The vow, p.1
The Vow, page 1
About the Book
Three stubborn women, each of whom made a promise. Who will yield, and who will break?
* * *
Abigail made a vow to her husband before he passed, one she could not, would not break. But life hasn't been easy without him by her side, and her children grow more with each passing day. Sometimes it feels like she'll be alone forever.
* * *
Amanda is tired of being a mess. She wants to achieve, to impress, to excel. If that means changing who she is, even changing her entire life, then so be it.
* * *
Donna has learned the truth about the world the hard way. You either attack, or you're attacked yourself. She doesn't like being the villain, but she's done being a patsy. She's determined to carve out a place for herself, no matter what.
* * *
These women have all returned to Birch Creek with big plans, but the future loves to surprise us. Can their vows keep them on target? Or will they decide it's more important to follow their hearts, no matter how bad the fallout?
The Vow
B. E. Baker
Copyright © 2022 by B. E. Baker
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Created with Vellum
For Anna
* * *
Once I thought someone needed help at church.
But really, God knew I needed a friend.
* * *
A true friend is a treasure, no matter when you meet.
I’m glad I found you.
Contents
Prologue: Abigail
1. Amanda
2. Abigail
3. Donna
4. Amanda
5. Abigail
6. Donna
7. Amanda
8. Abigail
9. Donna
10. Amanda
11. Amanda
12. Abigail
13. Donna
14. Amanda
15. Abigail
16. Donna
17. Amanda
18. Abigail
19. Abigail: Two years prior
20. Amanda
21. Donna
22. Amanda
23. Abigail
24. Donna
25. Amanda
26. Abigail
27. Amanda
28. Donna
29. Abigail
30. Amanda
Epilogue: Donna
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by B. E. Baker
Prologue: Abigail
When I was twelve, every mom my sister and I knew (including our own) drove a minivan. They were underpowered—the size and space of a van, with the efficiency of a car. They were low cost—made to be an efficient option for moms on a budget. Worst of all, they were always treated badly by the driver and the occupants. It made them an embarrassing cliché, and we both knew we wanted nothing to do with them.
We made a sacred pact to never drive minivans ourselves.
I laugh at how serious we were about that promise. We still joke about it today. I, of course, drive a minivan, and my sister has mocked me for it mercilessly. Although my failure to keep our vow has featured in many jokes, the promise we made was never something that altered the course of my life.
Humans make promises all the time. Our futures aren’t very secure, and promising things is our way of trying to exert some control over the chaos and doubt and fear that threaten to consume us.
We make promises to ourselves: to work out daily, to get more rest, to give up soda.
We make promises to others: to finish projects, to get together more often, to incentivize certain behavior.
We make promises that are legally binding: house notes, car notes, employment contracts.
Some promises, though, can alter the course of our entire life. These vows often have higher stakes. Do you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband? You are aware that you’ll be using your home as collateral?
On the other hand, before I gave birth to my son Ethan, I signed no papers, I answered no questions, and I made no promises, except to pay my hospital bill. And yet, from the time he was born, nothing and no one mattered as much as he did. It was the same with all four of my children. I’d do anything, sacrifice anything, burn down literally everything, if that’s what it took to bring them peace, joy, and safety.
Humans aren’t actually that original when you think about it. All of us long for the same things: safety, success, and love. Our fear of losing those things drives all our actions, including our promises. But sometimes, in order to be healthy and happy and strong, we have to break a vow.
Then we just hope that we survive the fallout.
1
Amanda
Almost everything in our lives happens because of an interconnected chain of events. Sometimes it’s hard to know where it starts. Sometimes, it’s something small—inconsequential.
Ethan always slams the door when he leaves. It must be a teenage boy thing. But this morning, that door slam woke Roscoe.
If Roscoe hadn’t started barking, Gabe might still be asleep.
If Abby hadn’t been on a work call, Gabe wouldn’t have woken me.
If Whitney hadn’t finished the last of the Lucky Charms, Gabe might not have woken Maren by demanding them at the top of his lungs.
If she was still asleep, Maren wouldn’t be reading Emery the riot act.
And if Emery hadn’t started bawling louder than the dog barks, Abigail’s conference call probably wouldn’t have been interrupted.
Although I’ve never heard her yell at them, all four of Abby’s kids live in abject terror that they might anger her. Or perhaps it’s more that they worry they’ll disappoint her.
Either way, when she yanks her door open, all it takes is one stormy look. Izzy starts hissing at the others like a cat whose tail has been stepped on. Whitney’s entire face scrunches into a storm cloud. Gabe sticks his fingers in his ears and starts saying “la la la” at the top of his voice. Meanwhile Maren’s ranting at Emery to stop being such a big fat baby, which is only doubling the rate of tears streaming down her little sister’s face.
