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

her favorite chair, the one that had been his grandmother’s, and he, stretched out on the couch—both with their noses in books, perfectly content just knowing the other was nearby. And if they weren’t reading, they were watching the History channel or a program on PBS. Recently, Laurie had subscribed to a video-on-demand service that streamed British TV shows, and they’d become instantly hooked on Midsomer Murders and As Time Goes By. They also binge-watched all the episodes of their perennial favorite, Keeping Up Appearances, laughing, over root beer floats, as snooty Hyacinth Bucket tried to prove her social superiority. For musical entertainment, there was an old upright piano in the corner that was regularly tuned. Laurie had started teaching Mason how to play it when he was eight, but by the time he was ten, he had far surpassed her skill level and usually played the more complex parts of the duets for Gershwin’s “I Got Rhythm” and “Someone to Watch Over Me.” It was also their tradition to take turns playing every Christmas carol they could think of while drinking eggnog . . . and laughing all the way!

Mason sat in one of the beach chairs that a classmate had vacated, leaned back, and watched the orange sparks from the bonfire shoot up into the night sky. Sue had taken his mom back to the hospital right after graduation, and when he’d stopped by to see her later that afternoon, she’d been sleeping. Now, as he listened to the celebration going on all around him—the laughter of classmates who had decided to go for a swim mixed with the country music drifting from a nearby radio—he watched everyone dancing on the sand with drinks in their hands . . . and felt completely out of place. What was he doing here when his mom was in the hospital? Suddenly, he felt hands gently cover his eyes, and he heard a whisper in his ear that said, “Guess who?” He smiled, put his hands over Ali’s, and pulled her in front of him, spilling the beer in the cupholder of the chair.

“Look out!” she said, laughing as she pulled him away from the deluge. “Come dance with me!” she pressed, but Mason just stood there, shaking his head.

Ali frowned. “C’mon,” she said, pulling him. “You only live once . . . and you have a reason to celebrate—you’re the salutatorian!” As she said this, Kenny Chesney’s “Summertime” started to play, and someone turned the radio up, and everyone started to sing. Mason smiled sadly—even though his heart wasn’t in it, he let Ali pull him into the circle of their friends. He looked around at all the kids he’d grown up with and felt overwhelmed with bittersweet emotions—this was it. They would never be together like this again, united in their accomplishments, but all preparing to take different paths.

As the song ended, he felt his phone vibrate and he pulled it out and looked at the screen. He had just missed a call from Mrs. Harrison. He frowned. Why was she calling him? A second later, it pinged, alerting him to a message. Mason walked away from the noise and into the darkness so he could listen to her message, but her words made his heart pound: Mason, come to the hospital as soon as you can!

19

GAGE WOKE WITH A START AND LISTENED, CERTAIN HE’D HEARD A SOUND outside, but all he heard was a summer breeze rustling the curtains. He found Maeve’s hand under the sheets and gently squeezed it. She murmured and stirred, but didn’t wake. He lay still, trying to fall back asleep, but the events of the evening before began to swirl in his mind. Finally, he got up, almost tripping over Gus as he made his way to the kitchen. He filled a glass with water, and as he drank it, his eyes fell on the bottle of whiskey Chase had given him. He picked it up and studied the label—it was an expensive, commemorative bottle celebrating Jack Daniel’s 150th anniversary, and instead of the usual 80 proof, this bottle of the Lynchburg-crafted amber liquid was 100 proof. Gage hadn’t had a glass of Old Number 7 in years, but Chase—when he’d handed it to him—had said, “This is for when you have something special to celebrate, or when times get tough . . . as they often do . . . or if you just can’t sleep.” With a smile, he had added, “No ice. Just neat.”

“Son,” Gage had said, eyeing him, “I tended bar for ten years. You don’t need to tell me how to drink my whiskey.”

His little brother had laughed. “Just making sure.”

Gage broke the seal as he twisted the top off and sniffed—yep, it would definitely help him sleep. He leaned against the counter and thought about the number of drinks Chase and Liam had had during dinner. They’d started off with one of The Distillery’s craft beers, and while they had waited for dinner to arrive, they each tried the craft cocktail he’d suggested—Sweet Georgia Peach, a peach vodka, iced tea, and lemon concoction. Maeve had loved the drink, but per usual, she only had one—she never had more than one, and he had never even seen her slightly tipsy. But the boys—as he and Maeve had started calling them—had switched back to beer during dinner, and declining dessert, followed up with tumblers of whiskey. If I drank that much, he thought, I wouldn’t be able to function!

Gage—who’d left home when Chase was only eight—wondered what experiences his brother had endured to make him reach for a glass of whiskey. Gage had heard from their mom that he’d had a hard time in high school, but she’d never gone into detail—even when pressed. It was only recently that he’d learned from their brother, Matt, that Chase was gay—a revelation, Matt said, that had nearly sent their father into orbit. Gage wasn’t surprised by this news, or by their father’s reaction. Chase had always been a quiet, sensitive kid, and although Gage