Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 1

STELLA

You want to know the difference between me and my dog, Grover?

Grover looks cute when he slinks home with his tail tucked between his legs.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. Grover is a pretty ugly dog. It’s not his fault; he’s a mutt and a half. He’s got droopy eyes and a perpetually squashed face like he’s just run into a wall—and oftentimes he has just run into a wall, since he has poor vision on account of the whole droopy-eyes thing. His hind legs are bowed, and his tongue always lolls because it’s too big to fit in his mouth.

He has a great personality.

My personality, on the other hand? I’m not sure it’s great enough for me to look cute when I run home with my tail between my legs. I returned to Lucky, Colorado, two weeks ago, and my family has yet to call me anything of the sort .

I’ve moved back in with my parents. So that’s really good and fulfilling and exactly where I want to be.

It’s fine , I tell myself silently, giving my cheeks a few sharp pats. Lots of people live with their parents. You’re lucky they love you enough to let you stay.

And to be fair, it’s not like I’ve returned to my old childhood bedroom, where my boy band posters have probably merged with the wall on a cellular level by now. I’m renting the basement, which as of my occupancy is its own living unit—its own freezing living unit, because Lucky in the winter is frigid, and the heat circulation in my parents’ house is subpar.

It’s not a bad little space, though, really. One tiny bedroom, a bathroom, and a wet bar with a mini fridge. I set up a microwave, and if I need to cook, I’m fine with going to the kitchen upstairs. I’m just grateful for my own space.

But the first thing I did when I moved in was buy a space heater for the bedroom. I’ll probably end up buying another once I figure out where I need it most—and where it will fit.

Because if I have to choose between room for a space heater and room for my books, I’ll choose the books.

I’ve been slowly but surely unpacking my library in between bouts of lying face-down on the floor and wondering how my life managed to go so wrong; Mrs. Driggs across the street saw me carrying a stack of my favorite books last week, and she told me about tonight’s book club. I thought it would be good for me to go and make peace with my new existence.

I used to water Dina Driggs’s flowers for five bucks an hour. She would give me popsicles afterward. Now I’m calling her by her first name and hanging out with her in the evenings. This is the new me. Stella Partridge is back in town, folks, not by choice but because she failed spectacularly at her dream company and couldn’t afford big-city rent without a big-city paycheck.

But there must be something in the water in Lucky these days, because tonight’s book club is unlike any I’ve ever attended—and I’ve attended my fair share. I pull off my gloves and hat as I look around; Dina Driggs doesn’t seem to have arrived yet. Am I in the wrong place?

The possible wrong place in question is the basement of the old church building at the corner of First and Main. It’s a maze down here, several long hallways with carpeted classrooms or meeting rooms or whatever they use this space for. I just followed the sign taped to the wall in the lobby—blue construction paper with BOOK CLUB scrawled in permanent marker and an arrow pointing to the stairs.

I didn’t get here early enough; that’s the problem. When I walked through the door, my paperback copy of this month’s book tucked under my arm, everyone was already sitting in a circle. One nice-looking older woman smiled at me and patted the folding chair next to her, so I hurried in and sat down.

But I’m the only person here with a book, and I didn’t expect there to be so many men .

Not that men can’t read, obviously, because they can. I’m just…surprised. There’s a guy across the circle from me wearing scrubs and a tired expression. The guy next to him has a pierced eyebrow and the word PAIN tattooed across his knuckles.

Did they really read Christmas Shopaholic?

I inspect the rest of the people in the circle. Everyone is chattering quietly, so I lean over to the nice woman next to me. “This is such a diverse group,” I say, my eyes lingering on the tattoo-lover-slash-chick-lit-reader across from me.

“Oh, yes,” the woman says with a nod. She has on a cute checkered scarf, and a pair of mittens is folded neatly in her lap. “All walks of life. And you”—she smiles kindly at me once more—“you must be new in town. Is this your first time?”

“Yes,” I say, my fingers curling more tightly around the Sophie Kinsella novel clutched in my hands. “Or, well—kind of. I grew up here, but I returned a couple weeks ago.”

“Oh, did you grow up here? Lucky duck. It’s a wonderful little place, isn’t it?” she says fondly. “I’m located about thirty minutes north. Well, we’re happy to have you. I’m sure Ted will have you introduce yourself. Our moderator,” she adds when I look confused.

