by Tracy South
Alec seemed oblivious to her growing moroser by the minute mood. “Listen, Claire. We’ve got less than an hour to synchronize our answers on this wedding thing. So start asking me some questions.”
“Okay,” she said. “When are we getting married?”
“December.”
“No,” she said automatically. “My parents married in December, and they spend their anniversary at the mall cafeteria while they Christmas shop. Let’s say October. I can plan a wedding in five months. Is it small or large?”
“It’s at your parents’ house, and it’s small.”
“My parents retired to Florida last year,” Claire said. “It’s at your parents’ house.”
“My sister and her family live with my parents,” he said. “It’s so cramped, we couldn’t even squeeze in a bridesmaid. So let’s say it’s going to be at one of those historic old homes around Ridgeville. We haven’t decided which one yet, but we’re leaning toward the Ramsey-Ivy house.”
“That’ll work,” Claire said, admiring his taste. The Ramsey-Ivy house was one of her favorite local homes. She wondered if Alec really liked it, or if it was the first thing that popped into his head. “We’re going to live in my house, right?”
“No,” Alec said. “We’re going to sell your house, take our share of the money and buy a condo.”
“You have no soul,” Claire told him. She tried to think of other questions people asked prospective couples. Dwelling on her own disastrous last engagement wasn’t a good idea, so she tried to remember what she had asked women who told her they were engaged. “The ring,” she said. “Where’s my ring?”
“What ring?”
“The ring a man gives a woman when he asks her to marry him.” She held up her left hand. “I don’t have one.”
“Not everyone has an engagement ring,” Alec said. “Poor young couples like us can decide to get married, then scrimp and save for the ring.”
Claire shook her head, surprised by how strongly she felt about this issue. She grabbed the tail of Alec’s untucked knit shirt. “You spent at least seventy dollars on this shirt. You can afford to get me a ring.”
“This was a seasonal markdown item last year, so it was just thirty-five dollars.” He turned and stared at her. “Listen to yourself, Claire. You aren’t serious, are you?”
“Yes, I am,” she said, letting go of the shirt. “I’m not stepping out of the car at Miranda’s unless I have a ring.”
“Look,” Alec said. “Be reasonable. We probably should have thought about this ring thing, but there’s no way we’re going to get one at this late stage.”
“I’m sorry,” she said stubbornly. “But we have to. I’m not going up there and facing Miranda and all her friends and family, just so they can all whisper about me when I leave the room. Isn’t it a shame about Claire? Once again deluding herself into thinking she’s getting married, when this jerk is too cheap to buy her a ring.”
“I resent that,” Alec told her. “Tell them I bought you one so big that you’re afraid to actually wear it. Or tell them I bought you one but it’s being sized.”
Claire slouched in her seat. “Don’t you think everyone will see through those lies?”
“Not if they don’t see through the rest of the ones we’re telling.”
“That’s my point,” she said vehemently, so vehemently, in fact, that Alec swerved a little on the road before Claire grabbed the wheel. He pushed her hand away, the sudden contact leaving her even more rattled than she was before. She continued, trying to stay calm. “I think that the ring is the prop on which this whole charade is going to hinge.”
Without warning, Alec pulled the car into a fast-food drive-thru restaurant and parked. “If this discussion is going to get any livelier, I’d like to be off the road for it. Claire, when a couple tells me they’re engaged, I believe them. I don’t question their relationship, and I don’t start calculating in my head how much that rock set him back.”
This had gone all wrong. She’d never meant to get so hysterical and materialistic. Over what? Over not getting a diamond from someone who probably wouldn’t spare the fifty cents it would take to get a toy ring from a Cracker Jack box? She said quietly, “I think you look at everything with a cynical eye, and so do a lot more people than you expect. I think that if I were Miranda, and my old friend Claire showed up with someone that she was trying to pass off as a fiancé, but this Claire didn’t have a ring, and the fiancé just happened to be a newspaper reporter—editor, I mean—I think I’d either put two and two together or pay someone to do it for me.”
