Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 13

JACK

When I get to work the next morning, I notice some changes.

Specifically, I notice that the nurses at the nurses’ station stop talking every time I approach, sharing quick looks and trying not to giggle. I can guess what that’s all about, but it’s only when I overhear a snippet of conversation that my suspicions are confirmed.

“—said he brought her in himself, and he smiled at her, like an actual grin ? —”

“What would that even look like?”

“Probably scary ? —”

“Cut it out,” I finally bark at the two worst offenders, Belinda and Prue. They’re an especially giggly pair, decent at their jobs but prone to unnecessary chatter. Then I turn to Madge, the head nurse and my favorite—late fifties, no nonsense, efficient and practiced—and say, “Have a word with everyone about gossiping, please. It’s unprofessional and irritating. ”

Madge gives me a sharp nod, and I storm away again.

I can grudgingly admit I understand why people are talking; I behaved very differently with Stella than I normally do. I’ve cultivated a reputation here as an efficient, competent, no-nonsense doctor—a lot like Madge, in fact—and I must have been a little too playful last night.

It’s that blasted Stella Effect again.

I make sure to scowl a bit extra in order to counteract my behavior from yesterday, and by the end of my shift, everything is back in order—no gossiping or trading stories while on duty, in other words, which is how work should be. There are a million moving parts of any emergency department, and even more in one that runs smoothly and successfully. There’s no place or time for gossip or idle chit chat; not when we have to be on and ready for anything at any given moment.

By the time my shift is over, I’m tired and residually grumpy. I’m tempted to ignore the text I have waiting for me from Stella— Let me know when we can go grab my car, or let me know if I you can’t make it and I can ride share over instead —because a large part of me wants to avoid her, just until I can get my head on straight. But the other part of me—the traitorous part, and apparently the decision-making part—calls her anyway.

“Hi,” she says when she answers. “Long day?”

“Yes,” I say, and I sound tired even to myself. “I’ll swing by and pick you up to go get your car. Good?”

“Yeah, that works,” she says. “Let me know when you’re here?”

“What—you don’t want me to come ring your parents’ doorbell?” I say, an involuntary smirk curling my lips. “I’m sure they’d love to see me. ”

“And then they would ask a million questions, and you would be there all night, and then they would want to know every little detail of our current relationship,” she says. “So don’t you dare.”

“Maybe I want to chat with them for hours,” I say. “Did you ever think of that?”

“Look, my parents are great.”

“They are,” I say with a slow nod.

“And I love them dearly. But I can’t have that conversation with them. Not when—” She breaks off.

“Ah,” I say. “Gonna finish that sentence?”

“Of course,” she says after a second of silence. “We’re friends. There’s nothing weird about it.”

“We are friends,” I agree. “I guess. If friends call each other thieves ?—”

“Because you broke into the house ? — ”

“And if friends treat each other the way you treated me in high school,” I go on. “Do they know about that?”

“No,” she says quietly, and I suddenly feel like a jerk for bringing it up, mostly because I think she regrets it. “And they would be very disappointed in me.”

“I turned out all right,” I say, trying to infuse lightness into my tone. “Besides, I could show them where I got to put a bunch of staples into your head after you fell out of that tree?—”

“I haven’t told them yet, so don’t. You. Dare,” she says, and I can picture the exact way she’s narrowing her eyes.

A little huff of laughter escapes me, but I play it off by coughing. “Temper, temper,” I say, my grin wider than ever. “But have it your way. I’ll be to you in about half an hour.”

I hang up before she can respond, feeling significantly more energized than I did before I called her. I turn the radio on and crank the music up, my fingers drumming on the steering wheel to the beat, and by the time I reach her parents’ house, I’m not the least bit tired anymore.

She’s better than caffeine.

I shoot her a text, telling her that I’m outside, and a minute or two later, she hurries out from the back of the house, bundled up in a puffy marshmallow coat. She must use the sliding door in the basement as her main entry, and I have to admit, it seems like a decent setup her family has going on—I think she’s living pretty independently, even though she’s in their basement.

The doctor in me comes out when she slides into the passenger seat, slightly out of breath; I almost reach for her chin to tilt her head so I can see how her cut is doing, but I resist the urge.

“How’s your head?” I ask instead.

“The gaping head wound is fine,” she says. “But my hair is greasy and gross.”

“Good,” I say, pulling away from the house. “Make sure it stays greasy and gross for another twenty-four.”

“Mean,” she mutters.

“Medical school,” I counter.

In my peripheral vision, I see her look over at me. “I had a question about that, actually. You’re young, aren’t you? To be a doctor, I mean?”

I shrug. “Not really. Four years of college, four years of medical school, a few years of residency.”

“And residency is…?” she says.

A faint smile tugs at my lips as the memories rush in. “Basically on-the-job training where they fed us with a fire hose and turned us into sleep-deprived zombies,” I say. “Miserable but also awesome. Some of my fondest memories. ”

And it’s too personal, what I’ve told her, I realize a split second later. She doesn’t get to see those parts of me. So I clear my throat and change the subject.

