by Nan Rossiter
“I don’t know about that,” Maeve said, taking a sip of her wine. “If something is meant to be, different paths can lead to it.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Yeah? You think this is meant to be?”
“Sometimes,” she teased, kissing his neck.
He leaned into her. “If you do that, our pizza is going to get cold.”
“I’m not doing anything,” she whispered innocently, pressing against him.
“Mm-hmm,” he murmured, reaching for her wine glass and setting it on the mantle next to his beer. He slid his hands along the sides of her snow-white tank top, and then, with an impish grin, pulled her down the hall.
“I guess we will be warming up the pizza,” she said, laughing.
He smiled as he slowly pulled her shirt over her head.
Maeve shook out her hair and watched as he lightly traced his fingers along the smooth skin of her abdomen, then slowly circled her navel.
“I think a piercing would be nice,” he said, half smiling. He slid his hands up her sides, caught her bra with his thumbs, unhooked it, and gently cupped his hands around her full breasts. “Damn, you’re good-looking,” he whispered. Maeve caught her breath, his touch sending a white-hot current of heat straight down.
“Damn, you’re good,” she whispered back, pressing against him and feeling how aroused he was. He unbuttoned her jeans and slid his hand inside, teasing her.
She pulled his T-shirt over his head and unzipped his jeans, but before she could do anything more, he was pulling her onto the bed on top of him.
“Damn, Maeve,” he whispered, his hands on her hips, their bodies intimately entwined as the rocking rhythm grew increasingly urgent.
Finally, she collapsed on the sheets next to him. “Whew!” she said, laughing, and then—hearing a swishing sound—peered over his shoulder and saw Gus standing next to the bed with his chin on the sheets, wagging his tail. “How long have you been there?” she asked in surprise.
Gage turned to look, too, and smiled. “He must’ve just come in,” he assured her, “because he wasn’t there a minute ago.”
“Like you would’ve noticed,” she teased.
He laughed, knowing it was true. Then he scratched the dog’s ears. “Are you finally ready for pizza, mister?” Gus thumped his tail faster and Gage laughed. “Okay, okay,” he said, “I’m getting up.” He kissed Maeve and reluctantly slid from the bed, and as he pulled on his jeans, he looked back at her lying naked on his bed with the sheets strewn about. “Want me to bring your pizza in here?”
“Oh, that would be nice,” she said, stretching, “but, no, I’m getting up, too.”
“You don’t have to get dressed,” he said, grinning.
She rolled her eyes. “But I am,” she said, and as she sat up, he leaned down, picked up her shorts and tank top, and tossed them to her.
“Thanks,” she said, swinging her tan legs over the side of the bed. She watched him disappear down the hall, with Gus at his heels, and then pulled on her clothes. She glanced in the mirror to see how disheveled she looked, ran her hand through her hair, and shuffled to the kitchen.
“Want to sit on the porch?” she asked, reaching for her wine and taking a sip.
“Sure,” he replied, handing her a plate with a slice of reheated pizza on it. He grabbed his beer, held open the screen door, and followed her out into the evening sunlight. “This is such a pretty spot,” she mused as the sun sank below the horizon, casting a golden hue across the gardens.
“You say that every time we sit out here,” Gage said, sitting in the old, wooden Adirondack chair across from her, and she chuckled, knowing it was true.
The cabin had been in rough shape when Gage first drove into the overgrown driveway to look at it. It was so run-down that he’d dismissed the idea of living there, but after passing the RENT TO OWN sign every day for two weeks, he’d finally called the number and arranged to meet the owner for a walk-through. They’d stood in the middle of the neglected gardens and looked around, and because of its condition, he’d been able to negotiate a deal that made repairs part of the rent. Six months later, the owner—a divorce attorney who happened to be going through a divorce—had contacted him to say he was looking to free himself from all of his assets, and the little hunting cabin on the river, which had been left to him by his grandfather, was the first thing he wanted to unload. He had to get rid of it, and Gage, who’d been scraping and saving since he’d started working for Ben, had bought it for a song. In the two years since, he’d made the most of the construction skills he’d been acquiring, and with Ben’s guidance, they’d begun restoring it. He’d started with the exterior, repairing and replacing rotting windows and scraping and painting everything that needed it—which was everything! But the real blessing had come when the owner of a house they’d been working on decided to gut his kitchen and scrap all the cabinets, countertops, and appliances—which were practically new! Ben had asked the owner if he could have them, and the owner had agreed, happy to save on disposal fees. After work, Gage and Ben had hauled everything out to the cabin and spent the next two weekends installing the new kitchen.
