Put a Ring On It (2 page)

For Kresley Cole, with love and proof of life

acknowledgments

Special thanks to Jill Edwards of the Estate Watch and Jewelry Company in Scottsdale, Arizona, for sharing her knowledge of fine jewelry with humor, charm, and style.

Hugs, kisses, and cases of the finest champagne to . . .

Danielle Perez, Amy Moore-Benson, Marty Etchart, Anna O'Brien, Jenn McKinlay, Chandra Years, Amy Serin, Tai Burkholder, and Joe and Bridget Lavin. You make my life sparkle.

“G
ive me the ring back.”

Brighton Smith choked on a sip of lukewarm coffee as she stepped out of her fiancé's blue sedan. She looked over her shoulder with a stunned smile. “What?”

“You heard me.” Colin clenched the steering wheel so tightly his knuckles went white. “I want the ring back.”

Brighton felt her smile fade as traffic whizzed by beneath the overcast morning sky. “You don't mean that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Colin, you . . .” Brighton trailed off as she considered how long it would take her to say everything she needed to say. How long it would take to listen to everything Colin needed to say. “Listen. Let's table this discussion for right now. I'm late for work, you're leaving for the entire weekend, and neither of us has eaten breakfast. We'll sit down and work this out after we've had some protein and some time to calm down, okay?”

“I'm tired of waiting.” His voice was tight with tension. “This is it, Brighton: now or never.”

She took a slow, deep breath as her mind raced. “This isn't fair and you know it.”

Colin held out his palm. “Give me the ring back.”

“No!” She covered her bejeweled ring finger with her other hand.

“Yes. I'll find someone else—someone who will appreciate it. Someone who will appreciate me.” He waved his palm at her. “Give it back. Now.”

So she did. She had to work to get the slim platinum band past her knuckle, but when she finally managed, she dropped it into his outstretched hand with regal, icy dignity. “Call me when you're ready to talk about this in a rational manner.”

“I'm done talking,” he said. “And I'm done waiting. I'm sick of all your rules and restrictions and terms and conditions.”

She snatched up her briefcase from the passenger seat and strode toward the office building, pausing to glance behind her. Colin's car was still idling by the curb. He was still watching her and clutching the diamond ring.

She should turn around and rush back to him, she knew. They shouldn't part like this when he was about to leave town. She always tried to fight fairly, to avoid drama, and to seek productive solutions. But Colin had just lashed out with no warning right in the middle of their morning commute. She felt bewildered and hurt . . . but also furious.

She had a meeting in ten minutes, and she knew that it took an average of seven and a half minutes to make it through the lobby, wait for the elevators, and arrive at her office on the fifth floor.

She straightened her shoulders and kept walking.

When she walked into the insurance firm's corporate headquarters six minutes later (the elevator doors had opened just as she
arrived in the lobby), her assistant glanced up from her computer with evident concern.

“Good morning.” Sherri put down her coffee mug and pushed back her chair. “Are you okay?”

“Absolutely.” Brighton shifted her briefcase from her right hand to her left, then reached up to touch her necklace, earrings, and shirt collar to ensure everything was in place. “Why?”

“Nothing.” Sherri kept staring. “You look pale.”

“Everything's fine,” Brighton said firmly.

“Uh-huh.” Sherri's gaze slid down to Brighton's suit jacket. “You've got a little stain there. Looks like coffee.”

Brighton frowned down at her black wool lapel. “Yeah, the ride to work was kind of, um, bumpy.”

Sherri got to her feet. “Let me get you a paper towel.”

“No need.” Brighton motioned for her to sit back down. “I keep a stain stick in my desk drawer.”

“I should have known.” Sherri smiled as she handed Brighton a pile of papers. “Here's the report you wanted me to print out.”

“Thanks.” Brighton prepared to head into the firm's weekly Friday morning meeting.

“You're welcome.” Sherri cleared her throat as she turned her attention back to her computer monitor. “And seriously, if you need to talk or anything . . .”

“Don't be silly.” Brighton squared her shoulders. “I don't need to talk; I just need to work. Everything's under control.”

“W
here's your ring?” Claudia Reilly nudged Brighton as they sat down next to each other at the huge oval conference table.