Moderator?

I’m just about to double check that I’m in the right place when a man a few chairs away from mine stands up, and the quiet chatters dissipate into silence.

“Welcome,” the man says—Ted, I guess—as he beams around the circle. “I’m Ted, and I’m an alcoholic.”

…Oh, no.

“I’m also the moderator for this meeting,” he goes on cheerfully, his hands clasped together in front of him, his balding head reflecting the yellow fluorescent light. “This is the regular meeting of the Northern Colorado group of Alcoholics Anonymous.”

Oh, no.

“Let’s take a moment of silence”—Ted pauses, inclining his head for a second, and then he goes on—“and then let’s say the Serenity Prayer, shall we?”

Voices rumble to life around me— “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference” —but I’m barely paying attention. Something like mortification has slithered into my gut and pushed all the blood in my body to my flaming cheeks.

I’m not supposed to be here. I am not supposed to be here.

I shoot to my feet before Ted can say another word, clamping one hand over my eyes. I hear my book fall softly to the floor—probably landing face-down, knowing my luck—and I bend down, reaching around blindly for it.

“I’m so sorry,” I gasp into the now-silent room. My hand is still firmly over my eyes, but I can only imagine everyone is staring. “I’m not supposed to be here. I thought—I thought this was book club—I didn’t look at anyone’s faces,” I add quickly. “I mean, I did, but I wouldn’t remember any of you if I passed you on the street.” I sincerely hope this is true. “I’m so sorry,” I say again.

I’ve found my book, and I begin to fan myself to dispel the heat in my cheeks. I take my other hand away from my face, squeezing my eyes shut instead, as I grab my fuzzy hat and gloves from where they’ve fallen too.

I hear a little chuckle, from Ted, I think, and then he speaks. “No need to apologize,” he says, and I’m relieved to hear nothing but good-natured humor in his voice. “Open your eyes so you don’t trip on your way out.”

Bless you, Ted.

“Thank you,” I say quickly, already hurrying toward the door and keeping my gaze averted awkwardly so I don’t make eye contact with anyone. It’s a weird way to walk, but isn’t it part of Alcoholics Anonymous that everyone stays…well, anonymous ?

I take what feels like my first gulp of oxygen when I get out of the room and into the hallway. I close the door behind me with a bump of my hip, and then I turn around to give Ted a little nod of thanks and apology through the narrow window. He smiles and waves back, and relief blankets me as my body begins to relax—although I startle like I’ve just been discovered breaking the law as someone thumps loudly down the stairs at the end of the hall. I avert my gaze in case it’s someone headed to the AA meeting, but the man just gives me a sideways glance and then continues past me and down the hallway, a snow-dusted hat pulled low over his head, a scarf wrapped around the lower part of his face, eyes dark and glinting.

“Oh, goodness,” I breathe once he’s out of sight. I drift toward a miscellaneous folding chair propped against the wall and balance my book on top; then I tug my hat down over my hair. A few stray locks obscure my vision with a staticky haze of blonde, and I shove them impatiently aside. When I’ve got my gloves back on, I grab my book.

Maybe I should go follow that guy and ask for a tour of this place so I never, ever, ever make this mistake again. Ever.

But I head for the stairs that lead back up to the lobby instead. Forget about book club. I’ve had enough for one evening; I’ll face my new reality another day.

The entryway doors are made of dark wood, rough and old and heavy enough that I have to push with both hands to open them. I’m hit with a blast of December wind as soon as the church spits me out into the night, icy and crystalline but somehow warm despite the obvious cold. The street lamps that line Main are festooned in twinkling Christmas lights, and across the road a little way down is the cheerful glow of Pumpernickel, one of the town’s only cafés .

I exhale and watch as the puff of breath drifts into the night sky, dissipating into nothingness. “I’m tired,” I say softly. “And I don’t know who I am anymore.”

Tired people sometimes forget, the sky seems to answer, and I sigh.

“Yeah. Maybe.” The clouds of my words rise again, away, away, away, until they’re swallowed by the darkness.

And I’m only thirty, too young for a midlife crisis, but I don’t know what else to call this blip in my timeline. I was never supposed to return to Lucky. There’s nothing wrong with my little hometown—I was happy enough growing up here, even if it wasn’t perfect—but my plan never included moving back. My plan, or more specifically The Plan, was to move to California and work for Smith and Sons, the most prestigious, most sought-after architectural firm in the country.

