by Nan Rossiter
“There are no other secrets,” Maeve whispered, her eyes filling with tears. “I’m sorry. I should’ve told you. I guess I was more afraid of what you’d think of me for giving him up.”
Gage shook his head. “I feel like not being forthcoming and completely honest isn’t a good foundation to build a relationship on.”
“In my defense,” Maeve said softly, “you haven’t been completely forthcoming, either.”
Gage raised his eyebrows. “I haven’t kept any secrets. What you see is what you get.”
“That’s not true,” Maeve countered, shaking her head. “I know very little about your family . . . or why they aren’t part of your life, and every time I ask you, you change the subject.”
Gage swirled his drink, took a sip, and looked away, and Maeve could see tears glistening in his eyes. Had she just said the wrong thing again? Had she just hammered the last nail in the coffin?
Gage bit his lip, as buried memories from his youth swirled to the surface. He swallowed. “Do you want to know what happened?” he asked in a voice that sounded bitter.
“Only if you want to tell me,” she said.
“Okay,” he said, refilling his glass. He swirled the golden liquid, and then began to haltingly share the memory of the night in the barn that always played in his mind when he thought about his father.
When he finished, he shook his head. “I know my dad was worried about our cow—I was, too. She was this beautiful reddish-brown Ayrshire and I’d shown her many times. We’d won countless blue ribbons together, but that night, she was having a really hard time. I asked my dad if he wanted me to call our vet, but he said if he needed to get by without my help, he may as well get started, so I went back in the house. A little while later, I heard a commotion and I looked out to see my brother Matt silhouetted in the barn doorway motioning for Doc Jacobs and my mom to hurry.”
Gage took a sip and pressed his lips together. “I didn’t go down to see what was happening because my dad had been so dismissive, and I didn’t find out till the next morning that Chestnut had died and her calf was stillborn.”
“Oh, no,” Maeve whispered.
“For a long time, my dad hardly looked at me, but things finally started to get better between us the following summer,” he continued. “I’d been accepted to SCAD and Cale was home—which always put him in a good mood. But then, later that summer, Cale was helping my dad pull a tractor out of the mud, and the chain they were using snapped, ricocheted around like a whip, and hit Cale in the chest.” Gage put down his glass and rubbed his eyes with his palms. “He died instantly.”
Maeve blinked back tears. Even though she knew this from the news clipping, she didn’t know everything that had transpired between Gage and his father. “I’m really sorry,” she said softly.
“After the accident, my dad was despondent, and it seemed like he and I were back at square one. We were both grieving, but I also began to think he wished it was me helping him that day instead of Cale. Cale loved the farm—he was the one who really wanted to take it over one day. But after the accident, that would never happen. I don’t know if my dad wished it had been me instead of Cale, but it sure felt that way.” Gage closed his eyes and fell silent, the whiskey making his thoughts swirl around in his head like a summer storm.
“I’m so sorry all that happened,” Maeve said. “I’m sorry for everything.”
“Me, too,” Gage said softly. “I’m sorry because . . . honestly, Maeve, I don’t think this is going to work out.”
Maeve frowned, uncertain if she’d heard him right. “Wait. What?” she said. She shook her head as fresh tears filled her eyes. “You mean us?”
Gage nodded. “I mean us. I love you more than you’ll ever know, Maeve, but after all we’ve been through, and done together . . . through all the times we’ve been intimate . . . wrapped up in each other . . . you never said anything. I trusted you more than I’ve ever trusted anyone . . . and . . .” He shook his head. “It’s just different now.”
Maeve stared into the darkness, her vision blurred by her tears.
38
“NO ONE’S EVER SLEPT IN HERE,” MACEY SAID, FLUFFING THE PILLOWS ON the guest room bed, “except, maybe, Big Mac or Keeper. . . . Keep’s old bed is in here.”
