“What about this one?” Luke points.
I walk over to see what he's suggesting. Mary does seem to love her ring, so maybe Luke's got a good feel for this stuff. He's pointing at a huge, round diamond on a platinum band. It's nice, but kind of boring. Trudy isn't boring. She's zesty and unique.
The jeweler has been standing quietly and letting us confer, but when I wave at him, he zips over. “Yes sir. How can I help?”
“I want something classic, beautiful, but also different. Personal. Maybe a pear shaped diamond, the biggest you have, with sky blue accent stones. Or something a little different, but in a classic setting. I just don't want to cross over into cheesy, or gimmicky.”
The jeweler smiles. “What's your price range?”
I shrug. “More than rock star, less than Arabian prince.”
He beams. “Come to the back with me.”
Luke nods and shoots me two thumbs up.
“If I'm not back out here in fifteen minutes,” I joke, “call the cops.”
“Oh, if you aren't back out,” the jeweler says, “I'll already have called them.”
Luke laughs, and I hear Amy squawking about our joke as I follow the short man with dark glasses into the back.
“I travel to Belgium twice a year,” he says. “I just came back last week. While I was there, I saw a diamond so beautiful, it took my breath away. I had no idea if I'd ever be able to sell it. I don't have much in the way of rock star clientele.” He stops and turns around.
I nearly barrel into him. “Okay.”
“It's bigger than I usually buy or sell, and it's unique. It's one of a kind. It's a fancy green-blue diamond. Some might call it a sky blue, or azure diamond.”
He spins back around and clicks a light on. Then he removes a stone from a case and sets it on a pillow. “This is a five point six carat green-blue heart. Boron and nitrogen got together to make it this stunning color.”
I step toward the case and I know, just like I knew that day at the park. Just like I know every time I see Trudy and don't want her to leave. She's a unique mix of all the elements I need to bring me joy, to make me whole.
“I want it as a solitaire. How soon can you have it ready?”
The jeweler names a time and a price. I always negotiate, because haggling is an art form I’ve mastered. But not for this. I simply nod. Trudy's worth any price, and this is perfect for her.
Luke and Amy insist on seeing the diamond. Amy grumbles as she follows us out the door. “I still think she'd have liked that other one better. It looked way less expensive, too.”
I chuckle. I may not know much about women yet, but I feel good about taking my own path this time. The jeweler has the ring ready exactly as promised. I pick it up and drive back home in time to meet the caterers.
Geo's there, fine tuning last minute details. “Are you sure you want this many people here?” she asks.
“If I'm wrong about this, she's going to turn me down, and it's going to suck that so many people will see it.”
“That’s kind of my point,” Geo says.
“But I don't think I’m wrong.”
Geo clucks. “I admire your guts.”
She doesn't say she hopes I'm right. She doesn't have to.
I make plans to take Trudy out to dinner that night while Paisley watches Troy. Except we're almost to the restaurant when. . . “Aww crap,” I say. “I forgot my wallet.”
Trudy pats my arm. “I'll pay.”
“Absolutely not,” I say. “You aren't paying for your birthday dinner. I'll call them and ask them to bump the reservation.”
“I'm pretty hungry,” she says. “You can pay me back.”
I knew she'd say that. She's always difficult. “Fine. You brought your wallet?”
She looks down at her tiny purse, the one she always uses when she's wearing her silver heels. She swears, which is ridiculously cute. It's like watching a unicorn fart.
“I'll call the restaurant.” Except I call Luke instead. “Yes, this is Paul Manning. I'm hoping you can bump my dinner reservation.” I pause. “Uh-huh. Well, we hit a little snag, but we're still coming.” Pause. “Right. Sure, forty-five minutes should be fine.”
We drive toward my house in silence.
A few blocks from my house, Trudy says, “You make my life better, Paul. I'm glad we met. I'm really glad you didn't give up.”
I pull up in the circular driveway and turn to face her. “You make my life better too. And I couldn't have given up, not from the moment you bent over my desk and found that key logger.”
