Put a Ring On It (25 page)

A
fter she mailed the package the next day, Brighton took Rory to the dog park. Even though it was a bright Saturday morning with a crisp hint of autumn in the air, she planned to spend the afternoon in her home office putting the finishing touches on a presentation on insurance premium trends. She checked her e-mails on her phone while Rory galumphed around on the grass, drooling and trying to play with a boisterous little terrier.

“Okay, boy, let's go.” After Rory climbed into the car, Brighton buckled him into his canine safety harness. The massive dog submitted with world-weary patience while she snapped the straps into place. “I know you hate these, buddy, but rules are rules. Safety first.”

Her phone dinged and she glanced at the screen, expecting another e-mail about upcoming client meetings and conference calls. Instead, she saw a text from Lila:

Go look at the cover of the new issue of People magazine. CALL ME!!!

Brighton stopped at the nearest drugstore, hurried in . . . and almost fainted when she saw the cover. The headline read,
STARTING OVER WITH STYLE
, and the photo featured a gorgeous, glossy close-up of Clea Cole resting her chin on her hand . . . which was adorned with the diamond-encrusted poison ring.

So this is what it feels like to have a childhood dream come true.
She couldn't process all the emotions coursing through her, and there was only one person she wanted to talk to right now.

But she couldn't call him.

So instead, after buying a copy of the magazine, rushing back to the parking lot, and doing a wild, flailing car-dance while Rory whined with concern, she dialed Lila.

“Oh my God,” was how Lila answered the phone. “Did you see? Did you see?”

“I saw!” Brighton launched into another bout of car-dancing.

“Did you read the article?” Lila pressed.

“No.” Brighton opened the magazine with such enthusiasm, she tore the cover in half. “What's it say?”

“She talks about Black Dog Bay and why she decided to put the diamond dog on the ring. She mentions the Naked Finger by name!”

“Oh my . . . That is . . . I can't even . . .”

“I know!”
Lila was practically hyperventilating. “I'm already getting calls for new orders. Poison rings are going to be the new A-list breakup accessory.”

Brighton skimmed the article, her smile widening with every paragraph. “I'm so thrilled for you.”

“Be happy for yourself,” Lila said. “Like I said, the phone is ringing off the hook. I need you back here right now.”

“Oh, Lila.” Brighton was surprised at the depth of her regret. “I can't. I wish I could, but I can't.” Her throat tightened and she didn't trust herself to say more.

“Will you at least help me find a new designer?” Lila asked. “I need someone with an eye for quality and really high standards.”

“Of course.”

“Great!” Lila responded with such speed and enthusiasm, Brighton had to wonder if she'd just walked into some sort of trap. But Lila would never do that. Lila was too sweet for any kind of ambush or trickery . . . right?

“I'm going to make some calls and ask for recommendations,” Lila continued. “I should be able to set up a few interviews this week. Will you sit in on them and give your opinion?”

Brighton thought about how it would feel to drive back down to the shore. The white clapboard sign with the black Labrador welcoming her to Black Dog Bay. The shops on Main Street. The smell of the ocean.

That huge, empty mansion by the beach.

“I'm really busy at work,” she said.

“Don't give me that. You're coming,” Lila declared. “And after we take care of business, we're going to celebrate our soon-to-be fame and fortune at the Whinery, so wear something fun.”

Brighton looked down ruefully at her conservative outfit. “How about a button-down blouse and a knee-length skirt?”

“Let's not get crazy,” Lila teased. “I don't want to get arrested.”

Brighton smiled. “Hey, did you by any chance send me a clipping?”

“Like, a newspaper clipping?” Lila sounded genuinely bewildered. “No. Why?”

“Someone sent me an announcement from some fancy publication called the
Wilmington Social Record
.”

“Never heard of it, but it sounds like something one of the summer residents would read,” Lila suggested. “The only local who's into that kind of thing is Hattie Huntington.”

“Ah.”

“What did it say?”

Brighton recounted the epic love story of Genevieve and Javier.

“She'd rather marry a stranger than get a job?” Lila marveled. “That's dedication.”

“The woman knows what she wants and she's not afraid to go after it.” Brighton dabbed Rory's jowls with a tissue in an effort to salvage the leather seats. “There's something to be said for that.”

“So Friday, two p.m.” Lila sounded threatening.

“I have a meeting on Friday morning,” Brighton protested.

“Skip it. If you're not here, I'm sending my bounty hunter, aka Malcolm.”

Brighton hesitated. “Wait. Before you go, there's something I have to ask you. Is, um, is Jake still in town?”

“I'm not sure. I haven't seen him since you left. He stopped going to the Whinery altogether. Jenna is in mourning.”

