Ring of Truth

by Ciji Ware

  He deleted “healing hands” from the blurb, chose a picture of himself from the Whole Person Health website, and sent off an acceptance email to the Charity Chicks.

  Since he and Anne had started Whole Person Health, he’d been working on a relationship with his former critic. He knew he’d feel better about competing in the Mr. Single San Francisco contest, if he could get his favorite homeless vet to agree to get a flu shot before the flu season cranked into high gear. He logged off his computer and headed for the nearest food truck. With any luck he’d find his cranky critic today.

  ***

  Just after noon, Tara found a moment to call Daniel. His executive assistant put her through to him, and she immediately offered her congratulations.

  “Cut to the chase, Keegan. Is the hotel up to the job?”

  “We are so on it. Does Nicola have a favorite flower? Peony, lilac, tuberose?”

  “Red roses will work.”

  “So is red her favorite color?” Tara did not remember a photograph of Nicola Solari in red.

  “Every woman likes red roses.”

  “Her favorite fragrance?”

  “Expensive.”

  “Great, Daniel. You’ve been most helpful. Any other requests to make your stay more comfortable?”

  “Buckwheat pillows.”

  “Does Nicola sleep with one?”

  “I do.”

  “Okay. I’ll look into it for you.” Tara made a note.

  “And I’d like an appointment at Goorin Bros. I need a new hat.”

  “Do you need an appointment with them?” The flagship store of the famous hat makers was just blocks from the Belmont.

  “Timing matters. I hope you’re up to this, Keegan. This has got to be perfect.”

  For whom? The question popped into her head from nowhere, and she couldn’t help pushing back a little. “Daniel, if you have any doubts, why this hotel?”

  “The view of Coit Tower.”

  Daniel was right that the hotel had a perfect view of the iconic white tower at the top of Telegraph Hill overlooking the whole sweep of the bay.

  “But does it make sense to host your engagement bash where an ex-girlfriend works? I can call one of our competitors if it seems awkward.”

  “Awkward?”

  “For Nicola, because it’s her moment.”

  “Oh. That’s no problem. I never mentioned you to Nicola. You’ll just be part of the staff and if the staff does their job right, Nicola will never notice them.”

  Ouch! “Okay, well then, thanks for the information about her preferences. If you think of anything else, please call. We’ll do our best to make your weekend perfect.”

  Tara hung up and took a deep breath. Daniel’s self-important, finger-snapping, bottom-line attitude had pushed her buttons. She had slipped as a concierge. Arturo wouldn’t like her recommending a competitor to a client, especially not a client with important connections. She resolved to stay professional in her dealings with Daniel. Her ego might be in the ICU, but she’d survive. She’d make sure that Daniel and Nicola had their perfect weekend, even if Daniel’s idea of perfect seemed to be about satisfying himself rather than his fiancée-to-be.

  Daniel had obviously survived their break up, so maybe she could learn from him about cutting her losses. Maybe it was better to hit delete when the cursor hovered over files of early bad romances and move on, but didn’t people open up to each other about their pasts, about their mistakes and their growth and the things that had happened to make them who they were? Something to think about after her break up with Justin to whom she was now engaged.

  The thought made her glance at the ring on her finger, and she held up her hand to look at it again. Hello, ring, I’m listening. Do you have anything to say?

  Predictably, the gold and green band was silent.

  ***

  Jack found Eddie on a bench between the water’s edge and the Ferry Building. He didn’t try to fix Eddie any more. He just tried to keep the contact going, so he sat on the bench, prepared to shoot the breeze about the Warriors’ prospects for the season or the economy, always Eddie’s favorite topic. The fog had burned off, but the day was brisk, and the wind off the bay, sharp. Eddie had his hands wrapped around a tall, lidded paper cup. He looked warm enough in a worn, knee-length, navy wool jacket, and mostly he looked sober.

