Put a Ring On It (26 page)

Three months later

“D
id I pack the blue suede shoes?” Brighton huddled into her soft cashmere turtleneck and surveyed the pile of luggage on the tarmac. Sunlight dappled the pavement as a patch of clouds drifted by overhead.

“Yes.” Jake slid one arm around her waist and urged her up the steps and into the jet. “You packed the blue suede shoes. You packed everything.”

Rory bounded up behind them, trotted over to his favorite leather seat, and curled up for a nap.

“I feel like I forgot something.” Brighton pulled her packing list out of her pocket and scanned the text. “Let's see: I packed my gown, your suit, Rory's stuffed bunny . . .”

Jake took the list away. “If we forgot something, we'll buy it in Vegas, Type A.”

She bit her bottom lip. “I'm going to Type A you later.”

“I look forward to it.”

She buckled into the same seat she'd sat in on their first flight to Vegas, but something was off. She couldn't quite get comfortable.

Jake picked up on her distress and went into problem-solving mode. “What?”

She furrowed her brow. “We're doing this all wrong.”

He leaned forward. “Explain.”

“Well, we're all packed, we've reserved a penthouse suite, we booked a chapel . . .”

“Yeah?”

“But it's broad daylight. And also, we're sober.”

“Brighton. Do you really think I'd take you to Vegas with a case of champagne?” He looked wounded. “I came prepared, but it's a five-hour flight. Pace yourself.”

“Oh.” She sighed with relief. “That's better.”

He went to talk to the pilot and when he returned, she handed him the large beribboned box she'd carried on board with her. “Here, I bought you a wedding present. I was going to give it to you after the ceremony, but I can't wait.”

He accepted the box with a mix of gratitude and confusion. “You didn't have to get me anything.”

“Yes, I did.”

“I don't need anything.”

“Yes, you do. Open it.”

Jake untied the bow and peeled off the silver wrapping paper. He kept glancing up at her, searching for cues. Then he lifted the flaps of a brown cardboard carton to reveal . . . “It's a Windbreaker.”

“Lined, insulated, waterproof, and virtually windproof.” She pointed out the hidden zippers in the bright blue jacket's seams. “Look, you can put hand warmers in the pockets.”

“Thanks?” He sounded so bewildered, she had to laugh.

“Keep going,” she instructed.

He pulled out a pair of hiking boots, a heavy-duty flashlight, and a coffee table book on log cabin interiors.

“After Vegas, we're going to Montana,” she announced. “You'll finally get to see all that acreage you own. Fresh air. Babbling brooks. Park ranger role-play. It'll be hot.” She leafed through the pages of the log cabin book. “And you can start thinking about what kind of house you'd like to build. For
us
, not for resale value. I did a bit of research and found some names of architects who design lodges and cabins up there. We can meet with two or three of them while we're up there. Oh, and check this out.” She found the little canister at the very bottom of the box.

He read the label and started to laugh. “Bear repellant?”

“You laugh now, but you'll thank me when you're staring into the glistening maw of a grizzly on some backwoods trail.”

He turned the canister over to read the label. “They still have grizzlies in Montana?”

“Yep. According to my research, grizzlies are recolonizing some of the grassland up there. They also have black bears, mountain lions, bobcats, and lynx, although the thing you really have to watch out for is moose.”

He put the book and the canister aside. “According to your research.”

“You mock my research, but I'm going to build you your dream house and save you from a bloodthirsty moose.”

“I would never mock your research.”

“Then why are you looking at me that way?”

“I'm not looking at you. I'm kissing you.” And then he was.

Across the cabin, Rory sat up and whined, pressing his nose against the little round window.

Brighton got up to see what he was looking at. When she put her head next to his and glanced out the window, she saw a huge shaggy black dog standing on the edge of the tarmac.

“Is that . . .” She reached for her handbag, digging for her phone so she could take a photo.

But when she looked back, the black dog was gone. Rory wagged his tail and gave her a conspiratorial canine smile.

She rejoined her husband, who was poring over pictures of log cabins. “It's official—
now
you have everything you need. Including bear repellant.”