“You just need to grab your car?” I say, the elevation climbing as we make our way into the foothills. “Do you need to do anything else over here?”

“Yeah,” she says with a sigh. “I need to feed the animals and water the plants and air out the rooms.”

“Skip the airing out,” I say. “Just for today. It’s late.”

“I could probably do that,” she says, sounding both relieved and resigned. “Just the animals and plants, then.”

I nod, and neither of us speak again until we reach Maude’s house, where Stella’s car is still in the driveway, covered with a faint dusting of snow.

“All right,” I say, killing the engine once I’ve parked on the street. “Let’s get this done. Don’t make eye contact with the naked portraits; they’ll know you’re skipping out on opening the windows.”

While Stella is feeding the plants and animals, I work on the lights in the backyard.

I’m not doing it for Maude. I couldn’t care less what her house looks like—the house she bought with the money she got after my dad passed away. I guess I could have bought a house with the money I got too, but I stuck it into a savings account instead. Maybe someday I’ll buy my own place with my own Christmas decorations.

If I don’t do these lights, Stella will probably try again, because Christmas is in less than a week. I don’t know if I can handle the anxiety of watching that. Her first attempt ended in a trip to the ER; who knows what the second attempt would do?

I don’t think climbing up into a tree is the best way to put lights on it, anyway. I dig around in the garage until I find a ladder, and after that it’s pretty easy. Stella reemerges from the house when I’m almost done, and I pretend I don’t notice her watching me from down below.

“Animals fed?” I say once I’ve climbed back down.

“Animals fed,” she says with a nod.

“Birds cooperated?”

“So far.” Her voice is musing now. “But they’re just pretending. They’ll lull me into a false sense of security and then carry out an organized attack when I least expect it.”

“Mmm,” I say, holding back my smile as I collapse the ladder. “Devious.”

“I know.” She pauses and then looks at me, raising one eyebrow. “Do you need to go snoop around or anything while we’re here?”

“No,” I say. I hoist the ladder up and carry it around the house to the garage, leaning it carefully against the wall where I found it. Then I dust off my hands. “I’m still figuring out what to do about that.”

She just watches me, her eyes narrowed slightly, like she’s thinking hard. “Are you going to tell me what you’re looking for?”

I debate for only a moment as my gaze drinks her in. Her nose is turning pink from the cold—mine is probably the same—and her blonde hair is pulled into a messy ponytail with strands that whip around her face in the chilled wind.

“My mother’s rings,” I finally say with a sigh. “Maude has my mother’s rings.”

Stella blinks in surprise. “The five of them? The ones your dad gave your mom?”

She remembers; I didn’t think she would.

“Yeah,” I say. “Maude took them after my dad passed.”

Now Stella’s jaw drops. “But—those are your mom’s!”

I snort and shove my hands in my jean pockets, ambling slowly back toward my car. “I know,” I say. “That’s why I want them back.”

“I—” she begins, then breaks off. “You’re sure she has them?” She hurries to catch up with me.

“Sure enough to break in and look for them,” I say with a shrug as I look over at her.

“What a strange woman,” Stella murmurs. She glances over her shoulder at Maude’s mansion. “Usually when someone has a lot of animals, they strike me as loving and empathetic.”

“Maude…” I say, trying to figure out how to phrase it. “Maude likes pretty things,” I finally settle on. “Be it animals or jewelry that doesn’t belong to her. She’s not an evil person, I don’t think. Just shallow and unconcerned with morals. I dislike her strongly, but I don’t hate her the way I probably would if she was truly horrible.”

“ I kind of hate her,” Stella says, her nose scrunched up with distaste.

“Maybe there’s a portrait in there that could change your mind,” I say, and she laughs. The sound rings through the dark, frigid air like a pealing bell.

And I could ask her, now, what happened with her job; I’ve told her about the rings, and she might answer. But I don’t want to, somehow. I’d rather wait until she comes to me on her own.

Actually, I’d rather wake up tomorrow morning and discover I don’t care what happened with her job. That would be best. I can hope, can’t I?

“So about the reunion thing,” Stella says, and I raise one eyebrow at her; she goes on. “What exactly do you need from me?” She fidgets uncomfortably, wringing her hands together. “I guess I owe you one.”

My pulse stutters as my mind jumps to places it has no business going—nothing dirty, but nothing neutral, either.

I should tell her there’s been a change of plans. I should tell her I don’t need her help after all. That’s what would be safest. And yet…

“Just…hold onto my arm. Don’t let any single women corner me. That kind of thing.”

She rolls her eyes, something I see even in the dark, and mutters under her breath about “ so presumptuous ” and “ think highly of yourself. ” Then she clears her throat and says, “Fine. I can do that.”

I just grin. One evening of pretending to date her—that’s hardly enough for me to lose my mind and fall for her again.

I’m perfectly safe.