Promises to Keep

by Nan Rossiter

“Do you think Ivy got pregnant . . . and he was the father?”

  “It’s possible—like you said, there must be a reason that photo is so important to them, but I think they should’ve cropped me out,” he added, laughing.

  “Do you remember the circumstances of the photo?”

  “Oh, we were all just having fun—there was a whole group of us kids, and Will and I had just competed in a back-and-forth contest . . . kind o’ like Gage and I did the other day.”

  Maeve nodded. “I wonder what happened to him.”

  Bud pressed his lips together. “We lost a lot of good men in that war.”

  Maeve shook her head. “That would’ve been incredibly hard for her back then—getting pregnant, possibly out of wedlock—and raising her son all by herself.”

  Bud nodded. “Takes a lot of courage to do that.” He eyed her thoughtfully. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, Maeve . . . and please tell me to mind my own business if I’m stepping over the line, but that boy who showed up here on Friday—Mason . . . is he your son?”

  Maeve smiled. “He is. But, unlike Ivy, I didn’t have the courage to raise him on my own.”

  Bud nodded. “Everything happens for a reason, Maeve. God has a plan.”

  “It does . . . and He does,” she agreed.

  “So what does your handsome beau—as Gladys calls him—think of all this? Did he know about Mason?”

  Maeve shook her head. “He didn’t know.”

  Bud nodded but didn’t say anything.

  “And he’s not my beau anymore,” she added.

  Bud frowned. “Oh,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

  “His dad just died, too . . .”

  Bud shook his head. “When it rains . . . it pours.” He paused. “Are you going to the service?”

  Maeve shook her head.

  The porch was oddly quiet with everyone inside, and Maeve looked up at the slate-gray sky, not ready to go back inside. “What happened to the sun?” she asked, and then a sudden gust of wind swept down the porch, rocking the chairs and fluffing Tallulah’s fur. The little orange tiger cat opened her eyes, and sensing the storm, hopped off her chair and sauntered down the porch toward the door. “She knows,” Bud said, smiling, “but that breeze feels good after this hot day.” He looked out at the giant old willow tree next to the pond, and Maeve followed his gaze, watching its long, wispy branches dancing in the wind. “That big ole willow has seen a lot of storms in its lifetime,” he said, “but its roots are deep and strong. It’ll lose some branches in this one, but if Jim doesn’t pick ’em up, they’ll take root and become new trees. That’s how willows are—resilient. They just dance in the storm.”

  Maeve nodded. “I wish I was more like a willow.”

  Bud looked over at her. “I know it’s not my place, Maeve, but if it’s not too late, I think you should go to the service. You may think that boy o’ yours doesn’t want you there, but I’ll bet anythin’ he wishes you were.”

  Maeve looked up in surprise, remembering Jen’s sermon about hearing God’s voice, and as she considered Bud’s words, she felt an odd peace fill her heart. She’d been praying for guidance and praying that she wouldn’t lose Gage, and suddenly, it was crystal clear: she loved Gage with all her heart—and whether he got along with his dad, or not, it was still his dad! She looked back at Bud. “But the service is tomorrow morning . . . in Tennessee!”

  Bud leaned forward in his chair and eyed her solemnly. “Then you better get going, missy.”

  49

  WHEN THE BELL OF THE OLD ALARM CLOCK WENT OFF EARLY TUESDAY morning, Gage practically jumped out of his skin. “No wonder Cale and I never overslept,” he grumbled, fumbling to turn it off. He felt something heavy on his leg, looked down, and realized Gus had curled up next to him sometime during the night and now had his head on his leg. “Hey, pal,” Gage said softly, flopping the dog’s ear back and forth, “mind moving your head so I can get up?” Gus opened one eye, made a guttural sound of contentment, and closed it again. “Hey,” Gage said, nudging him, and the dog rolled onto his back for a belly rub. “Uh, sorry! No time for that today. I have to hop in the shower.” Gage managed to extricate himself from under the sheet, grabbed the towels his mom had brought in the night before, and shuffled sleepily down the hall to shower and shave.

  An hour later, after downing a cup of black coffee, he was standing in the downstairs bathroom, trying to tie his tie, when Chase walked by.

  “It’s crooked,” his little brother teased, peering into the bathroom, “and there’s a button in the back of your collar that needs to be buttoned.”