“Then, let's go. We'll beat the house at blackjack, honeymoon in Montana, and live happily ever after.”

“Happily ever after,” she agreed. “Against all odds.”

“A statistical anomaly?”

“Also known as true love.”

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. Brighton and Colin have a huge fight about a zipper merge that, you know, isn't really about a zipper merge. What small things do people do (or not do) that ultimately turn into deal breakers?

2. Does love at first sight exist? How long should people know each other before making a major commitment such as marriage?

3. Are there friendships in your life that you can pick up right where you left off after months or years apart? What makes those relationships so resilient?

4. It's karaoke night at the Whinery. What are you singing at the top of your lungs?

5. Brighton and Jake have very different perspectives on money, stability, and spending. Does the way we think about money say a lot about the way we view ourselves?

6. If you were Jake Sorensen–level rich, would you work? What would you do?

7. Do you have the equivalent of “twelve-dollar strawberries” in your own life? What items or events are worth splurging on?

8. Brighton tells Jake she loves him, then flees when she hears him coming back up the stairs. What do you think he would have said to her that night if she'd stayed?

9. Will Genevieve and Javier have a successful marriage? How would they define “successful”?

10. If you could design a piece of jewelry to mark a significant event in your life, what would it look like and what kinds of materials would you use?

11. If you were going to write a follow-up story about Kira, what would her story be?

brighton smith's official screw-up summer playlist

“Settlin'”—Sugarland

“Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)”—Beyoncé

“Waking Up in Vegas”—Katy Perry

“Can't Stop”—MoZella

“A Sky Full of Stars”—Coldplay

“You Go to My Head”—Ella Fitzgerald

“Can't Buy Me Love”—The Beatles

“Keep It to Yourself”—Kacey Musgraves

“Fool's Gold”—Fitz and the Tantrums

“Gravity”—Sara Bareilles

“(Sittin' On) The Dock of the Bay”—Otis Redding

“Bright”—Echosmith

“Blue Suede Shoes”—Elvis Presley

Don't miss Beth Kendrick's charming novel

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old
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Available from New American Library

T
he last thing Lila did on her way out of town was sell her wedding rings.

When she arrived at the pawnshop, she looked flawless—she'd made sure of that before she left her custom-built brick house for the last time. Her honey blond hair was freshly straightened, her nails impeccably manicured, her blush and mascara tastefully applied. Her blouse matched her skirt, her shoes matched her handbag, and her bra matched her panties because, as her mother had always reminded her, if a terrible accident should ever befall her in a grocery store parking lot, she would be on display to a whole team of paramedics and hospital workers.

But as she pulled her diamond rings out of her purse, all Lila could think about were the things that didn't look right. The dark roots that were starting to show where her hair parted. The visible tension in her face from months of clenching her jaw at night. The pale stripe on her finger where her rings had been. And even worse
than the flaws she couldn't hide were the ones she could. Out in the parking lot, her white luxury SUV awaited. Spotless and brand-new and jam-packed with the last remnants of her life she'd managed to salvage from the divorce.

For a solid two minutes, Lila kept her hands in the pockets of her stylish rose pink trench coat and listened to soft jazz on the sound system while the store employee scrutinized every facet of the diamonds. Beneath the glass display case, rows of rings sparkled in the light, each one representing a promise exchanged by two people coming together in trust and faith and hope. Lila tried to imagine the men who had proposed with these rings: rich and poor, old and young, each of them in love with a woman they believed to be as unique and dazzling as these jewels.

And they had all ended up here: the relationship boneyard. An “estate jewelry” storefront sandwiched between a dry cleaner and a pet groomer in a suburban strip mall.

The clerk finally looked up, clicking her tongue. “The setting's very dated, but the stone itself is decent.”

Lila blinked. “Dated? Decent? That ring was on the back cover of
Elle
magazine the month I got engaged.”

“And how long ago was that?”