Brighton said her good-byes, then started reading the magazine article again. Before she made it to the second page, her phone chimed again. This time the text was from her mother:

GREAT NEWS, sweetie! So proud. Call me.

Brighton dialed right away. As soon as she heard her mother's “Hello?” she launched into a breathless rush of words: “Did you read it, Mom?”

“Read what?” her mother asked.

Brighton deflated a bit. “The magazine article.”

“What magazine? What are you talking about?”

“I thought that . . .” Brighton frowned. “Isn't that the great news you just texted me about?”

“No.” Now it was her mother's turn to get excited. “The great news is, I got a new job.”

Again?
Brighton braced herself. “That is great. Where is it?”

“Right here in town. I'm the set designer for the college's production of
Pippen
.”

“Really?” Brighton decided this was not the time to point out that her mother had zero experience in theater.

“They heard about me from one of my old students.” Her mother sounded so thrilled. “They practically begged me to interview. See? See what happens when you follow your passion?”

Brighton tucked the magazine under her arm and watched the traffic zoom by. “I hope they're paying you what you're worth.”

“Oh, honey, money doesn't matter when you're an artist. Speaking of which, I just got a letter from the IRS and I can't make heads or tails of it.”

Brighton froze. “The IRS?”

“Something about my tax return from last year.” There was a rustling of papers on her mother's end of the line. “I know I have it here somewhere . . .”

“I'll wait,” Brighton said.

“Maybe it's in the other room. Anyway, can I send it to you? You always know just what to do with these things.”

Brighton closed her eyes and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Scan it and e-mail it to me right now. I'll take care of it.”

“You're such a good daughter. I never have to worry about you. Now, finish telling me about the article you were mentioned in. Did you get interviewed for one of those fancy business magazines?”

Brighton was still trying to recover from the mention of “IRS.” “Guess again.”

Her mother gasped. “The
Wall Street Journal
?”

“You're getting colder.”

“
Forbes
? The
New York Times
?”

“Freezing. Ice-cold.”

“Well, give a set designer a hint!”

“Stop at the grocery store, Mom. Pick up
People
, look at the ring on the cover, and prepare to be prouder of me than you've ever been.”

“Why? What did you do?”

Brighton patted the magazine just to make sure all of this was really happening. “Something wildly impractical.”

“Ooh, I
am
proud of you.”

Brighton laughed. “You don't even know what it is.”

“I trust you, honey. And it's time you learned to trust yourself. What's the point of being alive if you don't take a few risks now and
then?”

B
righton was stuck in traffic on the New Jersey Turnpike, patiently waiting for her turn in a zipper merge, when her office mate Claudia called.

She pressed the button on the steering wheel to activate the car's hands-free phone system. “Hello?”

“Where are you?” Claudia sounded a bit frantic.

“Um . . .”

“Home, right? Francine said you had the flu.”

Brighton knew that the sound of honking horns and construction vehicles must be audible on the other end of the connection. Not to mention Rory's heavy breathing from the backseat. “Why do you ask?”

“You picked the wrong day to call in sick, babe.”

“Why? What's going on? Was the meeting—
”

“Forget the meeting, Brighton.” Claudia lowered her voice. “The best-looking man in the world is at the reception desk, asking for you.”

Brighton inhaled sharply. “Did you happen to catch his name?”

“I believe it's Torrid McSwelterson.”

Brighton reached back and rested her hand on Rory's giant head. The feel of his warm, coarse fur helped to calm her. “Would you please ask him what he wants?”

“No,” Claudia whispered. “He's so attractive that I can't even talk to him. I have hottie-induced muteness.”

“Fight through it,” Brighton urged. “I need you to find out what he wants.”

“Is that her?” She heard Jake's voice on the other end of the line. Rory must have recognized it, too, because he lifted his head and stopped panting.

Claudia didn't speak, but she must have nodded, because Jake said, “Find out where she is.”

“I can hear him,” Brighton told her friend. “And I'm stuck in a traffic jam on the turnpike. I'm on my way to Delaware. The jewelry store.”

Claudia finally recovered her power of speech and relayed this information to Jake, who commanded, “Tell her I'll meet her there.”

Moments later, Claudia snapped back to her usual confident self. “Brighton.”

“I heard.”

“You met that guy in
Delaware
?”

“Yes.”

“Are they doing experiments with genetically engineered male models down there or what?”

“Stay with me, Claudia. What did he want? How did he seem?”

“He wants to talk to you. He seems very determined. And he had something in his hand.”

“What was it?”
Did it look like divorce papers?

“I don't know. I was too busy looking at his eyes and his mouth and his hair and his—”

Brighton gave up trying to get any answers out of her friend. She ended the call and surveyed the gridlock in front of her. The next exit was only a few yards ahead. She could get off the highway and turn back . . . or she could keep going and see Jake again.

