Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 17

STELLA

Do not think about the kiss. Do not think about the kiss.

Here’s the problem with trying not to think about something. The second you remind yourself not to think about it, you’re already thinking about it.

The morning after the Christmas party, I do my best to avoid the memory anyway. I wake up abnormally early, and I’m too restless to fall back asleep, so I get up and do some exercises in my living room.

By exercises, I mean I lift a heavy stack of books off my bookshelf so I can get to the book I actually want behind them. And when I lower myself onto the couch, it sort of looks like a squat. Everyone knows that reading is basically just exercising your brain.

So I’m counting it.

But even Jane Austen fails to hold my attention today— I’m sorry, Queen Jane —so I meander upstairs and help my mom around the house for a while, until she leaves to go to the market.

Don’t think about the way he sagged with relief when he finally started kissing you, like holding back was taking all of his energy.

No! Stop it.

All right, fine. Don’t think about the way he buried his hands in your hair ? —

“Stop!” I say loudly. I pat my cheeks a few times, grateful that my mom has gone. I hurry back down to my basement unit and make myself some food, because there’s something stirring in the pit of my stomach that must surely be hunger.

When my phone rings, I jump so violently that I drop my fork, and my bite of scrambled eggs falls to the floor. Except it sort of bounces, because I am not good at cooking scrambled eggs that aren’t rubbery. I roll my eyes in disgust and then answer the phone, feeling unaccountably annoyed.

“Hello?” I say without even checking the caller ID.

“Stella?” a voice says, and I blink in surprise, my irritation at myself momentarily gone. It’s one of the twins; Lucretia, I think.

“Hi,” I say.

“Hi, it’s Lucretia,” she says. “So listen, you left your clutch at the party last night—the cute red one?”

Dangit, she’s right.

“Sorry,” I say, my cheeks heating with memories of why I fled the reunion so fast. “I totally did.”

“Oh, no worries!” Lucretia says. “A few of us are having brunch this morning. Do you want to come join us, and you can pick it up?”

“Uh, sure,” I say. I don’t know that I want to eat with anyone from Windsor this morning, but I could just grab the clutch and leave. It would probably be good to get out of the apartment anyway. I’m not doing anything here but driving myself crazy. “Yeah, I can do that. Where are you meeting?”

“We’re going to Petit Déjeuner,” Lucretia says, her French accent perfect. “At ten. Can you come?”

“Yes,” I say, glancing down at my lounge set. Cute, but not brunch appropriate. “Let me just change, and I’ll head out.”

“Perfect,” Lucretia says, and she sounds genuinely happy. “I’ve got your bag with me.”

“Thanks, Lu,” I say.

“Of course!” she chirps. “See you in a bit!”

We hang up, and fifteen minutes later, I’m on the road.

I’m normally a big brunch person—or rather, I’m a big snacker. I snack throughout the day rather than eating three large meals. But my rubbery scrambled eggs churn in my stomach as I drive, and I’m positive I’m too nervous to actually eat anything and enjoy it.

I’m just going for the clutch. I don’t need to have any conversations or offer any explanations, about last night or about my current trajectory.

And the twins probably won’t ask. Right? Who else is there?

I should have asked that.

After I pull into the little café and park, I wait in the car for a full three minutes before getting out. I’m actually tempted to drive right back home, but I do need to get my bag, so I finally make myself go in.

My breath swirls away in the brisk morning breeze, and for all the December cold, there’s at least some sunlight today. It’s watery, weak, pale, but I’d rather have faint light than none at all. I hurry into the café, crossing my arms for warmth.

I see Lucretia and Sophronia in a large booth, around which several more people are gathered. I don’t recognize any of them, but then again, all I can see are the backs of their heads. I nod to the hostess and gesture to the booth and then weave my way back, passing tables full of fresh bread, butter, fruit tarts, and quiche.

Every single one of those dishes would probably taste delicious if I could manage not to throw up from my nervous stomach.

The twins see me first, both of them waving in tandem. At that, the rest of the table’s occupants turn to look too. There are two girls I recognize vaguely as cousins of the twins, several years younger; Bridget, looking unconvincingly pleased to see me; and one last, unexpected guest.

“Benny?” I say, blinking with surprise. He’s got an enormous slice of quiche in front of him with what looks like a mimosa, and he’s eating like a man starved. He greets me with a wave and a smile, scooting further in to let me sit next to him. This suits me fine. The twins and the rest of the women return to a lively debate they seem to be having about real leather versus vegan leather, a topic I have no desire to discuss.

How weird is it that I’m relieved to see Benny? I don’t even know this guy. But he feels inexplicably safe, and I have a sneaking suspicion it’s because of his friendship with Jack.

