Promises of the Heart Read online

  “Oh, Ben!” Mrs. Lyons said in an exasperated voice.

  “I’m s-sorry,” Ben stammered, his cheeks aflame.

  Henry and the girl both knelt to help him pick up the clams and chunks of fruit that had scattered and splattered all over the linoleum floor.

  “Thanks,” Ben mumbled, feeling humiliated.

  “No problem, kiddo,” she said, smiling as she tucked her long hair behind her ears.

  “Okay, kids,” Mrs. Lyons said. “Thank you for trying to clean up. Mr. Fielding is on his way with a mop . . . and, Ben, you better get yourself another tray or you won’t have time to eat.”

  Ben stood up, and the girl handed him the one thing that hadn’t spilled—his milk. “Thanks,” he said, realizing, now, that she towered over him.

  “I’m Macey,” she said, extending her hand with a grin.

  Ben looked up and was immediately captivated by her sparkling green eyes and her sun-tanned face sprinkled with cinnamon freckles. He looked down at her outstretched hand and, barely mustering the presence of mind to not lift it to his lips and kiss it, replied, “It’s nice to meet you. Welcome to our humble school.”

  Macey’s smile immediately stole Ben’s heart, and he stood dumbfounded, gazing into her eyes until another girl called her name and she turned away. “Coming, Steff.” She turned back to Ben. “See ya ’round, kiddo.”

  He nodded, awestruck, and seemingly nailed to the floor, watched as she walked away.

  “Kiddo?” Henry teased, elbowing him. “Welcome to our humble school?”

  “I know,” Ben said, shaking his head. “I didn’t even tell her my name.”

  “That’s okay,” Henry said. “I think she knows it.”

  But in the months that followed, Macey never let Ben forget their encounter, and if she knew his name, she never used it. “Hey, kiddo,” she’d tease whenever she walked by with her friends, “it’s clam-roll day—try to keep ’em on your tray this time.”

  Ben would feel his cheeks get hot, but deep down, he didn’t mind. In fact, he loved it. It meant she knew who he was—she remembered him.

  Ben and Macey’s friendship didn’t truly blossom until the following year, though, when they found themselves in the same honors French and geometry classes.

  “I don’t know why I’m even in this class,” Macey said gloomily as she plopped her books down on the desk next to him. “I barely passed algebra.”

  Ben looked up in surprise. “Geometry’s different,” he offered. “It’s about shapes . . . and it’s easy.”

  “Easy for you, maybe,” she said, rummaging through her backpack for a pencil. “My brain isn’t equipped for equations that include letters . . . or for calculating the hypotemus of a triangle. I honestly don’t know when I’ll ever use algebra or geometry anyway.”

  “You’ll use them someday if you ever have to remodel a house,” Ben said with a grin, “and it’s hypotenuse not hypotemus.”

  “There you go,” she said, laughing. “My hypotenuse has already crossed paths with a hippopotamus and we can only hope my kids will be smarter than me.” She continued to unzip the pockets of her backpack. Finally, she gave up. “Ben, would you happen to have an extra pencil?”

  “I would,” Ben answered, astounded to discover she knew his name. “Here,” he said, thrusting his only pencil, new and freshly sharpened, in her direction and pulling a pen out of his corduroy pants pocket.

  She looked up. “Now you won’t have one.”

  “I don’t think I need one. We’re just going over stuff from last year.”

  “Are you sure?”

  He nodded—he would’ve given her his kidney if she asked.

  When the bell rang, she tried to give it back to him, but Ben shook his head. “Keep it.”

  “Thanks,” she said, smiling. “Where’re you headed next?”

  “French,” he said, gathering his things and sliding them into his backpack.

  “With Mrs. Pease?”

  “Yes,” he said, looking up in surprise. “You, too?”

  She laughed and nodded. “I heard she wears her hair in a bun most of the time, but when there’s going to be a quiz, she wears it down.”

  “I heard that, too.”

  “I saw her this morning, and her hair is down. How can we be having a quiz on the first day?”

  Ben shrugged as he held the door open. “I don’t know, but it can’t be too hard.”

