Put a Ring On It (22 page)

B
righton worked for hours in the back room of the Naked Finger. The hot light and the dull ache in her shoulders as she hunched over the workbench served as welcome distractions. At closing time, she locked the doors and continued to polish a thin platinum band, taking the occasional break for junk food she'd bought in a fit of despair.

At eight o'clock, Jenna popped over from the Whinery to make sure she was okay.

At nine, Kira texted to check in.

At ten, Lila called to ask why on earth she was still at the store.

Brighton assured everyone she was fine and declined to leave the premises. She had made a commitment to deliver these rings before she left town. Besides, it wasn't like she could sleep right now anyway. She kept thinking of the mixture of hope and despair she'd seen in Genevieve's big blue eyes.

Brighton prayed that
she
wouldn't still be getting over him a decade and a half later.

At ten thirty, she heard the metallic scrape of a key in the lock. She stashed the ring in a drawer and glanced up, expecting to see Lila.

Jake walked in, rumpled and unshaven and clearly exhausted. Her body responded instantly. She tried to look blasé as she picked up her plastic spoon and took a leisurely bite of Chef Boyardee's finest.

“What are you doing?” he demanded.

“Is this a trick question?” Brighton glanced down at her tank top, navy skirt, and bare feet. “I'm working and having a midnight snack. What are
you
doing here?”

“Lila gave me the keys.”

“Of course she did. You're so charming and persuasive. But how'd you know I was here?”

He shifted his weight. “Genevieve mentioned you'd said you were going to work late.”

“Ah, yes. Genevieve.” Brighton pulled the ring back out of the drawer. “She and I had quite a conversation today.”

“She told me.”

Brighton studied the surface of the smooth platinum band for imperfections.

“Let's go back to the house.” He took a step toward the door, expecting her to follow him.

She stayed right where she was.

He exhaled as he turned around to face her. “You know you're more than welcome to stay there as long as you want.”

“I know. You made it very clear that you'd sign the deed to that house over to me right now if I asked.”

He nodded at her with evident relief. “You could stay here and work with Lila indefinitely. If you want, I'll—”

“For the last time, Jake, I don't want anything from you.” She peered through a magnifying lens at a tiny divot in the platinum. “I'm perfectly capable of providing for myself.”

“Eating SpaghettiOs out of a can?” He sounded angry, and she realized that this must be a sore spot. A throwback to the days when he was poor and struggling to be worthy of his bride.

Too bad.
“I'd rather eat SpaghettiOs out of a can for the rest of my life than spend one more day eating twelve-dollar strawberries with you.” She spooned up another bite of pasta with an air of defiance.

A scratch at the door and a plaintive canine whine interrupted his reply. “Hang on.” He opened the door so that Rory, who'd been waiting outside, could come in. The giant brown dog padded over to Brighton, greeted her with drool-drenched kisses, and sprawled out across her bare toes.

Brighton reached down to pat his side. “Who needs fuzzy slippers when I've got you around?”

Rory's tail thumped against the floor.

“Hey.” Jake frowned. “That's my dog.”

Brighton patted Rory again. “Actually, he's not your dog. He's
a
dog. You said so yourself, remember?”

For once, Jake Sorensen had nothing to say.

Brighton cupped a hand to her ear. “Yes?”

“Maybe he's not officially my dog, but he's not yours, either.”

“Jake, I'm not going to argue with you about dog ownership. I'm too busy eating empty calories and working on what is probably the best piece of jewelry I've ever made in my life. So if you're done—” She slipped on her safety goggles and flipped on her polishing machine. The humming noise drowned out further attempts at conversation.

He leaned over her shoulder until his cheek rested against hers. “Show me.”

She could feel, rather than hear, his voice. “No.”

He placed his fingers atop hers, his touch light but steady. “Brighton.”

“Ugh. Fine.” She switched off the polisher, put down Malcolm's wedding band, and handed over the wax model of Clea Cole's black diamond dog ring. “Behold, genius in the making.”

He studied her handiwork in silence.

“It's a poison ring,” she informed him. “See the lid right there? There'll be a tiny chamber under there that one could use to conceal poison that one might pour into one's ex's Gatorade. If one were so inclined.”

He peered at the intricate ridges and curves in the blue wax, the hollows that would be filled with precious metals. “It's beautiful.”

“Not really. It's just stone and metalwork.”

He kept studying the wax, and she knew that he could visualize the finished product based on the negative space. He could see what would be there based on what wasn't there.

“The divorcée who commissioned it ordered three. One for her, two more for her friends. Because, you know, lots of marriages end in divorce.” Brighton used the spoon to gesture between them. “We're not special. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a lot of work to do. With my trusty sidekick.” She leaned down to pet Rory again. “I'm not afraid to file some paperwork and make it official.”

