Ring of Truth

by Ciji Ware

  Yet, in the far recesses of her mind, a familiar fear began to edge into her consciousness as Ren’s kisses traced a delicate path down her neck. How could the miracle that had happened to her in the space of a week possibly be real? And how could she trust her own judgment after making such a terrible mistake with Charlie? She waited for her own thoughts to caution her against the direction she knew these embraces would lead if she truly allowed her heart to have its way.

  But instead, all she heard resounding in her head were five whispered words.

  Yes... this is the one!

  Relief and a sense of utter peace enveloped her as real and reassuring as the warmth of Ren’s body next to hers. Kerry raised her arms to thread her fingers through his hair, a rich, dark gold in the rays of the porch light filtering through the cottage window. Then she leaned back in his arms.

  “I can’t wait for you to meet my godmother, Angelica Fabrini Doyle. Do you think we have the budget to fly back to New York for Christmas?”

  “Well, I already like the sound of her Irish-Italian name. Let me take it up with the Finance Committee.” He paused. “Great! They said ‘yes.’ Economy class.”

  “She’s going to be just wild about you, Signore Montisi.”

  Ren pulled her close again.

  “Ah... Kerry Hannigan,” he murmured. “You’re magic... this is magic...”

  Kerry smiled against his seeking lips.

  “Faith and Begorrah, I do believe it is...”

  It suddenly occurred to Kerry that it was just past midnight. Today marked a week since Angelica had bestowed on her the heart-shaped gemstone, held between two metal hands and framed by its tiny gold crown. In just a few more hours it would be seven full days since she had placed it on her finger, which meant that soon, the Claddagh would be nothing more than a pretty piece of jewelry... but no matter. Her godmother’s gift had worked its enchantment.

  And then, the sounds in Kerry’s world were that of a breeze blowing gently through the olive trees on the hills that surrounded the cottage. The sage-colored leaves and dormant stalks of lavender sighed in the wind, an echo of other soft exclamations of pleasure and delight.

  ***

  The first night Ren stayed with her in the cottage, Kerry pointed to the Claddagh ring and explained its symbolism: friendship, loyalty and love.

  “My godmother gave this to me the day before I moved to California and urged me to know my own heart, just as the inscription says.” She slipped off the ring and pointed to the words incised in the metal. “I honestly believe that accepting its message led me to you... but I want to earn my way at the ranch as myself, and by my own contributions and talents—and not as your girlfriend.” She searched Ren’s face for his reaction as she restored the ring to her finger. “That’s why I want to wait a year to make our engagement official. Just know, though, that the Claddagh ring will always symbolize what we have together.”

  She wasn’t quite ready to tell him of the still, small voice that she was certain had come from the emerald heart during that first week. Ren seized her hand and admired the ring before replying with the grin that had won her heart from the first.

  “I totally understand your wanting to prove yourself here, but trust me,” he teased. “We’re not fooling anyone.”

  “Maybe so,” she’d replied, “but I like the idea of being secretly engaged. One day, if the ranch is in the black, I’ll let you buy me another ring... or I’ll take off the Claddagh now, and we can use it as our engagement ring then, if our budget is still tight.”

  Ren smiled at her with a tenderness that brought tears to her eyes.

  “I love that ring,” he assured her. “Keep it on, but turn the heart toward your own so it tells the world you’ve made your choice.”

  Kerry promptly did as instructed. Ren held her right hand in his.

  “Every time we look at it during the year,” he said, “we’ll both know what it means.” He kissed her on her nose in quick succession to emphasize each word. “Friendship, loyalty... and love.” Then he kissed her properly, murmuring, “Especially, love.”

  And so it was that Kerry Hannigan and Renato Montisi walked out of Tiffany’s in downtown San Francisco one December afternoon—a year to the very day of their first meeting. Ms. Hannigan had a brand new square-cut diamond surrounded by smaller stones on the ring finger of her left hand. In the store, she had slipped the Claddagh into its burgundy leather box and stowed it in her purse with the intention of telling Ren, later this glorious day, how the Ring of Truth had worked magic in their lives.

