The Jeweler (18 page)

T
HE
R
ING
A
GAIN
T
OOK
U
P
R
ESIDENCE
on the top of Fender’s dresser, if only for a day or two. It winked at him as he passed by going to the shower that morning. But the wince with which he’d regarded it before was gone. Now the ring meant redemption—or at least seeing Ginger one more time. So what if the circumstances weren’t going to be great? Fender wasn’t all that surprised. Women didn’t take to him. That was life.

He’d woken up earlier than usual, so he went by the cafe to catch Sam. He wanted to run a few scenarios by him and see what sounded plausible, how they could get the ring back to her. He was due to open the store later that morning, but this was more important.

At the Morning Bird, the manager told Fender Sam had called in. This was odd. Sam was never sick. He was always hung over, but rarely sick. And a hangover never stopped him from going in to work. “
Might as well get paid to feel like shit
,” Sam always told him.

Fender got in the car and drove to Sam’s house. He worried a little.
God, I’m such a girl. All this softie, touchy-feely crap.

He parked on the street. Sam’s house was in the only marginal neighborhood in the entire town, adjacent to the overpass of the business loop. It seemed nobody wanted to live by the highway. The price was right enough that Sam didn’t care. Fender never thought the traffic noise was a big deal, but the area
was
run down. But Sam was the antithesis of picky. He added to the allure of his abode by neglecting to water the lawn. A patch of goatheads was the only thing punctuating the dirt in front of the house.

He strolled to the front porch and tried the door. It was locked. Now Fender really was worried. Sam did not sweat security. Fender lifted the mat at the foot of the door and took the spare key.

He had the door partway open when Sam came flying into the living room—wearing a towel.

“Fender! It’s early. What are you doing up?”

“I don’t know. What are you doing in a towel? You’re dry. You haven’t been in the shower…” Fender left off there.

Sam held up the hand that wasn’t binding the towel around his body. “Fender, don’t. Don’t open your mouth.”

Fender scanned the living room. All the old magazines had been cleared off the coffee table and were stacked in a corner. The beer signs in the window were turned off. It all became crystal clear. “
You got laid!”

Sam didn’t deny it. But he waved his free arm, trying to stop Fender from hopping around in delight. “Could we please talk about this later?” He almost severed his head from his neck with a vigorous nod in the direction of the bedroom.

Fender whispered, but he’d never been very good at whispering. “She’s still here? Oh, this is too sweet. I want to meet her.” Fender had already moved past Sam. Sam was big, but he was slower.

“Fender, you’ll ruin it. Don’t scare her away; I haven’t told her about my crazy friend yet.”

“Please? Pleasepleasepleasepleaseplease to infinity? Come on, Sam. I won’t even talk.”

Sam relented. “All right. Let me bring her out. The bedroom is not a place for you to scare her. We’ve got a good vibe going on in there, if you know what I mean.” Sam let loose with a wide grin and disappeared into the bedroom. There was bumping and rustling. Fender thought he heard a woman giggle.

Well, that’s a good sign. At least it’s not an imaginary woman
.

The door opened a crack, and Sam came out, dressed in sweats. A woman followed closely behind him, wrapping a sweater around her slim form. She hid behind Sam.

Sam stood up a little straighter. “Fender? I’d like you to meet my friend Molly.”

Ginger’s friend Molly emerged from behind Sam. Fender opened his mouth in surprise. Later, Sam described the sound that emerged from Fender’s mouth as:

“Bahhahhhhh!”

Everyone jumped, and Fender ran for the door. He yelled at Sam over his shoulder. “Meet me at the Rendezvous for lunch!”

By the time he’d driven from Sam’s sketchy neighborhood to the fine, upstanding area where Barnes and Son was found, Fender’s heart rate had returned to normal. He strolled down to the shop to open up. It probably wasn’t the worst thing in the world to deal with people for a couple of hours, maybe get the image of his best friend with weird Molly in all sorts of compromising positions out of his mind. And if that didn’t put him off romance for a few years at least, he still had his own predicament and the ring-returning to sort out.

After cleaning the cases, answering emails, and chasing one possible street person (or mime, he couldn’t quite tell) out of the store, the bell on the door jingled again.

Two men entered and approached the case closest to the front door, browsing the Tag Heuer watches.

Hmmm. Money in the house.
Fender looked at the first man, tall and slim in pegged khakis, laced-up oxfords, and a blue button-down shirt. He lingered close to the other man who wore a blue blazer and white T-shirt with jeans.

Money! These gents might actually have money—maybe I’ll actually operate a business today.
Fender liked the days when he could convince himself he wasn’t running the shop into the ground.

The guys turned toward him. The one in the button-down looked at him, scrutinized him over tortoiseshell glasses. “What do you think, Lucas? Should we spill the beans?”

Lucas looked Fender up and down, too. “Umm…Might as well.”

They crossed the store to stand in front of Fender.

“Can I help you gentlemen with something?”
Something with a lot of zeroes on the price tag?

They smiled. Fender relaxed a little. They seemed happy. Sometimes a nice person got lost and found his way into Fender’s shop. Ninety percent of the time, it was a harpy like Naomi, but you know, they couldn’t all be horrible people.

“We’re buying wedding rings.” The unnamed buttoned-down dude gave him a big, toothy smile for two seconds, kind of the “woohoo” fake, nervous smile you give for a school picture.

“You want to check out the engagement rings? I have some nice solitaires over in this case,” Fender offered.

