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?”
chapter 3
No wonder high schoolers all over the nation cut class every day.
The sun came out from behind the clouds as Brighton crossed the state line and left New Jersey for Delaware. She slid on her sunglasses and rolled down her window, glorying in the damp breeze. She had a hastily packed overnight bag in the backseat, a box of protein bars in the glove compartment, and plans to meet one of her oldest friends at some bar called the Whinery. So simple, but
so gratifying.
Soon, she could smell the salty tang of the Atlantic in the air. While she navigated the stop-and-go traffic in her white Subaru (white cars were ten percent less likely to get into accidents than cars of other colors), she kept her phone in the cup holder beneath the radio.
The silence of that phone not ringing was deafening.
Brighton forced herself to stop obsessing about that morning’s fight and start focusing on her upcoming reunion with Kira. Her friend sounded exactly the same as she had back in college—still sweet, still smart, and still unable to turn away from anyone in need. The warm, bubbly blonde had gone from being everyone’s friend and confidante to beloved dormitory resident assistant to clinical psychologist. Brighton couldn’t wait to hear all the news and reminisce about the old days. A break in routine would be good for her. This little weekend jaunt was indisputable proof that she was capable of spontaneity and surprises.
In your face, Colin.
As soon as she saw the white clapboard sign painted with the black silhouette of a Labrador retriever and the words WELCOME TO BLACK DOG BAY, Brighton’s whole body relaxed. Traffic cleared up, sunlight sparkled on the ocean, and she located the wine bar with no problem.
Since she still had an hour before she was supposed to meet Kira, Brighton decided to explore the charming little town square. A weathered bronze statue of a shaggy dog stood next to a white gazebo, beyond which the boardwalk stretched out to the sea. As she started toward the sand, she noticed that the local restaurants and shops seemed to adhere to a common theme: the Eat Your Heart Out bakery, the Retail Therapy boutique, the Rebound Salon, the Jilted Café.
All the passersby were dressed for the beach in denim and flip-flops. Brighton knew she looked completely out of place in her buttoned-up cubicle couture, but she didn’t care—she’d spotted a store window featuring a display of glittering gems. The little wooden sign above the door read: THE NAKED FINGER.
She opened the door and stepped into a small, quiet showroom featuring ice blue walls, discreet but strategically angled lighting that brought out the sparkle in each gemstone, and a young proprietor with warm brown eyes, glossy dark hair, and a vintage-looking silk floral shirtdress.
“Hi, I’m Lila.” The brunette greeted Brighton with a smile. “Did Marla send you?”
“No.” Brighton shook her head. “I’m not sure who that is.”
“Oh, sorry. You just had that look.”
Brighton blinked. “What look?”
Now Lila started to look flustered. “Nothing. Sorry.”
“No, tell me. Who’s Marla? What look?” It was so unusual for anyone to describe Brighton as anything other than “professional,” “practical,” or “smart” that she was dying to know what this total stranger saw in her.
“Marla owns the Better Off Bed-and-Breakfast,” Lila explained. “She refers her guests to me all the time.”
Brighton had to laugh. “The Better Off Bed-and-Breakfast? The Rebound Salon and the Jilted Café? What’s going on with this town?”
“Last year, there was a national news story that said Black Dog Bay is the best place in America to get over your breakup. So we get a lot of recently single visitors. We call them heartbreak tourists.”
Brighton started to put the pieces of the puzzle together. “Hence, the Naked Finger.”
“Right. I deal with all the wedding rings and other jewelry that women don’t want or have to sell after a breakup. I just started the business a few months ago.”
Brighton peered at the pieces beneath the glass countertops. Bracelets and pendants and watches and oh so many diamond rings. “How’s it going?”
“Great.” Lila beamed. “Better than I expected, actually. I’ve been in sales for a long time, but it never ceases to amaze me how much money people are willing to spend on clothes and accessories.”
“But jewelry’s more than an accessory.” Brighton studied a pair of art deco emerald earrings. “It’s very emotional.”
Lila nodded. “That’s true. Every piece in here has a history. Some clients want to tell me the stories, some don’t want to talk about it at all.” She pointed out the box of tissues by the cash register. “Either way, I try to be supportive.”
“So you buy the pieces and resell them?” Brighton asked.
“Well, I try to convince clients to reuse the stones in a new setting, but sometimes they don’t want to. Sometimes, a client just wants to be rid of them, which I get. Been there myself.”
“You have?” Brighton regarded the proprietor with renewed interest. Lila looked so polished and perfect, it was easy to assume she’d never had to endure heartbreak or disappointment.
