Chapter 4
CHAPTER FOUR
Chuck had paced since noon. Endless circuits through the living and dining rooms, around the kitchen, down the short hall, and back again. The Cape Cod-style house wasn’t big, but he was wearing a track into the carpet.
The phone sat on the end table beside the couch, heavy and patient. He’d picked it up twice already, listened to the dial tone, and hung up again.
Too soon? They’d said good night twelve hours ago, though the memory of their time together hadn’t faded with the daylight.
It was still playing on a loop in his head—her laugh, the passion she had for her chosen career, and the way she’d studied him, quiet but certain, like she wanted to know everything about him.
The feeling had been mutual. At some point, over their coffee, pie, and conversation, he’d fallen in love.
“Charles?” His mother’s voice carried from her bedroom—steady, though soft with chronic fatigue. “You’re making me dizzy with all that pacing.”
He stopped mid-stride in the hallway. “Sorry, Ma.”
“Bring me some water, will you? And my two o’clock pill, please.”
In the kitchen, he filled a glass, grabbed the orange bottle from the counter, and then carried both to her room. The door was slightly ajar, so he knocked once before pushing it open and stepping inside.
The room smelled faintly of lavender and starch.
Afternoon light filtered through lace curtains, soft and gold.
His mother lay propped up against the pillows, her floral robe hanging a little looser these days.
The radiation and medications had thinned her frame, but her eyes were bright.
A good day—clearheaded and not too tired.
He passed her the pill and glass. “Aunt Linda went out with Marlene. Said she’ll be home before supper.”
“Good,” his mother said. “She needs a day that doesn’t revolve around me.”
He watched her swallow the pill, then wash it down with water. Her hand holding the glass trembled only slightly.
“You’re restless,” she said, studying him. “It better not be because of me. Is it work?”
“No. Work’s fine.”
“Then what’s got you pacing holes in my rug?”
He hesitated. Dodging wouldn’t help. His mother had always wanted to see him settled down with a wife and children, and the thought that she might not be around for it pressed hard in his chest. “I met someone last night.”
Her head lifted a little. “Oh?”
“At Langford’s. We went for coffee afterward.”
That spark returned to her eyes. “Well, don’t stop there. Tell me everything.”
Her excitement amused him, and the corners of his mouth ticked upward. “Her name’s Marie O’Toole. She just finished medical school and is starting her residency at Queen City Medical next month.”
“A doctor,” she said, clearly impressed. “Smart woman.”
“Very. Careful too. Made me hand over my driver’s license so her friends could write my info down before she’d leave the bar with me.”
His mother’s soft laugh filled the space. “I like her already.”
“So do I. A lot.” The words spilled forth before he could stop them.
The truth hung there between them, solid and undeniable.
“I think,” he said slowly, “she’s the woman I’m going to marry.”
His mother’s expression stilled, then bloomed into something luminous—joy wrapped around pride. “Charles Sawyer, you just made my day. No. You made my year!”
He sat on the edge of her bed, careful not to shift her pillows. She reached for his hand, her grip surprisingly strong. “Tell me about her,” she insisted.
So he did—about Marie’s dark hair, the clear blue of her eyes, and the way she listened as if every word mattered. How they’d talked for hours that felt more like minutes, and how he hadn’t wanted the night to end.
When he finished, his mother squeezed his hand. “So, when are you going to see her again?”
“I—I don’t know.” He shrugged, his uncertainty eating at him. “She gave me her number, and I said I’d call.”
“So do it. Call her now.”
“It’s Sunday. I don’t want to seem—”
“Eager?” she interrupted. “You are eager. And that’s not a bad thing.”
He scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, stood, and paced to the window. She wasn’t wrong. Eager didn’t even begin to cover it. But picking up the phone too soon felt risky—like breaking some unspoken rule he didn’t even believe in but couldn’t help respecting.
Turning back toward his mother, he threw his hands out to the side, simultaneously exasperated and desperate. “Wh-what if she’s busy? Or with family? Or—I don’t know!”