“Well. Seven years.” Lila squinted to read the employee's name tag and tried a different approach. “Norma. I appreciate that you have a business to run and a family to support, but look at the cut and color of this diamond! The stone was imported from Antwerp, the setting is really quite classic—”

“If I've learned one thing in this business, it's that everything goes out of style eventually.” The saleswoman lowered her loupe and tilted her head, her gaze shrewd. “The whole ‘timeless classic' line? It's a marketing myth.”

“But the cut.” Lila cleared her throat. “It's exquisite.”

Norma lifted one corner of her mouth. “Do you happen to have the GIA certification papers?”

“Not anymore.” Lila knew she was being assessed for weakness. How desperate was she for cash? How much did she value this touchstone of her past?

What was the bare minimum she would accept?

She should lift her chin and meet the other woman's gaze, but she couldn't. She'd been completely depleted—of confidence, of certainty, of the will to stand up for herself.

“We can sell the diamond, but the setting will have to be melted down and refashioned.” Norma put on her glasses, picked up her pen, and wrote a few numbers down on the pad in front of her. “Here's what I can offer you.”

Lila glanced down at the figure and swallowed back a sigh.

“I know it's probably not what you were hoping for, but the fact is, diamonds just don't hold their value.” Norma's tone was both apologetic and insincere.

“But that's less than a third of what my husband paid for it.” Lila hated how tentative and soft she sounded. Then she corrected herself. “My
ex
-husband, I mean.” She flattened her palm on the cool glass case and tried to rally as she stared at the number written on the pad.

You can do this.

She knew better than to accept an opening offer. She needed to negotiate.

You have to do this.

But she glanced up at the jeweler through lowered eyelashes, her eyes watering and her lip trembling. All the fight had been drained out of her. The spark inside had flickered out.

“I . . .” Lila trailed off, cleared her throat, forced herself to start again. “I'll take it.” The amount wasn't enough to save her, but she
needed every bit of cash she could get right now. So she let go of all her old hopes and dreams and prepared to take the money.

Norma half smiled, half sneered. “Let me write you a check.”

An electronic chime sounded as the shop's door opened; then a shrill feminine voice rang out. “Holy crap! You're Lila McCune. I love you! I'm your biggest fan. Marilyn Waters.” A short, windblown woman in a green turtleneck shook Lila's hand, squeezing tightly. “I can't believe this! Do you live around here?”

“Until recently.”
Like this morning.

Marilyn turned to the jeweler and demanded, “Did you know she's a celebrity?”

Norma's sneer got a little sneerier. “No.”

Lila bowed her head. “Oh, I'm not really—”

“She was the late-night host of my favorite shopping channel for three years.” Marilyn turned back to Lila. “You probably don't recognize my voice, but we've spoken on the air. I called in a few times, and you were so nice. You made me feel good about myself when I was fat and hormonal and losing my damn mind.”

Lila was beaming as she struggled to reclaim her hand. “It's a pleasure to meet you in person—I love connecting with callers. What were some of your favorite items?”

“Oh, Lord, I bought so many things. When I was up with my first baby, I watched you every single night. I was exhausted and healing from a third-degree tear, but your show was really soothing. This woman can sell anything to anyone,” Marilyn informed the jeweler. “Crystal Christmas tree ornaments and fancy French sauté pans and this amazing cream that gets rid of the calluses on your heels. Works like magic. Would it be okay if I take a quick picture with you?”

“Of course.” Lila summoned her cheeriest, camera-ready smile.

“One more, just in case.” Marilyn clicked her camera phone
three times in rapid succession. “I can't wait to put this up on Instagram! My sisters are going to be so jealous.”

While Marilyn fiddled with her phone, Lila sidled over to Norma and murmured, “Make the check out to Lila Alders, please. A-L-D-E-R-S.”

Norma raised one finely penciled brow. “I thought you were Lila McCune?”

“I was. Now I'm back to my maiden name.”

Marilyn clicked off social media and rejoined the conversation. “So, what happened, Lila? You're not on the air anymore.”

“My contract was up, and, um, my agent and I decided it was time to transition.” Lila's jaw ached. “I'm exploring some new opportunities.”

“Ooh! Like what?”

