It's Got A Ring To It

IT’S GOT A RING TO IT

a
novel

MIA
L. HEINTZELMAN

It’s Got A Ring To It
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual
events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published
in the United States by Levi Lynn Books.

Copyright
© 2015
Mia
L. Heintzelman

All
rights reserved.

ISBN: 0692504230

ISBN-13: 978-0692504239

Author photograph by Eugene Neat, Jr.

For my husband,
Daniel Heintzelman, who inspires,

encourages
, and believes in me. You are the clarity in my
dreams.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Many thanks to my family and friends for their love
and support. I especially want to thank Juana Neat and Eugene Neat, Jr., who
have encouraged me since birth, literally. I couldn’t ask for better parents
and friends.

Special thanks to my
bucket-fillers and entourage, Melissa
DeGrazia
, Tia
Martin, Courtney McFarland, and
LaDrea
LaBranche
. You are always there for me when it counts.

Abiding appreciation to my
patient and supportive editor, Laura
LaTulipe
, who polished
my work until it shined.

To my writing buddy, Alisa
Howard, thank you for your continued support, accountability, and hilarious
writing sessions in cold coffee houses amongst the crazies.

 
A warm thank-you to a few people I know who
may not be bookworms like me, but here’s to hoping that my book will be the one
to bring out the booklover in
you .

And finally, I thank my
husband, Daniel Heintzelman, and our daughters, Nina and Brooke, for allowing
me to pursue my dream. Thank you for being patient during my late nights,
writing days, and working daydreams.

IT’S GOT A RING TO IT

one

The
silence
killed
me, but
I knew she would wait. That’s what she does. It’s what she
did
for the last two years
—
she waited
for me to get there. Poised,
regal, and professional, she sat in the same comfortably worn tufted leather
club chair with
her
expectant
eyes weighing down on me.
Her
p
iercing amber eyes squint slightly
as her impatience grew
. I’d studied her from
head to toe every Thursday since it happened. Her salt
-
and
-
pepper hair coiled in a topknot
, which
she’d been wearing
long before it became the latest fad.
From her soft
crow’s-
feet to
the
perfectly etched lines
of sage
that
ran
along
her
hands.

T
he way she
looked on, daring me to own my truth
, reminded me of being in the principal’s office
.
It was the second time she asked the question. I just hadn’t figured out
whether I wanted to give
my
answer or the answer
she
wanted to hear.

“
Laila
, are you going to answer me, or
shall I ask the question again?” Hints of her British roots seeped into her
words. I bordered on rude, since she
was
forced to address me for the third time.

Again, I glanced
at the letter between my clammy fingers
and
noticed my hands weren’t as fragile as
they once appeared to me—
no longer
shaken and unsteady. My
gaze
cut back to the window. The numbing whir
of
the
air condition
er
kept it cool in
side
, but the stillness in
the trees let me know the heat hadn’t subsided, yet. Outside, the day was
ending
, much like our time
together. From that floor, I
was
able to see
the neon skyline of casinos and high
-
rises glowing from the tower of the
Stratosphere down to the beam of the Luxor. The city was coming alive.

“Yes, Dr. Reese. I...” Somewhat stubborn and stalling, I glanced at
the clock and then the letter once more. “I’m going to get rid of it...”

“And what will you do then?”

“I’ll live another day.”
I lower
ed
my head
. I
knew I was
a disappointment to her. Somehow,
I d
idn
’
t
think
this is where she thought I’d end up, when she met
me.
Probably, not skipping with uncontrollable laughter at that point,
but a sense of relief and gratitude, at the least. I could tell she was still
hopeful
,
though, the
way
she smiled at me, optimistic that they really were
contagious. I returned the smile, more for her, than the healing qualities she
often spoke about.

By the time
six
thirty
rolled around, I’d watched nearly every tick of the long hand. As
Dr. Reese put down her pen and closed her folder, I couldn’t help but focus on
the finality in the gesture. As she put away the pages
, which
summarized our relationship, it
dawned on me that our chapter was over for her. Just like that, she got to wipe
her hands clean of me. Bittersweet feelings about never seeing her again
overwhelmed me suddenly. I swiped at my dampened eyes. More than anything that
Dr. Reese
had
actually
said, I’d depended on the routine, the standing appointment. No matter how high
or low things got, I knew someone was counting on me to be there. Counting on
me to get out of bed for something other than work. And at the very least it
was a date—even if it wasn’t with a man—so to speak.