  They were due to pay a visit to Ren’s grandmother at the San Francisco Towers, not only to announce their official engagement, but to report on the success of their beauty products line based on the year’s olive oil and lavender harvests.

  “The fact we didn’t lose money the first year is amazing,” Ren declared as he parked the car in the garage beneath the Civic Center, “to say nothing of making a modest profit, thanks to all the other things we’re doing at the ranch.”

  “And then you blew most of it on this ring,” Kerry said, admiring her left hand for the thousandth time as she got out of the car.

  “The last of my VC money,” he admitted, “which I am only to happy to spend on the woman I love.” Then, he very carefully leaned her against the Mercedes and kissed her senseless.

  Before visiting Concetta after her evening meal, they had decided to have an early supper themselves at five o’clock at one of their favorite spots in Opera Plaza, across from San Francisco’s magnificent, gold-domed City Hall. Afterwards, Ren proposed a stroll along Van Ness to admire the opera house itself, along with the Herbst Theater, home of the San Francisco Ballet.

  They had just finished sharing a salad and a shepherd’s pie when Kerry pointed out a noisy group wearing heavy stage makeup entering Max’s and crowding into a large booth across from theirs.

  “Looks like they’re from the opera or ballet,” Ren noted. “Probably grabbing a bite after the matinee.”

  One young woman, Kerry noticed, was silent among her boisterous companions. Her lovely features grew grave, and then tears suddenly began to spill down her heavily painted face. A soft sob escaped her lips and she swiftly rose from her seat at the end of the banquette and dashed outside into the Plaza while her compatriots continued their chatter, oblivious to her distress.

  Just then, a waiter appeared, handing Ren their check. Meanwhile, Kerry couldn’t take her eyes off the arresting young woman with darkish blond hair and high cheekbones. She was now standing a few feet from their table, but on the other side of the window. Her shoulders began to heave and soon she brought her two hands to cover her face in an expression of anguish that Kerry found difficult to watch. The contrast between the joy that she had been feeling all afternoon, and the abject misery radiating through the pane glass separating the two women, spurred her to action.

  “Ren... I’ll be right back!”

  Her fiancé looked up from signing the credit card slip and his brows furrowed.

  “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she assured him, jumping up from their booth. “Give me a minute, will you? I’ll meet you here in just a sec.”

  Before Ren could answer, Kerry disappeared from his view and bolted out the front of the restaurant. Digging into her handbag, she wrapped her fingers around the small ring box and walked hurriedly toward the woman laid low by such sorrow.

  “Look,” she said, breathlessly, “I know you don’t know me. I am so sorry for whatever has happened...”

  The woman’s expression of surprise became one of acute embarrassment and she turned her back on the intruder.

  “This may seem kind of crazy,” Kerry said in a rush, “but I want you to have something that’s very precious to me.” She circled the woman and reached for her hand. “Please take this,” she urged and thrust the ring box into her palm. “When you feel a bit calmer, take out the ring and read its inscription. There are instructi
ons that came with it when my godmother gave it to me a year ago at a time I was feeling pretty much the way I imagine you feel right now.”

  The woman stared at Kerry as if she were insane, but lowered her gaze to the well-worn leather ring box. Kerry retrieved the box once again and opened its lid to reveal the ring’s gold hands clasping the heart-shaped emerald, topped by its small, golden crown.

  “It’s called a Claddagh ring,” Kerry said explained. “It came from Ireland. It survived the nine-eleven tragedy in New York and who knows what else? I don’t totally understand it either, but read the instructions folded into the top of the box,” she urged, closing the lid and handing it back. “You’ll just have to trust me when I say this ring could change your life.”

  Just then, Ren emerged from the restaurant’s front door with a worried expression that brightened as soon as he caught sight of Kerry.

