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

All the yearbooks, that is, except Mason’s. Mason had decided to spare his friends the awkward task of trying to write something that was both upbeat and sympathetic. After all, he thought, How do you wish good luck to someone whose mom is dying?

He brushed the perspiration from his cheek and wished it was over. If it wasn’t for his mom’s tenacious determination to see him walk across the stage, he would’ve happily spent the day working; even spreading mulch would be better than watching her struggle. He’d tried to tell her it wasn’t a big deal—he could arrange to have his diploma mailed or presented to him in her hospital room, and he’d even wear his cap and gown—but she wouldn’t hear of it. My son is class salutatorian, she’d said, and although he knew how much she wanted to be there . . . and be a normal, happy, proud, cheering mom, he also knew how much watching her expend every ounce of energy she had to be there was going to shatter him.

“Hey, Mase,” a voice called.

He turned and saw Ali walking toward him. “Hey,” he replied, mustering a half smile.

“Where’s your yearbook?” she asked, eyeing his empty hands.

“In my locker.”

“How are people going to sign it there?”

“They don’t need to sign it.”

“Umm, yes, they do . . . I do.”

“You can sign it anytime. It doesn’t have to be here.”

She sighed and looked around the gym. “When are they gonna get this show on the road?”

“I don’t know, but if it isn’t soon, I’m leaving.”

“You can’t walk if you miss rehearsal.”

“Fine with me,” he said, knowing the rules for walking across stage included attending rehearsal. “I’d rather be working.”

“Are you goin’ to the party at the lake after graduation?”

“I guess so,” he said. “I was gonna skip it, but I made the mistake of telling my mom about it.”

Ali grinned. “I love the way your mom is still in charge.”

Mason smiled. “She will always be in charge.”

Just then the high school band began to play the traditional entrance music and Ali raised her eyebrows. “I guess I better get back to my spot. Meet me after?”

He nodded and watched her go, and as he did, he thought about her comment. Being in charge was definitely in his mom’s DNA, and it paired well with her indomitable can-do spirit. Laurie Callahan had grown up in the heart of the Blue Ridge Mountains. Slender and petite and every bit a tomboy with short brown hair and kind hazel eyes, Laurie was the only child of Winton, an air force pilot, and Lena, a schoolteacher who filled their home with books. When Laurie hadn’t been reading—one of the much-loved pastimes she’d passed on to her son—she and her mom had baked pies—half of which they gave away. She’d also spent most Sunday afternoons hiking with her dad in the sun-dappled Chattahoochee Forest or fishing in the crystal-clear Ellijay or Coosawattee Rivers. She was a nature lover and a book lover and, living in the “Apple Capital of Georgia,” she could also bake a mean apple pie. When it came time for college, Laurie had applied to one school—nearby Chattahoochee Technical College—to which she could commute from home, and from where she earned her degree in nursing. She had been a devoted daughter who put her life on hold when her parents could no longer care for themselves, and she was by their sides when, in their nineties, they passed away within days of each other. Soon after, however, she’d been back working in the maternity ward at the hospital—a job she loved so much she’d often gone in on her day off to “cuddle” the preemies in the NICU.

Mason closed his eyes, remembering her enthusiasm for the program. She would pick him up at school after volunteering—something she did in addition to working at the hospital—and tell him all about it. “The baby was so little, Mase, you wouldn’t believe it, but he was perfect in every way—just like you. His whole little hand barely wrapped around the tip of my finger.”

Six years old at the time, Mason had listened in wonder, trying to imagine a baby’s ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. “Did you sing that song to him that you always sing to me?”

“‘Someone to Watch over Me’?” she’d asked, and he’d nodded.

“I did,” she’d said, laughing and tousling his hair.

“I’m going to be a cuddler someday,” he’d announced proudly, looking out the window. Then he’d looked back at her. “How old do I have to be?”

“You have to be eighteen, and you should definitely do it because it’s so amazing. You would make a wonderful cuddler!”

“Okay,” he’d said, beaming. “I’m gonna do it, Mom . . . just like you!”

Suddenly, Mason felt a nudge. “Mase, you going?” Joe Cameron asked, and Mason opened his eyes and realized his line had begun moving. He nodded and took a step forward, still lost in the memory of the conversation he’d had with his mom when he was little, amazed that he’d forgotten it, but even more amazed that he’d remembered it today, the day before he turned eighteen.

13

MAEVE SWEPT UP THE DIRT THAT HAD SPILLED WHEN SHE WAS PUTTING her plants into the last box. She’d already cleaned the bathroom and kitchen, and Gage had just left with the last load in his pickup. She couldn’t believe how much stuff she had accumulated while living in the apartment! So much, in fact, they’d had to rent a storage unit. It seemed like they had two of everything—two beds, two couches, two kitchen tables, and two—or three!—of everything else. From TVs and toasters to pots and pans and coffee makers, they took the best of each and put the second—or third—item in storage.

Now the apartment she’d lived in—and loved living in—for the last ten years was empty. She looked around at the bare walls and hardwood floors and remembered how excited she’d been when she first moved in. Finding such a lovely apartment in the