With This Ring

by Patricia Kay

  But in spite of everything, he knew Amy still loved him. And somehow, he would make things up to her.

  Slowly, he drew her into his arms. "I should have been here," he said. She trembled, the tears sliding down her face. Sam held her and stroked her hair, fighting his own demons as he waited for the storm to pass.

  * * *

  For the first time in the past four days, Justin felt hopeful. He hurriedly finished his work for the day and left the office at six. On the way over to Amy's, he stopped at a roadside flower stand and bought her a big bouquet of daisies and carnations. He was whistling as he entered the already-opened gates. The whistle died on his lips when he saw Sam's Corvette.

  He hit the steering wheel. What was he doing here? Had he been here when Justin had talked to Amy? Justin parked alongside Sam's car and started up the stairs. It took all his willpower to keep his steps even and not race to the top.

  He tried not to peer into the windows as he knocked on the door. He'd never give Sam the satisfaction of thinking he was worried. The door opened almost immediately. Amy, looking pale and subdued in a long red skirt, oversized white sweater, and black boots, smiled up at him. It was a valiant effort, but lacked her usual sparkle.

  "Oh, how sweet," she said when he handed her the flowers. She reached up to kiss his cheek, effectively circumventing any attempt he might have made to give her another kind of kiss. As she moved aside so he could enter, his eyes met Sam's, who was sitting on a bar stool facing the living room. He had a can of Budweiser in his hand.

  "Hello, Justin," he said.

  "Hello, Sam."

  Neither of them smiled.

  "Well," Amy said with false cheerfulness, "I think I'll find a vase and put these in water. Would you like a beer, Justin?"

  "Sure." Justin eyed Sam in his chinos and black turtleneck shirt and wished he'd had time to go home and change out of his suit and tie. He'd always envied Sam his natural ease in clothes, the way anything he put on immediately became just the right thing to be wearing, whether it was faded jeans, designer slacks, or black tie and tails, which Justin had actually seen Sam wear once to an awards banquet. The memory of that night caused a lonely stab of regret for happier, less complicated, times.

  After Amy brought him his beer, she sat in her bentwood rocker. She'd poured herself a glass of wine and drank some. "Please sit down, Justin," she said, eyes begging him to cooperate.

  Justin walked around and sat on the couch. He took a slug of his beer. No one said anything.

  Elvis, Amy's big male cat, padded up to him and rubbed against his leg. Justin inwardly winced, knowing he'd have a pant leg full of cat hairs, but he gave the cat a head rub, grateful for something to do to fill the uneasy silence.

  Amy cleared her throat. "I thought the three of us needed to talk." She looked at Sam, then at Justin.

  Fine, Justin thought. Let Sam talk.

  Sam stared down at his beer and said nothing.

  The silence lengthened.

  Amy sighed. "Neither one of you is going to make it easy, are you?"

  Justin's gaze flicked to Sam. As their eyes met, he almost felt a return of their old camaraderie, because he knew that he and Sam both understood the reality of the situation, whereas Amy wanted a happy ending for everyone.

  "Look," she said softly, "we can't go on like this. I-I love both of you, and I want you to be friends again."

  Sam gave a strangled laugh.

  Justin shook his head.

  "Sam . . . " Amy said, a plea in her voice. "Justin. Please . . . talk to each other."

  "I have nothing to say to him," Justin said.

  "You heard the man," Sam said.

  Now Amy's sigh was exasperated. "If this is the way you two are going to act, then I have nothing to say, either, so you both might as well leave."

  No one moved.

  "I mean it," Amy said.

  Justin looked at her. Her chin was set at a stubborn angle. "Amy, what you're asking for is impossible. We can't go back."

  "I told you before he came that this wouldn't work," Sam said. His earlier fear had disappeared. Because in spite of everything that had happened, he knew she still had the same feelings for him she'd always had. Her reaction when he'd kissed her, the way she'd talked to Justin on the phone, even the way she'd greeted him a few minutes ago, told Sam everything he needed to know. She just needed time to work it all out in her mind.

