When he was growing up, his mom had spent the long summer days canning and preserving every fruit and vegetable under the sun. Gage pictured her now, and knew—since it was late May—she’d be checking her strawberries for ripeness, and soon, she’d be picking string beans and peas. Then there’d be the endless parade of juicy red tomatoes, so fat they’d be splitting their skins, and the abundance would provide spaghetti sauce all winter. Next in line would be her candy cane and burgundy red beets. In between, she’d preserve all the berries—from the lush raspberries and blackberries that grew wild along the south pasture to the blueberries from the net-covered bushes in the side yard. He and his brothers, when tasked with the job of picking them, would pop more plump berries into their mouths than into their buckets; and then, of course, was the aforementioned—and his favorite—sweet orange marmalade.
Later in the summer, when the cicadas droned in the trees, the unmistakable aroma of apple cider vinegar, sugar, kosher salt, onions, and turmeric would waft from the kitchen windows, filling the boys’ hearts with both expectation and melancholy. They would peer through the screen door and spy their mom’s big white ceramic bowl filled with crushed ice and piled high with thinly sliced onions and cucumbers, and it would suddenly dawn on them that the lazy summer days were waning, and the school bus would soon be rumbling down the dusty road again. Libby Tennyson’s last big day of canning always began in the coolness of an early morning in late August with the harvesting of her bumper crop of cucumbers hanging heavily on the vine, and it would culminate in the hazy heat of late afternoon with dozens of mason jars lined up on the kitchen counter, their metal caps popping like tiny suction cups, making the boys’ mouths water at the thought of their mom’s succulent bread-and-butter pickles—a memory of sunshine, warmth, and buzzing bees they would savor on winter nights when her pot roast had simmered all afternoon.
Libby gave away countless jars of her prize-winning pickles at Christmastime, and Gage always received two in the mail, along with two jars of marmalade, four jars of tomatoes, and a bottle of eggnog. Years ago, she’d enclosed a copy of her pot roast recipe, too, written out in her long, neat handwriting, but Gage had never been able to replicate the tender melt-in-your-mouth dish he’d savored as a boy. You’ll just have to take me to your parents’ sometime so I can have hers, Maeve had teased when he lamented about its lack of tenderness, but Gage had only responded with an unenthusiastic mm-hmm.
He sopped up the last of the egg yolk with the last of his toast, and eyed Gus, who was gazing at him longingly.
“What will it be, sir? Toast or bacon?”
Gus sat up and thumped his tail happily, thankful to be remembered.
“Can you gimme five?”
Immediately, the overgrown puppy slapped Gage’s hand with his saucer-size paw.
“Good boy!” Gage said, tousling his ears and giving him the last of his toast topped with a small piece of bacon.
He wiped his hands and sifted through the mail, making two piles—junk and bills—and then glanced through the pages of the new Cabela’s catalog, surprised to discover they were already promoting their fall line of products. Everyone is always in a rush to start the next season! He tossed the catalog on top of the junk pile—there was nothing he needed—and cleared his dishes.
As he filled the sink with hot, sudsy water, he looked out at the ribbon of river curling along his property and felt oddly thankful—there really was nothing he needed. Before he’d started working for Ben, Gage had been trying to survive as an artist, but the truth of the term starving artist had become a little too real. During the day, he’d spent long hours working at his big oak drawing table—a table that took up half of his tiny studio apartment. When he’d had enough drawings, he’d begun showing his portfolio to several galleries in downtown Savannah, and although the owners had all promised to keep him in mind, he’d never heard back from any of them. Finally, out of desperation, he’d taken a job as a bartender, but every night, he’d come home dead tired and dismayed that his only contribution to the world was helping people get drunk. He’d get back to his apartment well after midnight—which was way past his longtime bedtime of 10:00 P.M.—strip off his clothes, drop them in the hamper, and stand under the hot shower, trying to wash away the stale, sticky scent of alcohol. It had all seemed so pointless—a dead-end job with no future. His dad had been right—art was not a reliable way to make a living, but there was no way he’d ever let him know that. His father’s dismissive words had stung him to his core, and he would never forgive him—especially after everything that happened later.
Before Gage knew it, twelve years had gone by and he had nothing to show for it. The only artwork he’d sold were commissioned pet portraits, a time-consuming endeavor that didn’t pay well. In fact, when he’d started keeping track of the time he put into it, he’d realized he barely made minimum wage. Finally, one morning, after another long night of mixing craft cocktails and pouring craft beers, he’d poured a mug of black coffee, taken a sip, and with bleary