  Jack didn’t know when Eddie had decided get sober, some time after their disastrous experiment in living together. Living together seemed to bring out the worst in each of them. Jack kept trying to help. Eddie kept insisting that Jack’s medical degree was worthless, that he knew nothing about helping a vet in Eddie’s circumstances. The whole experiment exploded when Eddie tore the apartment apart in a drunken rage in front of Jack’s then girlfriend Lisa. Both Lisa and Eddie had walked out on him, and he didn’t see Eddie for more than a year, until he turned up in the ER that night beaten by a couple of thugs.

  Jack had done a lot of work since then trying to understand guys like Eddie and trying to resist the impulse to “fix” the broken. Eddie had been right that fixing was not healing, but knowing Eddie was right did not make it easy to see him resisting services that could get him off the streets. The coldest, wettest days of San Francisco’s brief winter lay ahead of them.

  Jack unwrapped his turkey sandwich. He knew better than to offer any to Eddie. Pigeons strutted about at their feet, and a gull landed on the railing to watch Jack consume his sandwich. While Jack ate and Eddie sipped his hot beverage, they covered the usual concerns of local sports’ fans, the Niners’ playoff prospects, the Warriors’ coaching woes, and the lead-up to spring training for the Giants. Then Eddie surprised him.

  “You dating anyone these days?”

  “No.” Jack felt his old wariness immediately surface, and worked to quell it. He and Eddie had very different ideas about women. “Why?”

  “I think it’s time for you to meet this girl I know. I think you’d like her.”

  That was a new one. Jack tried to picture the sort of girl Eddie would pick for him. She would be someone Eddie had met in a recovering addicts’ meeting or a veterans’ group. Jack pictured tattoos and piercings. Or maybe she’d be a twenty-something barista, with whom Eddie had struck up a flirtation. He pictured tattoos and piercings. The old Eddie, before Iraq and alcoholism, had been a high school hero, Jack’s hero, a popular football player who made diving catches and dazzling runs.

  “Tell me about her.”

  “Tara’s an Irish girl, descended from Irish people at any rate. She has that look—a smooth roses-and-cream complexion, hair like burnt caramel, big blue eyes.”

  “Figure?” Women in San Francisco tended to be model thin or athletically buff.

  “She has a figure. You’ll notice right away.”

  “So she’s hot, but for some reason, she’s available?” He tossed his sandwich wrapper in the trash, and the gull took flight.

  “She’s got this absentee boyfriend, Justin Wright, sort of like an absentee landlord. He neglects her, puts his work ahead of everything. She needs someone steady, reliable, like you.”

  “Did you just call me ‘dull,’ because I think you did?”

  “You know what I mean. You’re a regular guy. You’re not one of these high-flying tech types. You’ve got a dog. Watson hasn’t left you, right?”

  “Now you’re suggesting that I’d be good for this girl because Watson likes me. I feed Watson. What if she’s romantic?”

  “Oh, she’s romantic. She just doesn’t know it.”

  Jack realized that Eddie knew a lot about the girl, more than he imagined him knowing about most of the people he encountered in his life. Eddie, who was Mr. Self-Reliant, who would have found Walden Pond crowded, sounded almost fatherly toward this Tara.

  “How do you know her?”

  Eddie got up from his bench, moving stiffly and slowly. It could just be from the cold and from sitting so long, but Jack realized they hadn’t gotten around to talking about a flu shot.


  “She brings me my socks and coffee in the morning on her way to work.”

  “And where does she work?” Jack asked as casually as he could. He kept his gaze on a passing container ship. It would be unlike Eddie to reveal, even inadvertently, any detail that might let Jack know where he slept at night.

  Eddie took his time shouldering his pack. “The Hotel Belmont. She’s a concierge there.” He said it with obvious pride.

  Jack got up, too, careful not to show that he’d picked up on what Eddie had revealed. It was stunning information. If Eddie accepted help from this girl regularly, he must be hanging out more or less permanently in North Beach, an area of the city that was marginally less dangerous for the homeless. Jack felt a certain tightness in his chest loosen a fraction at the idea.

  “So, did I talk you into looking her up?”

