Promises of the Heart Read online

  Dedication

  For my sister-in-law (and in-heart), Terry,

  who is one of the kindest people I know,

  and who blessed our family by saying yes to my brother . . .

  and for my brother, Gary, who didn’t give up until she did!

  Epigraph

  For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.

  MATTHEW 6:21 (KJV)

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Part 1

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Part 2

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Part 3

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  P.S. Insights, Interviews & More . . .*

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Read On

  Also by Nan Rossiter

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Part 1

  1

  MACEY SAMUELSON STOOD ON THE WRAPAROUND PORCH OF THE OLD Victorian home she and her husband, Ben, had been restoring for the past nine years. She gazed at the long silky garlands of Spanish moss hanging from the oak trees in the yard and crossed her arms stoically. She had been through this before, and she would get through it again, but her heart was still a big ache—a phrase her little sister, Maeve, had used when they were kids to describe the way her chest felt when Grandy died, and now a term they both used when they felt the unbearable sorrow of loss.

  Placing a hand on her abdomen, Macey dreaded what was to come and, despite her resolve to not cry, felt tears welling up in her eyes. She looked at the still-illuminated screen on her phone. It read, BEN, and then, CALL ENDED. They’d been through this before, and as soon as he had heard the quiver in her voice, he’d said, “I’ll be right there.”

  It had been raining for days, the result of lingering bands of a tropical storm that had stalled off the Georgia coast, making the Savannah skies look just like she felt—weary, somber, and hopeless. In high school, Macey had been voted class optimist, but now, after her fifth miscarriage, she felt anything but. Each time she got pregnant, her heart swelled with hope. Maybe she’d carry to full term this time, instead of barely two months. Maybe she and Ben would bring home a sweet, healthy baby—a baby for whom a nursery was already painted and furnished. They’d even picked out names: Harper for a girl, and Emmett, after her grandfather, for a boy. But now Macey’s heart was so broken she couldn’t even think about trying again, and at thirty-six, she felt like time was running out.

  Feeling the familiar dull pain, she curled up on the porch swing and pulled a pillow against her abdomen. How long would it take for her body to realize the baby had died? Dr. Baxter had asked her if she wanted to schedule a D and C, but she’d declined. It wasn’t that she didn’t believe her doctor when she’d confirmed that morning that there was no heartbeat. It was just that . . . well, what if she was wrong? What if the baby just had a really quiet heartbeat? Or was tucked into a position that made the heartbeat hard to hear? She knew, of course, deep down, that the chances were nearly impossible, but she had to be absolutely sure. She could hear Grandy’s voice telling her gently that things that are impossible with men are possible with God, and she wanted to hold on to that one last thread of hope and let her body make the final call. It was the only way she’d be sure.

  “Oh, Grandy,” she whispered. “Why does this keep happening? Don’t you have some strings you could pull?” As if on cue, the wind chime she and her grandfather had made from flattened silver spoons tinkled above her head. She looked up, smiled wistfully, and pictured her grandmother bending God’s ear just as intently as she had bent Grandpa’s.

  “That’s too much, Emmett,” Grandy had often scolded, eyeing her husband’s piled-high bowl of ice cream they’d made with the peaches they’d picked that afternoon. “It’s not good for your cholesterol.”

  “Oh, Millie,” he replied, winking at his two little granddaughters. “We have fresh peaches only once a year. I’m sure a little extra ice cream won’t kill me.”

  “There’s enough in that bowl for all of us!” Grandy admonished, but her childhood sweetheart just grinned at her impishly as he licked his spoon.

  Macey and Maeve couldn’t have loved their grandparents more. Some of their most precious childhood memories were of long summer days at their farm, helping with all the chores, so when Grandy died in her sleep one snowy winter night, leaving their bereaved grandfather to fend for himself, they all felt the loss keenly. And even now, almost thirty years later, that big ache had never lifted.

  Macey wished she could talk to her grandmother now—she would know just what to say. Grandy would pull Macey into a long hug and gently whisper it was all part of God’s plan . . . that she’d understand someday. But the words sounded hollow when Macey said them to herself. She would never understand this. She and Ben just wanted to have a family. They wanted to fill their big Victorian home with the sound of giggles and the pitter-patter of little feet. They wanted to look at each other over mugs of steaming coffee, piles of wrapping paper, and a passel of happy, toddling little people on Christmas morning.

  “Is having a family too much to ask?” she whispered.

  Macey heard Ben’s pickup in their driveway and wiped her eyes. She sat up, bracing herself for the all-too-familiar sorrow in his eyes. She knew they would get through this, but how much more could they bear? The only affection they seemed able to muster these days was holding hands, and when they did stir the embers and make love, it was bittersweet. It isn’t supposed to be this way, she thought—young married couples are supposed to look forward to making love. They’re supposed to steal romantic moments when their kids aren’t around, or laughingly try to be quiet when they are. They aren’t supposed to be worried about what might happen. Loving each other isn’t supposed to be so shadowed with fear.

