Put a Ring On It

by Beth Kendrick

  Brighton stopped sniffling. “I’m sure he will. But—”

  “I want a simple platinum band, no frills, nothing fancy. That part I can take care of by myself.” Lila’s eyes got even sparklier. “But I want you to engrave the inside. One word: Proliferation.” She grinned. “Don’t ask.”

  “Oh, I wasn’t going to.”

  “Can you do that?”

  “Sure, engraving is simple enough. Just pick a band and I’ll get on it. But—”

  Before she could finish her sentence, the shop door swung open and Dumplin’ strutted in. Once again, the busty blonde’s skirt was short, her hair was high, and her entire wardrobe—from hoop earrings to handbag to high heels—was emblazoned with designer logos.

  “Oh good, you’re here.” She made a beeline for Brighton, ignoring Lila completely. “I was telling my friend how much I love my new watch.”

  Brighton glanced at Dumplin’s companion, then had to do a double take. She recognized the tall, willowy redhead from a slew of romantic comedies . . . and, more recently, from the tabloid covers at the grocery checkout. Clea Cole had dated her way through Hollywood’s A-list before settling down with Carson St. Giles, an actor who contributed to children’s charities when he wasn’t starring in summer action flicks.

  But now, after several years of photo-op bliss, Clea and Carson were divorcing.

  Lila had mentioned that celebrities occasionally retreated to Black Dog Bay after breaking up with their boyfriends or husbands, but Brighton was still a bit starstruck. She did her best not to stare. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “I look like a rap star. That’s a good thing,” Dumplin’ said.

  Brighton glanced around. “How’s your . . . gentleman friend doing?”

  “Who?” Dumplin’ seemed genuinely mystified for a moment. “Oh, you mean Hiram? We broke up right after I picked up the watch.” Dumplin’ punctuated this with an exasperated sigh and an eye roll.

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Brighton murmured.

  “Don’t be.” Dumplin’ laughed. “He had truckloads of money, but not enough to pay me to go bass fishing with him all day.”

  “Oh,” Brighton said weakly. “Well, that’s . . .”

  “I guess if I were a lady, I’d return all the jewelry he bought me, but I figure I’ve earned it.” Dumplin’ let loose with a raucous laugh.

  “You are so crass.” Clea Cole finally spoke up. Her voice was as rich and cultured in person as it was on camera.

  “Which is why you’ve been my best friend since middle school,” Dumplin’ concluded cheerfully. “Anyway, I want you to make something for my friend here. She’s having a tough summer and she needs some cheering up.”

  “Pleased to meet you; I’m Brighton.” Brighton extended her right hand and tried to forget the fact that she’d read all about this woman’s split from her husband during her last visit to the dentist. The actress didn’t appear to be suffering—she looked fantastic even in jeans and a white T-shirt, and the article about her breakup (titled “A Perfectly Pleasant Parting”) had included interviews with her and her ex, both of whom raved about how much they still adored and respected each other. (“We’ve evolved past petty and bitter,” Clea had been quoted as saying. “I’m so grateful Carson has shared this portion of my journey.”)

  “I’m Clea.” She leaned in and bestowed a double air-kiss on Brighton. “I’m not quite sure what I’m looking for. Something one of a kind. Amber says you do excellent design work.”

  Note to self: Dumplin’ has a name, and it’s Amber.

  Brighton looked down and demurred. “Oh, I’d love to, but I’m not going to be working here much longer.”

  “What?” Clea and Dumplin’—Amber—both looked outraged. Not to mention Lila. “Why?”

  “I’m here on a temporary basis, and my time is up, I’m afraid.” Brighton nodded across the counter. “But this is the store owner, Lila, and she has lots of fantastic designers she works with—”

  “No.” Amber slammed her hand down. “We want you.”

  Brighton communed with the countertop. “I’m so flattered, but I really—”

  “Ooh, what is that?” Clea drifted over to the other side of the showroom.

  “What is what?” Brighton joined Lila to see which piece Clea was pointing out.