“I probably won’t sleep, either,” Maeve said, sitting on the edge of the bed, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed from crying. She still couldn’t believe everything that had happened—from finding Mason to losing Gage. It was all so unreal . . . so unfathomable, and as new tears filled her eyes for the umpteenth time, her sister sat down and pulled her close. “My heart is just a big ache,” she whispered, using the phrase they both used when they felt sad, beginning way back when their grandmother, Grandy, had died.
“He’ll come around,” Macey whispered softly. “Every relationship has ups and downs, and this is just a down. If it’s meant to be, you’ll get through it. Just remember, you didn’t tell me, either—which I can’t believe, but I still love you.”
“I know. . . . I’m sorry, Mace,” Maeve said, shaking her head, “but I don’t know if he’ll come around. He was so adamant, and said he would leave if I didn’t, but he’d had so much to drink, I couldn’t let him be the one to leave. Not to mention, it’s his cabin.”
“Well, that there is probably a big part of the problem. He might not have been so irrational if he wasn’t drinking. You know,” she teased gently, handing her sister a tissue, “drinking and poor decision making are very often partners in crime.”
“You’re not kidding,” Maeve said, wiping her eyes.
“So tell me more about Mason. . . . And by the way, did his adoptive mom give him that name?”
“She did.”
“Do you realize it might be a tribute to you? Mae’s son?”
Maeve smiled through her tears. “I didn’t think of that.” She shook her head. “But it would be just like her. I only met her that one time, but she was such a sweet woman—and she did such a good job raising him. I can’t believe she died. He must be so heartbroken.”
“How old was she?”
“Midforties.”
“That’s really sad. How did he seem to be handling it?”
“He seemed okay. It’s been a few weeks, so he’s had some time to adjust, but I’m sure he must get overwhelmed at times—how could he not? It was just the two of them.”
Macey nodded, listening and letting her little sister process all her emotions out loud. She knew talking was often the best way to deal with trauma, and Maeve had definitely had her share of trauma—and drama—that day.
“Mace, you should see him—he’s so tall and handsome and polite. I can’t wait for you to meet him. I can hardly believe he’s part of me.”
“I can’t wait to meet him,” Macey said. “When do you think that might happen?”
“I tried to get him to come to dinner, but he’s definitely wiser than me because he suggested I tell you first . . . and he was right. Dad seemed to have a hard time absorbing everything, but Mom—she was too funny—the way she wanted to help him shop for college supplies.” Maeve shook her head. “Dad will love his car, though . . . when he gets to see it.” Maeve suddenly felt tears filling her eyes again. “Mace, what’s wrong with me? Why can’t I stop crying?”
“Oh, Maeve,” Macey said, pulling her close again and resting her chin on top of her sister’s head. “You’re tired and you’ve been through a lot—you’ve had two huge monkey wrenches thrown into your life today, not to mention, you’ve been thrown out of your home.”
“At least Gage opened up, finally,” Maeve said with a wry smile. “You know what they say—there’s truth in wine . . . or, in his case, whiskey.”
Macey shook her head. “Yeah, well, you were right to point out that he wasn’t forthcoming. Just because his story is tragic, doesn’t mean he couldn’t share it with you. He’s just as guilty.”
Maeve bit her lip. “I’m going by tomorrow to pack up some things.”
<
br /> “Want me to go with you?”
“Would you?” Maeve asked hopefully.
“Absolutely,” Macey said. “And you can stay here as long as you need to. Even when he does come around, which I’m sure he will, I wouldn’t go running back. He needs to realize all he’s losing.”
“I know,” Maeve said, nodding. “He’s gonna miss Harper the most,” she said, laughing.
Macey laughed, too. “That’s for sure . . . and at least you’re smiling.” She yawned. “Well, I need to get back to bed. You gonna be okay?”
Maeve nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for being there. I never thought I’d need a place to stay.”
“Hey, that’s what sisters are for,” she said, kissing the top of Maeve’s head.
Just then, a black nose pushed open the door and Keeper peered in, wagging his tail.