She rolls her eyes. “I mean it. I love you, and I don't say that lightly. You're part of my life, like Mary and Luke. Like Paisley. Like Troy.”
The ring is burning a hole in my pocket, but I stick to the plan. “We're here. I should go get my wallet.”
“Okay,” she says.
I get out and head inside the house. I wonder how long she'll give me before she comes inside. Everyone is here, and they're restless. Paisley and Addy and several of her new friends from work. Pam and her son Benson. Amy and Chase, Luke and Mary. And Nancy Jones brought her two kids as well. Geo and Trig came too, and I realize they're holding tiny cymbals.
“I got something noisy for everyone,” Trig says, gesturing around.
He's always been super weird.
“I have a blower thing,” Troy says. “See?” He blows on his kazoo and I cover my ears.
“Shhh,” I remind him. “Not until she comes inside.”
“When is that going to be?” Mary asks.
I text Trudy. WINNIE MADE A MESS. GONNA BE A MINUTE. WANT TO WAIT INSIDE?
The front door opens twenty seconds later, and everyone cheers.
Trudy's jaw drops, and she searches the faces for mine. When she finds it, she tilts her head and I know she's happy. She crosses the room until she's standing in front of me.
“No dinner, then?” She puts one hand on her hip. “Because I wasn’t kidding about being starving.”
I kiss her then and everyone cheers. “I know you get crabby when you’re hungry, so there's definitely food. But first I need to ask you something.”
I drop down on one knee and pull the ring box out of my pants pocket. I hold it up but don't open it. Not yet.
Winnie rushes over to try and lick my face and Trudy laughs at me. I shove Winnie away. “Not now, dog.”
I wave around the room with my free hand. “When we met, you thought your value came from your job, or your education, your appearance, or even your net worth. But I figured it out pretty quickly. Your worth is in the love and support you give to everyone around you. Your friends, your sister, your co-workers, and your son can all attest to the same thing. You’re a giver, and you’re not ever stingy with your love or your service. You are the best sister, friend, and mother I've ever met.”
Trudy tries to pull me to my feet, but I shake my head.
“I'm not quite done. You have a degree now, and your debts are repaid. You've got a fancy job, and your son has health insurance. But none of those things matter to me. I know people usually do this in private, but I wanted to recognize the most central part of who you are and involve your family in this moment. Gertrude Madeline Wiggin Jenkins, you dazzle me. You astound me. You complete me.” I open the ring box. “Will you marry me, too?”
Trudy claps her hand over her mouth and starts to cry, which is how I know her answer is yes. I stand up and swing her in a circle. Then I slide the ring on her finger.
“Oh good,” Mary says. “She’s crying. That’s a yes.”
Geo waves her arms and a half dozen different people walk in with vases full of brightly colored daisies and set them all over the room. On the counters. On the floors. On shelves and niches. Trudy looks around at all the Gerbera daisies and cries even harder.
When she can finally talk again, she whispers in my ear. “I'm so glad you were willing to wait for spring.” Then she kisses me and time stands still. Spring, summer, fall, winter. They all flash before my
eyes. We’re going to be together for all of them.
Like always, Troy taps my hip. “Now can you be my dad?”
Trudy beams at me. “Yes sweetheart, now he can.”
I pick Troy up. When Trudy and I hug him between us, my world finally feels entirely complete.
*THE END*
If you enjoyed the third book in the Almost a Billionaire series and want more, don’t worry! The fourth book, Finding Liberty (Brekka and Rob’s story) will be out in April. But until then, I’ve included a sneak peek of another of my books, Already Gone.
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21
Lacy
Time’s a fickle trickster.
If I'd been born a few weeks earlier, I'm pretty sure it wouldn't have happened. If my vivacious little sister had been born a few weeks later, it might not have taken place. If Mason had shown up just one day after he did, it probably could've been avoided. If the principal had waited a few minutes that day, well, I don't know. Sometimes I think if I could’ve scraped together a handful of leftover seconds, we could’ve saved her.
