Remembering her reason for our presence, the clerk sets out a tray containing the ones we found online along with a few more. “I grabbed the ones you asked for along with a couple of similar models to give you an idea of what else is out there.”
“Thanks.” I lean forward to inspect the rings more closely. Wade holds back. Though we didn’t have an official plan of attack when we came in, there seems to be an unspoken agreement between us. I’ll do the first level of vetting, then he’ll step in to make the final decision.
I point to the first one we selected. A princess cut on a thick platinum band. “This one is nice, but . . .”
“It needs a little something more?” the clerk finishes.
“Exactly.”
She lifts up one of the bonus rings and hands it over. “This one has that same cut, but a slightly thicker band and two smaller cut diamonds on either side,” she says.
“The trinity style?” Wade’s eyes narrow, and I risk almost laughing again. He’s come a long way in his ring-buying knowledge in our weeks of online shopping. “What do you think?”
I shake my head. “It’s nice, too, but it’s not quite Amelia.”
“I agree.”
Not fazed, the clerk hands us another ring. “This is a circle cut on a white gold and diamond band.”
I purse my lips. “This one is a definite maybe.”
“Yeah?” Wade asks.
“It’s classic and beautiful, but is also a little over-the-top.”
He lets out a light chuckle. “Just like Amelia.”
“Just like Amelia,” I agree.
“Would you like to try it on?” the clerk asks.
“Oh, no.” I shake my head. “It’s not mine to try.”
“But how are you going to judge unless you see it on a finger?”
Another sales clerk—the one who was helping the MacLaughlin siblings a few minutes ago—steps up to the counter. “A ring looks completely different on someone’s hand than it does in a display case.”
Wade bops his head. “She’s right. It would help to see what it looks like on a model.”
“But . . .” It seems so weird to try on a ring that might eventually end up being on Amelia’s hand for the rest of her life. Well, probably not this exact ring, but one that looks exactly like it.
“My hand is completely different than Amelia’s. Her fingers are thinner than mine.” I glance down at my hands.
Lumberjack hands, not delicate princess hands like Amelia’s.
“Please,” Wade asks, desperation in his eyes. “For Amelia?”
My resolve slips away. “Oh, all right.”
The clerk glides the ring onto my finger, and it fits surprisingly well, considering how clumsy my fingers usually seem to me. My breath catches as I stare down at the round diamond with more than a dozen smaller stones encircling the center diamond and the band. It’s classic, beautiful, eye-catching. I should be saying this out loud to Wade, but I can’t find my voice.
I’m vaguely aware of him asking the clerks about cuts, color, clarity, carats—the four Cs of diamonds. While she answers—circle, nearly colorless, practically flawless, one-carat center diamond with the extra diamonds adding an extra half-carat—I angle my hand. If anything, the ring is maybe more impressive from the side. The center diamond rises and flows out of the dainty band, like a fountain spouting sparkles and glitter.
It’s gorgeous, and it will look perfect on Amelia’s hand the moment Wade slips it on her finger. She’ll love it in that second and in fifty years when she’s telling their grandchildren how their grandfather asked her to marry him.
“This is the one,” I whisper, still awed by the way the diamonds catch the light.
Wade nods. “She’s right. We don’t need to see anything else.”
The clerks exchange a grin—probably already imagining how they’ll spend the commission on today’s sales. “I need to jot down some details about ring size and such so we can put in the order. This one fits you perfectly—”
“Amelia is a six-and-a-half,” I say, giving the ring a parting glance, before the clerk takes it back. “I did a little snooping.”
“Good.” The clerk scribbles down the size. “Some bands are easier to resize, but this one is more complicated, because of the smaller diamonds.”
“When will I be able to pick it up?” Wade asks.
While our clerk helps him finalize the details, including running his credit card, I busy myself by looking at more rings in the case. The other saleswoman follows my progress down the row.
“Are you in the market yourself?” she asks.
I shake my head. “Not right now.”
“But maybe someday?”
