by B. E. Baker
I walk over to see what he's suggesting. Mary does seem to love her ring, so maybe Luke's got a good feel for this stuff. He's pointing at a huge, round diamond on a platinum band. It's nice, but kind of boring. Trudy isn't boring. She's zesty and unique.
The jeweler has been standing quietly and letting us confer, but when I wave at him, he zips over. “Yes sir. How can I help?”
“I want something classic, beautiful, but also different. Personal. Maybe a pear shaped diamond, the biggest you have, with sky blue accent stones. Or something a little different, but in a classic setting. I just don't want to cross over into cheesy, or gimmicky.”
The jeweler smiles. “What's your price range?”
I shrug. “More than rock star, less than Arabian prince.”
He beams. “Come to the back with me.”
Luke nods and shoots me two thumbs up.
“If I'm not back out here in fifteen minutes,” I joke, “call the cops.”
“Oh, if you aren't back out,” the jeweler says, “I'll already have called them.”
Luke laughs, and I hear Amy squawking about our joke as I follow the short man with dark glasses into the back.
“I travel to Belgium twice a year,” he says. “I just came back last week. While I was there, I saw a diamond so beautiful, it took my breath away. I had no idea if I'd ever be able to sell it. I don't have much in the way of rock star clientele.” He stops and turns around.
I nearly barrel into him. “Okay.”
“It's bigger than I usually buy or sell, and it's unique. It's one of a kind. It's a fancy green-blue diamond. Some might call it a sky blue, or azure diamond.”
He spins back around and clicks a light on. Then he removes a stone from a case and sets it on a pillow. “This is a five point six carat green-blue heart. Boron and nitrogen got together to make it this stunning color.”
I step toward the case and I know, just like I knew that day at the park. Just like I know every time I see Trudy and don't want her to leave. She's a unique mix of all the elements I need to bring me joy, to make me whole.
“I want it as a solitaire. How soon can you have it ready?”
The jeweler names a time and a price. I always negotiate, because haggling is an art form I’ve mastered. But not for this. I simply nod. Trudy's worth any price, and this is perfect for her.
Luke and Amy insist on seeing the diamond. Amy grumbles as she follows us out the door. “I still think she'd have liked that other one better. It looked way less expensive, too.”
I chuckle. I may not know much about women yet, but I feel good about taking my own path this time. The jeweler has the ring ready exactly as promised. I pick it up and drive back home in time to meet the caterers.
Geo's there, fine tuning last minute details. “Are you sure you want this many people here?” she asks.
“If I'm wrong about this, she's going to turn me down, and it's going to suck that so many people will see it.”
“That’s kind of my point,” Geo says.
“But I don't think I’m wrong.”
Geo clucks. “I admire your guts.”
She doesn't say she hopes I'm right. She doesn't have to.
I make plans to take Trudy out to dinner that night while Paisley watches Troy. Except we're almost to the restaurant when. . . “Aww crap,” I say. “I forgot my wallet.”
Trudy pats my arm. “I'll pay.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “You aren't paying for your birthday dinner. I'll call them and ask them to bump the reservation.”
“I'm pretty hungry,” she says. “You can pay me back.”
I knew she'd say that. She's always difficult. “Fine. You brought your wallet?”
She looks down at her tiny purse, the one she always uses when she's wearing her silver heels. She swears, which is ridiculously cute. It's like watching a unicorn fart.
“I'll call the restaurant.” Except I call Luke instead. “Yes, this is Paul Manning. I'm hoping you can bump my dinner reservation.” I pause. “Uh-huh. Well, we hit a little snag, but we're still coming.” Pause. “Right. Sure, forty-five minutes should be fine.”
We drive toward my house in silence.
A few blocks from my house, Trudy says, “You make my life better, Paul. I'm glad we met. I'm really glad you didn't give up.”
I pull up in the circular driveway and turn to face her. “You make my life better too. And I couldn't have given up, not from the moment you bent over my desk and found that key logger.”
She rolls her eyes. “I mean it. I love you, and I don't say that lightly. You're part of my life, like Mary and Luke. Like Paisley. Like Troy.”
The ring is burning a hole in my pocket, but I stick to the plan. “We're here. I should go get my wallet.”
“Okay,” she says.
I get out and head inside the house. I wonder how long she'll give me before she comes inside. Everyone is here, and they're restless. Paisley and Addy and several of her new friends from work. Pam and her son Benson. Amy and Chase, Luke and Mary. And Nancy Jones brought her two kids as well. Geo and Trig came too, and I realize they're holding tiny cymbals.
“I got something noisy for everyone,” Trig says, gesturing around.
He's always been super weird.
“I have a blower thing,” Troy says. “See?” He blows on his kazoo and I cover my ears.
“Shhh,” I remind him. “Not until she comes inside.”
“When is that going to be?” Mary asks.
I text Trudy. WINNIE MADE A MESS. GONNA BE A MINUTE. WANT TO WAIT INSIDE?
The front door opens twenty seconds later, and everyone cheers.
Trudy's jaw drops, and she searches the faces for mine. When she finds it, she tilts her head and I know she's happy. She crosses the room until she's standing in front of me.