“Did you get everything done that you wanted to get done today?” Maeve asked, hungrily taking a bite of her pizza.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get everything done.”
“That’s one of the drawbacks of owning a house,” Maeve teased, “endless maintenance! Which is why I rent,” she added with a grin.
“I rented for a long time and I always felt like I was throwing money away. In the end, you spend a ton and you don’t own anything.”
“But you also save,” Maeve countered, “because you don’t have to pay property tax.”
“The taxes out here are next to nothing. I don’t think this place has been assessed in years. It’s a hidden treasure.”
Maeve chuckled. “I’m surprised they didn’t assess it when you bought it, and you better hope they never come out to reassess it because when they see your view, your taxes will skyrocket—being on the river is like being on the ocean.”
“It is nice . . .” Gage agreed, looking out over the field of wildflowers at the sunlight reflecting on the winding river.
“I love it here,” she said with a sigh. “You’re so lucky.”
“I am lucky,” Gage agreed, taking another long sip of beer, “but my favorite view is sitting right next to me.”
Maeve rolled her eyes. “You are almost as silly as your dog,” she said, giving Gus a morsel of her pizza crust.
Gage smiled; he loved how Maeve adored Gus, and he knew the feeling was mutual—his big yellow puppy absolutely adored her, too. He distractedly wiped the condensation on the side of his bottle. “When I was young, we had a little barn cat named Mike. She was smoke gray with white paws . . .”
“Wait,” Maeve said, raising her eyebrows. “You had a female cat named Mike?!”
Gage nodded and took a sip of his beer, trying not to laugh at his own memory. “We did. My brother named her after Mike Mulligan—you know . . . from the book?”
Maeve laughed. “I know the book, but how come he didn’t name her after Mary Anne? She was the real hero of the story.”
Gage chuckled at her observation. “I guess because we boys always considered Mike to be the hero—growing up around tractors, we wanted to be Mike Mulligan.”
“Gotcha,” Maeve teased.
“Anyway, do you want to hear the story?” he asked, feigning dismay at being interrupted.
“I do,” she assured him, eager to hear any tidbit from his childhood.
“So, when Mike showed up on our doorstep, she was pregnant. Cale and I were little . . . probably no older than five—if he was four, I would’ve been three—we were very close in age, and our mom decided it would be neat for us to see Mike give birth to her kittens so she put a towel-lined box on the porch, hoping, when her time came, she would use it and we would get to watch. Sure enough, early one summer morning, our mom woke us up, an
d we hurried downstairs in our pajamas, knelt down on the porch near the box, and watched Mike squeeze out five little squirmy, wet babies . . . well, actually, only four were squirming . . . one was completely still, and no matter how much nudging and cleaning Mike gave it, it wouldn’t move. Finally, my mom scooped it out and started to carry it toward the barn to give to our dad, but Mike would have none of it. She hopped out of the box and trotted after my mom to see where she was going.”
“That’s so sad,” Maeve said, her heart aching for the little cat.
Gage nodded. “It was sad, but it doesn’t end there. My mom was, of course, able to get Mike back to the box, and even though she looked sad, she was a good mama and continued to care for her other kittens. Later that evening, when my dad came in from haying, we were still out on the porch, entranced by the kittens. We noticed our dad talking to our mom. He had something in his hands, and a few moments later, he walked over and set a baby bunny in the box.”
“No way!” Maeve said in surprise. “What did Mike do?”
