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

full glass,” Gladys interrupted, eyeing the half-filled glasses on the tray.

“I know you can,” Maeve said, “but why don’t you start with half? You can always have more.”

Gladys rolled her eyes and mumbled something inaudible, but then took a glass from the tray. “When’s dinner?” she huffed.

“In an hour, so don’t spoil your appetite,” Maeve warned, as she made her way around the porch.

“Thank you, miss,” Aristides Lincoln said, nodding politely, his dark eyes sparkling.

Maeve spied Tallulah curled up in his lap. “I see you’re the chosen one today, Aristides.”

“I am,” he said, grinning as he stroked the cat’s soft fur with one hand and took a cookie with the other. “Did you make these?”

Maeve shook her head. “No, I’m afraid I can’t take credit. Sal made them.”

He took a bite. “Well, tell him thank you.”

“You can tell him at dinner tonight.”

“What is for dinner?” Gladys asked, holding her glass out for a refill. Maeve started to pour more lemonade, but when the liquid reached the halfway mark, Gladys clucked. “All the way up, missy!”

Maeve filled the glass and wondered if Gladys was truly hard of hearing. She certainly seemed able to follow a conversation when she wanted to. “Well, it’s Friday, so some form of fish, I imagine. Probably sole.”

“Sole again?” Gladys sputtered, spraying lemonade. “I’m Protestant, you know. I don’t have to eat fish every Friday. And, my word! I’d like to know why Catholics get to dictate the Friday menu for all eternity! I’m tired of sole. How come we never have catfish or trout? My daddy and I used to catch rainbows and brownies off Ossabaw Island . . . and big ole catfish from the Savannah River. My mama used to fry them up in cornmeal and butter . . . mmm! My mouth waters just thinkin’ ’bout it. When in heaven’s name are we gonna have us some catfish?”

“You’ll have to ask Sal, Gladys. I’m sure he’d be happy to make catfish for you.”

Gladys took a bite of her cookie and closed her eyes. “Mmm, he makes the best sugar cookies, though. Better’n sex . . .”

“Gladys!” Maeve said.

“What?” the old woman asked, feigning innocence. She looked to Addie for support. “Am I right or am I right?”

Addie shook her head. “I guess you never made love to my Theo,” she said dreamily, still lost in the memory of her beloved belated husband.

Maeve sighed and continued to the gazebo-like space at the far end of the porch and offered Ivy Lee Byrd a cookie, but the tiny woman, crowned with snow-white hair, only eyed the tray suspiciously. “They’re sugar,” Maeve said, setting a glass of lemonade on the table next to her. Ivy took a cookie, but then just held it in her lap.

The screen door squeaked opened and a stout, bald, rosy-cheeked man wearing baggy black-and-white checked pants and a starched white chef’s coat peered out.

“Sal!” Gladys cried. “When are you going to make us some catfish?”

“Catfish!” he exclaimed. “I guess when you catch us some, Miss Gladys.”

“Pshaw! You can get some right down at Warren’s Fish Market—my nephew Hollis runs the place and he always has the freshest fish.”

Sal chuckled. “This is plow-to-plate, here,” he teased, “not river-to-plate.”

Gladys rolled her eyes. “This is B.S.,” she said with a huff. “That’s what it is!”

Sal raised his eyebrows, surprised by the old woman’s inferred language. “We’ll see what we can do, Miss Gladys.” Then he looked to Maeve. “Do you know where Pammy is? She has a phone call.”

“She left early to go to her kids’ play. Is it her husband?”

“No, it’s her son.”

“I’ll come talk to him,” Maeve said, maneuvering between the walkers and canes again and setting her tray next to Gladys. “I’ll be right back.”

She went into the foyer, picked up the phone, and clicked the line to talk to Pam’s ten-year-old son, Pete, who’d forgotten his costume. “Don’t worry. I’ll text your mom,” she assured him, and after reaching Pam—who’d already been home and found the costume—stepped back onto the porch just in time to see Gladys unsteadily lifting the pitcher. Hearing the squeak of the door, though, the old woman looked up, sloshing lemonade all over the tray.

“I’m still thirsty,” she said defensively, giving Maeve an accusing look, “and you startled me.”

“No worries,” Maeve said good-naturedly, soaking up the spill, “but if you drink too much,” she added softly, trying to remind the old woman of the incontinence issues she’d been having lately, “you might end up having to hurry to the ladies’ room.”

“Don’t be silly,” Gladys whispered indignantly. “I know when I need to use the ladies’ room.”

“Okay,” Maeve said with a sigh. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

Gladys rolled her eyes and folded her hands in her lap. “Humph!”

Maeve knew, now, Gladys—who could be as stubborn and ornery as a mule in mud—wouldn’t take another sip, even if she offered her money.

“Would anybody like another cookie?” she asked as she picked up empty glasses and napkins.

“You twisted my arm,” Loren Olivetti said, setting his glass on the tray and taking another cookie. He looked up at her. “Did I ever tell you, you have the prettiest hair?”

Maeve laughed. “You have told me, but I don’t mind hearing it again. It’s probably going to start turning gray soon, and I’ll be an old maid.”

“It won’t turn gray,” Loren assured her. “Redheads always keep their color. My Frances,” he added, “bless her soul, had beautiful red hair and it just got lighter as she aged. She looked like she had a golden halo—which she did, of course,” he added with a wink.

“You’re not going to be an old maid,” Aristides chimed in, taking a cookie, too. “Especially with those captivating blue-green eyes of yours.”

Maeve laughed. “Well, thank you. I hope you’re right.” She continued to the far end of the porch and noticed the seat where Ivy had been sitting was empty. She frowned. “Where’d Ivy go?” she asked, glancing back at the men.

Loren shook his head, and his twin brother, Landon, frowned.

“She was there just a minute