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

Jeff nodded and stepped back and waved as Mason pulled away.

Mason waved back, glanced down at the open app, and tapped start.

As he drove, his mind checked off all the things he still needed to do this week. A large blue-and-white envelope had come in the mail, and when he opened it, he realized it was a welcome packet from Georgia Tech. It had been full of information for incoming first-years—from everything he’d need for his dorm room, like extra-long bedding, which he still needed to find, to the schedule for the looming move-in date for athletes. There was also a note from the cross-country coach to give him a call. And as he’d looked through it, he’d been surprised by how excited he felt about going. For the first time in a long time, he had something to look forward to.

The drive was uneventful and traffic was light—the slowdown his phone had highlighted before he left had cleared by the time he got there—and five hours later, just as the map app predicted, he pulled up in front of a historic old house in downtown Savannah. “This is for you, Mom,” he whispered.

He climbed out, eyed the upstairs windows warily, walked up the steps, and stood on the porch, his heart pounding like a drum. He stepped forward and looked at the name scribbled on the strip of white paper that had been slipped into the brass slot next to the bottom doorbell—it wasn’t the name his mom had given him, and the slot next to the upper doorbell was empty. He held his finger over it anyway, closed his eyes, and whispered, “Here goes nothing.” He heard a bell upstairs ring, but it was followed by silence, and he looked around the porch. There were two wicker chairs and a small table between them with a lush geranium loaded with red blossoms, and then he noticed a sign in the window: APARTMENT FOR RENT. He frowned, pushed the doorbell again, but for a second time, the only sound he heard was a faintly ringing bell. “I guess I’m off the hook,” he said, smiling, his heart feeling lighter. “I kept my promise—I tried, and she is not here.”

He’d turned to go down the steps, but then heard a door open. “May I help you?”

Mason turned back and saw a man peering through the screen. “Hi . . . I . . . uh . . . I’m looking for the woman who lives in the apartment upstairs,” he said, gesturing upward.

The man nodded. “She moved out two months ago.”

“Oh,” Mason said. “Uh . . . you wouldn’t happen to know where she moved?”

The man shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I don’t.”

“Okay, thanks,” Mason said, turning to leave. “Sorry to bother you.”

“I know where she works, though,” the man offered.

Mason turned back.

“Last I knew, she worked at the new nursing home outside of town.” He paused, frowning uncertainly. “It’s called Willow something . . . Willow Lake or Willow River. I’m not sure, but I know it’s out near Bonaventure. Do you know where the old cemetery is?”

And even though Mason had no idea where Bonaventure Cemetery was, he nodded because he was certain the app on his phone did. “Okay. Thank you.”

The man studied the tall, slender boy standing on his porch and noticed the startling resemblance he had to the petite redhead who used to rent from him, so he couldn’t help but wonder what the boy wanted with his former tenant.

Mason sat in front of the house, considering his options. He’d kept his promise, and he could easily justify heading home, but he felt oddly nudged to keep trying . . . and he knew who was nudging him. He could almost hear her voice. . . . Oh, Mase, you’ve driven all this way, go on . . . go find her!

He groaned, feeling frustrated. He was never going to be able to put this behind him if he didn’t find closure. He tapped the search engine on his phone, and began to type “Willow,” but before he’d even finished, Willow Pond Senior Care popped up, and he tapped the link. Immediately, a beautiful photo of an old Southern home appeared—it looked nothing like a nursing home. He tapped the address, studied the map, and realized it was only three miles away. “All right, Mom,” he muttered, “but if she’s not there, I’m going home.”

34

MAEVE WAS STANDING IN THE SPACIOUS WILLOW POND KITCHEN, SLICING cheddar cheese and placing it on crackers for the last-Friday-of-the-month happy hour snack while Sal stood nearby, drizzling a maple glaze over the salmon filets that were on the menu for dinner that night. “There’re bread and butter pickles in the fridge,” he offered.

“Okay,” Maeve said, knowing the combination of cracker toppings was a favorite with the residents.

Sal opened the fridge. “Do you know whose pie this is?”

“It’s mine . . . my lame attempt at a chocolate chess pie. Gage and I are going to my parents’ for dinner tonight after work, so I stuck it in there. Is it in your way?”

“No, I just need to move it to a different shelf. Is that okay?”

“Sure,” Maeve said.

He took out the jar of pickles and set it on the counter next to Maeve, and then slid the pie out, too. “What do you mean, ‘lame’? It looks delizioso!”

Maeve laughed, as she scooped pickles and set them on top of the cheddar slices. “That’s truly a compliment coming from you, Sal,” she said, “but looks aren’t everything. I’ll have to let you know how it tastes.”

“If it’s good, you better save me a piece,” he teased. “Maybe you can make it for dessert sometime.”

“Okay,” Maeve agreed. “I can do that.”

Sal rearranged the contents of the commercial-size fridge and slid the pie onto the bottom shelf. Then he covered the salmon trays with Saran Wrap and slid them onto the top shelves. “I hope your pie doesn’t end up smelling like fish.”

“I hope not,” Maeve said, raising her eyebrows at the possibility, as she put the lid back on the jar of pickles. “Maybe I’ll put