As I stood, patting and pressing at my clothes, hoping to look a
little less disheveled than I felt, she rose before me and squared my shoulders
toward her. Lightly, with her finger she lifted my chin and met my eyes. “
Laila
, everything is going to be fine.
You
are going to be fine. Think of
this as a rebirth.” It wasn’t a statement meant to pacify me. It was a matter
-
of
-
fact order from an authority. More than
anything, she knew I wanted to be obedient and worthy of her trust.

As my eyes swelled,
she
gingerly cupped my face. “Honey, please don’t fret. I didn’t mean it that
way. I was talking about rebuilding your life. Continue with everything we
started
,
and soon
you’ll forget that I ever had to tell you to do so.”

With every step
t
oward
the door, I
left
behind
pieces of myself in that room full of emotional mirrors. Willingly, my walls
had come down. She knew my past and present, and compelled me to envision a
future, despite every effort of pushback. Even when I was little less than a
shell of a woman, she implored me to look beyond what was and see what could
be. And with every step she’d guided me. I knew it was coming, but I wasn’t
sure about going ahead without the net.

From my
car,
as
immobile as the engine itself,
I stared up at her window trying to
stomach the feeling of loss. Still, I found the gumption to start the ignition
and pull away. It wasn’t apparent
who
I was really
mourning at that point. I took the long way home, watching the sky blend into
melancholy shades of blues and oranges beneath the veil of night. The car
seemed to
steer itself to
our pizza place, and the little cupcake shop with the big yellow retro fridge.
The lights were out at the jeweler, but I
was
still
able to see
the spot where we stood, na
ï
ve and in love. And
somehow, I found myself at the entrance of the church
—
where I could no longer step foot.
There, I bawled and remembered everything I’d been trying to forget. Only after
I’d purged all that I could, I dried my eyes and vowed not to think of it
again.

At
home, I la
y
fully
clothed on the bed—still and void. From the right pocket of my pants, I
pulled out the letter and crumbled it into a golf ball
-
sized wad. As I sat up on my knees and
stared intently at the waste bin beside my nightstand, I felt
as if
my muscles might
betray me. Before I lost the nerve, I leaned over
,
pulled out the nightstand drawer
,
slid the letter all the
way to the back,
and hoped
that things out of sight really would stay out of my mind.

TWO

It took
me a minute to figure out what was going on. At first, I just la
y
there
,
stared
at the ceiling
—
listening closely
—
and tried
to determine exactly how the sun
had come up so
quickly
.
The moonlight
had been
dancing
on the walls and crickets were singing my nightly lullaby, then I blinked, and
suddenly rays of sunshine crept through the slivers in the blinds to the beat
of an incessant buzz.

I thought the pounding in my head had spread to my body, but I
realized it was the vibration of
my phone as it
slither
ed
across the dresser. Reminded
me of f
ingernails
on
a chalkboard
,
and I wanted it to stop.
Immediately, I exhaled a labored sigh
,
ready to pull the pillow over my head and
scream
at
the top of my
lungs.
I c
ran
ed
my neck
toward
the nightstand
—
the clock said it was
barely nine o’clock. Damn it! I could’ve slept at least another thirty minutes
before my body’s alarm would’ve gone off.

I could’ve turned the ringer off or ignored the call, but I knew it
was just the first in a string of calls that would be coming. Whenever anything
big happen
ed
, I
pretty much expected
a call
from Mom first,
so she could
give me her exaggerated drawn
-
out
version of someone else’s story. Before the moonlight and crickets, I vaguely
recalled talking to Mom. Something about Sam proposing to Lena, taking her to
some show
,
and getting
on bended knee and singing
—
or
something like that. The whole night was a blur, so I don’t know why she
thought I’d remember anything that she said. There I was falling asleep, but
she just had to be the first to tell the news. When Lena didn’t call, I knew
I’d be hearing from her at the brink of daylight. Heck, it’s not
every day
that your little
sister gets engaged.

Psyching myself
up
for what I knew would be a long conversation, once we got down to the meat and
bones of it, I reluctantly slid the arrow on the phone screen to the right.
“Hello,” I said, pepping up for Lena’s sake.

