Free The Promise by Dan Walsh

everything freely?”
    â€œPretty much,” Michele said. “It’s just . . . I don’t know, Tom has always been so much like my father.”
    â€œHe’s always admired your dad.”
    â€œThat’s not necessarily a good thing,” Michele said. “Dad and Mom always kept things from each other, especially when they struggled. Used to, anyway. And look at the kind of trouble they got into.” She sighed. “Well, I better go.” She walked to the front door, turned, and gave Jean a hug good-bye. “I hope I didn’t say anything that upset you.”
    â€œI’m a little discouraged,” Jean said, “but not at you. Tom really is like his father in some ways. Well, like he used to be before your wedding.”
    Even as the words left her mouth, Jean wished that wasn’t the case. As she closed the door, a tear escaped and she whispered a prayer. What had happened to her marriage? Why couldn’t Tom be more like Allan, or even the way his father was now?

 12 
    W ould you look at that?” Jim said, his face all lit up. “Up on that hill, another castle.”
    Marilyn looked where Jim pointed with his eyes. It was splendid. Yet another medieval castle fortress on an Italian hillside, surrounded by a small village. They had seen several since their tour bus had left Rome an hour ago. This was day three of their journey. She was so excited; they were on their way to Florence now. Jim had insisted she sit by the large picture window, but so far he’d spent the entire time leaning across her lap, his head a few inches from hers.
    She didn’t mind, and she perfectly understood why. There was so much to see around every curve, beyond every hill. The photos in the travel magazines didn’t come close to capturing the visions outside her window. She’d already spied a dozen little places she wished the bus would stop so they could take some pictures.
    â€œI wonder if that’s one of those little towns Dr. Franklin was talking about,” Jim said. “You know, for our drive after the tour ends.” He sat back in his seat and looked at the map.
    Seeing him so animated about sightseeing, she found it hard to believe this was the same man who had brought businessbooks on their twenty-fifth anniversary cruise. “I don’t think we’ll go wrong no matter what little towns we visit,” she said. “They’re all so charming.”
    She looked across the aisle through the windows on the other side of the bus. More breathtaking scenery. A narrow winding road, lined with those tall skinny evergreen trees you see in every Italian painting, weaved its way through a smattering of hills, up to a gorgeous Italian villa. The morning mist hadn’t fully burned off. It lingered in small pockets here and there as if clinging to the vines, hovering just above a sprawling vineyard that ran along the north side of the property. The vines were so beautiful. Row after perfect row, continuing out toward the horizon.
    â€œLook at that,” Jim said, noticing the scene that caught her eye. “Did you ever think you’d see something like this?”
    She squeezed his hand. “No, not in person. Thank you for bringing us here.” He squeezed back, leaned forward, and kissed her softly. She followed the sight as it drifted from view. “What are those tall skinny trees called again?”
    â€œI think the tour guide said they were Italian cypress,” Jim said.
    â€œToo bad our yard is already landscaped. I’d love to plant some of those.”
    â€œI don’t know,” Jim said. “There’s that section in the backyard along the left side of the fence. We’ve got a bunch of little shrubs there. I don’t even know what they’re called. Wouldn’t take much to move them somewhere else and plant some Italian cypress trees in their place. If we spaced them right, we could get