  Ma
cey looked out at the line of ancient willows planted along the river and watched their long slender leaves swirling like gold confetti up into the stormy sky. She’d always loved willow trees—when she and Maeve were little, they’d sat out on their grandparents’ front porch and watched the willows dancing in their yard. “No matter how fiercely the wind blows,” Grandy explained, “they just bend and sway, and their deep roots are so wide and strong, they rarely fall. They may lose a few branches,” she added, “but if you leave them on the ground, they’ll take root and become a new tree.”

  Macey watched the weeping willows now and pictured their roots winding deep into the earth, seeking moisture and life, while high above, their long wispy branches danced with the storm.

  “Oh, Grandy,” she whispered, “help me be more like a willow.”

  2

  AT THE VERY MOMENT BEN SAMUELSON PARKED HIS OLD CHEVY PICKUP next to the house, the skies opened. Through the rainy windshield, he looked up at the dark sky and tried to decide if the cloudburst would pass or if he should make a run for it. He knew Macey was waiting, but he needed a minute to pull himself together. He’d left the job site so quickly, only waving to his crew as he pulled out, that he’d hardly had time to think about what had happened. Now, as he gazed at the house, he couldn’t help but recall the hopes and dreams they’d had when they bought it.

  They’d been on their way home from North Beach when Macey had noticed a new real estate sign posted at the end of the long driveway. “Wow! Mrs. Latham’s house is for sale. My mom used to run errands for her.” The abandoned Victorian was set so far back from the road they could hardly see it, and what little they could see was veiled by long curtains of Spanish moss hanging from the line of majestic live oaks flanking either side of the driveway.

  “I know that old place, and I’m sure it needs a ton of work,” Ben said, slowing down. “Besides,” he teased, “I’ve heard it’s haunted.”

  “It is not,” Macey said, rolling her eyes.

  “Indeed it is,” Ben insisted in his slow drawl. “A Southern belle died waiting for her soldier husband to return from the War of Northern Aggression and still paces its halls.”

  “The War of Northern Aggression?” Macey asked, raising her eyebrows.

  “Yes. I think you Yankees call it the Civil War, though I don’t know what was ‘civil’ about it, with Northerners behaving so unkindly toward the South.”

  “Oh, really? Is that how Southerners view it?”

  “Mm-hmm, some,” he said. “Not me, though,” he added with a grin. “I have nothing against Northerners.”

  “That’s good, because you married one. And I still don’t believe it’s haunted.”

  “It is . . . and I’m pretty sure this property was part of an old Native American burial ground.”

  “Oh my goodness! You can’t just build a house on top of a cemetery.”

  “Early colonists did whatever they pleased. And you know as well as I do that Savannah is known to be haunted . . . especially the cemetery,” he added, referring to Bonaventure Cemetery, Savannah’s famous, historic resting place for loved ones who’d gone on to their final reward.

  Macey rolled her eyes. “C’mon, let’s go look.”

  Ben sighed and turned reluctantly into the driveway, and as they drove slowly up to the grand old house, Macey caught her breath.

  “It’s beautiful,” she whispered, and for a brief second, Ben saw it through her eyes, as it might have looked in its glory days, all intricate woodwork, tall windows, and decorative molding. A moment later, he came to his senses and saw what was really there—peeling paint, broken windows, and rotting wood.

  “Like I expected,” Ben said, surveying the porch. “It needs a ton of work. Look at those steps.”

  “Why are you always so negative?” Macey asked, climbing out. “Can’t you see its potential?”

  “Um, no,” Ben answered flatly.

  “C’mon,” Macey said, motioning for him to follow.

  “No, thanks,” Ben replied, waving.

  He watched Macey walk around the house and then closed his eyes. I have more than enough work to do without buying a money pit, he thought, recalling the funny scene from the movie with the same name of a claw-foot tub falling through the floor and Tom Hanks—the new owner—laughing maniacally. He smiled to himself. Yeah, not a chance.

  “C’mon, Ben!” a voice outside the truck called. He opened his eyes and saw Macey standing with her hands on her hips. “Let’s just look.”

  He shook his head. There was no way he was getting pulled out of his truck or into this conversation.

  Macey raised her eyebrows, and Ben groaned. Why couldn’t they just go home, like they planned, shower off the sand from the beach, have a nice cold beer, and make dinner?

  He climbed reluctantly out of his truck and followed her up the walkway, and then, to prove his point, kicked the front step, causing a big chunk of wood to break off and clatter to the ground. “See?” he said.

  “I’d be careful if I were you,” Macey warned with a slow smile. “You might be the one who has to fix that.”