“Maybe someday,” I reply. There are so many to choose from. And even though they are different, after a while, they start to look the same.
A smile plays on my lips as I imagine Brook one day being in the same position as Wade. I wonder how he would approach the process of buying a ring. Would he worry like Wade, spending weeks searching before narrowing it down? Would he need an adviser to give input? Or would he go with instinct, the way he seems to with everything else?
I shake my head at the fanciful notion. Whenever it happens, however it happens, I’m sure it will be wonderful.
Then again, maybe we’ll end up throwing conventions aside, and I’ll be the one who proposes to him. You never know who’s going to surprise whom in our relationship.
I CHECK THE CLOCK IN the kitchen. It’s after seven. No surprise, Brook is late. He’s been tardy most of our relationship. Between parent/teacher meetings and off-season football work, he has a lot going on. Now with his promotion, he has even more. He still has the same teaching responsibilities, but now he has twice the football meetings, twice the game tape to review, and a whole team of players to work with instead of just the offense. His lateness makes sense. I have to be patient.
Unfortunately, patience bores me.
Yesterday, I had the guys from the league over to keep me distracted. It was nice for me to hang out with the guys and worry about something other than if Brook was going to volunteer me for something else at the school or if our jobs might be eliminated before Christmas. Unfortunately, Brook missed most of it. While he made an appearance before the night game—in time to listen to this week’s Journey song—most of the other guys were already on their way out the door.
Tonight, I’ve already changed Blitz’s litter box—another new part of my life I’m struggling to accept as normal. I started and finished one of the high school spirit scarves. I even reorganized our kitchen. The cupboards by the stove are now exclusively filled with food. The dishes and utensils are by the sink. This flows much better and will undoubtedly simplify our lives when we’re cooking. I can’t believe we didn’t unpack everything that way in the first place.
I could tackle our linen closet, but I’m tired of productivity. I just want to zone out in front of the TV for a couple of hours. It’s tempting to turn on the pre-game coverage. Technically, that wouldn’t be the same as watching the game. But it’ll be hard to turn off the TV before the games starts. I’d better not.
Maybe I should take advantage of the quiet and assess my life.
I’m still curious about whether or not Brook spotted Wade and me in the jewelry store a week ago. He hasn’t said anything, but I haven’t brought it up either. Neither of us mentioned what we’d been up to when we sat down that night to watch football.
But it had been the start of a new layer of tension settling between Brook and me. Wade says I’m being paranoid. Then Wade teased me about the Todd Northwood dreams, and I clammed up on the topic. I shouldn’t have even brought it up with him, but I didn’t have anyone else. I can hardly talk to Amelia about her brother, and Scott and Christopher are way too obsessed with Brook to believe there could be any trouble in our perceived paradise.
That’s another area of tension—it’s harder than I imagined not being able to tell anyone, espe
cially Brook and Amelia, about Project Proposal. My hands get clammy every time I’m around Amelia because I’m scared I’ll accidentally give it away. He needs to propose already.
I could brainstorm ways to persuade the Donaldsons to not sell the dealership, but I’m clueless on that front. Maybe it would just be easier to get a new job. Or better yet, maybe I could beg Brook to look for a job somewhere else, too. We could start over together.
No. Brook seems set on the Warriors. He had a couple of coaching offers from other places over the summer, and he turned them down. He wants to take the team to State and win. He refuses to even entertain the idea of going somewhere else until then. I’d be stupid to bring it up now—especially during the season.
Right, so I need a distraction from reality. Sighing at my inability to be alone with my thoughts, I flip on the TV. There has to be something worth watching other than football. I check the guide and nothing jumps out at me. I scroll past re-runs of Little House on the Prairie and Golden Girls. I’m not in the mood for wholesome or sassy. I need mindless. Keeping Up With the Kardashians is on, but maybe I need something a little more substantial.
HGTV is usually a safe bet, but I shouldn’t go there. I’ll get a major urge to knock down a wall to open up our floorplan or paint the kitchen walls a pale slate color to match the white cabinets. Our landlords probably wouldn’t embrace any structural changes, which would then give me real estate fever. We’re not in a position to buy right now, so why torture myself?
