Authors: Amy Lane

Keeping Promise Rock (49 page)

BOOK: Keeping Promise Rock

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Theirs.

“Okay,” Crick said after a cleansing breath, “before I tell that story—or part of that story—I’ve got something that needs to be signed too.” Crick looked at Amy, who nodded.

“That’s me—document princess,” she said dryly, and he grinned at her, and everybody laughed.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

“Any time, brother-mine.” And nobody laughed at that, not even her parents.

“It’s a present for Deacon,” Crick continued, “because he’s always afraid he’d let us down, so I put together all the ways I see him, and sketched them all together, and I hope you all sign the back of it, because you’re the people who love him, and I’m pretty sure you’ll see him that way too.” Crick looked over at the table like he was checking some things.

“Well, maybe some of those sketches are just how I see him, but you get the picture.”

There was another chuckle, and Deacon turned his head to look, but Crick grasped his chin to pull him back to the center of the circle.

“I want to see it!” Deacon complained. He’d been overjoyed that Crick had started drawing again, and now he knew what he’d been working on.

“Later, Deacon….”

“Well it looks pretty damned big!”

“Well, we needed something to cover the fuzzy kitten calendars you keep buying. Now shut up and let me finish!” Crick scowled at him, and Deacon subsided, and then he blushed, and then he teared up all over again, in front of friends, family, God, and everybody.

“Three years ago,” Crick began again, “Deacon offered me everything in the world I ever wanted, and….” He stopped, and something Keeping Promise Rock

shook his shoulders that wasn’t a laugh but couldn’t be described as much else. “And I was a total dumbshit, and I didn’t understand what he was offering, and I ended up in the middle of the fucking desert keeping some jackass from shooting a snake with an M-16. And Deacon waited for me to get
that
out of my system, and he was here for me when I got back. And everybody here, even the new guys, they know that it wasn’t that simple, but it’s the only words I’ve got. I just wanted everybody here, when I asked Deacon to offer me everything again—except school, Deacon. That ship has sailed. Anyway, ask me, here in front of God and everyone, if I want the world. Ask me if I want you, and your home, and your enormous, indestructible damned heart. Ask me.”

Crick closed his eyes, looking so very nervous, so very frightened.

Deacon wanted to reassure him, wanted to say something, wanted to touch his face and tell him it was all okay, that they didn’t have to do this, that they knew what was in their hearts and no one else had to. Then Crick opened his eyes and smiled. It was that goofy, gamine, little-kid grin, the one that had captured Deacon’s attention a zillion years ago, the one that had broken his heart and remade it a zillion times since.

“Go ahead, Deacon,” Crick murmured, that grin in place on his suddenly adult face. “Ask me.”

And oh God, it was his turn to speak. His whole body blushed, and he was mortified and embarrassed, even in front of these people who loved him, but still, he managed a few words.

“I love you, Carrick,” he rasped, suddenly as nervous as he’d ever been. “Please stay.” And then he held his breath for an answer, knowing he should never ever ever take something like that as a given.

“Of course I’ll stay,” Carrick muttered, his eyes shiny, his grimace through his tears something Deacon would remember pretty much until his heart stopped. “What kind of asshole would turn something like that down?”

Deacon didn’t have to answer that one because Crick’s mouth came down, and they kissed sweetly, like first-time lovers, like lifetime partners keeping a promise forever and ever and ever.

Everyone gathered at Promise Rock, people who loved them and knew how hard-fought their joy really was, cheered.

Later, when the picnic had wound down and the hugs had subsided (although Benny still broke into happy tears every so many minutes), Deacon got a good look at the sketch.

It was… him. Deacon working horses, Deacon holding the baby, Deacon sleeping. One of the smaller sketches had been drawn from the picture Benny sent the day the levee broke. One of the larger ones showed Deacon nose to nose with a horse who looked suspiciously like Comet.

The center sketch, the one that all the others surrounded, showed Deacon as a young man, godlike to Crick, his arms over his knees, his eyes thoughtfully bent on the world beyond the penciled green canopy of Promise Rock.

“You like?” Crick asked quietly, and Deacon nodded, searching for words for a minute.

“I’m still not a god,” he said apologetically.

Crick stood behind him and pulled his shoulders back against that wide, strong chest. “Better than a god,” Crick murmured. “You’re the reason to have faith.”

There was a lull in the chatter then, and for a moment, fraught with breeze and sweetness, it was just the two of them again, at home on Promise Rock.

AMY LANE teaches high school English, mothers four children, and writes the occasional book. When she’s not begging students to sit-the-hell-down or taxiing kids to soccer/dance/karate—oh my! she can be found catching emergency naps, grocery shopping, or hiding in the bathroom, trying to read without interruption. She will never be found cooking, cleaning, or doing domestic chores, but she has been known to knit up an emergency hat/blanket/pair of socks for any occasion whatsoever or sometimes for no reason at all. She writes in the shower, while commuting, while her classes are doing bookwork, or while she’s wandering the neighborhood at night pretending to exercise and has learned from necessity to type like the wind. She lives in a spider-infested and crumbling house in a shoddy suburb and counts on her beloved mate, Mack, to keep her tethered to reality—which he does while keeping her cell phone charged as a bonus. She’s been married for twenty plus years and still believes in Twu Wuv, with a capital Twu and a capital Wuv, and she doesn’t see any reason at all for that to change.

Visit Amy’s web site at http://www.greenshill.com. You can e-mail her at [email protected].