Put a Ring On It (3 page)

N
o 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 B
AY
, 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 designer 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.”

The guy on the other side of the bar was impossible to miss. Tall and broad shouldered, he radiated masculinity amid all the pastel frippery. He was so handsome he looked like he should be shirtless on the cover of a romance novel, all strong jawline and smoldering dark eyes and tousled dark hair. But good looks alone couldn't account for all the attention he was receiving. He exuded a confidence and charm that could not be denied, that
forced
you to notice him.

And then he turned to face them and the trio of women in front of Brighton practically swooned. They snatched up their wineglasses and started toward him, fluffing their hair and swaying their hips. It was like the guy had switched on a tractor beam. The Death Star in jeans and a worn leather jacket.

As soon as the first trio left, another trio materialized to continue the fangirling:

“Look at his face.”

“Look at his eyes.”

“Look at his hair.”

“Look at his
watch
.” Brighton squinted, trying to discern the details in the dim lighting. “Is that . . . ?”

“
That
is Jake Sorensen.” Lila waved to the bartender, who slammed down her stainless steel cocktail shaker and motioned them closer. “Designated rebound guy for all the newly single women.”

Brighton couldn't take her eyes off the designated rebound guy's wrist. “Incredible.”

“Pretty much,” Lila agreed. “He's filthy rich, he's charming as all get out, and he looks . . . well, he looks like that. Although he's usually smiling, which makes him look even better, if you can believe it.” She shot a sidelong glance at Brighton. “You're not hyperventilating and dissolving into a puddle of lust? Way to buck the trend.”

“What?” Brighton was still staring at his wrist. “Oh. Yeah, I don't really go for tall, dark, and handsome. I prefer well-read, low-key, and loyal. I'm boring like that. And also engaged.”
I think. I hope.

“Me, too.” Lila clapped her hand over her mouth. “Well, not yet. Not officially. But soon.”

“Good for you. You shouldn't rush these things,” Brighton murmured. Why didn't more people understand that? “Patience is a virtue.”

“It's not really so much about patience; it's more about our insane work schedules. I've been busy getting the Naked Finger up and running and my boyfriend, Malcolm, works with Jake. Speaking of which, brace yourself.” Lila rolled her eyes like an exasperated but indulgent older sister as Jake Sorensen strode toward them. “He's headed this way.”