Which I did. Because I was voted Most Likely to Succeed in high school, and words like quit and fail were not in my vocabulary.

They’re in my vocabulary now.

“Why are you like this?” I mutter to myself, pulling my hat down lower to shield my ears from the wind.

This time, no answer comes.

Me

I accidentally crashed an AA meeting tonight because I thought it was book club.

India

!!!

WHAT?

Me

Yeah.

I’ll be hiding under a rock if you need me.

India

You’re my best friend and I’ll always love you.

What would make you feel better?

Want a ride on my motorcycle?

Me

No way. That thing is a death trap.

India

Don’t talk about my baby like that.

What about puppies?

Come by Pampered Pup tomorrow and I’ll let you pet one of the puppies.

Me

Are you allowed to let me pet a puppy?

India

…Maybe?

Me

I’ll be there at ten.

India Marigold has been one of my best friends since elementary school. She’s a few years younger than me, but we were neighbors growing up, and we hit it off from the first time we met. She knows me well enough to know that petting a few dogs will indeed improve my mood.

“There’s nothing wrong with living in your hometown,” India says now, securing her long red hair into a ponytail as she maneuvers around the kennel room, spray bottle tucked under one arm. “ I do. All my siblings do.”

“Yeah,” I say, my voice strained as I pass her a cleaning rag. “But do you live in your parents’ basement?”

“Well,” she says, spritzing down an empty kennel. “No.”

“And are you working for your parents?”

Because yes, that is correct—not only am I living under my parents’ roof once more, but they are also employing me at the market our family owns. I live in the same house and have the same job as when I was sixteen. From dust I came, and to dust I have returned.

I love my parents dearly. They’re great. But I cannot live knowing they’re providing my housing and my income.

India shoots me an apologetic look. “Fine. No. I’m not living with my parents or working for them.” Then she adopts the straightforward, no-nonsense expression I know so well. “But there’s still nothing wrong with that, Stell. You’re figuring things out. That’s allowed.”

“I know,” I say; it’s sort of a lie. I’m not sure what I know and what I don’t know. But I just take the cleaner as she hands it to me. I spray a few squirts in the kennel next to me and then grab a rag of my own and begin wiping down.

“And there’s no chance…” India trails off into a silence that hovers awkwardly. “There’s no chance that you could get your old job back?”

I haven’t told her what happened, and because she’s incredible, she hasn’t asked any more after I said I didn’t want to talk about it yet .

“No,” I say as my cheeks burn with humiliation; I duck my head so she won’t see. “I definitely can’t get it back.” Then I clear my throat. “I’m house-sitting for a lady starting today, though. That’s something, I guess.” A small something, but something nonetheless.

“Are you?” India says, looking surprised as she glances over her shoulder at me. Then she turns her attention back to the kennel she’s scrubbing. “Since when? Who?”

“Since yesterday,” I say. “She’s someone my mom knows. She lives up in the foothills.”

“Ooh,” India says. “Fancy.”

“I know,” I say, my voice dry. Lucky, Colorado, is pressed snug against the Rocky Mountains to the west, just north of Boulder, and the homes up in the foothills cost way more money than I can even fathom spending on a house. “I’m watering her plants and airing out the rooms and feeding her pets.”

“Pets…plural?”

“Pets plural,” I say as a smile tugs at my lips. “Two cats and four birds.”

“ Wow. ”

“Yeah.”

“Can you imagine the noise?”

“No,” I say with a snort. “But she’s paying me seven-hundred-fifty dollars, so?—”

“ What? ” India says, spinning around, her eyes wide.

I nod. “Yep. For the next twelve days.”

“Oh,” she says, her surprised expression clearing. “Well, twelve days, that’s a long time. You’re not staying there, though, right? Sleeping there or anything?”

“No, just going by every day.” I finish wiping down the two cages I’m sitting next to in the kennel room, and then I stand up, wiggling my legs as pins and needles rush in. “Okay, I should probably get going. I have a shift at the market.” I sigh. “Thanks for letting me play with the Schnauzer!”

“Have fun,” India says as I head toward the door, half of her body inside a massive dog cage now. “And I hope no intruders try to break in while you’re at the fancy house.”

“It is not possible,” I say with a snort, “for me to be that unlucky.”