  Lila pulled out the white leather case and handed Clea the massive silver ring. “That’s a poison ring.”

  “A poison ring?” Clea sounded delighted. “Is that a real thing?”

  “Apparently. I’d never heard of it, either, until Brighton filled me in.” Lila and Clea turned to Brighton, who summarized the history and purpose of poison rings.

  The sweet-faced starlet with the voice of an angel broke into a diabolical smirk. “So you could actually kill someone with this?”

  “I guess theoretically you could.” Brighton didn’t like the way Clea’s smile broadened. She hastened to add, “If you put actual poison in the chamber, which of course we don’t recommend.”

  “Yes,” Lila chimed in. “We don’t endorse homicide here at the Naked Finger.”

  The two-time Oscar nominee rubbed her palms together. “Of course not.”

  “They’re purely decorative.” Lila sounded a bit panicky.

  “A poison ring—I love it. I love everything about it.” Clea examined the stones. “Everything except the actual ring, that is. It’s so big and clunky.” She held the ring aloft and turned it from side to side, considering her options. “Can you make a smaller one? Dainty and feminine, with diamonds and platinum?”

  “I could,” Brighton said. “If I were staying through the end of summer. But since I’m leaving and I have a bit of a backlog—”

  “What backlog?” Lila demanded.

  “Don’t worry about it,” Brighton said.

  “I want it.” Clea addressed Lila. “Make this happen. Make her stay and do this.”

  Lila turned to Brighton. “Stay and do this.”

  “I’ll draw one sketch,” Brighton relented. “But after that—”

  “Actually, I want three,” Clea decided. “One for me; two for my friends who are getting divorced. We’ll put lovely designs on the outside—flowers or hearts or something—and our exes’ names on the inside.” She turned to her BFF from middle school. “What do you think? I need something original, meaningful, and still cute.”

  “How about a black dog?” Amber suggested. “We’re in Black Dog Bay.”

  “Perfect!” Clea exclaimed. “Yes, I want little black dogs on the lids of the poison chambers. Like the dog on the sign at the town border. Can you do that?”

  “Sure.” Brighton started sketching. “I could do a little Labrador silhouette in onyx against yellow or white gold. The black dog is kind of a big deal around here. It’s magic.”

  Clea leaned in, intrigued. “Magic?”

  “Yes.” Brighton tried to recount the snippets she’d heard from the locals. “Supposedly, there’s a phantom dog that appears to you when you’re starting to heal from heartbreak.” She turned to Lila for clarification. “Right?”

  “Right. The black dog symbolizes hope and new beginnings. It’s good luck.” Lila glanced down, smiling to herself. “Not really appropriate for a poison ring.”

  “That black dog will still mean good luck,” Clea promised. “Good luck for my ex that his lying, cheating ass is still alive.”

  Brighton blinked. “What happened to ‘A Perfectly Pleasant Parting’? I thought you and your husband were having some sort of Zen divorce?”

  Clea snorted. “I hate that narcissist with undying passion. Everyone warned me about on-set romances, but would I listen? No. I was convinced he was different. I fell in love with the role he was playing, and by the time the mask came off, it was too late—our wedding pictures were on the cover of People.”

 
“I know just how you feel,” Brighton murmured. “Minus the People cover.”

  “And riddle me this: If he’s so damn Zen, why is he fighting me for the Malibu beach house?”

  This is how it ends, Brighton realized. This is what happens when you don’t really know the person you marry.

  Clea shook her fist. “I need that engraved poison ring and I need it now. And you can do the two for my friends in onyx, but I want my dog made out of black diamonds. With a little green collar made of emeralds.”

  “But . . .”

  “Shut your mouth and sketch,” Lila hissed.

  “We can do pavé with black diamonds,” Brighton muttered as she put pen to paper. A few minutes later, she tore off the sketch and showed it to her audience.

  “Exquisite,” Clea declared.

  “Masterful,” Lila pronounced.

  “Fuckin’ fabulous,” Amber exclaimed. “Cute and cuddly on the outside, lethal on the inside. Just like Clea.”