  “There you are,” he called to her. “I thought you’d vanished into thin air.”

  Kerry turned to the stranger. “Keep the faith that all will be well,” she urged softly, and then walked the fifty feet to Ren’s side.

  As she hooked her arm in his, he asked curiously, “Do you know that woman? She looks absolutely stricken. What’s wrong?”

  “I could see through the window that she was terribly upset about something, so I ran out to see if I could help.”

  Ren inclined his head over his shoulder and asked, “Did you find out what had happened?”

  Kerry gave a slight shrug.

  “Actually, I have no idea... I just wished her a bit of Irish luck, trusting that eventually, everything will be just fine.”

  *********

  A Diva Wears the Ring

  Diana Dempsey

  Chapter One

  Veronica Ballard stood on the sidewalk outside the restaurant clutching the ring box, passersby throwing quizzical glances in her direction as they pushed past her en route to their evening’s entertainment. She didn’t need a mirror to know she looked a fright, tears and stage makeup funneling down her face to stain the neckline of her cream-colored sweater. At least she wasn’t ruining her costume. But she’d had to leave that purple taffeta extravaganza behind at the Opera House for the next time the company mounted Don Giovanni. Chances were good that next time, too, she would be singing a minor soprano’s role.

  Then again... perhaps at last her life was changing.

  As the chilly San Francisco night swirled around her, Veronica glanced at the ring box and considered the airmail letter inside her handbag, which had shown up in her mailbox that very morning.

  It couldn’t be coincidence that she received those two extraordinary items just hours apart. It had to be a sign of something. No one who believed in destiny as fiercely as she did could think anything else.

  Again Veronica opened the box that cradled the ring; again she touched the green-colored gemstone in the shape of a heart set between golden hands and capped by a crown. It can’t be a genuine emerald, she concluded, no one would give that to a stranger; though just as that idea settled in her mind a sort of shimmer seemed to course through the gemstone, as if daring her to deny its authenticity.

  “Veronica?” a male voice called behind her.

  She spun around. It was Dominik, the bad-boy tenor from Budapest with the carefully disheveled blond hair, famous for cutting a swath through the ranks of the sopranos in every production in which he appeared.

  “Are you all right?” he asked in his lightly accented voice. “We’re all worried about you.”

  Even among opera singers, who embraced drama every chance they got, Veronica’s bursting into tears, fleeing a restaurant table, and nearly toppling two busboys on her way out the door was histrionic behavior.

  Veronica stuffed the ring box in her handbag, not wanting to have to explain that, too. “I’m sorry. Here we all are to celebrate our final performance, and I have a meltdown.”

  “Forget about the celebration.” Dominik edged still closer. “It’s you I’m worried about.”

  Veronica watched Dominik switch on his legendary charm. This time he didn’t bother to say we’re worried, and she could guess why. No doubt he was thinking there was still time to make her one of his conquests. Dominik was far from boyfriend material, though her boyfriends were always other opera singers or musicians. (And once a conductor, though that had earned her some grief.) Who else would they be? Those were the men she spent time with, the men she got to know. More than that, they were as unmoored and peripatetic as she was. They understood her life because they lived it, too.

  “Are you worried about Florence?” Dominik went on. “You shouldn’t be, you know. You’ll be wonderful.”

  Indeed she was petrified about the new role in Italy but not for the reasons Dominik assumed. “It’s all happening so fast,” she told him.

  Dominik was only inches away. It had to be said: Those hazel eyes of his were mesmerizing. Maybe she’d been wrong to keep him at arm’s length. How odd that for once she’d been cautious.

  Now she let herself speak freely. “The thing is, I received a letter from my birth mother. This morning.” Even though she heard the words come out of her mouth she still couldn’t quite believe them. “The first one ever.”

  Dominik frowned. “Birth mother?” he repeated, and Veronica realized she’d reached the limits of his excellent English.