“Then she’ll tell you so. You don’t wait on a good thing, Charles. Your father didn’t.”
That drew a faint grin from him. “He also showed up at your house with a six-pack and a toolbox and fixed your dad’s fence because you were playing hard to get.” He’d heard the story many times over the years.
“But I married him, didn’t I?” she said, eyes shining. “Call the girl.”
He paused, studying her face—the same woman who had once run open houses and out-talked half the city’s buyers. Now she tired more easily, her skin pale beneath her knit cap. Even though she didn’t have much time left, she still managed to sound like she could take on the world.
“I know what you’re thinking,” she chastised. “Don’t. I’m all right today—tired but clear. That’s a gift. Don’t waste it worrying about me. Call her.”
A lump formed in his throat, and he swallowed hard. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Good.”
He left her smiling and headed toward the living room. The house felt different now—awake, purposeful. The black rotary phone sat where it always did. He pulled his wallet from his pocket, unfolded the napkin, and stared at the number.
He turned the dial carefully, one number at a time, the clicks echoing like a heartbeat.
His mother’s voice drifted from the bedroom. “If she says no, call again tomorrow.”
Shaking his head, he grinned despite himself.
One ring. Two. Then, an unfamiliar woman’s voice answered. “Hello?”
“Um—hi. I mean, may I speak with Marie, please? Tell her it’s Chuck Sawyer.”
“Hold on.”
A hand must have covered the mouthpiece because everything was muffled for a few moments before Marie’s voice came over the line. “Hello?”
Still nervous, he strode across the room as far as the phone’s stretched cord would allow him. “Hi. It’s… uh… It’s Chuck.”
A short pause was followed by a soft, “Hi.”
“I’m not calling too soon, am I?”
“No,” she said. “In fact, I think you’re right on time.”
Relief eased through him. “I promised I’d call.”
“And you did.” He could hear the smile in her voice even if he couldn’t see it.
“I was thinking,” he said, keeping his tone light, “um... if you’re free one night this week, there’s a new restaurant on Hawthorne Lane called The Laurel House.
I’ve heard it has great food. We could go for dinner or, if you’d rather keep things simple, we could do coffee again. ” Please, please say dinner!
“Dinner sounds good,” she said after a brief pause. “Wednesday?”
“Wednesday works.”
After they settled on a time, said their good-byes, and hung up, he sat a moment, staring at the receiver, the click still faintly echoing in his ear.
“Ma?” he called as he strode back toward her room.
“Well?”
“Dinner on Wednesday at The Laurel House.”
“That’s my boy.” She patted the bed beside her. “Come tell me what you’re wearing so I can veto it.”
Chuckling, he sat down. “The brown tweed sports coat?”
“You look handsome in that,” she said. “With the blue shirt—the one I got you last Christmas. And iron it.”
He dipped his chin and raised his eyebrows at her. “You’re assuming I remember how.”
“I’ve seen you do it once or twice.”
Her tone was playful and familiar, and for a moment, it almost felt like old times—before hospital visits, radiation, doctor appointments, and medication schedules.
She’d made sure he could handle himself long before he’d left home by teaching him how to cook, clean, do laundry, and even sew.
That education had paid off in the Army—most of the guys in basic training hadn’t known how to work an iron, let alone what starch was for.
“Are you hungry?”
“In a minute,” she said. “Tell me what you liked best about her.”
He didn’t need to think, not even for a few seconds. “Her laugh. And the way she listens. She doesn’t fill silence just to fill it.”
“That’s rare,” she said. “Don’t let that slip away.”
He glanced at the framed photo on her dresser—his parents on their wedding day, young and radiant. After a moment, his gaze returned to his mother. “Am I crazy to think she’s the one?”
“You’re not crazy,” she said, her voice steady. “You just sound like a man in love. I’d like to meet her.”
“You will,” he said, surprising himself with how certain he sounded.
“I hope so.” She leaned back against her pillows, a tired but contented smile softening her face. “Now, go make some tea and bring me a piece of that cobbler Linda bought yesterday. We’ll celebrate properly.”