Promises to Keep

by Nan Rossiter

  The man studied the tall, slender boy standing on his porch and noticed the startling resemblance he had to the petite redhead who used to rent from him, so he couldn’t help but wonder what the boy wanted with his former tenant.

  Mason sat in front of the house, considering his options. He’d kept his promise, and he could easily justify heading home, but he felt oddly nudged to keep trying . . . and he knew who was nudging him. He could almost hear her voice. . . . Oh, Mase, you’ve driven all this way, go on . . . go find her!

  He groaned, feeling frustrated. He was never going to be able to put this behind him if he didn’t find closure. He tapped the search engine on his phone, and began to type “Willow,” but before he’d even finished, Willow Pond Senior Care popped up, and he tapped the link. Immediately, a beautiful photo of an old Southern home appeared—it looked nothing like a nursing home. He tapped the address, studied the map, and realized it was only three miles away. “All right, Mom,” he muttered, “but if she’s not there, I’m going home.”

  34

  MAEVE WAS STANDING IN THE SPACIOUS WILLOW POND KITCHEN, SLICING cheddar cheese and placing it on crackers for the last-Friday-of-the-month happy hour snack while Sal stood nearby, drizzling a maple glaze over the salmon filets that were on the menu for dinner that night. “There’re bread and butter pickles in the fridge,” he offered.

  “Okay,” Maeve said, knowing the combination of cracker toppings was a favorite with the residents.

  Sal opened the fridge. “Do you know whose pie this is?”

  “It’s mine . . . my lame attempt at a chocolate chess pie. Gage and I are going to my parents’ for dinner tonight after work, so I stuck it in there. Is it in your way?”

  “No, I just need to move it to a different shelf. Is that okay?”

  “Sure,” Maeve said.

  He took out the jar of pickles and set it on the counter next to Maeve, and then slid the pie out, too. “What do you mean, ‘lame’? It looks delizioso!”

  Maeve laughed, as she scooped pickles and set them on top of the cheddar slices. “That’s truly a compliment coming from you, Sal,” she said, “but looks aren’t everything. I’ll have to let you know how it tastes.”

  “If it’s good, you better save me a piece,” he teased. “Maybe you can make it for dessert sometime.”

  “Okay,” Maeve agreed. “I can do that.”

  Sal rearranged the contents of the commercial-size fridge and slid the pie onto the bottom shelf. Then he covered the salmon trays with Saran Wrap and slid them onto the top shelves. “I hope your pie doesn’t end up smelling like fish.”

  “I hope not,” Maeve said, raising her eyebrows at the possibility, as she put the lid back on the jar of pickles. “Maybe I’ll put Saran Wrap over it, too.” She slid the pie back out, tore off a piece of Saran Wrap, laid it over the top, and then put it back in the fridge. “I’m sure it’ll be fine.”

  “I’m sure it will be, too,” Sal reassured her. “So is Gage coming here first?”

  “He is,” she confirmed, looking up at the clock. “He should be here soon.”

  Sal nodded as he measured rice.

  Maeve picked up the tray and turned to take it out to the porch, but just as she did, they both heard an odd sound, and eyed each other. “What in heaven’s name was that?” Sal asked.

  Maeve smiled. “That must be Mr. Hawkins’s fiddle. I told him he should bring it to happy hour, and he must’ve taken me up on it!”

  Sal chuckled. “Never a dull moment around here with these old coots!”

  “True,” Maeve agreed. She walked through the foyer and pushed open the screen door.

  “Here she is!” Addie said cheerfully, turning to Gladys. “I told you she’d be right along.”

  Gladys took a sip of her Chardonnay. “Well, it’s about time!” she exclaimed. “We thought you got lost.”

  “I didn’t get lost,” Maeve said, offering them the appetizers.

  Addie—ever prim and proper—took one, her pinky finger daintily up in the air, and placed it on the napkin Maeve offered, but Gladys stacked one on top of another and put them on the table next to her, and then reached for a third and popped the whole thing into her mouth. “What’s for dinner?” Gladys asked with her mouth full of crumbs. “Please don’t tell me it’s fish!”

  “Sal is making maple-glazed salmon,” Maeve said, bracing for a stormy reaction, but Gladys just nodded and smiled.