“Well, look who’s here,” Macey said softly. “Are you checking on our guest?” she asked, and the big golden retriever wagged his tail as he wiggled in. A moment later, Big Mac sauntered in, too, and hopped up on the bed. “They’re not used to someone staying in this room.”
“They’re welcome to stay,” Maeve said hopefully. And, as if on cue, Keeper curled up on his old bed, while Big Mac curled into the fleecy cover at the end of the bed.
“There you go,” Macey said, watching her two rescues get comfortable. She gave her little sister a hug. “Can’t believe you’re a mom, Maeve! Now, I know why you pushed so hard on us adopting.”
“There are a lot of good kids out in the world who need homes. Just look at Harper . . . and Mason,” Maeve said, smiling.
39
GAGE SLID HIS HAND OVER TO MAEVE’S SIDE OF THE BED, FELT THE COOLNESS of the sheets, and opened his eyes, as the events of the previous night washed over him like a crushing wave and filled his aching head.
“Damn,” he whispered, rubbing his temples. He heard a thumping sound, looked over, and saw Gus resting his chin on the edge of the bed, his tail hitting the bureau, happy to find evidence of life. “I’m getting up, buddy,” he assured him. “Just give me a minute.”
Ten minutes later, Gage pulled on his jeans, shuffled to the bathroom, and purposely avoided looking in the mirror. Meanwhile, Gus waited patiently, and when Gage finally let him out, the big Lab lifted his leg for a full minute. “Sorry to make you wait so long,” Gage said. “I didn’t know it was urgent.” He filled Gus’s bowl with kibble, freshened his water bowl, and while the adult-size puppy wolfed down his breakfast, made a pot of coffee. He swallowed Tylenol with a full glass of water, poured a mug of steaming coffee, and went out on the porch. Thunder rumbled in the distance, and he looked up at the slate-gray Savannah sky and realized he hadn’t seen a forecast in days, but in the humid South—especially along the coast—summer storms were common. Gage set his mug on the table between the chairs and walked across the yard to the fenced-in area around the henhouse in which—for safety reasons—the chickens were still spending their nights. He opened the gate. “Mornin’, ladies and gent,” he said, tossing feed on the ground. “How’s it goin’, missy?” he asked, kneeling down next to one of his new hens. Both Amelia Egghart and Mother Clucker had grown out of their fluffy chick stage and moved into the coop, and the two remaining hens, Eggith and Eggel, along with their fearless protector, Pilgrim, had welcomed them into the flock with open wings.
Gage left the gate open so they could free-range and walked back to the porch. He folded himself into the same chair he’d sat in the night before and took a sip of his coffee.
“Obviously, coffee should be the only thing I drink,” he muttered, and Gus—hearing him—looked up and thumped his tail in seeming agreement, making Gage wonder if animals sensed a difference in their owners’ demeanor when they were drinking. “Sorry if I behaved badly last night and made you worry.” The dog thumped his tail again and Gage was certain his faithful companion—whose love was notoriously unconditional—had already forgiven him.
Unfortunately, the same wasn’t true for humans. Gage looked out over the lilies, bee balm, and black-eyed Susans, and rubbed his temples, but his head wasn’t the only part of him that ached. He replayed everything that had happened. He pictured the tall, slender boy talking to Maeve, and although he realized she must’ve been shocked to be confronted—out of the blue—by the child she’d given birth to eighteen years earlier, he still couldn’t for the life of him understand why she’d never told him.
“Why, Maeve?” he whispered. He’d been stunned when he’d witnessed from the porch the scene playing out before him . . . but had he overreacted when he’d left without explanation? Had it been an overreaction to not answer his phone because he was hurt, angry, disappointed? It had definitely been an overreaction to drink as much as he had—because not only was he paying the price today, but also the alcohol had allowed his emotions to get the best of him. Then again, maybe his reaction had been triggered by all the loss and pain he’d felt when he was younger—the intense grief of losing his brother, the heartbreaking betrayal by the one girl with whom he’d fallen in love . . . and his estranged relationship with his dad. He’d needed time to think . . . time to wrap his mind around the realization that the person he’d grown to love and trust most in the world had purposely not shared an experience that must have played a huge role in shaping her life . . . in shaping who she’d become as an adult.