  “I’ll call my bench jeweler and see how soon he can get started once we source materials,” Lila said.

  “You do that,” Brighton told Lila. “Meanwhile, I have to track down some intel.”

  Lila lowered her voice. “What kind of intel?”

  “Intel about the man I married.”

  Lila hesitated for a second, then scribbled a name and number on the back of a business card. “Here. You’re helping me; I’ll help you. But use this wisely—remember, you can never unhear what this woman is going to tell you.”

  chapter 26

  “You want intel on Jake Sorensen?” Summer Benson leaned over the bar and poured herself a glass of pinot grigio. With her windblown platinum pixie cut, cat-eye sunglasses, and devil-may-care attitude, Summer didn’t exactly fit the stereotype of a mayor’s wife, but Brighton was instantly drawn to her. “I’ll tell you what I know, but it’s really not much. Congratulations, by the way.” Her glance lingered on Brighton’s ringless left hand, but she didn’t comment.

  “Excuse me,” Jenna huffed. “I’m the bartender. I pour the drinks.”

  “I’ll try to remember that next time.” Summer added a few ice cubes to the white wine, eliciting a horrified gasp from Jenna. Then she winked at Brighton. “Never gets old.”

  Brighton took a sip of Jenna’s special-edition, limited-time-only sun tea. “Lila told me you were his best—and only—female friend.”

  “I guess that depends on how you define ‘friends.’ We hang out every now and then, but we don’t have some deep emotional bond.” Summer sipped her wine. “Mmmm. The ice makes it extra good.”

  Jenna let out a strangled growl.

  “So you two don’t talk about anything of substance?” Brighton asked.

  At this, Summer laughed. “Look at me. Look at Jake. Do we strike you as people of substance?”

  “Well, what do you talk about?” Brighton pressed.

  Summer shrugged. “I don’t know. Nothing.”

  “You talk about something,” Jenna insisted. “I see your mouths moving.”

  Time for some leading questions. “Do you talk about his business deals?” Brighton asked.

  Summer made a face. “No.”

  “What about his childhood?” Brighton continued. “Have you met his brothers?”

  Summer seemed genuinely surprised. “Jake has brothers?”

  “Hold the phone.” Jenna twisted her pink dish towel into a cloth pretzel. “He has brothers? Where are they? Do they all look like him?”

  Brighton settled back against the wrought iron seat, simmering with frustration. “Why is it so hard to get any kind of straight answer when it comes to Jake?”

  “Because he’s emotionally crippled.” Summer put down her wineglass. “And he’s managed to work it to his advantage.”

  “It’s part of the Jake Sorensen mystique,” Jenna agreed.

  “Let’s think about this. What do you do with your friends? You have fun, you laugh, you go out on the town now and then.” Summer ticked these off on her fingers. “Jake and I do all that stuff. But real friends talk to each other about, you know, life. Real things like work and family and relationships. We don’t get into all that.” She tapped her lower lip, considering. “Actually, now that I think about it, I tell him stuff about my life and he’s a good listener. He gives good advice. But he doesn’t reciprocate at all.”

  Brighton waited until Jenna bustled into the back room, then confided, “As I said on the phone, his first wife showed up out of the blue yesterday. I was really hoping for answers. You don’t have any insights at all?”

  “Insights, no. Answers, yes.” Summer placed a manila folder on the bar top with the air of a seasoned PI who’d struck pay dirt. “Genevieve Van Petten. Married Jake fourteen years ago in Dewey Beach. Marriage was annulled, reason cited as ‘fraud.’ Records are sealed.”

  Brighton glanced through the paperwork with astonishment. “How did you get this?”

  Summer adjusted her sunglasses and smiled enigmatically. “I have my ways.”

  “Fraud?” Brighton frowned down at the grainy photocopied sheets of paper. “What does that mean?”

  “I have no idea,” Summer said. “But I know who might. We’re going to have to hit up Black Dog Bay’s most reliable source for old-money, high-society scandal.” With a grim expression on her face, she yelled to Jenna, “We’re taking two shots of vodka! Each!”