  Gage reached back to button it, but the buttonhole was too small and he couldn’t push it through. “Damn!” he muttered. “Can you get it?” he asked, turning so his brother could reach it.

  Chase tucked the tie under the collar, secured the button, and then eyed the knot his brother had tied. “Who taught you to tie a tie . . . Dad?” he teased.

  “Who else?” Gage asked.

  “Well, a Windsor knot is a little fancy for a funeral. You should use a four-in-hand or a half-Windsor,” he offered. “I never use a full Windsor.”

  Gage groaned. “I don’t have time for a tie-tying lesson. Mom and I are picking up Dutch.”

  Chase nodded. “It’ll only take a second,” he said, quickly untying the tie and deftly retying it with a simple half-Windsor. “The trick is tightening the knot as you bring it up,” he said, as he slid it up and cinched it into a tight, neat knot close to his brother’s collar. “See?”

  Gage turned and looked in the mirror. “Nice,” he said, lightly touching it. “Thanks!”

  “You’re welcome,” Chase said. “Now you look almost as sharp as me.”

  “Not quite,” Gage said, eyeing the slim tailored suit his brother was wearing. “You always look cool as a cucumber,” he said, smiling—it was a phrase they’d often heard their mom use. “Is your eulogy all written?” he asked.

  “It’s up here,” Chase said, tapping his temple, “and in here,” he added, patting his heart.

  “No way,” Gage said, eyeing him. “You didn’t write it down?!”

  “Nope,” Chase said.

  “You’re a lot braver than the rest of us,” Gage said.

  “Or more foolish,” Chase quipped with a grin.

  Libby hurried into the kitchen and eyed her sons suspiciously. “How come you two look like cats who ate canaries?”

  “I don’t know,” Gage said innocently, and then changed the subject. “Are you ready?”

  “Almost,” she said, brushing away a tear as she stuffed a wad of tissues into her purse.

  “You okay, Mom?” Chase asked, frowning.

  She nodded. “Are you?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  She looked at them as if she were seeing them for the first time. “You both look nice.”

  “Thank you,” Chase said. “So do you.”

  “Thank you,” she replied, nodding. “So, you and Liam are going over early to make sure everything’s ready?”

  Chase nodded. “Yes, we’re leaving shortly . . . so don’t worry about a thing.”

  “Thank you so much, hon,” she said, giving him a hug, and then, it suddenly dawned on Chase that the last thing his mom needed to do before her husband’s funeral service was go to the nursing home to collect her wheelchair-bound, memory-challenged father. “Mom,” he said, frowning, “how come you didn’t have Uncle Mike pick Dutch up?”

  “Because I want to see what kind of day he’s having,” she replied, “and decide if he should go.”

  Chase nodded. “Maybe he shouldn’t go,” he suggested softly. “You have a lot on your plate today.”

  “Maybe,” she said, “but if he’s up to it, I’d like him to be there.”

  Chase raised his eyebrows and eyed Gage—who nodded in understanding, suddenly struck by his younger brother’s gentle compassion and sensitivity to their mom’s needs.

  “They said they’d hav
e him dressed,” she continued distractedly, and then she looked up at Gage. “Ready?”

  “Ready as I’ll ever be,” he said, mustering a smile.

  50

  THE STARS WERE SPARKLING IN THE NIGHT SKY WHEN MAEVE LOOKED OUT the window at 2 A.M. She’d gone to bed early and then proceeded to wake up every hour, on the hour. Now, she was afraid she might oversleep if she fell asleep again, so she got up.

  On her way home from work the night before, she’d stopped at Macey’s to pick up the white blouse her sister had borrowed a month earlier. “You know, the summery one that doesn’t require ironing and will still look halfway decent when I get there,” she’d said.

  “I can’t believe you’re driving all the way to Tennessee,” her sister had said when she came through the door. “Why didn’t you think of this before? You could’ve gone today and stayed in a hotel.”

  “I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before, but I’ve been praying about it, and earlier today, I had an epiphany,” she said brightly, “and I’m just glad I had it before it was too late!”

  Macey nodded. “I’m glad, too. How long does it take to get there and what time are you leaving?”