She might still be alive.
It’s Hope’s fault that I’m here, but I can’t focus on that, not right now.
I’m supposed to sign in when I arrive at the shrink’s office. The little white sheet with blank spaces stares at me accusingly, like it knows what I’ve done. I want to sign in with a beautiful curly script, as if somehow that will make things better. I can’t do it though, because there isn’t a pen or pencil in sight. What kind of crappy, rundown office doesn’t have a pen by the sign in sheet?
When I lean over to pull one out of my backpack, I unzip the front pocket too far. Pens and pencils scatter all over the faux-wood, scuffed laminate floors.
I want to swear, but I bite my tongue instead. Who knows what this secretary might tell the doctor? I really need him to write a positive evaluation for the court. Pens and pencils scattered all over the place, one shiny yellow number two pencil broke about a third of the way down. I stare at it dumbly, transfixed.
I broke it. Like I break everything.
The secretary walks around the counter to help me, and I notice she’s wearing the exact same orthopedic sandals as my grandma. I wish Granny could still work in an office, instead of just laying in bed in a nursing home.
“Oh dear,” the secretary mutters. “I do this kind of thing all the time. Here, let me help.”
My conscience kicks me when she crouches down and starts gathering my clumsily scattered pens and pencils. I don’t deserve her help. I don’t deserve anyone’s help.
I lean over to pick them up myself. “It’s your fault this happened. Who doesn’t have a pen out for the sign in sheet?”
She straightens up and glares at me. “Excuse me for helping.”
I sigh. I should be thanking her, not yelling at her. My hands shake as I gather up the rest of my writing utensils, but I can’t force out an apology. It’s a good thing my mom’s not here. She’d be furious.
I pick up the broken pencil and scrawl my name on the white sheet with it, scrunching my fingers to make the little nub work.
“I am sorry I didn’t have a pen out.” The secretary holds out a blue ink pen and when I reach for it, she smiles. I notice she has lipstick on her teeth. I tap meaningfully on my tooth with the pathetic shard of my yellow pencil while she’s looking at me. She inhales quickly and rubs on her tooth. “Did I get it?”
I shake my head.
“I’ll just duck into the bathroom for a second.”
I raise my eyebrows at her leaving me here unsupervised but don’t stop her. After all, I know I’m not really a lunatic.
While she’s cleaning the lipstick off, I glance around. The larger, shattered end of my pencil lies on the floor alone. I ought to pick it up and stick it in my bag. With a little sharpening, it’ll be fine.
I wish people could be repaired as easily as writing utensils. Resharpened when we get dull, a little pink cap slapped on our heads when our factory erasers run down. I could use a little sharpening, too. In their own way, humans are more fragile than a pencil, and when we break, you can’t just sharpen the shards and keep on writing.
The desk plaque for the younger-than-Granny secretary reads: Melinda. There’s a stack of office supply order forms in front of her and I think about checking a box for some new pens as a joke. When I lean over it, something beneath it catches my eye. It pokes out from under the order forms, and I can barely make out the font at first. When I tilt my head, I realize it’s a rèsumè, Melinda Brackenridge’s résumé. I know why I want to escape this tiny office, since my butt was court-ordered to come in the first place, but why does she want to leave?
I hear the bathroom door and jump, straightening guiltily.
“How long have you worked for Dr. Brasher?” I ask to distract her from the guilty trembling of my hands.
“Oh, years and years now. First we were at a group practice, but they made him take a lot of patients he wasn’t too happy with. He likes helping kids and teens. He started his own practice so he can do what he wants. You’ll like him. Everyone does.”
Somehow I doubt if he left a group practice to be a do-gooder. I bet he got fired or something and tells people he left to help kids. Sounds a lot better. “So he’s what? A saintly shrink?”
Melinda’s eyebrows draw together and her lips compress. “Dr. Brasher is the best child psychiatrist in the state.”