  And when she did, she would come back to him . . . where she belonged.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  "What were you and Sam talking about when I came home today?" Alan asked.

  Faith took her time chewing the forkful of soft-shell crab before answering. "Oh, this and that."

  "Faith . . . " Alan's voice carried a slightly reproachful note. "It's not like you to be evasive. Not with me."

  Sighing, she laid her fork down and picked up her water glass. The two of them were having dinner at Don's, a favorite seafood restaurant. "All right. We were talking about Amy."

  Alan nodded and ate some of his cole slaw.

  Deciding she might as well put her cards on the table, she said, "I was telling him that I felt Amy and Justin were much better suited to one another than he and Amy."

  Alan shook his head, his expression saying more than words ever could.

  "I know you don't approve, darling, but that's the way I feel." She refused to allow him to make her feel guilty. She had done nothing except state the truth.

  "You know I love you," Alan said, his eyes meeting hers, "but sometimes you really do make me angry."

  Faith could feel herself flushing.

  He reached across the table to touch her hand. She would have liked to snatch it away, but she didn't, although she was very hurt by his criticism. "How would you have liked it if someone had said something like that to you when you and I wanted to be married?" he asked gently.

  "The two situations are entirely different," she said stiffly.

  "How are they different?"

  "Oh, Alan, you know how!" Now she did pull her hand away under the guise of lifting her wine glass and taking a sip. "You and I were from the same background, had the same kinds of interests—"

  "I don't want to hear all that crap again," Alan said, eyes narrowing. "The only question here is, which one of these young men is Amy in love with? And I think we both know the answer to that."

  Faith pressed her lips together angrily.

  "I want you to promise me you'll stay out of this," Alan forged on. "I don't want you pressuring Amy and making it even harder for her to make a decision."

  "I'm her mother, Alan. I have a right, a duty even, to steer her in the proper direction. I'm sorry you don't approve, but I can't make that kind of promise."

  They stared at each other, at an impasse for one of the few times in their married life.

  "Then," Alan said, "I guess I'll have to do everything in my power to make sure she knows I'll support her no matter what she decides."

  They ate the rest of their meal in a strained silence, and that night, in bed, for the first time Faith could ever remember, Alan went to sleep without kissing her good-night.

  * * *

  Amy lay awake long into the night, thinking, thinking. What was she going to do? How could she choose between Sam and Justin?

  She alternated between despair and fury. The despair was caused by the terrible rift between them, for the death of a wonderful friendship, and for the knowledge that she was the cause of it. She finally admitted to herself that Justin was right. They couldn't go back to what they had been. The fury was caused by their stubborn refusal to even try to come to some kind of compromise or understanding. Didn't they understand what they were doing to her?

  She thought about the way she'd felt when Sam had come this afternoon. The way she'd felt when he'd kissed her. The way she'd felt when she looked into his eyes. And especially the way she'd felt when they talked about the baby. She loved him so much. How could she say good-bye to h
im?

  She thought about all the days and nights Justin had spent with her. The way he'd taken care of her. The way he'd been there whenever she'd needed him. She thought about how happy he'd made her. He was such a good man. She loved him, too. How could she push him away?

  But no matter how many times she asked herself the same questions, the answer was always the same. She couldn't choose.

  * * *

  Sam didn't sleep well that night. His leg ached, and his heart ached. He kept remembering days gone by. He remembered the first time he'd ever seen Justin. It had been November, his second November since moving to Houston. He'd had Major for six months and had had to put the dog in a kennel four times. Major had spent more time in the kennel than he'd spent with Sam.

  Sam had just gotten a new assignment. He was scheduled to leave for Kwajalein the following week for a story on the Marshall Islands. He had finally realized it was unfair to Major to try to keep him, and so, reluctantly, he'd put an ad on the bulletin board at the office.

  He'd been sitting at his desk in the photography department, and his phone rang.