Hundreds of channels, and there’s nothing to watch. What’s the point of having cable if you aren’t entertained?
“Ergh,” I groan in frustration. Blitz replies with a pitiful meow. He keeps eyeing the front door, too. “I already told you your father won’t be home for a while. You might as well relax.”
His ears perk up hopefully, and I sigh. Poor kitten. He has an absentee father and a mother who is slowly losing her mind. “What’s wrong with us, Blitz? We’re in the prime of our lives. We should be able to fend for ourselves for a few hours.”
He mews again and hops up on the couch. He waits for me to pat my lap before he crawls into it. “What a gentleman! Such good manners.”
Preening under my attention, he lifts his head, inviting me to scratch under his chin. This is my life now, I suppose. Sitting and waiting. And talking to a cat, because he’s the only company I have. Turning back to the TV, I let the remote make the decision and hit “random.”
Two men with bulging biceps flash onto the screen with loud cheers pulsing out of the speakers. The bald man, who is completely hairless—save for a goatee on his face—is sprawled out in the center of a ring trying to catch his breath. In the corner, the other man—wearing coveralls and a shaggy beard—climbs up the ropes.
“Uh oh.” I lean forward in my seat, nearly dropping Blitz in the process. “Roll!” I call out to the hairless wonder. “Roll, damn you!”
He flips to his side and out of the way a second before the other man hits the mat. With a new burst of energy, baldy straddles coveralls guy and pulls his leg back.
“One, two, three,” The ref calls out to a mixture of cheers and boos.
My heart races, the same way it does when Todd Northwood pulls his arm back and sends a football sailing down field. Which is confusing. I’ve spent a fair amount of time rolling my eyes at anyone who mentions professional wrestling. Bunch of grown-up men manhandling each other in their underwear in a scripted fight. How’s that a sport? That’s what my dad always said, and it made a lot of sense to me.
Still . . . I stare at the screen as a pair of women in hot pink spandex roll into a fist-fight in a video clip from “backstage.” I am entertained. Glancing at the clock, I note I have another hour at least until Brook gets home. Maybe watching wrestling this once wouldn’t be the worst way to spend an evening.
Week Four Recap: North’s Lady Can’t Stop, Won’t Stop Winning
North’s Lady must have earned a stash of good karma chips at some point in her life. And apparently she’s cashing them in right now for fantasy football. For a fourth consecutive week, this was the team to beat, and her opponent came nowhere near close.
With Matthew Prince back in action after spending a game on the bench nursing an old groin injury that had flared up, the nobleman proved the spirit was still strong with him. He made two touchdowns and added yards to his stats chart. The guy is a stud.
The real star this week was wide receiver Sebastian Richards. Initially ranked a low-end second receiver, Richards showed the opposition he is a powerhouse in the making. He had eleven receptions, ninety-eight yards, and one scoring touchdown. Not bad for someone considered a risky pick.
And now we wait to see if North’s Lady has the skill and savvy to keep the streak alive for a fifth week.
Record: 4-0
Chapter Eleven
MY OFFICE PHONE IS already ringing when I slip in on Wednesday morning. Dropping my purse and jacket on the chair I usually reserve for guests, I reach the receiver a second before it flips over to voicemail.
“Harper . . . Du . . . quaine.” I hope the person on the other end of the line forgives my unprofessional breathy answer, but I ran the last twenty or so feet.
“Harper, dear, it’s Mrs. Donaldson. How are you, dear?”
My heart skips a beat. Mrs. Donaldson. One of the masters of our fate, otherwise known as the co-owner of our chain of Whitley Motors, is calling me before eight on a Friday.
“How wonderful to hear from you,” I lie. If I had the guts to do it, I’d ask what the odds are of her selling the dealership. I’d maybe even try to play to her sentimental side. The branch of Whitley Motors dealerships was technically a wedding present from her late father, and it would be all too easy to play to that. Instead, I ask if I can help her with anything.
