Ali nodded and smiled, and Mason eyed his friend suspiciously.
“You were in the bathroom,” she said innocently.
Laurie looked back at her son. “This is for your birthday and for graduation.”
Mason pulled the paper off a small gray box, opened it, and blinking back tears, lifted out a wristwatch.
“It was my dad’s . . . your grandfather’s,” Laurie explained. “When he gave it to me, he told me that most of the pilots in WWII wore Elgins . . . and now, it’s yours.”
“Wow,” he whispered in disbelief, no longer able to fight back his tears. “Thanks, Mom,” he said as they spilled down his cheeks.
“You’re welcome,” she said, smiling. “I had it refurbished last year. It keeps perfect time.”
Mason nodded, lightly tracing his finger over the worn engraving on the back—it read: Winton Callahan, “Whiplash,” 1943. “Was Whiplash his call sign?”
“It was.”
He smiled, realizing his grandfather was indeed the same aviator Bud Hawkins had remembered being catapulted off the deck of his aircraft carrier. He put it around his wrist, hooked the buckle, and showed it to Ali and her mom.
“It’s beautiful,” Sue said admiringly.
“Very special,” Ali said.
Mason nodded. “It is,” he said softly. He leaned down to give his mom a gentle hug. “Thank you so much. I will treasure it always.”
She smiled and squeezed his hand. “I know you will, hon. Now, you guys better get going—you and Ali have a big day tomorrow.”
Mason nodded and watched his mom’s best friend give her a hug. “I’ll see you in the morning,” Sue said, wrapping up the cake and handing it to Mason.
Laurie nodded and hugged Ali, too. “Thanks, sweetie,” she said.
“You’re welcome,” Ali replied. “Have a good night.”
Mason smiled sadly. “Night, Mom. Love you.”
“Love you, too, Mason,” she said. “See you tomorrow.”
15
HEARING A LOUD er-er-er-er-errr, MAEVE OPENED HER EYES, UNCERTAIN for a moment of her surroundings, and realized Gage’s rooster, Pilgrim, was letting her know it was time to rise and shine. She rolled to her side and smoothed the soft cotton sheet on which she and Gage had made love the night before. She felt the summer breeze drift through the window, rustling the white curtain and cooling her bare skin, and then looked up at the pale blue sky outside, wondering what time it was. She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, pulled one of Gage’s shirts around her, and shuffled to the bathroom. She stopped to look at her reflection, and frowned—the light must not have been as bright in her old bathroom because the mirror in this bathroom was definitely less forgiving! She looked around for her toothbrush, which she usually balanced on her travel case, but it wasn’t there, and then she saw it in the ceramic toothbrush holder—making it official that she was no longer a guest. She lived here!
She went back to the bedroom, pulled on shorts and a T-shirt, and noticed how quiet it was—Where is Gus? She went into the kitchen to make coffee, and as she waited for it to brew, she saw a sticky note tacked to the mug she always used when she stayed over:
Good morning! Thought I’d let you sleep in.
Gus is with me so he’s not pestering you all day.
We’ll try to be home early.
Have fun unpacking!
xo Gage
Maeve had never spent time in the cabin alone—without even Gus for company, and it was oddly peaceful. She poured a mug of coffee and began looking for her Bible and the daily devotional she always tucked between its pages, but after opening several boxes and having no success, she gave up, and began scanning Gage’s bookshelf instead. She paused in front of a calendar to admire the painting of an old yellow Lab resting his chin on the knee of an old man. You could absolutely see the devotion and love in their eyes, and she smiled, and then it dawned on her that the calendar needed to be changed. She pulled out the pushpin, flipped the page, and gazed at the next painting of two black Labs standing in a field of grass—the image was stunning, and she wondered who painted it. She was just about to look for the artist’s name, when her eyes fell on the date—June 1—and she caught her breath. Her mind immediately counted the years, and then she shook her head as if trying to shake the memory from her mind.
She turned away and refocused her attention on the shelf until she found what she was looking for—a Bible. She slid it out, took it outside, settled into one of the Adirondack chairs, and set her coffee on the wide, flat arm. She gave herself a moment to regroup, and while she did, she watched Eggith, Eggel, and Eggna scratching and pecking the ground in front of the porch while Pilgrim strutted around protectively. Finally, she took a sip of her coffee, looked down at the worn leather book in her lap, and lightly traced the name engraved on the cover—Gage Henrik Tennyson.
Without her devotional to guide her, Maeve opened to her favorite old standby—the book of Psalms—but as she turned the thin, fragile pages to her favorite psalm, two faded newspaper clippings fluttered out and fell to the floor. She picked them up and studied the picture of a young man wearing a John Deere hat. At first, she thought it was Gage, but then she saw the headline and the name printed beneath the picture, and her heart stopped. She began to read the words and her eyes filled with tears. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “I had no idea . . .”
TRAGEDY STRIKES LOCAL FARM
Cale Tennyson,
