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

he whispered, wiping his eyes with his palms, and then, suddenly he remembered the engagement ring. “Damn!” He just wanted to see her . . . to look in her eyes and try to understand.

As if on cue, his phone rang, and hoping it was Maeve, he hurried inside to retrieve it from the kitchen counter, but when he looked at the screen, he frowned.

“Hey, Chase,” he said, trying to sound cheerful, but a moment later, his voice grew solemn. “Wait! What?” he asked uncertainly, trying to understand his little brother, whose voice was choked with emotion. He listened, nodding. “Okay. I’ll come.” He rubbed his head, about to hang up, but then asked, “How’s Mom?” He nodded, still listening. “Okay,” he said softly. “Thanks. I’ll come as soon as I can.”

He slid his phone in his pocket and frowned, trying to remember where he’d tucked the letter from his mom—he could picture the envelope and he knew he’d put it in a safe spot. That was the trouble with safe spots, though—they were so safe, you couldn’t even find them yourself. He looked through the pile of papers on the kitchen table, and then stood in front of his bookcase and pulled his tattered Bible off the shelf, slipped out the blue envelope, sat down at his drawing table, and turned on the light.

40

MASON GLANCED AROUND THE COFFEEHOUSE. JUST TWENTY-FOUR HOURS earlier, he’d stopped in the same shop to get coffee before driving five hours to Savannah . . . and then home again. And after Mr. Hawkins had thanked him profusely, given him a hug, and made him promise to keep in touch, Mason had turned back onto the highway. Almost immediately, his mind had started replaying everything that had happened, but instead of finding a hotel—as he’d planned to do—he’d continued to drive . . . and think, and before he’d known it, he’d pulled into his own driveway, and been thankful he’d left the porch light on.

That morning, he’d texted Ali to see if she wanted to go hiking, or maybe shopping, and she—of course—had chosen the latter. But coffee first! she’d added with a sleepy emoji, and they’d agreed to meet at Ellijay Coffeehouse.

“So?” she asked when Mason slid into the seat across from her with his breakfast of choice—an Appalachian Sunrise breakfast panini and a black coffee. “How’d it go?”

“It went well,” he replied, smiling. Then he realized she didn’t have any food in front of her. “Don’t you want something to eat?”

She shook her head. “I’m good with coffee.”

“You want half of this?” he asked, gesturing to his sandwich.

“No, thanks,” she said. “I’m cutting back.”

“Cutting back?” he said with a frown. “What for? There’s nothing to you.”

“There will be. Have you ever heard of the freshman fifteen?”

“That won’t happen,” he said dismissively, as he took a bite. “You’re way too active.”

“Anyway, back to my original question . . .”

Mason looked up, feigning puzzlement.

She rolled her eyes in exasperation. “How. Did. It. Go?”

“It went well,” he answered, smiling innocently.

“Oh, my goodness!” Ali said. “You have to tell me more than that. Was she what you expected? Was she surprised? Did she cry? Did you cry?”

Mason laughed and eyed her suspiciously. “Are you writing a book?”

“Maybe,” she teased. “You never know. . . . It’s certainly book material!”

Mason shook his head and sipped his coffee. “Guess who else I saw,” he said, changing the subject.

Ali rolled her eyes again and shook her head. “I don’t know. Who?”

“Mr. Hawkins—the man I bought my Chevelle from.”

“Where did you see him?” she asked in surprise.

“You’re not gonna believe this, but he’s a resident at the senior place where Maeve works.”

“No way!”

“Way. I got to take him for a ride . . . actually, he took me for a ride.”

“That’s crazy.”

“What . . . him taking me for a ride?”

“No, that you found him there.”

“Well, when I bought the car, he told me his family wanted him to move to Savannah, but what are the chances . . . right?”

Ali nodded. “My mom always says ‘God works in mysterious ways.’”

Mason smiled. “My mom used to say that, too.”

“So . . . is that what you’re gonna call her . . . Maeve?”

Mason took a sip of his coffee. “I guess so. I don’t really know what to call her—calling her Mom doesn’t feel right. At least, not yet . . . maybe not ever.”

Ali nodded. “Well, you still haven’t told me much.”

“What did you ask again?” he teased.

“Was she what you expected? Was she surprised? Did she cry? Did you cry?”

“Oh, yeah! She was great. Very surprised. And yes, we both cried.”

“Do you look like her?”

“Maybe a little,” he said with a shrug. “She has red hair.”

“You should’ve taken a picture,” Ali said, looking disappointed, and then her face lit up. “Maybe she’s on Facebook!” She pulled out her phone, tapped her Facebook app, and when it opened—like any good detective—she tapped the magnifying glass icon. “How do you spell her name?”

Mason groaned and reluctantly spelled Maeve’s name, and as Ali typed, several possible profiles popped up. She tapped the first one and looked at the photo. “A little?!” she said in disbelief. “Mason, she looks just like you—she could be your sister, never mind your mother! She’s beautiful.” She enlarged the picture and continued to study it. “You definitely have her eyes—they’re the same color and everything . . . and your hair is the exact same color!”

Mason raised his eyebrows and held out his hand, and Ali handed her phone to him. He gazed at Maeve’s photo and a crooked smile spread across his face. Yep, that was the kind lady he’d met. And Ali was right—she did look like him . . . or he like her—whichever it was. He quickly scrolled through her timeline and realized that either she didn’t post very often or her page was set on private. He handed the phone back to Ali, and she eyed him. “Am I right or am I right?”

Mason smiled and shrugged.

“You should friend her,” Ali said. “I’m sure she’d confirm you.”

“Maybe,” Mason said.

Ali rolled her eyes and put her phone away. She knew Mason well enough to know he wouldn’t be coerced