“Um . . .” For a brief moment, Brighton yearned to confide in Claudia, who was her closest friend at work. They'd started in the actuarial department on the same day three years ago, and they'd bonded over late-night analyses, networking happy hours, and night-before-deadline computer crashes. “It's at the jewelers. One of the prongs was loose, so they're fixing it and cleaning the stone.”

“Oh.” Claudia tapped her pen against her yellow legal pad. “I'm surprised you didn't just fix it yourself.” She turned to Francine, the claims processor on her left. “Brighton's a woman of many talents, you know. She makes jewelry when she's not working miracles with Excel worksheets.”

“Really?” Francine helped herself to a croissant from the platter of pastries in the middle of the table. “I had no idea.”

“Oh, I'm not really . . .” Brighton stared down at her paperwork as heat flooded her face. “It's a hobby. I dabble.”

“Stop being so modest. Check it out—she designed my wedding rings.” Claudia stretched out her arm so Francine could admire the diamond – and emerald-studded bands. “They get more gorgeous and sparkly every day.”

Francine leaned her chair back to address Brighton. “You made those?”

Brighton nodded, still studying the typeface on her financial report.

“
You
made those?”

Claudia laughed. “Try not to sound so shocked.”

“No, it's just . . .” Francine paused for another bite of croissant. “No offense, Brighton, but you never really struck me as the creative type.”

“I'm not,” Brighton said. “Claudia's husband told me exactly what he wanted. I just tried to capture his vision.”

“Did you design your own ring when you got engaged?” Francine pressed.

“No.” Brighton bowed her head so that her long dark hair hid her face.

“Why not?”

“My fiancé knows I have simple tastes. He picked out a lovely solitaire. It's classic. It's just what I wanted.” Brighton winced at the sharp edge in her voice.

Their boss entered the room, dimmed the lights, and launched into a PowerPoint presentation packed with graphs and statistics. Ordinarily, Brighton would have been scribbling notes, asking questions, trying to look at the data from as many perspectives as possible. But today she couldn't concentrate.

She couldn't even sit still. As the presentation dragged on and
on, she shifted in her seat, laced her fingers together, and tried to convince herself that everything was going to be fine. Lots of couples had tiffs before the wedding. Colin hadn't meant all those things he'd said about her. And even if he had, she didn't deserve it . . . did she?

The back of her neck felt like it was breaking out in hives.

As the speaker pulled up another red and blue bar graph, Brighton's cell phone vibrated in her blazer pocket. She shoved back her chair, raced out to the hallway, and prepared to make amends with her fiancé.

But Colin wasn't calling. She didn't recognize the number with the 302 area code.

“Hello?” she whispered as she turned toward a window overlooking the brick building next door.

“Brighton! Hey! I'm so glad you picked up!”

Brighton frowned, trying to place the soft, feminine voice on the other end of the line.

“It's Kira. Long time no talk, huh?”

“Kira!” Brighton's tension ebbed away as she thought of her old roommate. “It's great to hear from you. How's it going? I bet you're the best therapist in all of Florida.”

“Well, that's why I'm calling, actually. I'm not in Florida anymore. I'm back in your neck of the woods . . . kind of. I just moved to the Delaware beach. Tiny little town called Black Dog Bay.”

“What are you doing at the Delaware beach?”

“Long story, but I was unpacking this morning and I found all these old pictures of us on spring break junior year. That road trip to New Orleans.”

Brighton smiled at the memories. “Ah, our misspent youth.” The two of them had been inseparable in college, but after graduation, she'd accepted a job in New Jersey while Kira had gone off to
graduate school in Florida. She tried to remember the last time they'd talked face-to-face. “I'm glad to hear from you. Every time I get one of those alumni magazines, I want to call you, but . . .”

“We're all so busy these days. Believe me, I get it. But now that we're so close geographically, we have no excuse. I'd love to catch up with you sometime.”

“Definitely. But listen, can I call you back in a bit? I'm technically in the middle of a meeting right now—”

“Of course! Sorry to interrupt.”

“No, no, I'm really glad to hear from you. I miss you.”

“Come visit,” Kira offered. “I mean it. My spare bedroom is all yours, anytime.”