“She sniffed it, pulled it in close, and started to clean it.”
“Did she let it nurse?”
“She did, and that little bunny grew up right alongside those kittens—we think the bunny thought she was a cat. Cale named her Moon because there’s a bunny in Goodnight Moon . . . and we had her for five or six years.”
“That’s amazing,” Maeve said, shaking her head. “Where did your dad find her?”
“He never told us, but as we got older, we knew—because we learned that bunnies sometimes made their dens in the fields—that something probably happened to the mama and other babies.”
“That is such a great—albeit sad—story,” Maeve said softly. “Mike must’ve been a wonderful cat.”
Gage nodded. “Mike was the sweetest cat. She lived to be around seventeen—which is pretty old for a barn cat. My mom had a soft spot in her heart for her and she used to let her in the house. The rest of our cats were all true barn cats—they stayed outside.”
Maeve nodded. “You should get a cat.”
“I’ve thought about it—I could use a good mouser, but I’m not sure what Gus would do.”
Maeve gently nudged the lanky Lab at her feet with her toe, and Gus looked up. “You’d love a little kitten, wouldn’t you, you big moose?” Gus thumped his tail happily, and they laughed.
Gage took a sip of his beer and looked over. “Gus would love it if you lived here, too.”
Maeve smiled—it was a conversation they’d had before, and even though there was nothing she’d love more than waking up next to Gage every morning, she felt as if they still had some things to work out before they made such a big commitment.
“If you think about it,” he pressed, “either you’re staying here, or I’m staying at your place, so it’s almost like we’re living together.”
“Almost,” she agreed. She wanted to say more—she wanted to finally tell him about the foolish mistake she’d made in college and the heartbreaking decision she’d had to make afterward—it was all right there on the tip of her tongue, but she was afraid he would think less of her; she was afraid she might lose him.
Gage—who’d gotten up to look at the setting sun—didn’t see the sadness in her eyes, so when he turned back and leaned against the railing, he only smiled. “I love you, Maeve . . . and I’d love to come home to you every night.”
Now it was Maeve’s turn to look away. She looked at the river, tears stinging her eyes. “I love you, too, Gage. I love you more than life itself.” She paused, searching for the right words, “but I feel like there’re still things we haven’t talked about—things standing between us. I mean why don’t you ever talk about your fam . . .” But before she could finish, he was pulling her up and gently putting his finger over her lips.
“There’s just you and me, Maeve,” he said. “Nothing else matters. There’s nothing standing between us.” As he said this, Gus pushed his head between them and Gage laughed. “Except this silly dog.”
Maeve couldn’t help but laugh, too. Gus had been the icebreaker when they first met and it seemed like his silly antics would always take the seriousness out of serious moments.
“I’ve never loved anyone as much as I love you,” Gage said solemnly. “Come live with me,” he whispered.
Maeve closed her eyes, trying to shut down the storm of thoughts swirling in her head. The words she wanted to say were right there—the words she’d rehearsed a million times. Her explanation, her excuses, her heartache . . . if she could only let them spill out, and then, come hell or high water, pray it wouldn’t matter—if she only knew that he would say, Maeve, your past is your past, and mine is mine. It doesn’t matter. It’s all behind us. The only thing that matters is us. Us, now . . . If she could just be assured of this, she would tell him everything . . . but she wasn’t sure what her sweet country boy would think, and the more time passed, the heavier it weighed on her heart. And it wasn’t just Gage she hadn’t told. . . . She’d never told anyone—not her parents . . . not even Macey.
“A penny for your thoughts,” he whispered.
She mustered a smile and thought how crazy it was that she couldn’t just say what was on her mind. If she’d only realized, back then, what a profound effect her actions would have on the rest of her life—but how do you know when you’re eighteen . . . and scared? “Nothing,” she whispered back, kissing him. “Just thinking about how nice it would be to wake up next to you every day.”
His face brightened. “So . . . you’ll move in?”
She laughed. He sounded so hopeful. “Okay, I’ll move in!”