Maybe it’s just a bad morning. They do happen, and when this many people are in one place, they spiral quickly. But here’s my takeaway: this house is much, much too small.
We cannot live like this.
I’m not on an active work conference call, so I’m stuck running interference on everything. I’ve become much more capable at handling the chaos than I was a few months back, thankfully. I add a handful of marshmallows to his Rice Crispies and Gabe unplugs his ears and beams. I ask Whitney and Izzy to hold hands and sing, and they do. Within two rounds of “Jesus Said Love Everyone,” they’re smiling instead of scowling. (For the record, this would never work with Maren. She’d probably eat the other person’s face before she’d voluntarily sing while holding hands.) Finally, for my last act, I ask my non-angelic children to take their fight to my bedroom so it won’t be as loud.
I’m improving. I didn’t claim to be perfect.
They’re still in there, Maren grumping and Emery sobbing, when Abigail emerges from her bedroom. Her hair’s pulled into a high ponytail at the back of her head, not one single dark blonde strand out of place. She’s already put on the same basic makeup she wears every day—shimmery golden-beige eye shadow and mascara with a nice pinky-neutral lipstick. It was clearly a video call, because she’s wearing a beautiful sky blue suit.
“What in the world was going on with you three today?” Her head swivels like an owl tracking a group of mice. “You knew I had a call. I told you that last night.” She doesn’t say a word about the ongoing howling coming from my room. I’ve noticed that she almost never comments on my children’s behavior, at least, not when I’m around. She directs all her prickly motherly energy at her own.
Gabe’s lip quivers. “I’m sorry.”
“I’m sorry we ran out of Lucky Charms,” Abby says. “I’ll buy more today, but you can’t freak out when we run out of things. You’re too old for that.”
“It wasn’t only us,” Izzy says, more than ready to throw her cousins under the bus. Apparently I’m not the only one who has noticed that Abby only parents her own children, overlooking the shortcomings of mine.
Emery’s sobbing escalates in the background, adding support to her accusation.
“You’re the only three who answer to me.”
They all blink, but they don’t complain, they don’t argue, and they don’t bawl or bicker or defend.
“It won’t happen again,” Izzy says. “It might have been my fault. I tried to mother them again.”
Abby rounds on Whitney and Gabe. “Why do you get upset at her for mothering you? Oh, it’s because she’s not your mother. But when you act like children, she has no choice. Either behave properly, or don’t complain when she tells you what to do.” She puts her hands on her hips. “Got it?”
They all nod.
“This family only works when we all do our part, and you three aren’t doing yours.”
They hop up and race around the kitchen, Whitney emptying the dishwasher, Izzy taking out the trash, and Gabe helping Whitney by unloading the silverware.
I swear, some days I wonder whether Abby made some deal with a demon and had her children replaced with cyborgs. M
“We need to talk,” I say. “And I don’t want to pick a fight here, but I’ve been thinking about this over the past few days.” I’d have brought it up sooner, but I’ve been worried she’ll suggest that one of us move, and I actually like living with her huge brood.
Abby frowns. “About what?”
“This house is too small.”
She opens her mouth, and my heart sinks. She’s going to offer to move out. She always does the right thing, the good thing, the generous thing, even when it inconveniences her.
“I should explain that I like living together, but I think we need more space.”
Her mouth snaps closed.
“I think we should expand the farmhouse, or at the very least, remodel the space we have.”
“You want to put our own money into a house we may not keep?”
I swallow and try to gather my thoughts. It’s not as easy for me to explain things as it is for her, and sometimes her questions make me feel like I’m testifying in court. Not that I’ve ever done that, but it kind of feels like I imagine it would. “I called Mr. Swift, and he said that although it’s not yet certain that we’ll inherit, he thinks any remodeling we do that will improve the value of the home would be fine, and we can use the ‘household fund’ associated with the estate to do it.”
She blinks. “The household fund?”
“It’s what we’ve been using to pay the bills that don’t depend on our usage, like the taxes and upkeep or repairs.”
“Is there enough to cover something like a remodel? We do need to make sure it can cover the fixed costs of the ranch through disposition.”
“Mr. Swift said there’s more than sixty thousand dollars beyond what he anticipates we’ll need for the other routine expenses.”
“Sixty thousand isn’t bad,” Abby says. “It’s not a fortune, but if we’re smart with it, we could improve a lot.”
“Have you done much remodeling in the past?” I ask.
She shrugs. “A few things here and there. You?”