  Jack was due back for his afternoon round of appointments, and he had one stop to make on the way. He wasn’t going to admit it, but he was curious about the woman who had won so much of Eddie’s trust. “You did convince me that I’ve made a big mistake agreeing to compete in the Mr. Single San Francisco contest. What woman is going to be interested in a steady guy with great dog-feeding skills?”

  “Well, listen, you take Tara out, and I’ll get that flu shot you want me to have.” Eddie turned and started to shuffle off. Squawking gulls swooped in over their abandoned bench.

  “Did I say anything about a flu shot?” Jack shouted over the gulls’ din.

  “You can’t stop being a doctor, you know. You’ve been checking my vitals mentally since you sat down. I’m going to give Tara your cell number.”

  ***

  Across the lobby Tara saw Jennifer approaching to fill in while Tara took her lunch break. She could use one. Mrs. Woodford had returned from lunch with another series of complaints, and a list of anticipated difficulties about their dinner plans.

  Jennifer threw a quick glance around and unwrapped another cough drop. “Whew, it’s a going to be a crazy weekend, isn’t it? Just don’t get in Arturo’s way.”

  “I won’t. Are you okay?”

  “Just a dry throat.”

  “Listen, I’ve got to do an errand on my break. Can you keep the desk covered if I’m a little late?”

  “No problem.” Jennifer coughed. “But show me the ring. I heard from Hadley that your man proposed.”

  Tara held out her hand. Okay, the Justin Wright thing was getting a little out of hand. Now she was deliberately misleading her friends, and that felt weird. She promised herself she would make it up to them. George opened the door to usher in a young couple, and traffic noise briefly filled her ears. She couldn’t be sure, but she thought she heard a voice. You’ve been misleading your friends for years.

  Jennifer looked underwhelmed by the ring. “It must be an heirloom, huh? I mean it’s not Tiffany’s or anything, but it’s sweet and traditional. It’s Irish, too. I didn’t know that your Justin could be so thoughtful.”

  Tara looked at the ring, which seemed to lose its luster as she wore it. Was she the only one who did not know her Irish rings? “That’s Justin, so thoughtful.”

  “Oh. I didn’t mean that he isn’t. It’s just that he always puts his work before you, you know, like when it’s your birthday, or when you got promoted, and he was away.”

  “He does travel a lot.” An unexpected thought popped into her head as if the words were spoken aloud, and she looked at the ring again.

  Even your fictional boyfriend is a bad boyfriend. Why?

  First the ring had sounded like Eddie, and now it sounded like a therapist. Her imagination was clearly out of whack and inventing voices.

  “Well, congratulations anyway.” Jennifer took over Tara’s position at the desk. “We should celebrate—pizza and gelato? And maybe the next time Justin’s in town we’ll meet him.”

  Tara nodded. “Sounds like a plan.”

  She collected her bag from the staff room and headed for the door. Since her grandmother’s passing she made regular trips to her grandmother’s attorneys’ offices on Montgomery to handle matters relating to the estate. It was odd that the ring was Irish like her grandmother, whose people had come in the late nineteenth century to the foothills above Sacramento for the last of the gold in California’s streams. She wasn’t particularly familiar with Irish lore as her mother favored brioche over soda bread every time.

  Tara ducked out of the hotel behind a pair of guests as George helped them into a cab. She wanted to avoid any awkward questions about Eddie until she had a chance to warn him. She had not yet seen any of the security men. Outside the hotel the fog had lifted on a sparkling, crisp day, sunlight glinting off gleaming skyscrapers and the bright bay. She grabbed a Muni bus down to the financial district.

  The late lunch crowd of returning lawyers and legal assistants streamed back into the neo-deco building that housed the firm of Burke, Wright & Ross. Tara’s heels clicked on the patterned floor. With the holiday decorations down, the grand foyer resumed its more understated elegance, not that anyone bunched in front of the elevators noticed. They all seemed intent on snagging a spot on the next car. Tara felt invisible in the mob. She glanced at her phone. No texts. She just had time to do her errand.

  A bell rang, the doors opened, and the crowd surged forward. Tara tried to press into the last available space before the doors closed, angling forward leading with her left shoulder. As she twisted to face the doors, she realized her bag was going to be caught. She tried to squish back and met a firm hand at her back.

