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

but when he saw the FOR SALE sign propped on the windshield of the ’67 Chevelle, he’d spun his bike around to take a closer look. He’d walked around the classic car, noting—but undeterred by—the rusty rocker panels and chrome bumpers. Not a minute later, an older gentleman emerged from the house and made his way slowly across the lawn with the assistance of a cane, and Mason moved toward him, held out his hand, and shyly introduced himself.

“Bud Hawkins,” the man replied, shaking the offered hand. He was tall and slim, and under the brim of a US Navy hat, his eyes were dark blue. “I knew a Callahan—flew his Wildcat off the deck of our carrier.”

Mason’s eyes lit up. “My grandfather was a pilot during the war,” he said. “His name was Winton Callahan.”

“I never knew this fella’s first name,” Bud said, rubbing his chin, “but I’ll never forget his call sign—Whiplash.” He chuckled. “Probably got it from being catapulted off the deck!”

Mason smiled. “I don’t know what his call sign was.”

Bud nodded and gestured toward the old Chevelle. “She’s a great car,” he said. “N’er gave me a lick o’ trouble. Just routine oil changes and tune-ups I done m’self.”

“How come you’re selling her?” Mason asked, adopting the inferred gender of the old car.

Bud sighed and leaned heavily on his cane. “My wife passed away last year, and she had sorta taken over all our driving. I’ve tried to get back into it, but my family thinks it’s time for me to give it up.” He nodded to the dented bumper. “Too many fender benders.”

“Oh, man, that stinks. I’m sorry about your wife.”

“Yeah, thanks. She was the love of my life—I miss her.” He shook his head. “Now my family thinks I need to move to a nursing home, too. They say it’s so I’ll be closer to them, but I think they’re just tired of driving all the way up here to see me.”

Mason nodded, not knowing what to say.

“Anyway, that’s why I’m sellin’ her. I don’t want them sellin’ her after I’m gone. I want her to go to the right person—someone who’ll appreciate her, and I honestly don’t care what I get. They can’t control everything I do.”

Mason nodded. “What does she have for a motor?”

“Three ninety-six big block,” Bud said, lifting the hood.

“Nice,” Mason murmured, nodding his approval.

Bud watched the boy lean under the hood for a closer inspection and was reminded of himself at the same age.

“Does she run?”

“Oh, yeah, she runs,” Bud said, beaming proudly and pulling the keys from his pocket.

Mason opened the car door, and the pine scent from a tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the cigarette lighter drifted out. He climbed in and looked around. The leather seats were cracked and faded, and the carpeting was worn in spots, especially under the pedals, but the interior was spotless. He slid the key into the ignition, turned it, and the car rumbled to life. “Oh, man,” he whispered.

“Wanna take ’er for a spin?”

Mason hesitated. He knew how to drive, but he only had a learner’s permit. “Sure,” he said. “Just around the block.”

Bud stepped back, and Mason put the car in gear and slowly pulled out of the driveway. The powerful engine was begging him for more gas, but on the quiet street—and without a license—he couldn’t take any chances, so he drove slowly around the block and eased back into the driveway.

“You’re awfully conservative on the gas pedal,” Bud teased.

Mason laughed as he handed the keys back to him. “Wish I could buy her,” he said wistfully. “Maybe someday.”

Bud eyed him. “Why not now?”

“I don’t have enough money—just what I’ve earned landscaping.”

“I haven’t even told you what I’m asking.”

“Well, I’m sure it’s a lot more than what I have.”

“How much is that?”

“A little over three grand.”

“That’s a lot of landscaping.”

“It is, but I’m sure it’s still not enough.”

“I’ll take twenty-five hundred. That’ll leave you enough to register her and fill the tank.”

Mason looked astounded. “She’s gotta be worth a lot more than that!”

“Not in this condition—she needs a ton o’ work.” Bud eyed Mason’s tall, slender frame and short reddish-blond hair, searched his blue-green eyes, and sensed that he’d found a kindred spirit—a young man who was honest and sincere and who appreciated the car’s value. “If you promise you’ll take good care of her . . . and restore her someday, she’s all yours. Besides, if you’re related to Whiplash, I know you’re a good man . . . not to mention it’ll totally annoy my kids,” he added with a mischievous grin, “so you’d be doing me a favor.”

A slow smile crossed Mason’s face and then he held out his hand. “Deal.”

One month later, on the first day of his senior year, Mason had pulled into his newly assigned parking spot and climbed out, the envy of all his buddies.

A month after that, his mom had been diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer and their lives had been turned upside down.

5

AS MAEVE WALKED TO HER JEEP, SHE RECALLED THE FIRST TIME SHE EVER attended Ben’s Croo-Picnic, as he liked to call—and spell—it. He and Macey always invited the guys on his construction crew and their families over for a picnic during the Memorial Day weekend, but Maeve had never paid much attention to it because . . . well, she didn’t work for Ben and she’d never been invited. But two summers ago, Macey—under the guise of needing her help—had invited her, and because she hadn’t had anything else on her calendar (per usual), she’d made deviled eggs and a blackberry cobbler and arrived early to help set up. But if she’d spent more than two seconds thinking about the oddness of the invitation, she would have figured out that her sister was up to something.

That Saturday, after everyone had eaten their fill of hot dogs and hamburgers and summer salads of every variety—from potato to pasta to tossed—and the kids were trying to entice the adults into playing cornhole and volleyball, Maeve