  "Robbins," he said.

  "You the guy who put the ad on the bulletin board about the dog?" said a male voice.

  Sam sat up straighter. "Yes, I am."

  "I might be interested. Can I see the dog?"

  "Sure. Do you work here at the magazine?"

  "Oh, sorry," He laughed. "My name's Justin Malone, and I'm in the business department. You're a photographer, right?"

  "Yeah, right."

  "Well? Could I see the dog tonight?"

  "Sure. No problem. I don't live very far from here. We could go after work."

  "Sounds good."

  They'd met by the elevators. Sam had immediately liked Justin with his no-nonsense eyes and his no-nonsense manner. They shook hands and smiled at each other and there was a kind of instant rapport between them.

  In his own car, Justin followed Sam to his apartment. After Sam showed him Major and Justin decided he liked the dog and wanted to take him, the two men had fallen into easy conversation, ending with Sam asking Justin if he wanted to go get something to eat.

  "I'll bring Major over to your place tomorrow," he'd said. "Give you a chance to get things ready for him."

  They'd spent the evening together, eating Mexican food and drinking a pitcher of margaritas and shooting the bull. Sam hadn't talked so much in years. Justin admitted he hadn't, either. By the time the evening was over, Sam felt as if they'd been friends forever.

  And in the years since, that friendship had only grown stronger. They'd weathered bad times and good. Justin had been more than a friend. He'd been like the brother Sam had never had. His family had taken Sam into their hearts, too, giving him warmth and a feeling of belonging, including him in their holiday celebrations and their personal triumphs and tragedies.

  Remembering all this, then remembering the look of almost-hate in Justin's eyes today, made Sam feel half sick. Amy was right, he thought as he fell into an uneasy sleep. He had to at least try to salvage something out of this mess.

  The following morning, he debated whether or not to call Justin and see if he wanted to go to lunch. While he was still thinking about the possibility, the phone rang. Hoping it wasn't another reporter, he picked it up and said, "Robbins."

  "Um, hello, is this Sam Robbins?"

  It was a young, unrecognizable female voice. "Yes," Sam said.

  There was silence for a moment, then the woman said, "I-I rehearsed what I was going to say, but now I—"

  "Who is this?" he said irritably. He was tired of being hounded by these press types.

  There was an audible sigh from the other end. Then, softly, she said, "This is Holly, Sam."

  For perhaps three seconds, Sam sat there, uncomprehending. And then, in a blinding flash, realization hit. Holly! His heart made a crazy loop. Holly! His sister!

  "Sam?" Her voice was uncertain. "Are you there?"

  "Holly? Is . . . is it really you?"

  Her laugh rang out joyously. "Yes. It's really me. I-I was afraid you might have forgotten me."

  Sam's eyes stung, and his chest felt tight. "Forgotten you?" he said softly. "I could never forget you." As if it were yesterday, he was assaulted with memories. Holly, on the day she was born, a little wizened creature with a red face and tufts of bright hair and a lusty wail. At four months—fat and pink-cheeked, laughing up at him when he waved a rattle over her crib. Holly, with eyes the color of a stormy sea—a legacy from their mother. Holly, crying as if her heart would break when she and Sam were separated.

  They talked for a long time. She told him all about her parents and her life and how she'd only found out about him a few days earlier. "Mom and Dad said they'd always intended to tell me about you when I got older, but somehow they kept putting it off. At first, I was really mad at them, but now, I guess I understand . . . see, they didn't know where you were or what kind of person you might be until you disappeared two years ago and they saw a story about you on some T.V. news program. And then . . . well, when I didn’t call them or say anything about it, they knew I hadn’t seen it or heard anything about it, so they decided not to tell me. I guess they didn't want to upset me. I mean, if you were dead, why tell me and make me sad?" And then she laughed. "But you're not dead! I have a real, live brother!"

  "I can't believe I'm really talking to you," Sam said, still dazed.