“Hello
,
ma’am, this is John. I’m calling from Recall Collections. May I please speak
with Mr. Myles Donovan?” A blend of a Southern drawl with a lisp and an Indian
singsong jabber made it difficult to understand. He was respectful, but I was
mad nonetheless. John could have been offering a million dollars to tell him
the day of the week, but once he said the name
“
Donovan,
”
he was already riding high tide on what
little bit of a nerve I had left.

It’s one thing to wake up to hear about your sister’s proposal,
but it was
another story
altogether to be roused from good REM sleep to take messages for a man I’d
never met.

I’d contemplated his motives and identity on more than one occasion.
In my mind’s eye, he was an obese couch potato, who spent his days and nights
in front of the idiot box eating gluttonous meals in a worn
L
a
y-Z
-B
oy chair, ordering workout DVDs and
equipment
,
he’d never
use. Stacks of fraudulent credit cards and IDs lined his bureau drawers. His
house, the littering grounds for stolen goods that he pawn
ed
on eBay or
c
raigs
l
ist. To someone like that, paying bills
wouldn’t exactly be at the top of the priority list.

It only made sense that the two-bit, swindling loser was probably out
there dodging bill collectors with a number th
ey
failed to confirm was actually phony. But
it was my number being left out there.
Little breadcrumbs for
all the lurking vultures.

Just
the thought
got
me
all riled up.
Between m
y adrenaline
pumping and pent
-
up
rage, I was awake
—
whether
I wanted to be or not. “Listen here, John
.
” The words seethed off the tip of my tongue
against the will of my clenched teeth. Poor John, probably wished he wasn’t
an
overachiever, trying to
get one more call in before his shift ended.
If he knew
it would be me on the line, he
surely would’ve closed up shop early. Thinking of Johnny Boy, the latest
scapegoat taking the fall for Donovan, I took a deep
cleansing breath
in a weak attempt to regain
any composure. “This is
Laila
Smart and this is
my
phone number.” Every word came out
slow and choppy. He needed to understand and take every word to heart. “Myles
Donovan does not live here, nor has he ever lived here. So, when you
do
talk to Mr. Donovan, you tell him
that I’ve got words for him. Now, take me off of your list
…
please.” Poor thing, I didn’t let him get a
word in edgewise.

The phone was pressed closely to my ear, as I paced the room, waiting
for John to give me a civilized response. Something along the lines of an
acquiescent consent to adhere to Do Not Call laws and remove me from their
list, followed by an apology and a promise to ensure all other companies
followed the same protocol. Hard, deliberate steps left my feet sinking into
the plush beige carpet. Before I knew it, the dial tone resounded in my ear.
“If you’d like to make a
call
…” said the polite
automated operator
, w
hich
only set my rage ablaze once more. How could she be so calm at a time like
this, when my frustrations were mounting and I obviously wasn’t getting through
to him
?
Ugh. I grunted
and yelled to let it out,
and
then I kicked the couch just to prove how mad I was.

“Shit!” I
said
after I
hit my
toe on the frame
. I
t
was all I could do not to cry. Bent over and hopping on one foot, it throbbed
like hell. In the midst of my pain, I got even angrier. This was Myles
Donovan’s fault, too. If it wasn’t for him, I
’d still be a
sleep, unaware of his existence.
I thought back to the operator
.
“Yes, I’d like to make a call to stupid-head Myles Donovan.” Lines with choice
words
I
rehearsed many
times over ran through my head. Oh, what I would
do
for the opportunity to give him a piece of
my mind.

The alarm chimed on cue, challenging me to get over myself, an
d my
childish tantrum
.
As I still protested,
I made the bed
—h
aphazardly fixing
the sheets and duvet first then piled on all of the lifeless throw pillows.
Usually, I’d have tea, but that day I needed coffee—and fast. While it
brewed, I pulled out the usual outfit
—
black ballet flats, black capris, and
a black tee. A simple pair of silver stud earrings and a watch. Done.

By the time I showered and pulled my hair into a ponytail, the coffee
was ready and I’d calmed down a few notches. The smell of French vanilla felt
like aromatherapy. I breathed it in
,
taking slow sips, trying to savor the
flavor. More relaxed, I could finally think clearly
and get Lena’s
scoop
. And frankly, I was happy to have someone else’s life to focus
on
.

I held the phone away from my ear as Lena let out an exhilarated
shriek. “Can you believe it?”

