Promises to Keep, Nan Rossiter [feel good fiction books .txt] 📗

eyes, scanned the Help Wanted section of the paper for the millionth time. As per usual, it was filled with ads for restaurant help, trolley and ghost tour drivers, groundskeepers, and hotel staff—the standard industry of a tourist destination, but none of the jobs had appealed to him. God help me if I ever have to narrate a ghost tour! He’d been about to close the paper when a small ad at the bottom of the page had caught his eye: “Small restoration and construction company looking for help. Willing to train the right person.” He’d sipped his coffee, recalling all the fence posts and barn siding he’d repaired as a boy. How hard could it be? he’d thought. He knew how to measure twice, cut once, and swing a hammer, so he wouldn’t need a lot of training. Plus—and this was a big plus—he’d be outdoors! Without giving it another thought, he’d thrown caution to the wind, tapped the number into his phone, cleared his throat, and clicked call. A second later, Ben Samuelson had answered, and the trajectory of his life had changed.

He’d met Ben at the jobsite on a quiet country road outside of Savannah—and they’d instantly hit it off. Ben—desperate for another set of hands—had hired him on the spot. On his way home, Gage had felt elated at the prospect of never having to bartend again (although he had given two weeks’ notice), and it had been on the drive home across that quiet country road that he’d noticed a Rent to Own sign. He’d slowed, wondering if serendipity—his mom’s favorite word—or her constant prayers for him had taken him down this road because suddenly everything had seemed to be falling into place. He’d been wanting to move out of his tiny apartment for years—he hated living in the city, and now that he’d secured a stable, well-paying job, maybe he could finally afford a place of his own. Curious to see what was hidden at the end of the long driveway, he’d turned in, but it had been so overgrown it was more like a tunnel. The low-hanging branches draped with Spanish moss scraped the sides of his old pickup, but at the very end, the driveway had opened into a bright, sunny meadow filled with daylilies and wildflowers—a slice of heaven—and in the middle of the meadow was what looked like an old hunting cabin.

Two years had passed since that day and so much had changed in his life. He’d moved out of his apartment in downtown Savannah and into the rustic cabin; he’d rescued a little yellow Lab puppy from the local shelter, met Maeve, and fallen in love . . . and although he was sure she was “the one,” there were some things he hadn’t shared with her—memories that haunted him, and memories he didn’t want to talk about. He wished he could forget the past and forgive his father, but his pride stood stubbornly in the way, and the more time passed, the harder it became to tell her about it. He dried his hands on a dish towel and shook his head. Why does life have to be so complicated?

He reached for the pile of junk mail and was just about to throw it in the trash, when he noticed a light blue envelope sticking out of the last page of the Cabela’s catalog. He pulled it out, recognized his mom’s familiar handwriting, and frowned. He’d almost missed a letter from home!

7

“IT ONLY HURTS FOR A SECOND,” MAEVE SAID.

“Will it bleed?” Harper asked, frowning. “Because I’m not good with blood.”

“I’m not good when it’s my own blood, either, but if it bleeds at all, it will only be a little,” Macey replied as they turned onto Abercorn Street.

“Thanks a lot,” Harper said, her voice edged with sarcasm.

“Hey, you’ve been through a lot worse than this,” Maeve consoled, putting her arm around her.

Harper rolled her eyes, knowing Maeve was referring to the heart transplant she’d had the previous winter. “That was different—I was asleep.”

“Well they can’t put you to sleep to pierce your ears,” Macey said. “It’s just a quick pinch.”

“Should we have lunch first?” Maeve asked, hearing her stomach rumble and realizing they weren’t far from her favorite lunch spot.

“Noo,” Harper answered quickly. “I might throw up if I eat first.”

“You’re not going to throw up,” Macey said, shaking her head.

“Sandy did,” Harper countered.

“Sandy who?” Macey asked with a frown.

“Danny’s Sandy—you know, the girl in the movie we watched the other night. She puked in the bathroom when Frenchie tried to pierce her ears.”

“You mean in Grease?” Macey asked, chuckling. “Well, she was drinking wine . . . and that will make you throw up.”

Parenting—on all fronts—was a new adventure for Macey and Ben, and Macey often felt like she was wading into uncharted waters, especially since Harper—who was nine years old when they adopted her, was now ten—the age Parenting Magazine warned was very impressionable. Ever since she’d come to live with them, Macey had had so many questions and worries that she’d started reading every magazine and book she could about raising a well-balanced child. One of her biggest concerns was knowing when to talk to Harper about things like peer pressure and drinking. She also wondered when she should broach the subject of menstruation, knowing she’d get no help from Ben on that one! Macey wasn’t sure what Harper already knew, but—because she worked in a pediatric office—she understood all too well that kids experimented with alcohol and sex at younger ages, and Harper, after spending her early childhood bouncing from one foster home to another, was more streetwise than the average ten-year-old.

“You drink wine and don’t throw up,” Harper pointed out.

“That’s because I don’t drink very much . . . or very often.” Macey shook her head, suddenly wondering if she—since Harper was so perceptive and had obviously been observing her—should give up alcohol completely. She’d been reading about how parents’ habits and behaviors affect children, and she’d realized she had