  “I looked online and my phone app says it’ll take around six and a half hours, and since the service is at eleven, I’m planning to leave by three thirty in the morning, so I can allow time for traffic or stopping for a bathroom, which we both know I’ll need to do . . . at least twice!”

  “Not if you don’t drink coffee,” Macey said.

  “Mace, I’m getting up at 3 A.M. I will need coffee.”

  Macey nodded. “Well, it’s good you’re going. Ben wishes he could go, too, but with Gage not around, they’ve been under the gun, trying to stay on schedule.”

  “That reminds me,” Maeve said. “Can you take care of the chickens?”

  “Why does ‘under the gun’ remind you of the chickens?”

  Maeve shook her head and sighed. “I don’t know, but it did . . . so can you?”

  “Of course,” Macey said. “Just one more thing for us to do on the first day of school.”

  “Oh, that’s right! I’m sorry,” Maeve said. “I completely forgot it was the first day of school! Well, on the bright side, you can take a photo of Harper surrounded by her favorite hens—that would make a cute first-day picture—you could even post it on Facebook.”

  “Mm-hmm,” Macey said, sounding unconvinced. “Not a fan, remember?”

  Maeve rolled her eyes. “Harper’s gonna have a Facebook page soon, and then you’ll have to reactivate your account so you can keep an eye on her.”

  “I’ll let her aunt keep an eye on her. . . . Then I won’t be accused of snooping.”

  Maeve laughed. “Well, I won’t be tattling,” she teased. “Oh, and don’t leave the gate open,” she reminded. “There’s no free-ranging—I don’t want anything to happen to them while they’re in my care. . . . And help yourself to eggs.”

  “Got it,” Macey said.

  “Thanks. I owe you one.”

  “You don’t owe me anything,” Macey said.

  “Okay, well, I better go,” Maeve said, giving her sister a hug.

  “Okay. Safe travels. I hope it goes well. Tell Gage we’re thinking of him.”

  “I will,” Maeve said, “if he’s talking to me.” And with that, she’d hurried out to her Jeep.

  Now, wide awake at 2 A.M., she opened her laptop, clicked on her Facebook page, and realized she had a new friend request. Curiously, she clicked on it, and then smiled in surprise—it was from Mason. “Absolutely!” she said softly, clicking confirm. Then she scrolled through his page, smiling at the photos of him at all different ages, and with different friends—especially the pictures that kept popping up of him with a cute blond-haired girl who seemed to have been a fixture in his life since childhood . . . and who’d been tagged, revealing her name: Ali Harrison. “Hmm,” she mused thoughtfully, wondering if she was the friend he’d talked about. There were also photos of him running cross-country . . . and of him with Laurie, the wonderful woman he called Mom. His Facebook page was like a window into his life, and she was beyond thankful to be invited to look in. When she finally looked up from his page, though, she realized, in alarm, that half an hour had slipped by. She closed her laptop and hurried down the hall to shower.

  SEVEN LONG HOURS LATER, MAEVE SLIPPED INTO THE LAST PEW OF A little white country church, overflowing with mourners, and looked up at the tall mullioned windows. Her drive had been uneventful, and even though she hadn’t had much coffee, she’d still had to stop. She looked around the simple sanctuary now, wondering if it was the same church Gage had attended when he was a boy. She checked her phone for the time, texted Macey that she’d made it, turned off the sound, and slipped it back in her pocket. She’d briefly considered wearing a dress, but the idea of driving seven hours and stopping at rest stops in a dress and nylons was a little daunting, so she’d opted for something simple—gray slacks and a white blouse with a light blue silk scarf tied loosely around her neck. She reached up to touch both her ears to make sure she hadn’t lost an earring and then slid the clasp of her necklace back where it belonged—at the back of her perspiring neck.

  Even with the windows open, the church—which obviously had no AC—was very warm, and when she noticed everyone around her fanning themselves with their bulletins, she picked hers up and studied the image on the cover: it was a beautiful photo of a field with a setting sun behind it, and over the image were the words Well done, good and faithful servant. She opened it, and read the title, A Celebration of the Life of John (Jack) Matthew Tennyson, and then quickly scanned the page, looking at the different readings the family had chosen, and the names of speakers. She noticed the minister’s name listed across from “Reflections by the Minister” was Melinda Keck. She continued to study the bulletin, looking for Gage’s name, but wasn’t surprised when she didn’t see it. She did see Chase’s name, though, across from the traditional reading from Ecclesiastes . . . and across from the eulogy.