They sat in silence for a few moments, then Alec started the car. “I’m convinced,” he said. His tone had lost its belligerence. “Since we’re only a few miles out of town, we’ll turn back and hit a pawnshop. Do you want to split the cost of it?”
Claire hesitated before speaking. “Actually, I know a way we could get a ring without either of us spending money.” Cheered some, now that he seemed to be paying attention to her ideas, Claire began to outline her plan for Alec. “But first,” she said, “let’s swing through that drive-thru and get something to eat. All this arguing has left me starved.”
DID HE DOUBT himself? Hank answered his own question. No, he did not doubt himself. It wasn’t even noon yet, and he had already polished off all of his work. Even though no one else was in the office, force of habit made him download his articles onto a disk and shove it in his drawer. Everyone else uploaded their work straight into the paper’s net server, where articles written by one writer were open to perusal by all. This meant that Alec, when feeling nitpicky, or Lissa, being bored, or Mick, trying to be helpful, would invariably scratch and poke at everyone else’s stories until press time. He knew Claire did the same thing he did, handing Alec only hard copy and hiding the electronic copy somewhere untouchable until press time.
His own work behind him, Hank moved on to Lissa’s rough draft, wondering where she was the day her journalism professor covered the difference between “draft” and “notes.” A draft implied that sentences had been put together, paragraphs at least vaguely sketched out. This, instead, was a list of names, guests at the reception he supposed, with cryptic comments like “sixties sheath” and “chiffon ruffle thing” written out to the side.
“Where the hell is everybody?”
Hank looked at his watch. It was only eleven, a record for Mick. “Claire and Alec went to the taping, remember? You’re here early.”
“I’ve got to write a story. Kind of nervous about it,” Mick said, hanging up his hat and pouring the remaining dregs of the coffee Hank had made earlier. “Where’s Lissa?”
“She had to run an errand. I’m sure she’ll be back,” Hank said.
“I don’t care one way or another,” Mick told him. “If I didn’t have this story breathing down my neck, I’d be out on my boat. You ought to head out early, too. When Alec’s away, there’s no better time to play.”
With that, Mick disappeared into his office, and Hank, despite all his past confidence in Mick, couldn’t help worrying a little about the mental sharpness of the man who seemed to forget that Alec worked for him, not the other way around. Hank was still brooding about how to stretch Lissa’s scrawl into a story when the door to the publisher’s office creaked open and Mick stuck his head out, paler than Hank had ever seen him before.
“Hypothetical question for you, buddy.” Mick’s voice rang out in false cheer. “Would it be possible for someone to throw the entire editorial content of the paper into the computer’s trash?”
Hank’s voice, when he could speak, was a whisper. “Did you empty it, too?”
Mick nodded.
ALL RIGHT, here was the new theory Alec was working on, one fueled, no doubt, by the greasy fast-food sausage and biscuit he’d just downed, followed by a twenty-ounce coffee to go. Claire had also graciously forked over some of her giant cinnamon roll, and the sugar high he was getting from that was probably contributing to his current l
ine of illogical thought. Because he was on the verge of an idea so preposterous that he knew he wasn’t thinking rationally. He was beginning to think Claire made him nervous.
He knew that all the evidence indicated that exactly the opposite was true. But what if her own nervousness was simply a reaction to his? What if he was the one who was jittery whenever he was around her, and she was so put off by his herky-jerky demeanor that it made her a wreck just to be near him? He thought back to the first time he’d met her, on the elevator headed upstairs. He had a clear vision of what she looked like that day. Her hair swung to the left side, and she had on an oversize white dress with pink flowers. He remembered feeling this odd jolt of recognition when he saw her, only it was the kind of feeling you get when you run into a college professor at the gym after you’ve faked a case of mono, or when you run into your landlord at an expensive restaurant when you haven’t paid your rent in two months. He had this strange notion he’d disappointed her somehow.