“I sold my own wedding rings, once upon a time.” Lila glanced down at her left hand. “That’s when I found out that jewelry doesn’t hold its retail value. It’s kind of like a new car; once you drive it off the lot—”
“Wait. Is this what I think it is?” Brighton spied a heavy silver ring on the counter, and she couldn’t stop herself from interrupting.
Lila picked up the ring and handed it over. “You tell me. I’ve never seen anything like this before. A heartbreak tourist dropped this off this morning and I’ve been trying to figure out what it should appraise for.”
Brighton held the massive ring aloft so she could examine it from all sides. Although the silver shank was sized for petite hands, the prongs were wide and sturdy. They had to be to support the red stone skull and the green, blue, and purple cabochons. This was a badass rock star of a ring, a ring that demanded brazen confidence from its wearer.
She admired the craftsmanship but didn’t try it on.
“The owner is staying at Marla’s,” Lila went on. “She said her ex-boyfriend gave it to her and she needs to get rid of it before she uses it for evil.”
Brighton started to smile as she examined the sides of the setting. “That’s what she said?”
“Those were her exact words. She insisted I keep it overnight in the safe. I’ve been trying to figure out how old it is and what I should offer for it.”
Brighton felt a small surge of triumph as she located a pair of narrow silver hinges. She ran her fingernail along the side of the sneering red skull until she felt a tiny clasp give way. “This is a poison ring. I haven’t seen one of these in years.”
Lila looked alarmed. “A poison ring?”
“Check it out.” Brighton lifted one edge of the red skull, revealing a shallow silver compartment beneath. “These were all the rage back in the sixteenth century. You could put poison in here and use it to kill your enemy or yourself.”
Lila looked horrified. “Really?”
“Really.” Brighton marveled at the craftsmanship of the piece. “That’s what the owner meant when she said she didn’t want to use it for evil.”
Lila gazed at her with renewed interest. “How do you know all that? Are you a jeweler?”
“No, I’m in insurance.”
“You deal with poison rings in insurance?” Those big brown eyes had gone from sweet to speculative.
“My grandfather was a bench jeweler. He did it all: stone setting, engraving, wax carving, forging, polishing. I used to help him when I was a teenager.” Brighton closed her eyes for a moment, flooded with feelings she couldn’t quite label. And didn’t want to. “Once upon a time, I wanted to be a jewelry designer.” She opened her eyes. “Back before I understood that being a responsible adult requires health benefits and retirement plans and mortgage payments.”
Lila stepped back, sizing her up. “But you’re not a heartbreak tourist?”
“No, I have a fiancé.” Brighton tucked her hand into her pocket. “I’m just visiting a friend from college.”
Lila continued to look her over with that appraising, acquisitive gleam. “Do you have any interest in staying for the summer season? I’ve been looking for a des
igner to coordinate with my bench jeweler.”
“I’m only here for the weekend, and then it’s back to reality. Sorry.” Brighton turned toward the door. “I should get going so I’m not late to meet my friend.”
“Where are you meeting her?”
“The Whinery.”
“What a coincidence—I’m headed that way, too. I’ll walk with you.” Lila grabbed a fifties-style black leather handbag from beneath the counter. “What’s your name?”
“Brighton.” In an effort to head off the inevitable questions, she explained, “As in Brighton Beach. The one in Brooklyn, not Britain. My mom had a thing for New York in the eighties.”
Lila laughed. “So did mine. Welcome to Black Dog Bay, Brighton. Here’s hoping you’ll decide to stay for a bit.”
“It seems like a lovely town, but I really can’t. I have to be back to my office on Monday—places to go, people to see, reports to write, accounting rules to research.” She paused. “I swear it’s not as dull as it sounds.” It’s duller. “But in any event, I have to get back.”
Lila gave her a knowing smile as she flipped the sign on the glass door from OPEN to CLOSED. “That’s what they all say in the beginning.”
• • •
“Look at him. Who is that?”
As Brighton followed Lila into the crowded bar, she heard a trio of women laughing and murmuring.
During their phone conversation, Kira had described the Whinery as “a cute little spot to people watch.” She had neglected to mention the profusion of pink, toile, and crystal chandeliers. There were silver bowls of chocolate candy dotting the glossy black bar top and a curly-haired female bartender pouring fruity cocktails. Everything in there appeared sugarcoated and sweet . . . except the clientele, who were less interested in the wine list and more interested in verbally undressing one of the male patrons.
“That’s the man I’ve been looking for all my life,” one woman declared. “Or at least for this weekend.”
Put a Ring On It Page 2