I shake my head.
“In my experience, success depends largely on who you know in the area. You really need to work with people you trust, unless you’re handling things yourself. Our first line of business would be finding a good contractor.” Abby taps her lip. “We should only change things we can finish quickly, or what’s the point?” Her eyes widen. “Maybe we could convert the big garage area to living space and then build a carport. The garage door’s broken anyway, so it’s already unusable for day-to-day driving and parking. Instead of repairing it, we could convert that contiguous square footage to another room and bathroom. It’ll need insulation and electrical, not to mention plumbing, but the slab’s already there. The extra weight shouldn’t be a problem. It’s not like we’re adding another floor.”
I should have known—if she’s not arguing with me, she’s already sprinting halfway down the road. “I think our first task would be determining what things we most want to change or add.”
“A bathroom!” Izzy’s bouncing up and down.
“With a shower,” Whitney says. “Not a crummy, old tub-shower combo, but a real shower with good water pressure.”
Living in an old home sure changes your perspective. “You’re right,” I agree. “Another bathroom, or even two, should be our number one priority.”
“A movie room!” Gabe says. “Like the one we had back home, with a fridge and a microwave for making popcorn.”
“What about a workout room?” Abby asks.
“We can run outside,” I say.
“Not when the snow starts,” she says. “And the living room doesn’t have enough seating right now for everyone who lives here. If we add another sofa or some chairs in there, there won’t be room for anything else.”
I hadn’t given much thought to what circumstances they left in Texas. New York was hard to leave, with takeout at my fingertips and people always moving and churning. There were a million fun and exciting things to do, but it was small. Even with this many people, our living space isn’t much more cramped than what we left. Living in the suburbs of a large city like Houston, they probably had a massive house with a lot of space. I hadn’t even considered adding a movie room, more than one extra bathroom, or a workout room.
“Did someone say something about a new bathroom?” Emery may still be bawling in my room, but Maren looks totally unconcerned, her face desperately hopeful. “Because I vote yes to that, and I think there should be a girls’ bathroom and a boys’ one.”
“There are four girls and only two boys,” Izzy says. “That’s a stupid idea.”
“Fine, then one for you guys, and one for us.” Maren crosses her arms. “Ethan stinks up the whole place, and I’m sick of it.”
“You poop too,” Gabe says. “Everyone’s poop stinks.” Even his scowl is cute.
“Amanda and I clearly have some things to discuss,” Abby says briskly. “But rest assured, the adults will make informed decisions. Once we’re ready to move ahead with anything, we’ll let you know what we’ve decided.”
Maren huffs, but she accepts it and walks away. Why does everyone always listen to Abby? Her kids don’t argue and complain like mine do, and none of hers are bawling in her bedroom, either.
I want to be more like Abby. I need to be more like her.
And I hate my pathetic longing, but it’s persistent.
Abby grabs her purse from the kitchen counter. “Kids, I’m headed to the school. I’m really sorry you missed the teacher meet and greet, but if you come with me when I enroll you, you can at least see the school.”
“I’m helping Jeff and Kevin trim the horses’ hooves,” Izzy says. “Kevin says he can teach me how, starting with rasping.”
“Me too.” Whitney shrugs. “And I don’t really care about missing the teacher thing. School is school.”
“It’s my last day of being free,” Gabe says. “Can I just watch Pokémon?”
Abby frowns. “We have the weekend left.”
“But today’s the last day when we’d usually have school during the week,” Izzy clarifies.
“Actually.” Abby looks a little uncomfortable. “The Daggett County schools don’t have class on Fridays.”
“Whoa,” Izzy says. “No school on Fridays?”
“That’s right. None at all, except one Friday in May, but I think that’s exams or something.”
“I’m so glad we moved.” Gabe plops down on the sofa and grabs the remote.
“Hey,” Abby says. “What are you doing?”
Gabe’s eyes slowly rise. “I asked.”
“But I didn’t give you permission. You’re supposed to pick up sticks in the side pasture, remember?”
He sighs heavily, but he hops off the sofa and walks to the door, pausing in the doorway to grab his boots. “But when I’m done?”
“Yes, then you can watch TV.” She turns toward me. “You coming along? Or did you already register yours?” Abby slings her purse over her shoulder, and I notice there are papers poking out of the top.
I haven’t even looked up where to go to register, but I can’t admit that. What kind of mother doesn’t think about enrolling her kids? I figured since it’s a public school—they could just go. It didn’t occur to me I had to do something to get them on a list. “I’d love to come,” I say, before she notices that my private school privilege is showing. “But can you hold off just a moment while I find my birth certificates and vaccination records?”