“Like . . .” Lila had never been so happy to hear her phone ring. “Would you please excuse me for a moment? I have to take this.” She pressed the phone to her ear and walked toward the front window. “Hi, Mom.”

“Where are you right now?” her mother demanded.

“I'm at the engagement ring boneyard.”

“The where?”

“I'm selling my rings.”

Her mother made a little sound of disappointment. “So you won't be here for dinner?”

“No. Sorry I'm running late; it took me forever to pack up the car and then I had to drop by my attorney's office to pay off my balance.”

“Well, now you can put it all behind you.” There was a pause on her mother's end of the line. “Did you get a good price for the rings, at least?”

“No.” Lila forced herself to relax as her temple started throbbing.

“How much?” Her mother's voice stayed light and airy, but Lila detected an urgent undertone. “Approximately?”

“Why do you ask?”

“Oh, no reason.” Another pause. “We'll talk about it when you get here.”

“Talk about what?”

“Nothing. Drive safe, sweet pea. I can't wait to see you.” Her mother hung up before Lila could say anything else.

When Lila returned to the glass counter, Marilyn was frowning and nibbling her lower lip while Norma examined a hair comb fashioned of tarnished metal.

Lila stepped closer to Marilyn and asked, “What's that?”

“It's a hair comb,” Norma said flatly.

“It belonged to my great-aunt,” Marilyn confided. “And her mother before her. It's not really my style, but I thought maybe we could find a buyer who would really appreciate it. Stuff like this should be worn, you know? Doesn't do me any good collecting dust in a drawer.”

“It's beautiful.” Lila peered over Norma's shoulder. The comb was shaped like a flower atop two thin prongs. “What's it made of?”

“Steel. Dates back to the early eighteen hundreds.” Norma sounded disapproving. “Not interested.”

Marilyn's whole body folded in a bit. “But it's vintage.”

Norma remained impassive. “Worth a hundred bucks, max. Try listing it on eBay.”

Marilyn took back her family heirloom with evident shame.

“Well,
I
love it.” Lila straightened her shoulders. She ran her fingers along the faceted edges of the flower's petals. The steel had been cut like a gemstone, designed to look dainty despite its strength.

“You do?” Marilyn's voice was barely a whisper.

“Absolutely. Tell you what—I'll give you two hundred dollars for it.” Lila opened her wallet, realized her current net worth stood at thirty-seven dollars and three maxed-out credit cards, and closed her wallet. “Let me go cash this check really quick.”

The sparkle returned to Marilyn's eyes. “Keep your money. Just give me your autograph and we'll call it even. It will be such a thrill to know that somewhere out there,
Lila McCune
is walking around wearing my great-aunt's comb.”

“Oh, I couldn't—”

“I insist.” Marilyn gave a little hop of glee.

Lila accepted the metal comb and slid the prongs into her hair. “Thank you, Marilyn. I'll make sure it always has a good home.”

“I want it to be with someone who loves it.” Marilyn shot a hostile look at Norma. “Someone who understands that everything doesn't have to be made out of platinum to be worth anything.”

For the second time in ten minutes, Lila's eyes welled with tears. She hugged Marilyn, said thank you a dozen more times, and hurried back out to the parking lot before she lost her composure.

The woman on TV who kept you sane in the middle of the night isn't supposed to have a nervous breakdown in the middle of the afternoon.

The prongs of the metal comb were biting into her scalp, and she reached up and pulled it out of her hair, then unlocked her car with a click of her key fob.

“Oh, Lila, wait!” Marilyn's voice called. “If I could just trouble you for one more thing before you go.”

Lila startled. In her hasty attempt to shove the comb back into her hair, her thumb hit the button to open the SUV's back gate.

A jumble of linens, clothes, shoes, books, file boxes, and a lamp tumbled out onto the asphalt.

Marilyn stopped midstride and looked down at the mess, then back up at Lila with an expression that was equal parts shock and pity.

“I'm transitioning,” Lila explained in her perky, late-night shopper voice as she picked up a fragment of the shattered stained-glass lampshade. “I'm considering my options.”