Actually, I couldn’t. She and Sam had only been dating for five
months and suddenly they’re engaged. Countless guys had vied for her attention,
but she’d always been anally selective, almost ruthless in her pursuit of the
man she call
ed
, “the
one.” Lena’s been in love with the idea of love, but unwilling to compromise
her dream of this fairytale courtship and marriage she’d been planning since
birth. We were
both under ten
years old
when Mom gave us these archaic wooden hope chests and told us
about how Dad had wooed her relentlessly until she’d agreed to one date. Along
with the chests, came a slew of what I assume
d
was mostly experiential advice,
which remains
etched in the
back of my mind against my will. A few stay at the forefront. Ladies always
accentuate their curves, but leave something to the imagination. Real friends
can be counted on one hand
;
everyone else is a passing lesson. Money doesn’t define us, but what you do
with it tells a lot about you. Learn to cook at least one thing well. God’s
plan is always better than your own. Be wise enough to believe in unanswered
prayers. But the one that st
uck
with me seem
ed
to loom
its ugly head constantly
.
Choose
cautiously,
then
love without limits.

My chest remained empty for years. I gradually began
to fill
it with practical
things like brochures of Italy and Paris, a microphone I’d sprayed gold when I
wanted to be the next Janet Jackson, and fake money, hoping it would somehow
turn real. For me,
the hope
chest
was more like a test. Once, I put in a newspaper ad for a radio I
wanted. Then, out of
nowhere
,
it came in the mail—a belated birthday present from a cousin I hardly
remember. I was convinced the chest would grant all of my wishes. It wasn’t
until I was in my twenties that I finally put in items related to a future with
career, marriage, and babies.

Lena, on the other hand,
immediately
took all of the advice to heart.
In no time, her chest had magazine clippings of wedding gowns, a set of pearls
Grandma had given us for Christmas, and her silver baby rattle that she wanted
to pass on to her own kids one day. Neighborhood boys didn’t stand a chance
with Lena armed to the hilt with her newly formed interrogation tactics. Suddenly,
they were all being interviewed for the position of prince charming and rarely
anyone fit the bill. When she did give anyone a chance, it was only a matter of
time before
he
committed
some deal-breaker and quickly found
himself
on the outs or exiled to the friend
zone. With her track record, I
never
anticipated her actually finding a worthy candidate. She always said she’d know
when it happened to her. Even though they’ve yet to celebrate their semiannual
anniversary—if there is such a thing—I guess, when you know, you
know.

“Congratulations,
LeLe
!” I said as
enthusiastically as possible.

“How much has Mom told you already? I know she called you and
probably told you everything before I could get to you,” she said, only
slightly deterred.

“She told me a few things, but why do you think I’m up so early? I
want all the dirty details from you. Now, start from the beginning.”

“Ok
ay
. First
,
we went to eat at Le
Cirque in the Bellagio. That was amazing. Even though he looked nervous, I didn’t
suspect anything, since we were toasting to his promotion. You know how Sam
gets
.
”

No, I don’t know how he gets. I don’t know much about him at all.

“
He gets a
ll
flush and jittery when something’s bothering him. But, I figured he was still
in shock about the promotion, so I brushed it off
…
”

She went on and about an hour later, I finally heard about them
checking out
Jersey Boys
at
the Paris. At the end of
the show, when they’re about to wrap it up to
“
O
h
What a Night
,
”
Sam excused himself to the
restroom. Suddenly, the lights in the house went down. The spotlight was on the
guy
who played
Frankie
Valli
introducing someone
who
was
going
to the stage. All of a sudden, the
spotlight darts over
to the edge of the stage
. Turned out, it was
Sam on one knee, asking Lena to make him the happiest man on earth by marrying
him. Next thing you know, Lena’s running up to the stage screaming “
Y
es,” as she kissed him in
front of the whole audience. Apparently, she’d been on cloud nine ever since.

I wasn’t surprised that she was already talking about dates, a
planner, and the stack of magazines she’d gone out to get before the morning
dust could settle. There’s something to be said about weddings, when it turn
ed
a happy-go-lucky girl
like Lena into a crazy, coordinating dictator.

***

She and Mom had only been over for about an hour and we’d already
ripped a gazillion pages out of magazines and stuffed them in
to
Lena’s
gigantic wedding planner
, which
resembled a Trapper Keeper on steroids, as it
b
rimm
ed
over with dress clippings and possible
vendors
.
When she first
showed
Mom and me,
we
were a bit taken aback.
W
e
had our own visions of how the whole shindig would unfold. Little did we know,
we wouldn’t have any say at
all.