Then she’d tripped him, and all that déjà-vu stuff was gone. Once he’d extracted his tie from between the elevator doors, he’d studiously avoided her, bounding out of the close space before the doors were barely open in his haste to get away from her. She’d followed him, and the rest was their history.
Revisionist history, he told himself. That’s what he was engaging in, trying to talk himself into this crazy idea. Couldn’t he point to plenty of times when he’d tormented Claire with his wicked coolness, while she’d quaked before him? Smiling to himself, he remembered some of them. There, he felt better. At least until he looked at Claire in the seat next to him, happily reading the daily paper without an apparent care in the world. She didn’t even seem to mind that her dress had hiked up to an even more risqué level than its original one.
Alec tapped on the paper. “Trying to make friends with the truck drivers, Claire?”
She put the paper aside. “What?” She glanced down. “Oh, I understand.” She yanked the fabric back down and primly crossed her legs at the ankles. Her mad blushing cheered him, and when he spoke again, he put a note of concern in his voice.
“Are you sure this is the right thing to do?”
“This whole trip is probably wrong-headed, and I think in my heart that I know that. But this at least gives me an excuse to do something I couldn’t make myself do any other way,” she said.
He had his own doubts about Claire’s plan. To get a ring on her finger with minimal expense, she’d proposed using the engagement token she’d gotten from the notorious Scott. They were going to swing back by Claire’s house to pick it up, then take it to a nearby pawnshop to trade for another one. He’d wondered why she couldn’t just wear that one to the retreat, but the squawking and near-hysteria that ensued reminded him that Miranda had seen the ring. His next question was whether or not Claire was really fine with this. He stopped himself every time he started to ask, and they completed the trip back to her house in silence.
He left the engine running as she jumped out of the car and went back into the house. She returned less than a minute later, clutching the piece of jewelry in her palm. She buckled her seat belt, and they were off again.
“I’m surprised you didn’t take the opportunity to pace the property off while you had the chance,” Claire said.
Ignoring her wisecracks, he said, “Can I see it?”
She opened her hand, and he gazed at the glittery object sheltered there, not knowing what he was looking for. She closed her fist around it again. “I am, really,” Claire said, “fine with this.”
Startled, he glanced up at her. She went on. “Is that what you’ve been wondering?” When he nodded, she continued, “I think this is the perfect way to let go of this. I couldn’t sell it, because I couldn’t see being happy blowing the money on something frivolous. I’d think, this money I just spent once symbolized my whole future for me.” Her voice dropped ominously. “What kind of future is that?”
He shivered involuntarily, then forced himself to get a grip. “So why didn’t you throw it in the river? Women are always doing that in movies.”
“No. That didn’t seem satisfying, either. I’d have a moment of triumph. Then what? No, this way I actually get something tangible out of the deal.” Although he’d seen Claire smile before, once or twice, those had been quiet smiles, half smiles. He had never seen this expression of warm optimism that she now wore, and he found that he liked it. “This can be a symbol of my new life as someone married to her job.”
He had to lighten the mood a little. “As the paper’s best and hardest-working life-style reporter.”
He was braced for the whack on the chest he took from her rolled-up daily paper. “News, Alec,” Claire said. “I’d hate to have to spill the truth to Miranda as soon as we get there. You know how sometimes I can’t resist blurting out the first thing that comes to my mind.”
“I’ve only recently noticed that particular trait.” He cruised into the parking lot of Charlie’s Pawnshop. “I once bought a watch here, and Charlie, the guy who runs it, is an okay guy. Unless there’s someplace you’d rather go.”
“No, this is fine,” she said. “And to think that I believed the paper paid you enough to afford that elegant timepiece.” Claire got out of the car and handed Alec the ring. “You do the talking.”