  Promptly at 11 A.M., the church bell began to toll high up in the steeple, and a pretty, middle-aged woman wearing a long, black robe with a beautiful purple stole opened a door in the front of the sanctuary, and the whispering and murmuring in the church grew quiet as the Tennyson family walked in. Maeve peered over the heads in front of her—looking for Gage—and was surprised when he appeared first, pushing a wheelchair with an older gentleman in it. A slim, graceful woman with silver hair followed him, and behind her walked a man with salt-and-pepper hair—who looked like the photo she’d seen of Dutch—and then, three more of Jack Tennyson’s tall, blond-haired sons, their wives, and a host of towheaded grandchildren emerged. Coming through the door last were Liam and Chase.

  Maeve took a deep breath and reached into her purse for a tissue—the service hadn’t even begun and she already had tears in her eyes. She watched Gage maneuver the wheelchair to the end of the first pew, adjust the light blanket on the man’s lap, and sit down next to him. The rest of the family filed in, too, filling two entire pews. Finally, the minister stepped up to the pulpit, and with a warm smile, welcomed everyone, and then invited them to stand—if they were able—to sing one of Jack’s favorite hymns, “The Old Rugged Cross.”

  51

  AS THE FIRST NOTES OF THE OLD HYMN DRIFTED OUT, GAGE OPENED HIS hymnal and offered it to his mom, and even though Libby knew the words by heart, she held her side of the book and sang softly, trying not to cry. Soon, the collected voices of the congregation swelled, along with the music from the organ, and Gage looked down and realized his grandfather’s weathered face was radiant as he mouthed the words, too. Gage nudged his mom so she would see her dad singing, and she shook her head, and whispered, “He’s having a really good day—seeing you has made such a difference.” She motioned to her brother, who nodded and smiled, too, and soon the entire family knew Dutch was singing. When the hymn ended, Gage gently squeezed his grandfather’s shoulder, and the
old man reached out his gnarled hand shakily and patted Gage’s knee.

  Meanwhile, up in the pulpit, Melinda closed her hymnal, set it to the side, and looked up. “I will never forget the first time I met Jack Tennyson. It was my first week as the new minister here, and a tall gentleman walked into the office. ‘Welcome, pastor,’ he said. ‘I never thought the search committee would go through with it, but they surely did!’ And after some pleasantries, he left, and I asked Jeannie—our faithful church secretary—what he’d meant, and she laughed. ‘I think he meant he didn’t think they’d ever hire a woman!’

  “‘Oh!’ I said in surprise.

  “Not long after, I learned that Jack was the patriarch of a family with six sons and the proprietor of a famous nearby farm with over five hundred dairy cows—or as Jack would say, ‘five hundred head of cattle,’ and I thought, holy cra . . . cow! That’s a lot of sh . . . manure!” Her words immediately broke the somber tension in the room and everyone chuckled. She smiled and continued, “But I also learned that, above all else, Jack Tennyson was a man of God . . . and a man of his convictions; he was always willing to lend a hand, no matter what the task . . . or how busy he was—whether it was serving communion, drying dishes, or . . .” she looked up and smiled—“donating and serving his family’s ice cream at our church suppers.

  “In fact, whenever there was a project, Jack was the first to volunteer . . . the first to arrive . . . and the last to leave. He was every minister’s dream in a parishioner and in a fellow servant.” She paused and searched the faces of his family. “But that isn’t to say Jack was without some faults . . . because he was also definitely old-school. Jack’s interpretation of the Bible was literal, and he would defend his position by quoting countless verses from both the Old and New Testaments. But this didn’t mean that Jack couldn’t evolve . . . because he did! God threw some hard lessons Jack’s way, and through it all, he kept the faith, learned from those lessons, and persevered. He was the proverbial, pliable clay, and he allowed his master craftsman to mold him into the man we all loved so much.” She smiled. “Jack Tennyson was indeed a great man . . . and no one knows that better than his family.” She eyed Chase and smiled. “Now, I’d like to invite Jack’s youngest son up to read from scripture and share some memories that only a Tennyson boy would know.”