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

suggested they wrap up the salads and put them back in the fridge. Macey responded by looking at her phone and reluctantly agreeing, but when she stood up to help, she spied a man wearing faded jeans, a Kenny Chesney concert T-shirt, and a tattered John Deere hat walking up the driveway with a little yellow Lab puppy traipsing along after him. “OMG, what an icebreaker,” she murmured, and Maeve, who was standing beside her, trying to find the elusive end of the Saran Wrap, followed her gaze and exclaimed, “Oh, my goodness! How cute!”

The man stopped to shake hands with a couple of his coworkers, but the puppy, smelling food, trotted straight to the picnic table, plopped down at Maeve’s feet, and looked up longingly.

“Well, you have that down pat, don’t you?” she said, laughing. She leaned down to stroke his soft head. “You are a cutie!” she whispered. “Do you have a name?”

“It’s not official, but I might call him Gus,” a deep voice drawled.

Maeve stood up with the puppy in her arms, and met the gaze of its owner. “That’s a great name,” she replied, feeling instantly—and oddly—drawn to the man with the roguish scruff on his chin and whose eyes were the color of the pale blue Savannah sky.

“Hey, Gage! Glad you could come,” Macey said, unwittingly interrupting the spark-charged moment her sister and the newcomer were sharing.

“Thanks for the invite,” he replied, pulling his attention away from Maeve’s strikingly Caribbean Sea–blue-green eyes. “Sorry I’m late.” He held out a brown paper bag. “Ben said not to bring anything, but my mom wouldn’t be happy if she knew I showed up to a picnic empty-handed.”

Hearing his concern over what his mom might think, Maeve studied him more closely, trying to discern his age. Late twenties or early thirties . . . maybe?

Macey reached into the bag and pulled out a box of graham crackers, a package of chocolate bars, a bag of Jet-Puffed marshmallows, and a box of sparklers. “Thanks, Gage! This is perfect.”

A slow smile crossed his face. “A picnic isn’t complete without s’mores and sparklers.”

“So true!” She paused and realized her sister was still staring at him. “Gage, this is my sister, Maeve Lindstrom . . . and Maeve, this is Gage Tennyson.” As she said his last name, Macey channeled her sisterly telepathic power, hoping Maeve would make the connection, and then smiled when Maeve raised her eyebrows in recognition. She searched Gage’s eyes, ruddy tan cheeks, short blond hair, and smiled the awestruck smile of someone meeting a celebrity. “Oh, wow! It’s so nice to meet you!”

Gage nodded shyly. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”

“Well, well, it’s about damn time,” Ben interrupted, coming up behind them and slapping his newest employee on the back. “I see you met my pain in the ass . . . I mean my sister-in-law,” he teased, winking at Maeve.

“I did,” Gage confirmed with a grin.

“I hope you brought your appetite.”

“I did that, too.”

“Well, come fill a plate. I’ve got the grill all fired up—burger or dog?”

Gage looked at Maeve, still cuddling the puppy. “Want me to take him or are you good?”

“I’m good,” Maeve replied, laughing. “You go ahead and eat.”

Gage glanced at the table—still laden with everything from fried chicken, macaroni salad, potato salad, strawberry Jell-O salad with sour cream and bananas, and baked beans to cupcakes, brownies, and Macey’s famous chocolate chip blondies—and grabbed one of Maeve’s deviled eggs along with an ice-cold beer from the cooler and followed Ben.

Maeve watched him go and then turned to her sister and frowned. They’d only talked about Gage that one time when they’d been having ice cream on the porch, but Maeve had wondered, ever since, when she might meet him. “You didn’t tell me he was going to be here . . .”

Macey shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if he would be.”

“You also didn’t tell me how cute he is—he looks like he could be Brad Pitt’s younger brother.”

“I know, right?” Macey replied with a grin.

“When did you meet him?”

“A couple weeks ago . . . he stopped by right after Ben told us he hired him.”

“Soo . . . is he a Tennessee Tennyson?” Maeve pressed.

“He is indeed and, not only is he a direct descendent, but he’s also second in line to inherit the dairy dynasty.”

“No way!” Maeve said, her eyes growing wide.

“Way,” Macey replied, reaching out to take the puppy. “But Ben says he has no interest in the farm.”

“How come?”

Macey shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t get into it.”

Later that night, after they toasted s’mores and devoured Maeve’s blackberry cobbler topped with Tennessee Tennyson’s signature flavor—Plain Ole Vanilla—lit sparklers, and watched Ben’s stash of bottle rockets scream into the night sky, everyone packed up their weary, marshmallow-sticky kids, thanked Ben and Macey for another wonderful time, and headed home. Everyone, that is, except Maeve and Gage, who were kid-free, and hung around to help clean up. Gage and Ben wiped down the tables and chairs, folded them and put them away, and then cleaned up the games, and Maeve helped Macey carry the food inside and rinse out the bottles and cans. When everything was shipshape, Gage picked up his tuckered-out little yellow Lab—who’d spent all day chasing kids and vacuuming up dropped tidbits, and could now barely hold his head up—took one last cold bottle of beer that Ben offered him, a “roadie,” and said good night. Maeve—who was heading out, too—walked down the driveway with him. As they walked through the darkness toward her Jeep, a haunting sound filled the night air, and Maeve stopped in her tracks. “Is that a wolf?”

“You never heard that before?” Gage asked, undeterred, and continuing to walk.

Maeve hurried to catch up, still listening. “I don’t think so.”

“My brothers and I used to fall asleep to that sound all the time.”

“It sounds so mournful and lonely.”

“It does,” he agreed, setting Gus—his name, after lots of approval, now official—on the seat of his truck. He closed the door, and as he’d twisted the cap off his beer, there’d been another sound.

“Now, I’ve heard that