Aristides frowned. “How could he not know you? You’re a sweet girl, and he would love you no matter what—I can see it in his eyes.”
Aristides continued toward the door, and Maeve watched Gage pull away. “I hope so,” she said softly, feeling the familiar old ache in her heart.
2
THE SECOND OLDEST OF SIX SONS, GAGE TENNYSON GREW UP ON A DAIRY farm in the foothills of the Great Smoky Mountains. His parents, John—who’d been named after his father but had always been called Jack—and Elisabeth, who’d always been called Libby by her family and friends, felt blessed to have six boys to help with all the endless chores around the farm. Farming is a twenty-four-three-hundred-fifty-two job, Jack liked to say, to which Libby would add, Our boys knew how to feed chickens before they knew how to walk. Suffice it to say, the blond-haired, blue-eyed Tennyson boys knew, from an early age, that hard work was expected. Seven days a week they were up before dawn, helping their father feed and milk the lumbering, bellowing, steamy-warm cows. Then they’d hurry back to the kitchen, wolf down the hearty breakfast their mom had waiting, grab one of the brown-bag lunches lined up on the counter, and race down the driveway to catch the bus.
When their legs grew longer—which was well before they were old enough to have licenses—they all knew how to drive their dad’s old farm truck and John Deere tractors. Many hands make light work, Jack would say. He was a tall, quiet man, who prided himself on being fair but firm with his boys, and although he had a sense of humor, he didn’t tolerate horsing around or laziness. If you have a job, big or small, do it well or not at all was another favorite saying his offspring had heard so often they murmured it in their sleep.
In the summer, the boys grew strong and tan in the Tennessee sun, their hands calloused from gripping coarse baling twine, their shoulders muscular and broad from tossing hay bales from the fields into the wagons and from the wagons into the haylofts, their short-cropped blond hair turning summer white. In September, they took their favorite cows, bathed and combed, to the Tennessee State Fair, and bathed and combed themselves—wearing the requisite pressed white shirts and pants of 4-H—and stood proudly next to them, hoping to win a coveted blue ribbon. They ate fried dough, crispy fried chicken, buttery fresh-picked corn on the cob, sticky cotton candy, and juicy strawberry shortcake, washing it all down with thick milkshakes before curling up—sleepy-eyed and satisfied—next to their warm blue-ribbon bovines in the sweet hay of the livestock barn. It was an idyllic childhood, filled with Sunday church and family gatherings that included grandparents, aunts and uncles, a hay wagon full of cousins, a picnic table laden with food, and whatever NASCAR race was on. Through the years, the tumbling, towheaded, wrestling Tennyson boys grew like the golden timothy in their parents’ fields, and the farm thrived.
By the time Gage was seventeen, the Tennessee Tennyson Dairy Farm was legend. Home to five hundred head of Guernsey, Ayrshire, and Brown Swiss cattle, it was known across the South for its dairy products—from milk and butter to cheese and yogurt (as well as eggs from all those well-fed chickens)—but it was especially known for its ice cream and, at Christmastime, its famous creamy, glass-bottled eggnog. In fact, the newly opened Tennyson Dairy Bar had become a destination to which people from up and down the East Coast were making pilgrimages. Life was good, and Jack and Libby felt doubly blessed, knowing their hard work would pay off—the small farm they’d started when they first married would be a legacy they could pass on to their sons. Their oldest, Cale, was already at the University of Tennessee Institute of Agriculture, and the knowledge he gained there would keep the farm current and competitive. Jack and Libby could rest assured, knowing their boys would have secure futures, fulfilling lives, and someday, families of their own to carry on the farm’s traditions.
That was why Jack was so dismayed when his second-oldest son came out to the barn one night, as he watched over a cow in labor, and told him he didn’t think he wanted to be tied down to the farm all his life. Although the boy said he loved growing up on the farm and didn’t mind hard work, he had no interest in learning about the latest farm equipment and technology, or how much silage and magnesium supplement was needed to keep the herd healthy, and he didn’t want to get up before dawn every single day of his life. He had other dreams: he wanted to travel, see the country . . . and go to art school.
Jack raised his eyebrows but didn’t look up. “I can’t talk about this right now, Gage,” he said dismissively, stroking the swollen belly of the reddish-brown Ayrshire.
“Mom already knows,” the boy pressed. “She understands, but she said I had to talk to you.”
“Well, right now isn’t a good time—your cow, here, is having a hard time.”
“I’m sorry if you’re disappointed, Dad. I’m not like Cale.”
“It’s nothing to be disappointed about, Gage, and it has nothing to do with your brother.” His father was starting to sound impatient. “I just don’t know how you think you’re going to make money by going to art school.”
“You’ve seen my pencil drawings, Dad. I’ve won blue ribbons. I get caught up in it. It’s what I want to do. My teacher says . . .”
“I don’t care what your teacher says,” Jack interrupted, standing to face his son. “Drawing is a hobby. It’s not a way to make a living—a living