Also…I don’t know. He reminds me vaguely of Joey Tribbiani from Friends. Not necessarily the kind of guy I want to date, but good-natured and harmless.

“What are you doing here?” I ask him when I’m seated, nodding my greetings at the rest of the table and trying to swallow my nerves. Lucretia passes me my red clutch across the table.

“Here you go!” she says with a smile.

“Oh, thank you,” I say. I take it and tuck it in the seat next to me, turning back to Benny when he leans sideways and speaks in a low voice.

“I like the companionship,” he says with a glance at the women. “Me and my muscles get lonely, you know?”

“Ah,” I say. A waiter approaches from out of nowhere and asks what I’d like to order, but I tell him I’ll just have water. He pulls that out of nowhere too, and I take a few gulps gratefully.

“Yeah,” Benny says, continuing to shovel food in his mouth. Somehow his voice is still clear when he talks again. “And I may look like a handsome, confident guy”—I hold back my smile—“but the truth is, I could use a little lovin’ every now and then too.” He shoots me a covert look. “Don’t tell Jacky I’m fishing from the Windsor pool. He would never let me hear the end of it.”

“My lips are sealed,” I say quietly, my little smile finally breaking free. “But you know, you’re not even talking to them. You’re just eating.”

“It’s good food,” he says defensively. “I need my strength to do things like flirt and be charming.”

“Of course.” I look discreetly around the table. “And how are you sure any of these women are single?” Though I guess the twins might be, now that I think about it.

But Benny just snorts and shoots me a side-eyed look, like I’ve insulted his intelligence. “Please,” he says out of the corner of his mouth. “Do you really think I would drive halfway to Boulder without knowing if there were some single ladies here? ”

“…No?” I say.

“No way,” he says with a nod. He lowers his voice even further. “Bridget is married, but everyone else here is single.” Then, his tone musing, he goes on, “Wonder if Lu and Soph would both want to date me at once. Some twins are into that kind of thing, you know?—”

He breaks off when I choke on my water, spluttering it down my front. I dab my mouth with a napkin.

“Want some eggnog?” Sophronia says, her eyes sparkling. “We brought our own. Festivities abound!” She holds up a canteen, and I shrug. I don’t think this fancy French café would approve if they knew we had our own beverages, but I wouldn’t mind a glass of eggnog.

“Sure,” I say, and Sophronia passes me a glass.

“Drink it slowly,” she advises.

“So Stella,” Bridget says as I set my glass of eggnog next to my water. “What has it been like, living in Lucky? Is it weird being back here after so many years away?”

And look. Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe I’m reading into Bridget’s words too much. But also…maybe I’m not. Maybe I really do see a smug gleam in her eyes, a subtle sneer curling her lips, disguised as a smile.

Bridget was the mean popular girl. There were people who were popular because they were funny and likable; there were people who were popular because they were good-looking. Bridget was pretty, but she was also mean—catty and outspoken in a way that made people slightly afraid of her.

I hope she’s changed, grown out of that tendency. But it doesn’t seem like she has.

“Living in Lucky has been great,” I say. Sit up straight, I remind myself. Do not be ashamed .

“I’m so glad you’re loving it,” she says. “I have lots of friends in the professional world—my husband Clancy likes to dabble in investments”—across the table, Sophronia and Lucretia roll their eyes—“and I heard from someone over in California about a scandal at Smith and Sons. That was your company, right?”

I clear my throat. It does nothing. I swallow, but that doesn’t help either; my mouth is still cotton dry. “Yes,” I say. “That’s where I worked for a while.”

“No one was surprised, of course,” Bridget says, waving her hand. “It’s such a prestigious company, and look at you—Most Likely to Succeed in our class, weren’t you?”

And she says it with a smile, her words fawning, like she’s proud of me. But I can hear the snide overtones that lace her voice, and a thrill of foreboding tingles down my spine.

I just nod and reach blindly for my eggnog, swallowing down several large swigs to avoid responding.

“I guess…” Bridget says delicately as one perfect brow arches. “Things didn’t work out?”

What is she trying to do? Is she trying to get me to tell her what happened? Does she already know? Is she taunting me, or is she fishing for information?

Both, probably.

I glance at Benny—for help, maybe?—but he just stares back at me, his mouth bulging with quiche, his eyes wide. He finishes chewing and then reaches for his drink, downing the mimosa in one giant gulp.

So. He’s no help.

“Things didn’t work out,” I say. There’s a dull roaring in my ears, and the pit of my stomach seems to have dissolved. Humiliation and embarrassment and anger push against my lungs, making it difficult to draw breath properly.

Part of my brain is screaming at me to take control of the conversation, but the rest of me is simply frozen, strangely fuzzy. I reach for my glass of eggnog again and drink more this time; Lucretia holds up a hand, looking worried, but I down the rest of the glass.