  She told him she'd just graduated from college. "I studied broadcast journalism at UCLA. I haven't had much luck finding a job, though. That's why I'm still at home."

  "Do your parents live in San Diego?"

  "No, La Jolla."

  Her parents must be well off if they could afford to live in La Jolla.

  "Sam? I'm dying to see you. I've . . . " Her voice trembled slightly. "I've always wanted a brother."

  Sam's voice was gruff as he answered. "Well, you've got one now."

  * * *

  Two days later, Sam left LAX in a rental car and headed south on the San Diego Freeway. The drive was one he hadn't made in a long time, and he'd almost forgotten how stark the landscape was. People who had never visited southern California always thought of it as lush and green and filled with flowers and palm trees. That's the way it was in the cities, where the citizens planted and watered and tended, but the countryside from L.A. to San Diego was mostly ochre mountains and barren, sun-scorched valleys.

  The drive to La Jolla only took a couple of hours, and it was still daylight when Sam parked in front of the small, Spanish style home a few blocks from downtown. In the near distance, church bells rang the Angelus as he got out of the car. The air smelled crisp and salt-tangy in this pampered enclave tucked into its sheltering cove and framed by the brilliant blue ocean beyond.

  The Etheridge home was surrounded by a high wall. Scarlet and deep purple bougainvillea spilled over the tops and sides.

  A beautiful place to grow up, Sam thought as he opened the wrought iron gate and entered the small front courtyard where hibiscus and oleander, jasmine and passion flowers vied for dominance.

  Holly had been watching for him, because the heavy, carved door opened before he'd had a chance to ring the doorbell.

  "Sam!"

  He would have known her anywhere, because she was the image of their mother. She had the same heart-shaped face, the same big gray eyes, the same delicately arched eyebrows. Even her hair was same color—brown streaked with gold—although Holly's was fashionably cut and styled and gleamed with health, whereas Sally's had too often been lank and dull. The other difference was height and body shape. Holly was tall; Sam guessed about five feet seven inches and slender. Their mother had been shorter and rounder. His sister was dressed like a typical, twenty-something Californian in Guess jeans, body-hugging T-shirt, and flip-flops.

  He managed a smile over the lump in his throat and opened his arms.

  Without hesitation, she came into them. They held each other for a long time. He could feel her
heart beating against his and smell the light, lemony scent of her hair, and all he could think was, this is my baby sister. Some of the heartache and disappointment that had surrounded his homecoming and the discovery about Amy and Justin eased away.

  "Oh, Sam," Holly said in a muffled voice, "I'm so glad you're here."

  When she looked up, he could see that her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

  "Me, too," he said. "Me, too."

  They went inside where he met her adoptive parents—Jack and Sandi Etheridge. Sandi was a short, slightly-plump fifty-something matron with kind hazel eyes and a sweet smile, and Jack was a big, bearish sort of man with intelligent dark eyes, thick salt and pepper hair, and a cautious, more reserved manner than his wife. They were nice people. Sam could see that immediately. And they loved Holly. That was another thing he saw immediately. They were also thoughtful. After about fifteen minutes of conversation, Sandi turned to Holly and said, "Your father and I thought we'd go into town for dinner. I know you and Sam have a lot to talk about."

  Holly smiled gratefully and hugged her mother and father in turn.

  Once they were gone, she said, "Are you hungry? We could order a pizza or I could make us some sandwiches."

  "Maybe later. Right now, I'd just like something cold to drink."

  She got them each a beer, then suggested they sit out on the back patio. "It's my favorite place."

  Sam could see why. This, too, was a courtyard, but a much bigger one than the front. It was mostly paved with terra-cotta tiles, with a three-foot wide border of shrubs and flowers around the perimeter. A bird feeder in the corner had attracted several swallows and goldfinch, who noisily flew away when he and Holly walked outside.

  They sat in comfortable, cushioned redwood chairs.

  Sam breathed deeply. He gazed around with pleasure. "Have you lived in this house long?"