“What the heck, Maeve?” he whispered, wiping his eyes with his palms, and then, suddenly he remembered the engagement ring. “Damn!” He just wanted to see her . . . to look in her eyes and try to understand.
As if on cue, his phone rang, and hoping it was Maeve, he hurried inside to retrieve it from the kitchen counter, but when he looked at the screen, he frowned.
“Hey, Chase,” he said, trying to sound cheerful, but a moment later, his voice grew solemn. “Wait! What?” he asked uncertainly, trying to understand his little brother, whose voice was choked with emotion. He listened, nodding. “Okay. I’ll come.” He rubbed his head, about to hang up, but then asked, “How’s Mom?” He nodded, still listening. “Okay,” he said softly. “Thanks. I’ll come as soon as I can.”
He slid his phone in his pocket and frowned, trying to remember where he’d tucked the letter from his mom—he could picture the envelope and he knew he’d put it in a safe spot. That was the trouble with safe spots, though—they were so safe, you couldn’t even find them yourself. He looked through the pile of papers on the kitchen table, and then stood in front of his bookcase and pulled his tattered Bible off the shelf, slipped out the blue envelope, sat down at his drawing table, and turned on the light.
40
MASON GLANCED AROUND THE COFFEEHOUSE. JUST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS earlier, he’d stopped in the same shop to get coffee before driving five hours to Savannah . . . and then home again. And after Mr. Hawkins had thanked him profusely, given him a hug, and made him promise to keep in touch, Mason had turned back onto the highway. Almost immediately, his mind had started replaying everything that had happened, but instead of finding a hotel—as he’d planned to do—he’d continued to drive . . . and think, and before he’d known it, he’d pulled into his own driveway, and been thankful he’d left the porch light on.
That morning, he’d texted Ali to see if she wanted to go hiking, or maybe shopping, and she—of course—had chosen the latter. But coffee first! she’d added with a sleepy emoji, and they’d agreed to meet at Ellijay Coffeehouse.
“So?” she asked when Mason slid into the seat across from her with his breakfast of choice—an Appalachian Sunrise breakfast panini and a black coffee. “How’d it go?”
“It went well,” he replied, smiling. Then he realized she didn’t have any food in front of her. “Don’t you want something to eat?”
She shook her head. “I’m good with coffee.”
“You want half of this?” he asked, gesturing to his sandwich.
“No, thanks,” she said. “I’m cutting back.”
“Cutting back?” he said with a frown
. “What for? There’s nothing to you.”
“There will be. Have you ever heard of the freshman fifteen?”
“That won’t happen,” he said dismissively, as he took a bite. “You’re way too active.”
“Anyway, back to my original question . . .”
Mason looked up, feigning puzzlement.
She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “How. Did. It. Go?”
“It went well,” he answered, smiling innocently.
“Oh, my goodness!” Ali said. “You have to tell me more than that. Was she what you expected? Was she surprised? Did she cry? Did you cry?”
Mason laughed and eyed her suspiciously. “Are you writing a book?”
“Maybe,” she teased. “You never know. . . . It’s certainly book material!”
Mason shook his head and sipped his coffee. “Guess who else I saw,” he said, changing the subject.
Ali rolled her eyes again and shook her head. “I don’t know. Who?”
“Mr. Hawkins—the man I bought my Chevelle from.”
“Where did you see him?” she asked in surprise.
“You’re not gonna believe this, but he’s a resident at the senior place where Maeve works.”
“No way!”
“Way. I got to take him for a ride . . . actually, he took me for a ride.”