“No dinner, then?” She puts one hand on her hip. “Because I wasn’t kidding about being starving.”
I kiss her then and everyone cheers. “I know you get crabby when you’re hungry, so there's definitely food. But first I need to ask you something.”
I drop down on one knee and pull the ring box out of my pants pocket. I hold it up but don't open it. Not yet.
Winnie rushes over to try and lick my face and Trudy laughs at me. I shove Winnie away. “Not now, dog.”
I wave around the room with my free hand. “When we met, you thought your value came from your job, or your education, your appearance, or even your net worth. But I figured it out pretty quickly. Your worth is in the love and support you give to everyone around you. Your friends, your sister, your co-workers, and your son can all attest to the same thing. You’re a giver, and you’re not ever stingy with your love or your service. You are the best sister, friend, and mother I've ever met.”
Trudy tries to pull me to my feet, but I shake my head.
“I'm not quite done. You have a degree now, and your debts are repaid. You've got a fancy job, and your son has health insurance. But none of those things matter to me. I know people usually do this in private, but I wanted to recognize the most central part of who you are and involve your family in this moment. Gertrude Madeline Wiggin Jenkins, you dazzle me. You astound me. You complete me.” I open the ring box. “Will you marry me, too?”
Trudy claps her hand over her mouth and starts to cry, which is how I know her answer is yes. I stand up and swing her in a circle. Then I slide the ring on her finger.
“Oh good,” Mary says. “She’s crying. That’s a yes.”
Geo waves her arms and a half dozen different people walk in with vases full of brightly colored daisies and set them all over the room. On the counters. On the floors. On shelves and niches. Trudy looks around at all the Gerbera daisies and cries even harder.
When she can finally talk again, she whispers in my ear. “I'm so glad you were willing to wait for spring.” Then she kisses me and time stands still. Spring, summer, fall, winter. They all flash before my eyes. We’re going to be together for
all of them.
Like always, Troy taps my hip. “Now can you be my dad?”
Trudy beams at me. “Yes sweetheart, now he can.”
I pick Troy up. When Trudy and I hug him between us, my world finally feels entirely complete.
* * *
*THE END*
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If you enjoyed the third book in The Finding Home Series and want more, don’t worry! The fourth book, Finding Liberty (Brekka and Rob’s story) is out now! Read on to check out a sample chapter.
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And if you’d like to join a fun group of readers (and me!) on a facebook group, check us out right here: https://www.facebook.com/groups/750807222376182 Bonus: I’ve decided to write some short stories, one for each series, that will be made available FREE, exclusively in my reader group. So if you want an extra peek at your favorite characters, come grab them there.
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Bonus Chapter: Finding Liberty
Every single one of my friends in high school hated something about their bodies. Matilda hated her abs. Sydney couldn’t even look at her thighs. Abby wore long sleeves year round to hide these tiny little white bumps she always picked at on her arms. Angie complained daily about the girth of her calves.
Not me.
I loved every last thing about my body. My long, lean legs shifted infinitesimally in whichever way I needed, effortlessly holding up the weight of my torso as I carved the snow, one beautiful slope at a time. My hands gripped the poles perfectly, not that I needed them often. My abs and core muscles held everything else together on the slopes and looked pretty great in a bikini in the summer, too. My lungs never failed me, no matter how high the altitude or how frosty the air. My sharp eyes spotted every indentation in the snow, every stick and branch, every patch of ice.
Unlike all my friends, I was one with my body from birth, and it performed like my dad’s Shelby Cobra 427. Perfectly, with precision, and without complaint.
Until it didn’t.
I stare at the useless lumps the doctor persists in calling my legs. There should be a different name for legs when they betray you. You should get a new name for every body part that quits working, for everything that malfunctions and fails you when you need it. When a stallion’s man parts are snipped off, they call him a gelding. My legs should be called flegs. Failed legs.
The doc picks up my chart, her eyes squinting to make out the tiny print. I know exactly what it says. Incomplete T10 fracture. Stabilized. Partial function.
That’s the biggest joke of all. Partial function. It’s like saying a Shelby Cobra has partial function because the interior lights still turn on. The car won’t run. It can’t do anything that made it useful in any real way, but you could still sit inside of it and, I don’t know, read a book or drink a milkshake. It’s more like a sofa than a car, but somehow that would be partial function. Similarly, my thighs are more like pant holders than actual legs.
“Miss Thornton,” the beefy doctor says, her cheeks ruddy, “I’m not sure why you’re here.”
“You’re the one who sent me to try the aqua treadmill. You still claim I have partial function. I’ve been doing physical therapy twice a day, or sometimes three times—“
She frowns at me, her crows feet becoming even more pronounced. “You’re only supposed to do it once a day.”
“I’m an overachiever, so sue me.” I wheel toward her a few inches. “I haven’t had any improvement from anything. Not a single bit. I still can’t support myself with arm braces for more than a step or two. I’ve been flying out weekly for those treatments in Michigan you suggested. That underwater treadmill, the newest best hope. Still no improvement.”