“Yes!” Gage said, and then he looked down at the Lab squeezing between them again. “Gus is happy, too.”
She laughed. “I think he just wants more pizza!”
10
EVEN THOUGH WILLOW POND SENIOR CARE DID INCLUDE CARE IN ITS name, the elderly folks who lived there weren’t considered patients and they didn’t require a tremendous amount of care. Dinner was provided every night and there were daily activities, including crafts and an enthusiastic book club; there was an ecumenical church service every Sunday, and a happy hour (instead of cookies and lemonade) on the last Friday of each month, but the staff didn’t administer medicine or become involved in personal care. Most of the residents had pill trays, which they—or their families—filled . . . and then they tried to remember to take them, too. They each had their own kitchenette, private bathroom, bedroom—all of which were equipped with emergency pull strings—and a living room furnished with their own furniture, TV, and sometimes a computer. Some folks even had Facebook pages to keep up with their families’ activities and photos—although Addie insisted that Instagram was more hip, or so she’d been told by her grandchildren!
The staff included Maeve, Pam, and Kate—who staggered their start times to cover the 7:00 A.M. to 7:00 P.M. days, with Maeve usually taking the early shift because she didn’t have kids. Janey, a part-timer, came in on weekends. They also used the Willow Pond van to drive the residents, who no longer drove, to the grocery store or Walmart once a week, and there was a Willow Pond car, too, if someone had a doctor’s appointment—of which there were many! Jim, the handyman, lived in one of the apartments and was available for overnight emergencies; Maryellen, the housekeeper, kept all the kitchenettes and bathrooms sparkling and often helped the residents change their sheets, if needed; and there was chef extraordinaire, Sal. Finally, there was LeeAnn, who worked magic from her upstairs office and took care of an endless myriad of tasks—from billing and scheduling activities to coordinating rides and resident turnover. Together, this formidable group looked after their elderly charges and made sure everyone was safe and accounted for, so when Pam asked Maeve to cover for her again—as she often did when one of her kids needed something—Maeve was happy to help.
“Maeve, I’m so sorry to ask . . .” Pam said as she hurried into the kitchen of Willow Pond Senior Care. “I have to take Pete to the doctor�
��he came home with a sore throat, and I have a feeling he might have strep.”
“Oh, no!” Maeve said, looking up from putting cheese and crackers on a plate for the last Friday of the month happy hour. “Poor Pete! I can absolutely cover for you. My sister said the school is a giant petri dish right now.”
Pam nodded as she dumped a can of defrosted frozen lemonade into a pitcher for anyone who didn’t partake (the residents were responsible for their own wine or beer). “He just got over a cold, and he’s so busy with end of the year activities—he has two field trips coming up and the school picnic, not to mention sixth-grade graduation, so he’ll be disappointed if he has to miss any of it.”
“Is Pete in sixth grade already?!” Maeve asked, offering her a cracker.
“He is,” Pam said, taking one. “Thanks . . . and I can come back after his appointment.”
“No, no,” Maeve said. “If he doesn’t feel well, he’s going to want his mom.”
“Thanks, Maeve, I owe you one . . . I actually owe you more than one.” She added water to the lemonade, stirred, and set the pitcher on the tray.
“You don’t owe me anything,” Maeve said. “I don’t have kids, so I don’t have all the worries and responsibilities you have.”
“Someday you will,” Pam teased, laughing. “And then, I will be there for you.”
“Maybe,” Maeve said.
“What do you mean? Maybe? You and Gage make a wonderful couple, and I think it’s great you’re moving in with him. You just have to put everything in the Lord’s hands.”
Maeve laughed. “You sound like my grandma.”
“Your grandma must’ve been a very smart lady, and I know from experience—things with Big Pete”—as she always referred to her husband—“weren’t always smooth sailing,” she said with a smile. “Every couple has issues they have to contend with . . . obstacles they have to overcome. . . . Relationships take work—and lots of patience! You just have to listen to your heart, Maeve.”
Pam looked up at the clock above their heads. “Sheesh, how’d it get so late?”