  Brighton blinked. “Isn’t it a little early to be hitting the hard stuff?”

  “Normally, yes. But these are special circumstances.” Summer downed her shot and pointed to the sprawling purple mansion barely visible around the curving shoreline of the bay. “We’re going to the Purple Palace.”

  • • •

  “Why is this house painted purple?” Brighton asked Summer as they walked down the cobblestone driveway toward the massive marble steps.

  “Because the owner is petty, spiteful, and can hold a grudge for all eternity.” Summer unwrapped a stick of gum and popped it into her mouth. “Oh, and she also happens to be my employer.”

  Brighton stopped in her tracks. “You talk about your employer that way?”

  “She likes it.” Summer snapped her gum. “She’s the original gangster around here, and she’s proud of her reputation.”

  “But if you work for her, she must have a soft side, right?”

  “Not really.” Summer rang the doorbell.

  “Then why do you look so happy to be here?”

  “Because hard-to-handle harpies like to hang out together?” She blew a huge pink bubble while the chimes resounded inside the house. When the bubble popped, she grinned at Brighton. “Introducing Miss Hattie Huntington, harpy at large.”

  The door swung inward. Before Brighton could even glimpse the face on the other side of the threshold, she heard a cold, commanding voice. “How many times do I have to tell you that chewing gum is vulgar? Vulgar beyond the telling.”

  Summer obligingly leaned down toward the planted shrub next to the door.

  “If you spit that chewing gum onto my myrtle, you will wish you had never been born.” The voice was so chilling, Brighton physically shuddered.

  “Hey, girl. I missed you, too.” Summer bounded into the foyer and threw her arms around a woman Brighton still couldn’t see.

  Brighton stayed right where she was on the steps until Summer waved one arm to beckon her in. “Don’t be scared. Come on in and meet Hattie.”

  “For the last time, you will address me as Miss Huntington.” A tiny, white-haired old woman with piercing blue eyes and a huge emerald cocktail ring spared Brighton a dismissive glance. “How many times must I tell you, it’s unspeakably rude to show up on my doorstep with no warning.”

  “One woman’s unspeakably rude is another woman’s way to show how much she cares.” Summer wandered around the entry hall,
stopping to sniff a floral arrangement and snag a truffle from a beribboned white box. “Ooh, these are delicious.”

  Miss Huntington balled up her bony fists. “Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

  Summer returned to the doorway, yanked Brighton over the threshold, and shoved a truffle in her face. “You have to try this.”

  Miss Huntington snatched the box away from Summer. Brighton cringed.

  “Stop showing fear,” Summer advised. “You’re just making things worse.”

  “Don’t you dare speak about me like that, Ms. Benson,” Miss Huntington said. “I am an impeccable hostess. You are just so . . . so . . .”

  “So!” Summer helped herself to another truffle. “Have you given any more thought to that online dating profile?”

  “No. Why are you here, Ms. Benson?”

  Brighton, gaze cast downward, edged back toward the door.

  Summer gave up tormenting the old woman and got down to business. “We need some insider info on a bunch of snobs, and I figured we’d go straight to the source.”

  “Well, I never.” Hattie sniffed. “The nerve! The very implication that I would engage in such talk.”

  Summer leaned against a marble column and waited.

  After five seconds of silence, Hattie cracked. “Who is it?”

  “What do you know about the Van Petten family?” Summer asked. “Genevieve Van Petten, in particular.”

  Hattie opened her mouth to reply, then turned to Brighton with dark suspicion. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced.”

  “Oh, this is Brighton Smith,” Summer said. “She’s cool.”

  “Are you a tourist?” Hattie demanded.

  Before Brighton could reply, Summer forged ahead: “She tried to be, but you know how things go around here. She just married Jake Sorensen, so she’ll be in town for a bit.”

  Hattie’s pinched expression finally relaxed as shock set in. “Jake Sorensen got married? Surely not!”