  Ben chuckled. “I don’t think so,” he said, but deep down, he was already worried where this conversation was going. He knew all too well that once an idea lodged itself in Macey’s stubborn head, it was hard—if not impossible—to dislodge it. As his best friend, Henry, always teased, “What Macey wants, Macey gets.”

  Ben looked at that step now—he had been the one to fix it—along with everything else that needed fixing. In fact, in the nine years since that day, they’d spent nearly every spare penny and every free minute working on it, and it still wasn’t finished.

  Having the old house to work on, though, had turned out to be a blessing because every time Macey had lost a baby, they’d dealt with their grief by throwing themselves into the house. The endless scraping, painting, and restoring had been cathartic. Even Macey, who’d been a newbie at restoration when they started, had meticulously sanded and painted every baluster of the elegant winding staircase in the front hall after she lost their second baby.

  As the rain let up, Ben gazed at the single candle flickering in the window and remembered the first night they’d stayed in the house. It still wasn’t finished, but Macey had wanted to stay there because it was Christmas Eve. On that night, they’d sat in front of the fireplace, and he’d pulled a small gift bag from behind the iron firewood ring.

  “What’s this?” Macey had asked in surprise. “I thought we said no gifts this year.”

  “Just a little something,” he’d replied with a slow smile, “for our first night.”

  She’d reached into the bag and pulled out a window taper wrapped in tissue paper.

  “Just one?” She’d looked puzzled. “We have thirty windows.”

  He’d nodded. “Just one. During the war . . . you know, the War of Northern Aggression,” he added with a wink, “families put a single candle in the window to guide a loved one—usually a soldier—home.” He’d nodded to the candle in her hands. “It’s not a Christmas decoration. It’s a guiding light for the husband of the Southern belle who waited for her husband to return . . . and it’s a guiding light for our family—the family we’re going to have someday.”

  Macey had smiled. “Thank you,” she’d whispered. “It’s perfect.” She’d walked over, set it on the front window stool, and it had flickered to life. Then she’d snuggled next to him. “How ’bout a little friendly Northern aggression?” she’d teased, leaning into him.

  “Mmm . . . I’d love some,” he’d murmured, “especially since your dad thinks it’s time for some grandkids.”

  Macey chuckled. “Do you think he could’ve been any more direct at dinner tonight?”

  “No. I think asking: ‘When are we gonna have some grandkids around here?’ is about as straight-arrow as it gets.”

  “Sorry about that. He’s always been one to speak his mind.”

  “That’s okay . . . now I know where his dau
ghter gets it,” he teased.

  “Hey!” Macey said, laughing.

  “Hey, what?” he asked softly, pulling her next to him and kissing her softly on the neck and then slowly making his way down her body.

  The first time they’d made love in the big old house had been by the light of the flickering fireplace and that candle. One month later Macey had discovered she was pregnant. Two weeks after that, she had her first miscarriage.

  BEN CLIMBED OUT OF HIS TRUCK, PULLED HIS JACKET OVER HIS HEAD, trotted up the steps, and pushed open the door. Macey was leaning against the doorway into the kitchen, fighting back tears.

  “Oh, Mace,” he said, pulling her close and gently brushing them. “I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sorry, too,” she said softly, shaking her head.

  Ben wrapped his arms around her again and gazed at the candle in the window. Ever since that first Christmas Eve, it had glowed all night . . . and sometimes, when it rained, it flickered all day, too.

  3

  TWENTY-TWO YEARS EARLIER

  “WHO’S THAT?” FOURTEEN-YEAR-OLD BEN SAMUELSON ASKED, NODDING to a tall, slender girl with long strawberry-blond hair in line ahead of them.

  “That,” Henry Sanders said dramatically, “is Macey Lindstrom.” Henry was Ben’s best friend—a friendship that had begun in kindergarten when Henry’s last name serendipitously placed him in line behind Ben.

  “Did she just move here?” Ben asked, reaching for a lunch tray and putting an overflowing fried clam roll on it.

  Henry nodded, eyeing the menu options and taking a clam roll, too. “She’s from Maine—Cape Beth or something. Today’s her first day.” Henry scanned the bowls of canned fruit cocktail for one with a cherry. “She has a sister in sixth grade . . . May something.”

  “How do you know so much?” Ben asked, distractedly reaching for a fruit cup.

  Henry reached for a carton of chocolate milk. “Were you asleep this morning? She’s in our algebra class.”

  “I’m not in your algebra class,” Ben reminded as he grabbed a milk, too.

  “Oh, right,” Henry said, handing his lunch money to Mrs. Lyons.

  As Henry stood waiting for Ben to dig his money out of his pocket, he saw the new girl step back in line, and even though he tried to get Ben’s attention, it was too late. His friend turned at the very moment she passed behind him, and the scene that followed was just as cliché and mortifying as any teen rom-com. Hard plastic dishes clattered across the floor as Ben lost control of his entire lunch tray, causing everyone in the cafeteria to look up and begin clapping and cheering.