  “I like salmon,” she said, reaching for the wine she and Addie were sharing, and shakily refilling their glasses, giving herself the lion’s share. Maeve watched with raised eyebrows, waiting for her to spill, and then realized the bottle was half-empty—which was probably why she was being so agreeable.

  Maeve continued down the porch, maneuvering between the walkers and canes, and stopping to offer the tray to each of the residents. Per usual, the men were at the far end, but now, Bud was among them, laughing jovially and enjoying a beer while he adjusted the strings of his fiddle. Aristides, who was sitting beside him, gently stroked sleeping Tallulah’s soft orange fur. Maeve offered Landon and Loren Olivetti the crackers, and after all the men had been served, she put one on a napkin and set it next to Ivy Lee, along with a glass of lemonade. As she turned to make her way back, she saw Gage parking his truck, and heard Gladys whisper to Addie. “The maid’s beau is here again!”

  She watched Gage let Gus out, and she quickly made her way to the top step to slow the pup’s rocket-ship trajectory. “Hey, there, mister,” she said, laughing as he vaulted over the steps and nearly bowled her over. “Don’t forget, you need to take it easy up here.”

  She knelt down, and he wiggled all around her, thumping her head with his tail, and then he continued wiggling down the porch, happily scoffing up dropped cracker crumbs and the one whole pickle chip Gladys had dropped. Finally, he looked up, sniffing the air, spotted Tallulah curled up on Aristides’s lap, and slowly—almost catlike—tiptoed toward her, but Tallulah, sensing a game was afoot, opened one eye and rose, arching her back. Feeling her move, Aristides looked up and saw the confrontation unfolding. “It’s okay, Miss Tally,” he whispered, stroking her arched back, but his touch triggered her fight-or-flight mechanism, and she leapt from his lap and streaked down the porch, under and between all the walkers and canes with Gus in gleeful pursuit.

  “Whoa!” Bud exclaimed as the two animals flew by.

  And Gage—who’d just reached the top step—shouted the dog’s name, and much to everyone’s surprise, especially Gage’s, the yellow Lab almost tumbled over himself as he came to a halt and looked back. “Come back here, mister!” Gage commanded, and with his ears back and tail hanging, the big puppy plodded back to him. “Good boy for listening,” Gage said softly, “but you know you’re not supposed to chase poor Tallulah,” he added sternly.

  Gus sat down and put his paw on Gage’s knee, looking for forgiveness, and Gage tousled his ears. “It’s okay.”

  Addie smiled. “You’re such a good boy, Gussie,” she cooed. “That darn cat likes to tease you,” she added softly, “and you’re only doing what your instincts tell you.” She offered him a cracker, and as his tail began to wag again, Addie looked up at Gage. “How are you, young man?”

  “I’m fine, Miss Addie. How are you?”

  “Able to sit up and take nourishment,” she said, chuckling.

  Gage smiled, remembering how Dutch used to say the very same thing. He looked down the porch. “Good afternoon, everyone.”

  “Good afternoon!” a chorus of cheerful voices replied.

  “Would you like a glass of wine?” Gladys asked, giving him a flirtatious wink.

  “Why, no thank you, Miss Gladys,” Gage replied politely. He turned to Maeve. “Almost finished?”

  “In a bit,” she replied. “Why don’t you chat with the men for a few minutes?”

  Gage greeted each of the ladies by name as he made his way to the end of the porch, and sat down next to the men. “Here’s himself!” decla
red Landon, as Loren pulled a frosty beer out of their cooler and handed it to him—all of them happy to have his company.

  “Gage, this is Bud Hawkins,” Aristides drawled, as Gus curled up at their feet.

  Gage nodded and reached across the porch to shake his hand. “Pleasure, sir.”

  “Pleasure’s mine,” Bud replied.

  “You play?” Gage asked, nodding to the lustrous maple-wood fiddle in his lap.

  “I’m a little rusty, but I still play—I used to compete,” he added with a shy smile.

  “You did?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You know ‘Orange Blossom Special’?” Aristides asked hopefully.

  “Oh, sure,” Bud said.

  “Will ya play it for us?”

  Bud took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Oh, I dunno. Like I said, it’s been a while.”

  Gage watched the old man’s face and could tell he really did want to play—he just needed a little encouragement. “Tell you what,” he offered. “You play somethin’ and, if you’ll let me, I’ll play somethin’, too.”