  “Well, it will be just my luck to start off the year with an F.”

  “That won’t happen,” Ben said, laughing. “Believe it or not, teachers are not out to get us on the first day.”

  “Ha!” Macey said. “I had social studies before this, and we already have three chapters to read about primitive man.”

  Ben smiled. “Mr. Hughes?”

  Macey nodded.

  “I heard he’s really hard.”

  “Great,” Macey said, shouldering her backpack. “So are you going to help me survive geometry? Because I’m already confused.”

  “Sure,” Ben said, smiling.

  In the years that followed, Ben helped Macey survive more than geometry. He got her through Advanced Math and Calculus, as well as all four years of French, making sure she knew, early in the day, if Mrs. Pease had her hair down. He also helped her with her jump shot when she made the basketball team, her pitch when she played softball, and his was the reliable shoulder she cried on every time another boy broke her heart. All the while, he fell more deeply in love with her.

  4

  NINE-YEAR-OLD HARPER WHEATON FINGERED THE FRAYED HEART stitched on the chest of the tattered bear in her arms. She fiddled with its ear—the fur of which was completely rubbed off—and strained to hear the phone conversation in the next room. Even though she was practically holding her breath, she couldn’t make out the hushed whisper. It didn’t matter, though. She knew what was being said, and, finally, she shouted, “I don’t want to stay in this stupid place anyway!”

  The door to the next room clicked closed, further muffling the voice, and angry tears slipped down Harper’s cheeks. With a clenched fist, she brushed them away and then pulled the bear tightly against her chest. She hated not having control over things that happened in her life.

  She stared at the raindrops trickling down the smudged window and noticed a man walking a dog. The dog had long, silky hair—just like Tom and Mary’s dog. The sudden flash of memory made her sad. The big golden had loved to curl up on the end of her bed when she lived with them. He’d nuzzle his head into her lap and gaze at her lovingly with those sweet brown eyes. Someday, she was going to have a dog just like Sundance, and when she did, she would never make him walk in the rain and get wet! She continued to watch the man holding a small umbrella over both their heads, and then she rolled her eyes. He needs to get a bigger umbrella or raincoats for both of them! People are so stupid sometimes, she thought, propping the musty, flat pillow against the wall and leaning against it.

  The tiny room was cleaner than most she’d been in, and she had it all to herself, which had never happened before in her whole life. She loved it, even if it did look like a jail cell. There were no pictures, and the furniture was old and chipped. The narrow bed creaked when she moved, and it smelled like mildew. The only other piece of furniture was a heavy wooden bureau, which was missing three knobs and had C.T. was here carved into its side. Harper stared at the initials. C.T. had to be Connor Taylor, she decided, another kid who was staying at the same foster home and who was Harper’s current nemesis. She could still hear his stupid singsong voice: “Harper’s a baby! She carries a bear with scabies!”

  Everyone on the playground had laughed, and Harper had felt her cheeks turn bright red as hot tears filled her eyes. She’d clenched her fists. There was no way she was going to let them see her cry. “I’m gonna kill you, you little shit,” she’d seethed, lunging at him and hurling her fist squarely into his smug face, and then landing a second blow to his soft stomach.

  “Who’
s the baby now?” she’d sneered as he doubled over in pain.

  Afterward, she’d stumbled back, rubbing her chest. She’d closed her eyes, trying to catch her breath, but when she’d turned to sit down, she’d bumped right into Mrs. Lewis. “I don’t feel so good,” she’d mumbled, the rosy flames of embarrassment draining from her face.

  “I’d be sick, too, if I behaved like you,” Mrs. Lewis had said unsympathetically.

  Harper rubbed her chest again now—the pain was gone, but why did it keep happening?

  There was a knock on the door. “Harper?” Mrs. Lewis’s stern voice called.

  Harper rolled to her side and pretended she was asleep, but Mrs. Lewis continued.

  “Mrs. Grant is on her way over to pick you up,” she said, opening the door. “I’m sorry, this isn’t going to work out. Please get your things together.”

