice of pizza. You want one?”
“Sure,” Maeve said, opening her laptop to find the movie online. “Do you want me to heat them up?”
“No,” Harper said, gently lifting Keeper’s head off her lap, and getting up and stretching. “I can do it.”
Two minutes later, she came back with two warmed-up slices of pizza and handed one to Maeve. “I wish I had a secret garden, Aunt Maeve.”
“Gardens . . . and gardening can definitely be therapeutic,” Maeve said, thinking about all the weeding she’d been doing since she’d moved in with Gage. It had become her new pastime. Weeding made her feel honest, and it kept her out of trouble. Mainly, it kept her from snooping around the internet for more information about the Tennyson family because she’d decided she wanted to wait for Gage to share when he was ready. He’d introduced her to Chase and that was a step in the right direction. Besides, she didn’t want to be dishonest—she already had enough skeletons. “Gage has some lovely gardens,” she said with a smile, “but he hates to weed.”
“I’ll help you weed,” Harper offered hopefully.
