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

moment later, a little copper head peered out of the grass and playfully hopped over to sniff the lifeless body and then lie down next to it.

27

“THANKS FOR COMING, MRS. HARRISON,” MASON SAID, AS HE HELD OPEN the door of the attorney’s office.

“Oh, Mason, you don’t have to thank me. I’m happy to help. If you ever need anything—anything at all—please don’t hesitate to ask.” She stopped and put her hand on his cheek. “You are part of our family and you always will be.”

“Thanks,” he said, smiling. “That means a lot.”

“And we fully expect you to spend the holidays with us. We’ve always loved having you and your mom come over, and we expect you to continue the tradition.”

Mason laughed. “Okay. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else anyway.”

“Good,” she said, as they approached the receptionist’s desk.

“Good morning,” the silver-haired receptionist said without looking up. “How may I help you?”

Sue looked at Mason, and he cleared his throat. “Umm, we—I have an appointment with Mr. Bartholomew.”

“Your name?”

“Mason Callahan.”

The receptionist looked up and her stoic face crumpled as she removed her glasses and came around from behind her desk. “Oh, Mason, I’m so sorry about your dear mom,” she said, reaching for his hand. “She was the kindest person I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing . . . and she baked the most delicious apple pies. Did you know she would bring us a pie every time she came into the office?”

Mason smiled. “Thank you. I’m not surprised. She was always baking pies and giving them away.”

The receptionist smiled. “I hope she baked some for you, too.”

“She did.”

“You must miss her.”

He nodded and then gestured to Sue. “This is my mom’s friend, Sue Harrison.”

The receptionist let go of Mason’s hand and extended hers to Sue. “How do you do? I’m Carol Carson.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Carson,” Sue said, shaking the older woman’s hand.

Mrs. Carson nodded. “Well, you may sit right over there,” she said, motioning to two stiff Queen Anne chairs in the corner, “and I’ll let Mr. B know you’re here.”

She returned to her post and resumed her all-business demeanor, as she called into the office to let her boss know his client had arrived. Then she looked up again. “May I offer you some coffee or water?”

Mason pressed his lips together—he hadn’t had breakfast or coffee that morning. He looked questioningly at Sue and she nodded that it was okay, but he declined. “No, thank you. We’re all set.”

He leaned back in his chair and looked around at the dark paneling, wishing he could be anywhere else—anywhere, even mulching.

He was just about to reach for a magazine when a tall, stately gentleman with a mane of white hair filled the doorway. He was wearing a light blue seersucker suit, crisp white shirt, and red bow tie. “Mason?” he boomed.

And because the man’s demeanor demanded respect, Mason lurched to his feet. “Yes, sir.”

The older gentleman smiled and extended his hand. “Beau Bartholomew.”

Mason shook it politely. “It’s nice to meet you, sir.”

“I’m very sorry about your mom. She was a sweet lady . . . and her apple pies, oh my!” he said in a slow Southern drawl.

“I already told him,” Mrs. Carson chimed in, smiling.

“Thank you,” Mason replied, and then turned to Sue. “This is my mom’s friend, Sue Harrison.”

“Good. I’m glad you brought a friend—it’s always good to have an extra set of ears.” He turned to Sue. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, I’m sure. Please, call me Beau.” He eyed Mason. “You, too, young man. Bartholomew is a bigger mouthful than a mouse in a tomcat’s jaws.”

Mason smiled, already feeling at ease.

“C’mon back,” he said, motioning for them to follow him, “and let’s take care of this.” He looked at Mason. “I’m sure you’d rather be anywhere else on this beautiful summer day than in a stuffy lawyer’s office. Maybe up at the lake with your girlfriend?”

“I don’t have a girlfriend, sir.”

“What?!” the old man teased. “A handsome fella like you? Why, I’m sure all the girls love that hair o’ yours!”

Mason smiled. “I—I don’t know,” he stammered, feeling his cheeks flame.

“My own dear mother—rest her soul—had hair the color of a copper penny, but none of us kids got it. I would’ve loved it.”

Mason nodded as they followed him down the hall.

“Carol,” he called over his shoulder. “Could you bring us some coffee and maybe a cookie or two?”

“Yes, Mr. B,” she called back.

“Right in here,” he said, pushing open the door to a large conference room with tall windows overlooking a lovely rose garden. He gestured to two chairs and then sat across from them with a large folder. “Your mom has been a client of mine for a very long time. She cared for her own parents—your grandparents—and they were among my first clients, so we go way back.” As he said this, he opened the file and perched his reading glasses on the tip of his aristocratic nose. “Let’s see,” he began, humming to himself.

A moment later, Mrs. Carson brought in a tray with three coffee mugs, a silver creamer and sugar bowl set, and a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Beau peered over his glasses at the cookies. “Are those Mrs. Stoeffler’s?”

“They are,” Mrs. Carson confirmed.

“You are in for a treat, my boy,” he said. “We consider ourselves blessed when Mrs. Stoeffler bakes us some of her chocolate chip cookies, just like your mom’s apple pie—which we never shared with anyone,” he added with a wink.

Mason offered the tray to Sue and then helped himself, and they munched and sipped while the distinguished old attorney his mom had left in charge of her affairs proceeded to explain everything.

By the end of the meeting, Mason realized he should not have spent so much time worrying. His mom had assured him that all would be well, and it was. Beau Bartholomew would pay off the home equity line of credit and any other outstanding bills, including her medical bills . . . after, of course, the insurance