  Harper didn’t move. Fresh tears slid down her cheeks and plopped onto the musty pillow. “Why doesn’t Mrs. Grant pick up stupid Connor instead?” she muttered after Mrs. Lewis closed the door.

  Harper had been only three years old when one of her mother’s misguided friends knocked on their apartment door because her mom wasn’t answering the phone.

  Harper had opened the door, wearing only a T-shirt and underwear. “Mommy won’t wake up,” she explained matter-of-factly.

  “Shit,” the stringy-haired woman had muttered, glancing around the filthy apartment as she stepped over beer cans and spilled Cheerios. She’d followed Harper down the hall, and when she saw the splayed-out position of the body on the bed, she’d covered her nose, stepped closer, and stared. “Holy shit!”

  Harper had lost track of how many foster homes she’d been in since then. Most had other foster kids, and she’d learned that, although some adults opened their homes out of the goodness of their hearts, others did it for the money they got from the state—or, at least that’s what she’d overheard some other kids say. Harper fully believed she’d landed in more homes of the latter than of those who truly cared, and that was probably why she couldn’t get along—no one gave a crap about her or how she felt—they just wanted the money for taking her in. In all the years she’d been shuffled from one foster home to another, she’d only truly felt welcomed by Tom and Mary . . . and, of course, Sundance.

  Within the fostering community, Tom and Mary Larson had been famous for their warmhearted kindness. Their gentleness could turn any child around—no matter how wayward. The child just had to be lucky enough to be placed there. Unfortunately, Tom and Mary had only fostered, they didn’t adopt, and right after Harper was placed in their home, Mary had been diagnosed with cancer. After much deliberation, Tom and Mary had decided they needed to take a break from fostering while Mary recovered from surgery and chemo. Not long after that, Harper overheard Cora Grant, her case worker, telling someone at DFCS that Mary had died and that Tom wouldn’t be fostering any more kids, at least for now.

  Harper sat up, wiped her eyes, and touched Bear’s heart, remembering how Mary had carefully cut it out of some pink felt she’d had in her closet and then sewn it over the hole in Bear’s chest. She’d handed Bear back to Harper and, smiling, pulled her into a hug. “Love you, sweetheart,” she’d whispered. It was the only time anyone had ever told her they loved her, and she’d stood there blinking, trying to discern the warm feeling in her chest.

  She looked out the window and saw the old man walking back up the street with the dog—both of whom were thoroughly soaked now. The dog stopped to shake, and the man tried to shield himself from the shower, but his umbrella wasn’t big enough. “Get a freakin’ bigger umbrella!” she yelled through the smudged glass. The man didn’t hear her, but the dog looked up and gazed right at her.

  5

  MACEY WAS USED TO SEEING BLOOD. WHEN SHE’D FINALLY RETURNED home from her post-undergraduate escapades in Europe, she’d buckled down, decided what she wanted to do with her life, and gone back to school to become a physician’s assistant. In the ten years she’d worked at Savannah Pediatrics, she’d become a pro at drawing blood, giving shots, weighing, measuring, consoling, and making little people laugh. Given what she dealt with on a daily basis, blood was no big deal. Except when it was her own.

  “I can’t come in today, Marilyn,” she said into the speaker of her cell phone—which was lying face up on the bathroom counter. “I—I think I just lost the baby.”

  “Oh, hon, I’m so sorry.” Marilyn’s voice echoed through the bathroom. “You take all the time you need. We’ll be fine. Call if you need anything.”

  Macey nodded tearfully, and because she was so preoccupied with what was happening, tapped END CALL without realizing her coworker couldn’t actually see her nodding. It didn’t matter. Marilyn—and everyone else in the office—knew and understood; they’d watched her go through it before. Macey turned on the shower, pulled the old shirt she wore to bed every night over her head, and stood under the streaming water, letting it cascade over her weary body. When she looked down, she saw even more diluted red swirling toward the drain.

  She ran her hand lightly over her flat belly. What was wrong with her? Why couldn’t her body carry a baby? She leaned against the shower wall, letting her tears mix with the water streaming down her cheeks.