“You're bluffing.” But he didn't sound certain.

“We'll see.” She prepared to resume polishing.

He rested his hand on her shoulder. “I don't want Genevieve. Not anymore.” He started stroking her back, his hand warm and comforting.

She hadn't realized how tense she was until she relaxed against him. “Then why is she still in town? If you don't want her, tell her to go.”

“It's not that simple.” His hand stilled on her back. “I can't just turn her away.”

“Why not?”

He sat down next to Rory and scratched the dog's ears. When he spoke, he sounded drained. Defeated. “I don't love her. But I did. I won't deny it.”

“She didn't love you,” Brighton pointed out. “Nothing you did was ever good enough for her—until she got divorced and lost her trust fund.”

He acknowledged this with a wry smile.

“She doesn't want you. She just wants to take the easy way out—again—by running back to you.”

“Yes.” He nodded.

“Doesn't that bother you? To know she just wants to use you?”

“Yes.”

“But . . . ?”

“She can't do it, Brighton. She can't earn her own money. She can't survive without a safety net.”

Brighton just looked at him.

“I know you don't understand.”

“You're right—I don't. Getting a job and shopping at Target is not some Greek tragedy. Everybody starts over sometime. Everybody has to struggle.”

“No. You do. I do. But Genevieve can't. She doesn't know how. I can't walk away from her when she's begging for help.”

“Because you still have feelings for her.”

“We have a history.”

Genevieve had said the same thing. She had a history with Jake and Brighton didn't. No matter how she felt or what she did, she couldn't alter that fact.

When Jake saw Brighton's expression, he added, “If you called me fifteen years from now, I would help you, too.”

“I would never do that,” Brighton said softly.

He regarded her with a mix of affection and respect. “I know you wouldn't.”

“So what are you going to do?”

“I don't know. I can't throw money at this problem. If I give her money, no matter how much, she'll run through it, and then she'll be back.”

“Well, then, I guess that's that. I can live without you and she can't.” For a moment, Brighton cursed her own strength, the stubborn practicality that wouldn't allow her to plead with him the way Genevieve would. She was too proud to compromise her principles, too independent to surrender her goals, and so she would lose out to a softer, suppliant woman. Again.

“I don't want Genevieve,” he murmured, so close she could feel his breath on her cheek. “I want you.”

She could feel her anger melting away. It would be so easy to turn around and indulge in one more night. One more that she would convince herself would be the last. Even as she reached back to cover his hand with hers, she said, “Then tell her to go.”

He stilled. “I can't.”

Brighton flinched at the raw regret in his voice, and she understood what he could not tell her: He had failed again. He knew that he had hurt her, but he could not heal her. Just as she could not heal him. “Then I don't have anything else to say.”

He left without another word. Rory remained at Brighton's feet, snoring softly. Brighton swiveled around in her chair and stared at the door, but all she could see was the glare of the fluorescent light reflected back in the gleaming plate glass.

Let him go
.
Work through it.
She tucked her hair behind her ear and went back to polishing the platinum band.

Five minutes later, her resolve crumbled. She snatched up her
phone and dialed. “Hey, it's me. I changed my mind. Can I come over?”

“T
hanks so much for taking me in.” Brighton stood under the porch light along with her massive furry sidekick. “Sorry I woke you up.”

“No problem.” Kira, squinty eyed and wild haired in her pajamas, waved Brighton into her apartment. “You're always welcome. Who's your friend?”

“This is Rory. He's a sweetie but he does shed, so I understand if you don't want him in your house.” Brighton glanced back at her car, wondering where else she could take him at this hour of the night.

“Don't be silly. Bring him in.” Kira led the way to the small, cozy kitchen, where she prepared a glass of warm milk for Brighton and a bowl of water for Rory. “So, what's going on?”

“I need you to arm me with the verbal equivalent of a nuclear bomb.”

“Yeah, I try to use my powers for good.” After she handed out
beverages, Kira directed Brighton and Rory to an oversize sofa, then handed out blankets and pillows.

Brighton kicked off her shoes and curled up on the couch. “I'm trying to quit Jake, but willpower alone doesn't seem to be working. At all. Logic's not working, drinking's not working, and work's not working.”

Kira wrapped a soft blue afghan around her shoulders. “Work's not working?”

“No. And work
always
works for me. This is officially a crisis.”

Kira stifled a yawn. “I hate to sound simplistic—”

“Go ahead,” Brighton urged. “The simplest solutions are usually the best.”

“—but have you tried just
talking
to him?”

“Yes. It made things worse.”

“Oh.”

“There's something wrong with me, Kira. I'm too structured, too cautious. Men just keep walking away from me.”