  “I’m adopted. From Russia.”

  His brows flew up in shock. “You’re Russian?”

  “Sort of. My parents adopted me and brought me here to the Bay Area when I was only a few months old.”

  Understanding dawned. “Oh, I see. Birth mother. I see.” He nodded. “I see how you could be Russian,” he added, and Veronica knew what he meant. The blond hair, the fair skin, the blue eyes: She was a facsimile of Julie Christie’s Lara in Dr. Zhivago, though nowhere near so beautiful.

  “I’ve been writing to my birth mother for years,” Veronica went on. “Well, I write a letter and a contact in Moscow translates it and sends it on to her.”

  And every time Veronica’s contact forwarded her the return receipt, proving the letter had reached its intended recipient.

  “But after all these years,” she added, “this is the first time she’s ever written to me.”

  “Wow! Amazing. After all this time.”

  Veronica’s parents would be seriously distraught to hear that this time their precious daughter got a response. Which was why so far she’d kept this stunning development to herself.

  From the first, her parents had been forthcoming about her adoption. Even as a small child she remembered fingering the yellowing documents from the orphanage that told the melancholy tale of how her birth father was largely absent and her birth mother couldn’t afford to feed yet another mouth. So many times during her childhood Veronica had pored over the photos of her parents’ epic trip to Moscow, separated into Before and After they claimed their infant treasure. The Before photos were a travelogue: St. Basil’s Cathedral, with its whimsical bonnet of crayon-colored onion domes; the neoclassical majesty of the Bolshoi Theatre; the brooding hulk of the Kremlin. Baby Veronica was the star of the After photos: sitting in a borrowed high chair in a nondescript hotel room, baby food everywhere but in her mouth; in a sink awaiting a bath, naked and howling; swaddled in blankets to sleep in a suitcase, no crib for a bed. She grew up hearing that her parents, well past the bloom of youth when she came into their lives, had “picked her out special.” Russia hardly provided a beacon of hope for Americans in those days—or now—but it had for Georgette and Ed Ballard, whose adored Veronica was the only child they would ever call their own.

  It was with exquisite guilt that Veronica first inquired how they would feel if she tried to contact her birth mother. By then she was out of college and taking her first steps toward a career in opera. Something in her had to know where she came from. With her past a virtual blank she’d spun so many wild scenarios in her mind; she longed to know if any of them were close to tr
ue. So often she fantasized that her birth parents were the source of her wondrous voice. Maybe one of them was even an opera singer. By that point she understood that such a gift rarely translated into riches—not even in the U.S. or Europe, so she wouldn’t expect it in Russia.

  To this day she cringed recalling her parents’ shocked silence when she first brought up the topic. Bad as it was, their silence was easier to take than their pained acquiescence, and infinitely preferable to the muffled sobs she heard that night through the thin wall that separated their bedroom from her own.

  Now Dominik peered at her closely. “I understand why it would make you cry to hear from your birth mother.”

  “It’s not just that she wrote me. I mean, yes, that’s part of it, but that’s not all of it.” Veronica’s voice caught. “It’s what she wrote me.” This part she wished she didn’t have to say. “She wrote that she’s dying.”

  “Oh my God,” Dominik breathed.

  Veronica burst into fresh tears. Dominik took that as an opportunity to bundle her into his arms.

  Every time she thought about the letter, she could scarcely believe it. All these years—How many now? Ten? Twelve?—she’d hoped against hope that someday something more than a return receipt would show up in her mailbox. Finally it did and it said this. Maybe it was true what people said, to be careful what you wish for.

  Even though she was sobbing, Veronica kept going. “She wants me to come to Moscow to meet her. And it has to be soon because she could die any time.”

  “Really? She wrote that?”

  Dominik didn’t say anything more but she knew what he was thinking. She was thinking it herself. All of this was so surreal it seemed almost staged, like an opera. A tragic opera. Complete with ticking clock.