  Macey didn’t know how long she stood there, but when she finally pulled on Ben’s frayed waffle Henley shirt and her old Bowdoin College sweatpants, she felt physically and emotionally spent. She slid into her slippers and shuffled to the kitchen to make a cup of ginger tea, and while she waited for it to steep, glanced at her phone and realized she’d missed five calls. She tapped the speaker to listen to the messages. The first call was from her mom, of course—Ruth Lindstrom always knew when something was up with one of her girls; the next three were from Marcy and Heather and Melissa, friends at work who’d called to express their sympathy; and the last was from her sister. Maeve worked at Willow Pond Senior Care, and Macey was convinced that her little sister was the only human on earth who—like Tom Sawyer painting Aunt Polly’s fence—could make working in a nursing home sound like fun. Maeve loved recounting stories about the residents and their antics. “I’m off to the Sundowners’ Club,” she often said as she left for work with a smile that was truly genuine. She didn’t dread going to work, as did so many people who worked in this setting. She enjoyed being around “the old folks,” as she called them, and she loved helping them navigate their senior years—a time that is all too often a lonely stage of life. Maeve was a blessing at Willow Pond and a breath of fresh air to all who knew her.

  “You’re not going to believe this, Mace,” Maeve’s cheerful voice said in her message, “Mr. Olivetti told me that he and his twin brother were in an orphanage for two years before they were adopted by a couple who couldn’t have children. He said the couple made all the difference in their lives . . . and there’s much more to their story—which I can tell you over lunch or coffee. By the way, when are we going to lunch or coffee? We are way overdue! Anyway, I think you and Ben should reconsider. Love ya! Call me!”

  The message ended, and Macey dunked her tea bag several more times before squeezing a sliver of lemon into her mug. Maeve knew the baby had died—which was probably why she was hot on the topic of adoption (again)—but her little sister didn’t know that the actual sorrowful evidence had shown up in the bathroom that morning, so her timing couldn’t be worse. Macey shook her head. Maeve could be relentless sometimes. It was for good reason their mom called her Miss Persistence. But it didn’t matter how tenacious Maeve was on this—there was no way she was going to adopt. For one thing, Macey had never even considered adopting, so she couldn’t reconsider it. Not to mention that, deep down, she didn’t know if she could ever love an adopted child as much as she would love one who had come from making love with Ben, and that wouldn’t be fair to the child.

  Macey cupped her hands around her mug and sank into Grandy’s old armchair. Whenever she sat in it, she felt like her grandmother’s loving arms were aro
und her—something she needed more than anything right now. She’d almost called Ben before she’d stepped into the shower, but because the loss was still so real and raw, she’d decided to wait until she could pull herself together. Besides, she knew he was overwhelmed at work and she didn’t want him to feel like he had to rush home just to put his arms around her. No matter how loving a hug, it wouldn’t bring their baby back. They’d both known this was coming, and now, she just needed to give her body—and her heart—time to heal.

  She took a sip of her tea, savoring the lemony-ginger combination. She’d recently read an article trumpeting the health benefits of ginger and lemon, and at this point she’d drink just about anything if it would make her feel better. Too bad my extra-healthy body can’t carry a baby, she thought miserably, as she cradled the mug in her hands and noticed the sun peeking through the clouds.

  She stood up and looked out the window. Golden sunlight streamed through the Spanish moss, and she recalled the time Ben had pulled her behind a misty veil of moss to kiss her. She’d looked up at the shimmery curtain around them, and he’d explained that Spanish moss isn’t a moss at all. It’s not even Spanish, he’d added softly. It just floats in the breeze and attaches to trees, living solely on the moisture and nutrients in the air. Now, as she gazed at the drops of rain sparkling like thousands of tiny diamonds on gossamer veils, she put her mug on the table and studied the diamond on her hand, recalling the day Ben had given it to her. They’d been the only ones walking on Tybee Beach Pier on that absolutely frigid—even by New England standards—Christmas Eve afternoon. The sun was sinking below the horizon, and the Savannah sky was on fire, making the beach and ocean glow in an ethereal light.