The two men didn’t move. Blazer dude elbowed button-down guy. “Tell him, Damien.”

Damien cleared his throat. “We’re buying wedding bands.”

“Okay…” Fender tried to follow.

“For each other.”

“Is it a double wedding?”

Damien rolled his eyes. “No double wedding, just a single gay wedding. Is that okay?”

I’m a moron.
“Sorry, I’m on track now. I’m just really distracted today.”

Lucas shifted uncomfortably. “I’d really hoped you’d be able to help us.”

Nothing was clicking with Fender fast enough. Now it finally occurred to him that these two thought he was casting aspersions on the thought of a gay marriage, of selling rings to two guys in love.

“Hey, I do not care who you marry. I’m all for marrying somebody. Good luck to you. Anybody who’s prepared to do that is fine by me.”

Damien snorted. “Well, you’re the poster boy for romance, aren’t you?”

Fender’s heart sunk. “Yeah, Mr. Love all the way around, right here.” He thought for a second about Ginger, and the shop felt warmer. “Damien and Lucas, was it? My apologies.”

They stood closer to each other, and Damien slung an arm around Lucas’s shoulder. “You’re fine.”

“No, I’m not, actually. Just because I’m in love with someone, and just because I’ve completely incinerated any chance I might have with her—and by incinerated, we’re talking
Hindenburg
-disaster-level incineration, total annihilation—does not mean the two of you don’t deserve my congratulations. Real love is hard to come by, and it transforms the very long and sad road of life into the autobahn of love, light, and green eyes and freckles.”

He swallowed hard. The two gentlemen stared at him, seeming slightly perplexed.
God, I have to fix my life.
“Let’s get you the most kick-ass bands in the store, shall we? I hope you’re planning on spending a ridiculous amount of money,” he said, waggling his eyebrows. “I might even be able to whip up something custom for you.”

Fender was pleased to see the two men smile at him, and then at each other.
No redemption for me, maybe, but at least I can try.

Fender had mostly recovered himself when he walked into the dimness of the Rendezvous a few hours later and looked for a spot to sit. He noticed Pop, sitting in the same booth he always did.
Why do I ever even think to look for a spot? My father, the local color of the neighborhood bar.

Pop saw him. “Sonny! You come sit with your old man. Who’s minding the store?”

“A man has to eat, Pop.” Fender sat. “Besides, I’m meeting Sam in a bit.”

“How’s he? You’re looking better, by the way. The color’s back into your cheeks.”

Fender ignored the attempt to discuss his life. “Sam’s fine. He’s great, actually. He’s met a girl.”

“Really? A woman for Sam.” Pop thumped the vinyl seat next to him. “Well, that beats all. You know, if that clown can find a woman, so can you, Sonny.”

“Thank you, Pop. Yet another reason why I hide when I see you coming down the street. Don’t we have anything else to talk about?”

Pop thought for a second. “No.”

“What about current events? Don’t you always read the news at the library? Fill me in on the world. How are things in the Middle East?”

Pop smiled. “Sure, I read. But the ladies at the library are more engaging and so is worrying about my son. Your mother is gone; who else is supposed to look after you but me?”

“Okay. Here’s the clown now.” Fender waved Sam over.

“Should my ears be burning? How are you, Jerry?” Sam plopped into the booth and rattled the cutlery on the table.

Pop started in; he didn’t waste time when a juicy story might be involved. “Fender tells me a lady has entered your world.”

Sam dropped his head in defeat. “What a sad, sad commentary on your son’s little life. Yes, I’ve met a lady. He just doesn’t have much else to talk about, does he?”

Fender took the shot as deserved. “Yeah, but who the hell would bet that you’d hook up with such a flake? That woman is weirder than Wyoming on a Wednesday.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Nice metaphor. How the hell would you know, anyway? You met her, like, once at Ginger’s house? Boy, it took more than a minute or two for Molly to recover after you yodeled your way out of my house. But she finally explained how you knew each other.” Sam took a sip out of Fender’s water glass and waved at a waitress. “And how weird is that, anyway? Do you think God’s trying to tell us something, or what?”

Pop looked confused. “Slow down, young men. You’ve lost me. To whom is God speaking? That can be a sign to seek medical help, you know. Who’s the one hearing voices?”

Fender tried to minimize it.
How do I manage to have these two hash out my life for me?
“It’s nothing, Pop. The girl Sam met is a friend of—” He broke off. How did he describe Ginger? It would take six years to explain it to someone.

Sam finished the sentence. “Molly is Ginger’s best friend. Ginger’s the girl Fender loves. You know, the one from the store. You caught them making out.”

As usual, the conversation commenced as if Fender wasn’t present.

Pop was clearly trying to remember. “Is this the one he got all depressed over?”

Sam unwrapped a package of saltines from the bar now. “Yeah, the one who was supposed to get the ring. Except Fender fell for her and, you know, lied to her and tried to date her.”

“I did not lie. I just neglected to tell her stuff.”

Sam nodded at the revision. “Whatever. He left stuff out. He almost had her, too. Oh, did we tell you we got her ring back?”

Pop wasn’t following. “Back from where?”

Fender cut it short. “Never mind. We need a plan.”

Sam had moved on to the salad on Pop’s plate now. “Well, now that I know Molly, it’s like a secret spy network.”

Fender perked up. “What did she say? How’s Ginger?”

“Molly doesn’t like you much. But I explained how you love Ginger and all.”