“Then why do you want to leave him?”
Her jaw drops.
I point at the résumé.
Her face blanches. “I don’t want to leave, I swear. Please don’t say anything. He’s such a good guy, and an amazing doctor.”
I raise my eyebrows.
“I haven’t had a pay raise in years and my son, well, I need a raise.” She gulps.
If she meant to say that out loud, I’ll eat my broken pencil, but I kind of like her more now. “Family should always come first.”
She nods.
Family is complicated.
If it weren’t for my little sister Hope, I doubt I’d be in this fusty old office, waiting on a shrink whose evaluation will determine whether I'm capable of being released into the world as an adult. And yet, the thought doesn’t make me nearly as angry as it would have last week. I don’t think I realized how much time I wasted being angry with Hope.
So many seconds thrown away. I wish I could gather them up and hug them close. I wish I realized then that you can’t hug people forever.
Melinda snags the clipboard and reads my name. Or she tries to, I think. So much for making a good first impression. “Angelique Vincent?”
I clear my throat. “Umm, I should be on the schedule. Lacy Shelton? I have a three-thirty appointment.”
She squints at the tiny words on her paperwork. “Shelton. Yes, there you are. Let me see if he’s ready.” She ducks through the doorway that I assume leads to Dr. Brasher. When she opens the paneled wooden door again, she waves me over.
Melinda looks frazzled and guilty when I walk past, which is one emotion I recognize easily. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to quit, and I’m guessing she can’t bring herself to ask for more money either. I wish I could help, but I don’t have time to worry about her problems. Mine are about to slap me between the eyes.
For a moment Dr. Brasher meets my eyes silently. I stare right back. He's a tall man to be wearing that particular sweater vest. Before he sits down, I notice it isn't quite long enough. His hairy belly isn’t something I particularly wanted to see, but I imagine he spends all day staring at people he’d rather not. I guess we all do junk we don’t
want to.
He looks down at a file sitting on his desk, and I follow his gaze to a photo of me and Hope, both of us smiling on a blanket on the beach. It’s torn down the middle, and taped back together. I know who taped it. And I know she’s gone now, never to return. Like a pencil in a wood chipper, irreparably damaged.
All my fault.
I gulp and sit down on the hard wooden chair across from Dr. Brasher’s desk. My eyes veer away from the photo and right into a pink notebook. Hope wouldn’t use a black and white speckled composition book, no. She made mom buy her a special English journal, with sparkly bling and a splashing dolphin. Sometimes she acted like she was nine years old.
My heart stutters. Why does Dr. Brasher have Hope’s stuff? Did the judge send it here? My fingers itch to reach for it, but nothing I do seems to go right, so I force my hands into fists at my side.
This has to go right.
“Ah, I see you’ve caught me,” Dr. Brasher says. “I was just studying up on your case, a little last minute maybe.”
I start to speak, but I can’t quite get words past the frog lodged in my throat. I cough to clear it and then force myself to croak a few words. “Why do you have Hope’s journal and that photo?”
“Please,” he says. “Sit down.”
I do, but I can’t help another pointed glance at the journal.
“Does it bother you that I have it?”
I stomp down on the surge of emotion. I just have to survive the next hour. “No, I’m just curious.”
“I see in the file that you’re only eleven months older than her. Irish twins, as it were.”
I’ve explained this so many times, the words fall out without thought. “Since I was born in early fall and she came along the very next year at summer’s end, we started kindergarten the same year.”
“That’s awfully close in age. Did you mind having a sister when you were little? Were you ever jealous of her?”
I don’t snort at him, or tell him to look at the photo. I don’t tell him that everyone was jealous of Hope. I don’t tell him she ruined my life. I don’t tell him I hated her sometimes. And I don’t bother telling him I loved her, too. I loved her enough to keep giving and giving when all she did was take take take.
Finding Spring (Almost a Billionaire Book 3) Page 24