Alec hadn’t considered how suspicious it might sound to Charlie that they wanted to trade the ring for one of the same value, especially since they didn’t have one already picked out. Charlie kept examining the diamond, checking it for flaws. Finding none, he asked Alec, “Why not just keep this one?”
It was a good question, and one that couldn’t be answered truthfully. “Well,” Alec said, “you see…”
Charlie interrupted him. “You got that watch here, didn’t you?” Alec nodded. “How much did you pay for it?” When Alec reminded him of the figure, his expression lost some of its wariness. “That was a good deal from my side of the fence,” he said.
“To use an apt expression,” Claire said in a low voice. Alec kicked her in the ankle, and looked at the pawnbroker. Apparently a real sufferer of the same hearing ailment Alec had faked, he was oblivious to the bickering going on around him, once more checking the stone.
“You were going to tell me why you weren’t keeping the ring?”
“Yes,” Alec said, but before he could continue, Claire had pressed in front of him, leaning on the counter. Thinking she had forgotten exactly how low-cut her dress was, Alec took her shoulders in his hands, pulling her back next to him and putting his arm around her cozily. She pushed her hair behind her ear, a sure sign that he was making her nervous. He gave her shoulders a squeeze and waited to hear what she said next.
“My fiancé doesn’t want to tell you why we’re trading in this ring, because he’s embarrassed.” Before Alec could object, he felt her sharp elbow digging ever so slightly into his ribs. “See, this ring belonged to his great-aunt, whom he adored, and she wanted him to have it. Since he thought his aunt and uncle had a happy marriage, he took it from her. Well, once both of them had passed away, the true story came out. Her husband…”
“His great-uncle?”
“Yes. Her husband had been his own grandmother’s first sweetheart, and he had bought this ring for his grandmother, until his great-aunt…”
“Her sister?”
“Yes, very good. Until her sister had spread terrible lies about her and taken her boyfriend away. Now, all the principals in this story have passed on, and so there’s no reason why we shouldn’t feel all right about using this ring, but it just seems kind of cursed, somehow. You know?”
Alec stared at Claire admiringly. Why had he ever thought she wouldn’t make a good liar? She looked pretty pleased with herself, her cheeks flushed and her eyes sparkling. Then the man said, “And you think a ring that somebody traded in here is a better omen for your marriage?”
Claire’s mouth tightened, and she stood up straight, shaking Alec’s arm off of her. “Just give u
s a ring.”
“All right, all right.” He pointed to a glass case. “Anything on that second row, we’ll call it an even trade.”
Having expected Claire to grab a ring and go, Alec was annoyed to see her lingering over the various choices. “I’m not crazy about any of these,” she said.
“You don’t have to be crazy about any of them,” he said. “It’s not going to matter in the long run.”
“That’s not a very optimistic way to look at a new marriage,” the owner said.
“What I meant was, we’re in a bit of a hurry today. Pick one, Claire.”
She had been bent near the glass case, examining the rings. Now she stood up with a dreamy look in her eyes. “You know what? I don’t want a diamond. I agree with Anne of Green Gables, who waited all her life to see one, only to find it cold and ugly.”
He’d already figured out that when Claire drifted into her childhood literary references, it spelled trouble for him. He tried to reason with her. “Engaged women wear diamonds, not something else.”
She drifted to the next case and pointed to a ring there. “Look at this beautiful sapphire.” Pressed, he would have admitted that it was indeed beautiful. A blue stone, marquise-cut, placed in a simple gold band. “I’m disillusioned by diamonds. I want this,” Claire said.
“This is ridiculous. People will think I was too cheap to spring for the real thing.”
“A little while ago, you didn’t mind people thinking you were too cheap to spring for a ring at all.” She pointed to it. “We’ll take that one,” she told Charlie.
“I might owe you five bucks or so,” Charlie said, handing Claire the sapphire. When she slipped it on, it fit perfectly.
Alec started to say they’d call it an even trade, but Claire pointed to a manual Underwood typewriter on a nearby shelf. “Throw in that and it’s a deal.”