Reaching for her turn signal, she felt the same rush of terror that she'd had when she'd heard his footsteps on the stairs that last night in his dark, empty mansion by the sea. But this time she refused to run away.

She put her left hand back on the steering wheel and made a decision to hope. To love without fear of getting hurt. To desire with her whole heart and believe that he could do the same.

The little red Prius next to her slowed to let her into the merging lane of cars. She turned the wheel and took her foot off the brake as the road ahead of her started to clear.

For better or worse, everything was about to change again.

•   •   •

Jake, leaning against the side of his gray pickup, was waiting for her when she arrived at the Naked Finger. He held an orange dog leash in one hand and a small black box in the other.

Brighton put the car in park and took a moment to collect herself before getting out. She wasn't ready for this, but she didn't need to be—it was already happening. Life and love were trickling in despite all her defenses.

She shielded her eyes from the midday sun with one hand as she opened the driver's-side door. “How did you get here before me?”

He straightened up and gave her that rakish smile. “I have my ways. You know this.”

“And why do you have a leash? You don't have a dog.”

“Yes, I do.” He jerked his chin toward the Subaru's backseat, where Rory was writhing with glee.

Brighton opened the hatchback, and Rory leaped out and barreled directly into Jake's knees.

“He's my dog,” she insisted, but her words lacked conviction.

“He's
my
dog.” Jake leaned down to pat Rory's side.

“You can get another dog,” Brighton tried. “You can buy any dog you want.”

“I want
this
dog. We've had some great times together.” Jake clipped the leash onto Rory's collar.

Brighton came closer to examine the orange nylon. “Is that a fancy handcrafted leash from Hermès?”

“Six bucks from Target.” When he straightened up, she noticed the glint of stainless steel on his wrist.

“I see you got the watch.”

“Yesterday.” He unbuckled the brown strap, motioned her closer, and flipped the watch over to examine the smooth metal on the back of the case. “You didn't engrave it.”

“Well,” she said, inching closer, trying to breath in his clean,
woodsy scent without being too obvious about it, “that's not really my place.”

“I want you to engrave it.” He pressed the watch into her palm. The metal was still warm from the heat of his body. “I want to start the heirloom thing with you.”

She closed her fingers around the steel and leather and held on tightly.

He lowered his head and murmured into her hair. “It's going to be part of our history.”

“Do you want me to cry?” She dabbed at her eyes.

“I don't want you to cry.” He pulled her into his arms. “I want you to marry me.” He opened her hand again and replaced the watch with the little black box. “Brighton Smith, will you do me the honor of not divorcing me?”

She opened the lid with trembling fingers to discover a small, round orange gemstone mounted on a dainty platinum band.

She glanced up at him. “Is that a Mexican fire opal?”

Jake nodded and slipped the ring onto her finger. It fit perfectly.

“I love it.” She stretched out her arm, admiring the jewel. Then she looked back at his face. “What changed?”

“You left.”

She ducked her head. “Yeah, about that—”

He slid his finger under her chin. “I didn't know what that meant. But then you sent the watch, and I had a realization: I love you. I need you. I can't live without you.”

She gave up trying to hold back her tears.

“I've been trying to plan all these grand gestures that don't involve money. That's harder than you might think.”

She looked at the six-dollar dog leash. “But you did it.”

“Are you saying yes?” he demanded.

It wasn't the kind of ring she expected. It wasn't the kind of proposal she would have planned. But it was perfect. “Yes.”

They kissed as passionately as they could, given that a pony-size dog was trying to worm his way in between them.

“But wait—there's more.” Jake took her hand and turned it so she could see the side of the ring.

Brighton looked closer and saw that the ring, while deceptively simple and tasteful from the top view, had a little symbol on the side gallery. Instead of plain metal prongs, there was intricately detailed scrollwork.

She started to laugh as she examined the tiny silhouetted outlines in orange and green pavé sapphires. “It's a bottle of Gatorade.” She stopped staring at her ring and went back to staring at him. “You put a ton of thought and effort into this.”

He leaned down to scratch Rory's ears. “Without love, it's just rock and metal.”

She couldn't stop admiring the ring. “I guess we should call the attorney and tell him we'll never be filing the separation papers.” She lowered her hand and smiled mischievously. “Although . . .”

Jake quirked an eyebrow. “I'm listening.”

“We could go back to Vegas.”

“Vow renewal?”

“Exactly. But this time, do it right.” She stood up, envisioning her ideal wedding. “No drunken shenanigans at the drive-through. We'll take our time and plan a real ceremony with a real dress and a real cake and a real commitment. Something
meaningful
.”

He nodded, his expression serious. “So . . . Elvis?”

She pointed two fingers at her eyes, then his, to indicate their psychic link. “Soul mates.”