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

“Those are loons,” Gage replied. “They have four distinct calls. The first one—the one you thought sounded like a wolf—is the ‘wail.’ The male loon makes it when he’s looking for his mate—he’s saying, ‘Yoo-hoo, where are you?’”

“Nice,” Maeve said, laughing.

Gage took a sip of the beer and grinned. “And the one we just heard is the ‘yodel’—he’s telling everyone it’s his territory.”

“How do you know so much?”

Gage shrugged. “I dunno. Growing up on a farm, I guess, and listenin’ to all the old folklore from my grandparents, especially Dutch—my mom’s dad.”

“You called your grandpa Dutch?”

Gage nodded. “Everyone does. His real name is Henrik Jansen, but when he was a kid, he loved baseball—he was a star pitcher—and all his buddies called him ‘Dutch,’ and it just stuck. He was a great guy—he’d do anything for you. One time, there was this huge barn fire on our neighbor’s farm, and by the time everyone got there, the hayloft was fully engulfed, but Dutch ran straight into that barn and shooed out all the cows and chickens. The barn was a total loss, but not a single animal died.”

“That’s incredible!”

Gage smiled, lost in the memory of his grandad, and then offered her the beer.

She took a sip. “My grandmother was like that. I mean, she didn’t run into a burning building or anything, but she was always willing to help. We called her Grandy.”

Gage nodded. “Is she still alive?”

“No, she died when we were young. How about your grandfather?”

“He’s still alive, but he’s in a nursing home.”

“Do you ever see him?”

“Not recently. My mom says he’s getting pretty forgetful and sometimes he doesn’t remember people.”

“You should go see him. Elderly folks have unexpected moments of clarity—a voice or a song can trigger their memory, and seeing the light of recognition in their eyes—eyes that are usually far-off and lost—is like a gift from heaven.”

“Yeah? How do you know so much?”

She grinned and handed the beer back to him. “Because I studied cognitive impairment in the elderly—dementia, senility, Alzheimer’s. I’m drawn to old people, and I like to stay current on new studies.”

“Where’d you go to college?”

“Emory.”

“Did you grow up in Georgia?”

“I did, but I was born in Maine and lived there till I was in sixth grade, so I have roots in New England.”

He took a sip of the beer. “Why’d you move down here?”

“My dad got a job offer from Gulfstream that he couldn’t turn down.”

He nodded, offering her the bottle again.

She took a sip. “Did you go to college?”

“Art school.”

“Which one?”

“SCAD.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Sooo, you’re an artist-slash-construction guy?”

“More like a construction guy–slash-failed-artist.”

“What was your major?” she asked, handing the bottle back.

“I didn’t stay long enough to pick a major, but I was leaning toward illustration.”

“How come you didn’t finish?”

“I didn’t have enough money.”

Maeve frowned. “What about your par . . .”

But before she could finish, Gage shook his head. “It’s a long story.”

She nodded and watched him drain the last of the beer. The conversation was over, and she opened the door of her Jeep, but after she climbed in, she looked back at him. “You said loons have four calls. What are the other two?”

Gage smiled. “Well, there’s the hoot,” he said. “It’s not very remarkable—just a little hoot like he’s answering roll call, but the last call is the tremolo. It sounds like this . . .” He cupped his hand around his mouth and the sound that passed through his lips was so realistic that, a moment later, there was a response in the distance.

“Wow, that was really good,” Maeve teased. “I think you’ve attracted a potential mate.”

Gage laughed. “I hope so.”

That had been two years ago, and as Maeve climbed into her Jeep tonight, she heard the haunting tremolo of a loon, and the coincidence made her smile, but the feeling that followed was bittersweet. Gage had attracted a potential mate; they’d started dating soon after and she couldn’t believe how time had flown, but even though they’d grown close, there were still things she hadn’t told him—things that had happened in her past that made her feel ashamed—and she sensed he had his own skeletons. Aside from his grandfather, he never talked about his family, and whenever she asked, he always found a way to change the subject. She stared up at the night sky. Why does life have to be so complicated?

6

THE EGGS WERE STILL WARM WHEN GAGE CRACKED THEM ON THE EDGE OF the cast-iron pan his mom had given him. He watched their translucent whites turn opaque, flipped the sizzling popping bacon, and then looked out the kitchen window. Eggith, Eggel, and Eggna, his Rhode Island Red hens, and their faithful protector, Pilgrim, a Plymouth Rock rooster, were all members of a tiny flock that had arrived in a peeping box two years earlier. They were now scratching and pecking the dusty earth along the fence, foraging for insects in the tall grass. He took a sip of coffee and thought about the day ahead. Between working all week and spending most of his free time with Maeve, he rarely had a day to himself, but when Maeve announced she was going shopping and out to lunch with Macey and Harper, he realized he’d finally have some time to catch up on projects around the cabin—and maybe even do a little drawing. He’d meant to get up early, but he’d lazed in bed, stroking the snoring blond head on the pillow next to him, and, feeling his light touch, the lanky yellow Lab had rolled onto his back, exposing the long curve of his belly, and waited expectantly, his front paws hanging in the air like a basketball player who’d just taken a jump shot. Gage had teasingly withdrawn his hand and waited, watching him with a half smile. Finally, Gus had opened one eye and looked over. Well? he seemed to say, and Gage had chuckled. “You’re silly, you know that?” he’d said softly, making the dog’s tail thump the strewn-about sheets.

He turned