  Maeve, who was standing in the middle of the porch with her tray, looked up in surprise. “Wait. What?!” she said, eyeing him. “You know how to play the fiddle?! After two years of knowin’ you, how could I not know this?”

  “I don’t know,” Gage teased. “It’s not like I’ve been hidin’ it.” He turned back to Bud and winked. “So whad’ya say?”

  Bud nodded and stood up. “I jus’ need a little room.”

  “There’s room right there,” Gage said, nodding toward the open space across from Ivy Lee, but when Bud walked over, the tiny woman frowned fretfully.

  Bud’s gnarled, old fingers curled around the fingerboard as he touched the bow to the strings and played a few tentative notes. “All right,” he said with an impish grin, “here goes nothin’.” He slowly bowed a few more notes before launching straight into the old fiddle favorite, “Orange Blossom Special.”

  Within moments, everyone on the porch was clapping and tapping their feet, and Maeve—who’d sat in Bud’s seat to listen—watched in amazement as Ivy Lee’s frown faded and she began to move her hands as if clapping. She nudged Gage and whispered, “See? I told you music can have an effect on the memory of an old soul.”

  Gage nodded and smiled.

  Bud kept playing while Aristides stomped his foot and finally got up and danced around, his whole face smiling, and when Bud finished with a flourish, everyone cheered. “Not bad for an ole coot,” Bud said amiably before eyeing Gage. “Now, let’s see what this youngster can do!”

  Gage laughed. “It’s been a while for me, too,” he said, “so no promises.”

  “Aww, it’s jus’ like riding a bike,” Bud teased, “or making love,” he whispered as he handed Gage his beautiful old fiddle.

  “I don’t do those very well, either,” Gage said, laughing. He stood, and walking over to where Bud had been standing, nodded to Ivy Lee, and ran the bow slowly across the strings—getting a feel for the beautiful instrument—and then he began playing the familiar beginning notes of “Tennessee Waltz.”

  Maeve watched in wonder as the handsome man she loved pulled the bow slowly back and forth across the strings with a solemn intimacy she’d never seen before, and then she looked over and saw Ivy Lee close her eyes and begin swaying back and forth with a gentle smile on her face. A moment later, Gage transitioned smoothly from the slow, dreamy waltz into the upbeat rhythmic tempo of “Callin’ Baton Rouge,” and Ivy Lee opened her eyes and—beaming—started stomping her foot in time.

  35

  WHEN MASON PULLED INTO THE DRIVEWAY OF WILLOW POND SENIOR Care, the thundering horses under the hood of the old Chevelle drowned out the fiddle and drew the attention of everyone on the porch, but it especially turned the head of the silver-haired veteran leaning against the railing. Bud Hawkins turned and raised his eyebrows in surprise as a tall, slender boy climbed out.

  “Who is that?” Gladys quipped.

  “I don’t know,” Addie said, trying to see over the railing.

  “I bet it’s the maid’s son,” Gladys whispered, sipping her wine.

  “Or maybe it’s Bud’s grandson,” Addie offered, watching Bud walk down the steps and cross the lawn.

  Everyone, including Maeve and Gage, watched curiously as the two shook hands. The boy gestured to the house and Bud nodded, and then they made their way back to the car. Bud walked around it slowly—smiling broadly—and when the boy lifted the hood, the old man raised his hands in what appeared to be genuine amazement. He pointed to different motor parts, asking questions, and the boy nodded, replying and gesturing, too. Finally, Bud clapped him on the shoulder, and just when it looked like they might be considering taking the car for a spin, Sal came out and announced that dinner was ready. He held the door, and everyone gathered their walkers and canes and started to move slowly toward it. Meanwhile, Maeve began cleaning up glasses, cups, and napkins and Gage looked around for Bud’s fiddle case. Finally, he spied it behind a chair, but just as he leaned down to pick it up, Bud and the boy reached the bottom step and he heard Bud say, “So what brings you here anyway? You surely weren’t looking for me.” He glanced over and saw the boy smile.

  “I saw your house was for sale,” he answered, “and I’ve been wondering where you went, but you’re right—I’m actually here looking for someone else. I never expected to find you here.”

  “The Lord works in mysterious ways,” Bud said, chuckling. “Who are you looking for?”

  “Her name is Maeve Lindstrom. I was told she works here. Do you know her?”