Dr. Captain purses her lips. “Miss Thornton, I told you there were no guarantees. We never know how much progress a patient can make until you’ve tried as many things and pushed as hard as you can. The fact that you can ambulate from your chair to the toilet and into a shower chair using only hand rails, and without any other assistance is tremendous progress.”
“Yes.” Tears threaten and I focus on my anger instead. Better to rail at her than to break down and sob. “I should be giddy I can go pee without a chaperone.”
Dr. Captain drags a chair over next to me, sits and looks me in the eyes. “I understand you’re frustrated and disappointed, angry even. You aren’t going to want to hear this, but I don’t have anything else to offer you. The Hydroworx is what we use for professional athletes and celebrities. It’s the gold standard. You’re one of a handful of non-professional athletes who has even used one. I’m not trying to preach or anything, but you’re very lucky to have the means to try this sort of treatment. If it didn’t work. . .”
I can’t stop them this time. Tears stream down my face unchecked. As frustrated as I was that everything kept failing, knowing we’ve reached the end of the line, the last trick in her bag, well. That’s even more depressing. “You’re saying this is as good as it gets for me, and I should be grateful it’s this good.”
She nods.
I can’t bring myself to meet her eyes. I’ve been dealing with this for years, and even so, every time I try a new therapy, my hopes soar. Barometric chambers, neuro-stimulation, acupuncture, ChABC injections, and now underwater treadmills. I’ve tried every single non-surgical option available. There’s nothing left to try.
Which means it’s time to abandon all hope of ever being normal again.
“You have a good quality of life,” she says. “Full mobility in your upper limbs, partial mobility in your legs. Sensation through your pelvis. Intermittent sensation in your legs and feet. You have every reason to expect a long and healthy life, and these disabilities are workable.”
“Yeah, thanks.” I check out for the rest of the appointment, responding with nods and grunts. I won’t be scheduling another appointment here.
What’s the point?
When Dr. Captain’s nurse tries to push me out of the exam room, I snap at her. “If I wanted to move without making the conscious decision to move, I’d have bought a power chair.”
I wheel myself through the door. If there’s something my body can still do, I do it. I’ve grown enough muscle through my shoulders and back and enough calluses on my hands that I don’t even notice long treks. My older brother Trig kept trying to convince me to buy something with an electric option at least, but they’re so heavy and difficult to transport. Besides, I won’t rely on a machine to do anything I can still do myself.
A magazine catches my eye as I wheel past the waiting area. It’s not a new issue, but it’s one I haven’t seen before. Which means Trig worked overtime to make sure I didn’t. As my hand reaches for it, the air around me thickens into jelly. Time collapses to nothing and my fingers shake. I press past it all and force my hand to close around the glossy pages of the Outside Magazine.
Winter Olympic Issue.
My fingers trace the face of my former best friend where it smiles at me from the cover. It’s not Annelise Mayberry’s fault we aren’t close friends anymore.
The blame for our withered friendship falls squarely on me. Five years ago, we were both bound for the Olympics, the best two downhill skiers in America. Annelise trailed me by a hair on downhill, and by a wide margin on slalom. I was going to medal in both the downhill and the Super G at the Olympics. Everyone knew it. Even the Swedes cringed when they heard my name.
Until the accident.
Without me on the team, Annelise still snagged a bronze, and at the time she told every news network who would listen she wouldn’t have won it if she hadn’t trained with me. She was a loyal friend, but I di
dn’t care. I couldn’t talk to her, or even congratulate her. It only reminded me of what I lost.
I can’t stop my fingers from flipping to the spread on her from the most recent Olympics. Even though it’s been more than four years now, I couldn’t bring myself to watch any of it. Sometimes I pretend the Olympics died. No one cares about them anymore, and they disappeared. But of course, wishes aren’t horses, and other people can still ride.
Annelise’s huge, shiny teeth gleam at me from the centerfold. Her cheeks are rosy, her eyes sparkly, and my lungs almost fail me as I read the blurb. “Three time Olympic Gold Medalist Annelise Mayberry has it all: speed, accuracy, and control. That’s how she conquered the Combined, the Downhill and the Slalom in this year’s Olympics, the first sweep by any woman from the United States of America.”
My hand crumples the glossy pages involuntarily, and when I force my fingers to uncurl, it slides to the ground. I wheel out of the office without meeting anyone’s eyes and beeline toward my Range Rover without thinking. I open the door and then wheel back in close to the seat. I hit the position two button so the chair leans back, and then I lock the wheelchair in place. I shift my feet out of the footrests on my chair and toward the car, and then I lean forward, and using my arms, I boost myself out of my chair and into the driver’s seat. I reposition my legs. Then I pull my seat cushion off and tuck it behind the seat of the car. Next, I pop off the huge back wheels one by one and stow them, too. Finally, I lift the middle section, collapsing the body of the chair and swing it into the passenger seat.
I’ve done it so many times that I can switch into robot mode as I do it. Somehow the familiar routine calms me down a bit. I drive home a little too quickly, my heart still racing a bit, but I’m not stupid enough to pick up the phone when Trig calls, even if I’d like to hear his reassuring voice. I never use my cell when driving. Not to text, not to call, and certainly not to check any social media. Not since that day.