“Be kind to yourself.” Kira reached over to pat Brighton's foot. “Whatever's going on with Jake has nothing to do with what happened with Colin.”

Colin.
Brighton was shocked to realize that she hadn't thought about her fiancé in days. Her mind and heart and body had been completely consumed with Jake. She'd been determined to forget all about her ex, and she'd succeeded.

And now she had all new problems.

“Here's my deal,” she announced. “I want to cut ties with Jake.
Scratch that—
want
has nothing to do with it. I
need
to cut ties with him.”

Kira's expression remained totally neutral. “Okay.”

“Take your therapist face somewhere else.” Brighton scowled. “Just be my friend.”

“I am your friend.”

“Then as my friend, you have to admit that I'm stuck in a hellish cycle of futility with this guy.”

Kira leaned over to grab a box of cookies from the coffee table. “You mean your husband?”

“Don't rub it in.” Brighton accepted a gingersnap from her friend. “The man is so emotionally unavailable—”

“Are
you
emotionally available?”

“That's not relevant; we're talking about him. He uses sex as a smokescreen, he uses money as a placeholder for love, he's still hung up on some chick from fifteen years ago . . . and I stand for it. I not only stand for it—I keep going back for more!”

Kira nodded. “I heard about the attorney's office.”

“You and everyone else. It would be easier, actually, if he hated me, but he doesn't. He likes me and he wants to spend time with me, but only when it's convenient for him. If some gorgeous ex-wife shows up at the door, party's over. Until he wants to hang out again. And then we have sex and he decamps for the guesthouse. Rinse and repeat until I've lost all sanity and self-respect.”

“Is he still really into his ex from fifteen years ago?”

“He says he isn't, but
something'
s going on.” She tried to explain about Genevieve. “He refuses to let her tough it out in the cold, cruel world on her own. And she still has his grandmother's ring after all these years, even though she was too embarrassed to ever actually wear it because it wasn't five flawless carats from Tiffany. How could he fall in love with someone like that?” Brighton looked
at Kira. “Here's the part where you say something deep and meaningful.”

Kira patted the patch of sofa next to her and Rory climbed up. “The person we choose as a partner says a lot about how we feel about ourselves.”

“We both set ourselves up for failure,” Brighton realized. “I'm always going to be too much for him, and he's never going to be enough for me.”

“Well then . . .”

“That's it!” Brighton snapped her fingers. “I know exactly what to do to make a clean break forever. You're a great therapist.”

“But I didn't even say anything,” Kira pointed out.

“If you're this good off duty, I can only imagine how awesome you must be in your office.”

Kira nibbled another gingersnap. “Glad I could help.”

“It's obvious,” Brighton mused. “I
am
emotionally unavailable, and that's just the way he likes it. When I push him away, he pulls me back in. But I know how to end this once and for all.”

“You do?” Kira asked in a tone that conveyed she was kind of afraid to ask.

Brighton raised her glass in triumph. “How do you solve a problem like Jake Sorensen? Three little words for the win.”

•   •   •

The next morning, Brighton and Kira slept in, took Rory for a romp in the park, and then strolled down to Main Street for brunch at the Jilted Café. The clear skies and calm water imbued Brighton with renewed optimism.

They had to wait five minutes for a table, during which at least a dozen locals approached and said hello to Kira. Many of these strangers politely introduced themselves to Brighton, but they all had a knowing look in their eyes.

As the hostess led them to a table by the front window, Brighton said, “Every single person in here knows about what happened at the attorney's office yesterday, don't they?”

“Yep.” Kira settled into the booth and picked up her menu. “But don't worry—there'll be a fresh new scandal to take the heat off you soon enough. Give it a day or two.”

“Doesn't matter.” Brighton scanned the breakfast offerings. “I'm leaving tomorrow.”

“I feel like I've heard that before,” Kira teased.

Before Brighton could insist that she really meant it this time, Jenna slid onto the booth with them. “Sorry to interrupt, but I have a question. You deal with lots of engagement rings, right?”

“Yes,” Brighton confirmed.

Jenna turned to Kira. “And you deal with lots of relationship problems, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then let me ask you guys a hypothetical question.”

“Oh boy,” Brighton and Kira chorused.

“Let's just say that—hypothetically—you had a customer come in and ask for advice about surprising her boyfriend for a special occasion. But then, a few days later, you overhear the boyfriend talking to one of his buddies about trying to surprise his girlfriend in a similar fashion.”

“I'd say that these people are mind-melded freaks of nature,” Kira replied.

Brighton gave her a look. “That's helpful.”

Kira laughed and reached for her coffee cup. “I can't say more than that without knowing more details.”

“I can.” Brighton grabbed her purse and nodded at Jenna. “Shall we adjourn to the ladies' room?”