  “I sure do—she’s that lovely lady right there,” Bud said, smiling, and Maeve, who was hurrying so she and Gage could head to her parents’ house, overheard their conversation and glanced up in surprise.

  “Maeve,” Bud said, “this handsome fella is looking for you.”

  Hearing this, Gage looked up again and watched curiously.

  “I thought that handsome young man was your grandson,” Maeve teased.

  “I wish he was my grandson,” Bud quipped. “Did you see the fine job he did restoring my old Chevelle?”

  “Is that your car? Wow! He did do a fine job,” she said, setting down the tray of glasses and napkins. She gave Gus the last cheese and cracker, and came down the steps, but when she saw the boy’s face . . . and his eyes, she felt her heart start to pound.

  Mason stood there, and Bud looked from one to the other, frowning uncertainly. “Maeve, this is Mason Callahan—he’s from up in the Blue Ridge area.”

  As he said this, Sal peered out. “Comin’ in for dinner, Bud?”

  Bud looked up and nodded. “Maybe we can take her for a spin after,” he suggested hopefully, and Mason smiled at him and nodded. Bud turned and slowly climbed the steps, and when he reached the screen door, he saw his fiddle case leaning against it, but Gage was at the far end of the porch now, so Bud just picked it up and went inside.

  Maeve searched the boy’s blue-green eyes—so like her own—and shook her head in disbelief, as the years of pent-up tears filled her eyes. “I’ve dreamed of this day,” she said softly. “Oh, my, oh my, oh my . . .”

  Mason bit his lip, feeling tears welling up in his own eyes. Maeve reached up tentatively and rested her hand gently on his cheek and smiled. “You are so tall and handsome.”

  Mason nodded, but still didn’t say anything, and Maeve could see the aching pain and sadness in his questioning eyes. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly. “Giving you up was the hardest thing I ever did. I have regretted it every day of my life.”

  “Why did you?” he asked.

  Maeve took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Because I was young and scared . . . and I know that sounds like a terrible, lame excuse, but I wasn’t ready to be a mom, and I was terrified. I hadn’t told anyone I was pregnant—not even my parents . . . and I was so afraid of what they’d say . . . what they’d think of me . . . but at the same time, I worrie
d about what would happen to you . . . who would adopt you . . . who would take care of you. After you were born, I begged the nurse—your mom,” she said with a smile, “to let me hold you and she told me if I was giving you up for adoption, I couldn’t. . . . Well, that just about put me over the edge. I was beside myself. But then later—probably because I wouldn’t stop crying—she brought you in.”

  Maeve shook her head and smiled. “It was so amazing to hold this sweet little bundle—my son! My heart overflowed with love . . . so much love I almost changed my mind, but your mom was like this angel that appeared at just the right time. She had the kindest eyes I’d ever seen, and I asked her—begged her—to take care of you . . . and not just while you were in the hospital . . . but forever . . . and when she said yes, I was so thankful and amazed. I felt at peace in that moment because it seemed as if it was meant to be. It was as if we all needed something—I needed someone to take care of you, you needed a mom, and she needed someone to love, and I felt as if God had planned it all.” She smiled wistfully. “At least, that’s what I’ve told myself all these years.”

  Mason frowned. “What about my dad?”

  Maeve took another deep breath and slowly shook her head. “I know this is going to sound absolutely awful, and it’s a big part of why I never told anyone. . . .” She pressed her lips together pensively. “I’m ashamed to say I don’t know who your father is, Mason.”

  Mason raised his eyebrows and waited for her to continue.

  “Mine is the classic walk-of-shame tale of a naive freshman who attended a college party, drank more than she could handle, and ended up in an upstairs room with a tall, athletic boy from another school. Things got out of hand, and when I woke up, he was gone. When I asked my friends if they knew him, no one did. Two months later, I realized I was pregnant.” Maeve paused, searching his eyes. “You may or may not believe me, Mason, but I wasn’t a drinker, and before that night, I had never even kissed a boy.”

  Mason looked away, trying to absorb these revelations—these answers to the questions he’d struggled with all his life. Maeve reached for his hand. “I’ve always prayed you’d find me. I didn’t want to pressure you, but I sent my address to your mom at the hospital, and she wrote back and even sent some pictures of you. I’ve treasured them.”