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

and Ben had also discovered that Harper was a talented artist, a good shot in basketball, and a stellar student with a love for science—especially marine life—and if she kept on the same trajectory, there would be no stopping her!

Harper licked the sugar and cinnamon from her lips. “Where’re we going after this?”

“I thought we’d walk over to Woof Gang Bakery—you know, that specialty pet store in City Market that sells homemade dog biscuits,” Macey said. “I want to pick up some treats and a bandanna for Keeper—something patriotic.”

“Maybe I’ll get a bandanna for Gus, too,” Maeve said brightly.

Harper nodded her approval. “Then they can be twins at the picnic!”

8

MASON KICKED OFF HIS RUNNING SHOES, RAN THE WATER IN THE KITCHEN sink until it was cold, filled a glass, drained it, and filled it again. Ten minutes later, after showering, he stood in front of the stove, drying his hair with a towel. He tossed the towel onto a chair and opened a can of tomato soup. He scooped the contents into a small saucepan, added water, and stirred, and while it simmered, smoothed butter onto two slices of bread. He laid one slice, butter side down, into a frying pan, topped it with American cheese, and then dropped the second slice, butter side up, on top. It was the third time this week that he’d had grilled cheese and tomato soup for supper. Growing up, his mom called it comfort food. Her other favorite comfort food was mac and cheese. If she saw it on a menu—especially if it had lobster in it—she invariably ordered it. Laurie’s own recipe for macaroni and cheese, however, was made with tomato soup and cheddar cheese, and in Mason’s mind it was the true mac and cheese. Needless to say, he’d consumed a lot of tomato soup when he was growing up!

He stirred the soup, turned his sandwich, heard his phone hum, and glanced at the screen. It was a text from Ali asking him if he wanted to come over for dinner. He smiled—he and Ali Harrison had been friends since birth, but lately, their relationship, of its own accord, seemed to be evolving into something more. It had always been one of those easy friendships that had resulted from having moms who’d been lifelong friends and who’d loved to get together with their little ones in tow. Laurie and Sue had even ended up working together in the maternity ward at the hospital, so Sue had always felt as if Mason was one of her own and she’d immediately taken him under her wing when Laurie got sick, inviting him—and usually insisting he come—for dinner, and if he declined, she often sent over a plate heaping with food. Mason texted back that his dinner was already made, and Ali’s next text showed how well she knew him:

Tomato soup and grilled cheese? (sigh)

My specialty!

So predictable

I know

Have you studied for the AP Calc final?

No. Want to study together?

YES!!!

Come over when you’re done

Okay

Mason slid his grilled cheese sandwich onto his plate and then glanced at the screen again.

My mom’s sending over a blueberry pie

Tell her thnx!

Will do!

Mason pushed aside the growing pile of mail on the table and sat down. He dipped his sandwich in his soup, took a bite, and blinked at the golden sunlight streaming through the window, illuminating the fine scratches on the rose-colored Formica table. The table was a relic from the 1950s and had belonged to his grandparents—in fact, the little house in which they lived was the same home in which his mom had grown up, so there were a lot of memories there. His mom often told him that she’d sat at that same table to do her homework. In keeping with tradition, Mason did his homework there, too, including, with his mom’s help, every school project he’d ever been assigned between kindergarten and eleventh grade—from the three-dimensional map of the Appalachian Trail he’d made by dripping Sheetrock mud onto plywood to a model of the Hubble Space Telescope, which he’d made with a large V8 juice can, cardboard, balsa wood, aluminum foil, and suction cups. He’d also cut out, sanded, and painted—without his mom’s help—all his Pinewood Derby cars. From the ranks of Wolf to Webelos, every car he’d made for the Pinewood Derby had had a NASCAR theme. His favorite—and by far, fastest—was inspired by Dale Earnhardt Jr.’s red number eight, and even though his scoutmaster had frowned at the Budweiser logo he’d painted on the side, the car had been a bullet! He’d never forget how proud his mom had been, making him hold his trophy and car while she took a dozen photos, and then she’d made an enlargement of her favorite, framed it, and hung it by the door where everyone would see it.

He smiled wistfully. He missed her being there, he missed her laugh and her unflappable disposition . . . and he didn’t know what he would do without her. She always had such a positive attitude about everything—even when she’d received her devastating cancer diagnosis, she hadn’t blinked, but told him not to worry and that she was going to beat it! The treatments had been brutal, though, and she’d lost all her chestnut-brown hair and a ton of weight—weight she couldn’t afford to lose. Now, there was nothing to her—she was so frail and fragile you could push her over with a feather. But through it all, she’d never stopped smiling.

Two weeks earlier she hadn’t been able to keep anything down, and she’d become so dehydrated he’d rushed her to the hospital. Although she’d hoped they would just give her fluids and send her home, they’d admitted her, and it didn’t seem like they’d be ready to let her go home anytime soon. He thought she seemed weaker whenever he visited her, but she always managed to put up a good front, don her most colorful bandanna, and grip his hand with the