  “Whoa, lady, take that trunk of yours and get the next one,” a male voice suggested.

  Simultaneously, she felt her bag turned ninety degrees by unseen hands and looked up through the closing doors to catch the merest glimpse of a gorgeous man in a dark gray suit and blue tie. He had wind ruffled dark hair and a pair of steady blue eyes that made her heart catch. He had seen her need and acted. The doors closed on his grin, trapping her bag against her shins as the elevator rose in a quiet whoosh. Feeling that she’d violated the unwritten code of elevator etiquette, Tara hunched her shoulders, and tried to make herself as small as possible. She felt the ring on her finger where her hand clutched her bag and heard again in her head the stranger who’d warned her—Don’t let your bag get in your way. At the first stop three people exited, jostling past her bag, making her tighten her hold on it.

  She stepped out on the eleventh floor. Maybe she should retain Burke, Wright & Ross to defend her bag. Really, her bag had never been a problem before today. A tight squeeze in an elevator was just part of city living, and she’d reached her appointment on time. Her bag had hardly held her back. In fact, it had earned her a grin from a handsome stranger.

  On her way back to the hotel, Tara looked for Eddie in two parks and one cafe. When she didn’t find him, she turned back to the Belmont and reached her desk in time for a brief afternoon lull while most guests were out shopping or touring the city. As soon as she took care of dinner reservations for a foursome from Sydney, she started an Internet search for Irish rings.

  It wasn’t hard to find them. They were called Claddagh rings and had a long history starting with a young Irishman captured by pirates in the seventeenth century and sold into slavery to a goldsmith in the Middle East where he learned jewelry making. Released after fourteen years, he had returned to Ireland to marry the girl who waited for him. Talk about a global relationship. The ring he fashioned for her represented love, loyalty, and friendship.

  Since then the rings had been handed down in families and had accompanied the Irish wherever famine and troubles had driven them. The rich and famous had worn them as well as the humble and obscure. Over two hundred Claddagh rings had been recovered from the rubble of the twin towers after 9/11. That fact stopped her dead in her research tracks. A little frisson of awe passed over her.

  She looked at the ring on her finger, wondering whether it had been lost on that day and found and passed on again because to bear the
burden of such loss was hard work, and lighter for everyone if each bore it only a short time, sort of like the terrible burden of Tolkien’s ring on poor unsuspecting hobbits.

  She knew her own burden of loss was small compared to the losses of that day, but sometimes the memory of loss came back fresh and stingingly sharp. On a sunny October Sunday when she was eleven, a month into her parents’ separation, before she had begun to use the word divorce, Tara had been reading in her favorite spot on the porch with her dog Sherlock when the first smell of smoke in the air alerted her to the fire. It was nothing like the smell of a barbeque.

  She’d looked up as her neighbor’s front door banged open, and the woman came running out to her car. Seeing Tara, she shouted that there was a fire and they needed to evacuate the neighborhood now. Tara was still staring at her when a car careened wildly down their narrow street. The driver’s panicked face had set her heart pounding, and she’d dashed inside to find her mother painting. Her mother insisted on confirming the news, but once she turned on the radio, she acted, instructing Tara to pack an overnight bag for each of them. While Tara put the bags and her rabbits’ cage in the car, her mother went back to her studio. She gathered up several canvases, and as they rearranged things in the car to fit the paintings, Sherlock bounded away down the street. They took off, Tara with the car window down calling for Sherlock, while ash and embers blew around them in swirling eddies. The scale of that disaster was nothing like the attack on the Twin Towers, but people had perished that day, too, and at least one marriage.

  Tara’s grandmother liked to say that love was the enduring memorial that marked a person’s passage through this life. But Tara’s parents saw things differently. Each wanted to leave a body of work. For her father that meant his life-saving medical research; for her mother that meant her art. For them the fire had intensified that determination. Her father had disappeared into his research. Her mother had answered the old philosopher’s riddle of what to save in a fire—the pet or the painting—by saving her paintings. Sherlock had not turned up among the lost pets recovered later.