After triple-checking that the restroom stalls were eavesdropper-
free, Brighton leaned back against the sink and asked, “Are you by any chance referring to a couple whose initials are L and M?”

Jenna's eyes widened. “Yes. How did you know?”

“Because I'm designing the rings that they're hell-bent on keeping secret from each other.”

“Oh, thank God we can talk about this. It's killing me. The pressure! The suspense!” Jenna slumped back against the white tile wall. “Those two have to do everything the hard way.”

“It's a quick-draw proposal,” Brighton said.

“Well, what should we do? Should we tell one of them to back off?”

Brighton crossed her arms, deliberating. “Which one? And what would our line of reasoning be?” They pondered this for a moment; then Brighton concluded, “We're better off not trying to interfere.”

“You're just going to hand over the rings to whoever asks about them first and let the chips fall where they may?”

“That doesn't seem fair, either.” More pondering and listening to the faucet drip. “Okay, what about this?” Brighton said. “I'll get the rings ready. You rustle up a bottle of the finest champagne this side of Paris.”

“And then?”

“We give them a time and place and let them shoot it out. Battle of the bling. Winner take all.”

•   •   •

“Great news.” Brighton announced when she joined Lila at the Naked Finger that afternoon. “I finished all the drawings for the poison ring and the bench jeweler said it should be done in a few days. We'll FedEx it to Clea the second the platinum cools.” She smiled slyly and reached into her bag. “And more importantly, the ring for Malcolm is done.”

“Ooh, gimme!” Lila snatched the box out of Brighton's hand and pried open the lid to examine the strong, simple platinum band. “It's just what I was hoping for. Understated and perfect proportions.” She checked the inside of the band for the engraving. “Brighton, this is why you can never leave.”

“We're not having that conversation again,” Brighton said. “Let's talk about something more uplifting. Namely, the details of your big proposal. How are you going to ask him?”

“You know, I've been thinking about that.” Lila nibbled her lower lip. “I kind of wanted to go back to where we had our first date, out by the cliff where we used to have bonfires in high school. The problem is it doesn't exist anymore. A bunch of developers got together, bulldozed it, and threw up a bunch of mansions for rich people.”

Brighton made a face. “Boo.”

“Yeah.” Lila raised one eyebrow. “And guess who lives in the house right where the bonfire pit used to be?”

Brighton took a seat and hooked one arm over the back of the chair. “Could it be . . . the man who ruins everything?”

“Why, yes, it could. Don't Be Koi is sitting smack-dab on the site of our first date.”

“Eight thousand square feet of wasted resources,” Brighton said. “Do you know he hardly spends any time in that house?”

“Really?”

“Yeah. It's criminal. Have you seen the inside?”

“I waited in the foyer once while Malcolm had to drop something off,” Lila said. “It was very
Architectural Digest
.”

“The whole house is like that.” Brighton got agitated just thinking about it. “Italian linens and custom upholstery and artwork from the trendiest galleries in SoHo.”

“Refresh my memory: You're moving out
why
?”

Brighton ignored this. “And he doesn't even appreciate it. He
sleeps, works, and hangs out in the guesthouse—which is smaller than the closet in the master suite, by the way—with his dog.”

“Jake doesn't have a dog.”

“Oh yes, he does. It's some kind of mastiff mix. His name is Rory.”

Lila looked supremely skeptical. “
I've
never seen him with a dog.”

“Yes, well, that's why his dog is slowly becoming my dog.” Brighton smiled as she thought about Rory, who was deeply attached to the fleecy square dog bed she'd bought to save Kira's couch from his nonstop drooling. “
I'm
not afraid of commitment.”

“Ooh, a canine love triangle,” Lila said. “Good luck with that.”

“If you're done mocking me, can we get back to your proposal now?”

“I guess. So the first-date site is out because I don't want to propose to Malcolm in Jake's living room.”

“I'm sure Jake would be happy to let you do that. It's not like he's using it.”

Lila leaned back against the watch display case. “I'm not asking him to marry me in his boss's living room.”

“When you put it that way . . . ,” Brighton conceded.

“I want to keep it simple and romantic.”

Brighton pretended to rack her brain for ideas. “Maybe you could meet him at the Whinery, have Jenna bring you guys a really nice bottle of champagne, and pop the question. Done.”

Lila considered this. “We have had some good times at the
Whinery. The night I first got back into town, he got sweat on my sweater.”

“Sounds hot.”

“You know, it kinda was.” Lila fanned her face.

“Talk to Jenna about reserving the place tonight for an hour or two. I'm sure she'd be happy to oblige.”

Lila's eyebrows shot up. “Tonight?”

“No time like the present.”

“Yeah, but . . .” Lila tilted her head to one side, then the other. “You don't think a proposal at a restaurant with champagne is cheesy? Clichéd?”