“That's very generous of you.” Brighton glanced at the conference room door. “I'll definitely take you up on that one of these days.”

“Great. So when are you coming?”

Brighton blinked. “You mean, like, what day?”

“Yeah. Check your calendar and tell me when you have a free weekend.”

“Absolutely. Will do. I'll be in touch.” Brighton clicked off the call and stared down at the phone screen, willing a text from Colin to appear.

Nothing. The feeling of hives on her neck spread down her shoulders and back. She couldn't bear another moment in this dry, muted, fluorescent-lit office. And the meeting wouldn't be over for hours. She took two steps toward the conference room but couldn't force herself to reach for the doorknob. The very thought of bar graphs and small talk made her physically ill. The sensation of hives gave way to cold sweat and nausea. There was only one thing to do, and she'd never done it before. Not at work, not in college, not even in high school. But the time had finally arrived.

Brighton forced out a raspy cough as she prepared to play hooky for the first time in her life. When the meeting adjourned for a five-minute break, she rejoined Claudia at the conference table.

“Where did you go?” Claudia demanded. “You missed a whole fifteen minutes on equity-based guaranteed policies. It was riveting, I tell you. You pay for the whole seat but you'll only need the edge.”

“I'm not feeling well.” Brighton covered her mouth with her elbow and faked a sniffle.

“Here.” Francine pulled a travel-size packet of tissues out of her red leather messenger bag. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” Brighton schooled her expression into what she hoped was a believable grimace of pain. “Just a sore throat. And I'm feeling a bit feverish.” She thought wan, pallid thoughts and hoped her complexion would follow suit. “I think I better go home. I don't want to get anyone else sick.”

Francine looked worried. “Maybe you should go see a doctor. There's an urgent care two blocks away.”

A pang of guilt shot through Brighton as she collected her pen and paperwork. “I'll be fine. I just need to lie down for a little while.”

Claudia pressed the back of her hand to Brighton's forehead.

Brighton flinched.

“You do feel pretty warm,” Claudia said.

“I'm not surprised.” Francine clicked her tongue. “With the hours you've been working, plus all the wedding planning, you need to slow down. Stress affects your immune system, you know.”

At the mention of wedding planning, Brighton started coughing again.

“Go home.” Francine backed away from the germ zone. “Take it easy and get better.”

“I have an amazing recipe for chicken soup,” Claudia said. “I'll e-mail it to you and Colin can make it for you tonight.”

“He can't. He's”—
not speaking to me at the moment
—“studying all weekend. Prepping for the bar exam.”

Claudia's eyebrows lifted almost imperceptibly. “Again?”

This time, Brighton didn't have to fake her distress. “Third time's a charm, right?” She desperately wanted to tell Claudia the truth, to ask for advice and reassurance, but telling the truth would make everything real. She'd have to admit her doubts and fears. She'd have to admit that her life plans were on the verge of falling apart.

So she stopped talking and made her exit in a dramatic display of hacking and wheezing that sent her colleagues scurrying for hand sanitizer. As she waited for the elevator, she glanced at her reflection in the polished brass doors: low-heeled patent pumps, subdued black blazer and skirt, modest cream silk blouse, and an akoya pearl necklace with matching earrings. She looked like the sensible businesswoman she was. Bland and boring and always predictable.

The elevator doors opened and she joined a trio of somber-faced executives hunched over their cell phones, tapping away at urgent e-mails.

And then she realized she couldn't drive herself home. Colin had taken her to work this morning. Right before he picked a fight and demanded the engagement ring back.

Outside, the heavy gray clouds threatened rain at any moment. Brighton stepped to the curb, lifted her ringless hand to hail a cab, and tried to decide what to do. She would go home, of course, but then what? Wait by the phone for Colin to come to his senses? Call him and beg forgiveness for whatever he thought she'd done wrong? Go to the appointments she'd made with caterers to taste cakes for the wedding Colin had just called off? She had the entire weekend stretching out ahead of her.

What the hell did normal people do with free time?

While she waited for a taxi, she pulled out her cell phone and called the only person she wanted to talk to right then.

“Hey, Kira, it's me. I just looked at my calendar, and let me ask you . . . How sincere were you when you said I could come down there anytime?”