“Just calling for a chat. It’s been ages since I talked to you. How do you like Lincoln?”
“Well . . .” My mind goes blank of topics that feel appropriate considering what’s on the line here—all of our jobs. It hardly seems like the time to mention my growing side business, my fantasy football team, or my personal relationship, which are the primary components of my newish life here. “I’ve settled into Lincoln well. I love working with the team here, and our customers are really some of the best. We’ve seen a lot of growth with our online—”
“Yes, yes, that’s good to hear, but surely you have something more exciting than work going on in your life. A pretty girl like you has to have a boyfriend.”
“I do.” But I wish that wasn’t the only thing she wanted to discuss. I love Brook, but it’s not like being his girlfriend or the de facto First Lady of Warriors football is my whole world—even if it feels that way sometimes. “I actually met him through the guys here. They invited me to join their fantasy football league, and he was—”
“Outstanding,” she interrupts. “Listen, I’m hoping you might be able to help me with something. I seem to have misplaced the last few years of annual reports. Would you be a dear and send them my way?”
Of course I agree. She is my boss, for now. If she wants a pile of files, I’m obligated to send them. It’s in my job description. But in doing so, I realize I may be giving her the paperwork she needs to decide whether or not any of us will have a job. Oddly enough, I’m not too panicked by the possibility. It’s hard to worry about something like that when I have a dozen other issues on my mind. Between serving as chair of Wade’s proposal planning committee and Brook’s easy way of volunteering me to help with the team, what’s one more thing?
GRIPPING MY HAND BETWEEN his sweaty palms, Wade falls to one knee. He draws a shaky breath and says, “I love you. I’ve always loved you. Marry me? Please.”
I stare at him a moment, waiting for him to continue before realizing he’s done. Well then. His proposal needs a little more gusto if he’s hoping to sweep Amelia off her feet. As it stands now, she probably wouldn’t even understand what he’s saying. Particularly because his word
s came out in a fumbled mumble.
“That was nice,” I say, not wanting to discourage him by being completely honest with him. He’s on edge already. We’ll have to ease into the pointers. “Short and sweet and . . . nice.”
Despite my attempts at subtlety, Wade reads between the lines. Dropping my hand, he covers his face. “You hated it,” he moans.
“No, I—”
“You hated it.” He groans in frustration and pulls at the ends of his hair. “It wasn’t short and sweet. It was just short. I’m never going to get this right.”
“Yes, you will,” I promise, pushing myself up from the couch and moving to the kitchen. Everyone—including Brook—will be here within the hour to watch football. Just because Wade needs help practicing his proposal doesn’t mean I can shirk my duties as watch party hostess. “Maybe you need a little more practice—”
“More like a screenwriter or choreographer to arrange the whole thing.” He follows me into the kitchen.
“Are you finished with the negativity?”
He shrugs. “I guess.”
“Good.” I open the fridge and remove a tray of veggies and another of meat and cheese for the guys to make their own sandwiches when they arrive. I scan the plates and decide they pass inspection. Just because I’m going simple with the food spread doesn’t mean it can’t look nice. “If you’re sure you’re done with this little pity party you’re throwing yourself—”
“I am.”
“Okay.” I set the trays down on the table next to a few bags of rolls and chips. Satisfied with tonight’s culinary lineup, I turn on my heel to face Wade. “Then we can get serious about this proposal business.”
His head bops up and down so fast I’m halfway worried his neck will snap. “I’m ready. Let’s do this.”
Chewing on the side of my cheek, I briefly wonder if I should tell him to relax. We’re not preparing for the Super Bowl here. There’s no need to get an ulcer. No matter how he does it, Amelia will say yes. Then again, maybe these pre-game jitters of his can be channeled into something constructive. Like coming up with a proposal that doesn’t only get a “yes” but a “yes, you’re the most wonderful man in the world, and I can’t imagine being with anyone more incredible than you.” That’s the one he wants.
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