It might be rough on my digestive system; eggnog is so thick and heavy. But?—

“That’s what I heard,” Bridget says, her voice full of false sympathy breaking into my hazy thoughts. “I’ve got a friend over there. Dawn Griffith. Do you know her?”

Dawn. Of course I know Dawn. Dawn was my coworker. Dawn sent me an email last week, a beacon of shame that’s been hiding in my inbox after I read it.

“Something with the owner’s son, right?” Bridget goes on. She shudders. “ Affair is such an ugly word, but?—”

“Bridge, drop it,” Sophronia says, her voice uncharacteristically sharp. “Let’s not talk about depressing stuff. Let’s talk about fun things!” She musters a smile. “Where should we hold our next Windsor reunion?” She gasps, this expression more genuine. “Should we go to the beach?”

Bridget is right. Affair is an ugly word.

“In Colorado?” I murmur. My mind now is a flitting, evasive creature—but two thoughts solidify. 1) There was alcohol in that eggnog, and it’s beginning to kick in, and 2) Home-wrecker is an even uglier word than affair.

Because that’s what Dawn said, isn’t it? That I was a home-wrecker.

Dawn was a work friend, an acquaintance, someone I walked with because we were on the same path. Knowing her, she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to spread a bit of scandalous gossip, even when that gossip was about someone she claimed to be friends with.

“The beach,” Benny says with a smile, completely oblivious to the tense atmosphere. “That would be great. I don’t mean to brag, ladies”—the twins’ cousins giggle, which is the most personality I’ve seen from them so far—“but I’m a sight to behold in swim trunks.”

Silly Benny.

I scoot out of the booth and move to Lucretia and Sophronia’s side. It was nice of Sophronia to tell Bridget to stop asking questions. It was nice of them to invite me to the party, and it was nice of them to bring me my bag.

“Thank you guys,” I say, sitting next to them. They hurry to shuffle over, making room for me right as my bum hits the seat. “You’re so nice.”

“Mm-hmm,” Soph says, an amused sound that filters hazily in. “You drank that eggnog too fast, hon. Let’s find someone to take you home, okay?”

“Mmm,” I say, letting my head drop onto her shoulder. I’m tired, and my thoughts keep dancing just out of reach. “Mm-hmm.”

I let my eyes drift closed.

JACK

I wake from a rest so deep that it takes a second to reorient myself.

This kiss last night , I remember. And I called Dr. Barb this morning. Then I laid down on the couch and apparently fell into another dimension of sleep. And now ? —

My phone is ringing. That’s what’s woken me up, I realize. I slap around for it on the couch, answering as soon as I’ve found it.

“Hello?” I say, my voice groggy.

“Jack?”

The woman’s voice wakes me up quickly, because it’s one I don’t recognize. I struggle into sitting position—something that happens when you get older—and rub my hand down my face.

“Yes,” I say. “This is he. Can I ask who’s calling?”

“Jack, hi!” the voice says, more chipper now. “This is Sophronia Willstead.”

My body slumps against the back of the couch as I blink my eyes open. “Sophronia, hi,” I say.

“So look,” she says without preamble. “Stella is here with us, and she’s pretty drunk. Can you come pick her up?”

Oh, no. I straighten immediately as my bleary mind tries to make sense of what I’m hearing.

“She’s—what?”

“A few of us had brunch this morning,” Sophronia says patiently. “And Stella left her clutch at the party last night, so I invited her to come pick it up and have some brunch with us.”

I nod slowly, my memory pulling into view the little red bag Stella brought last night. I didn’t realize at the time, but Sophronia is right; Stella didn’t have it when we left. “Okay,” I say. “But how is she drunk?” She’s in recovery; did she slip up? I glance at the clock—twelve-thirty in the afternoon. Not promising.

“Ah,” Sophronia says, her voice a nervous little titter now. “Well. So. It’s kind of embarrassing to say this to a doctor, ” she goes on, “but we brought some eggnog with us. And Bridget started asking Stella about her old job, and Stella started gulping down some of the eggnog, and I don’t think she realized it had alcohol until she’d already drunk quite a bit. So…”

Bridget. Is that the girl from last night who gave off mean-girl vibes? I don’t remember her from Windsor, but I didn’t like her.

“So just to clarify—did she mean to get drunk, or didn’t she?” I say, pushing myself off the couch and hurrying to the front door where I keep my shoes lined up.

“I don’t think she did.”

I don’t know why I asked, because I’m not sure it matters; intentional or not, she’s drunk now. “Okay. Where are you?” I slip my tennis shoes on before looking down at my clothes; they’re decent enough to go ferry an inebriated woman home.

“We’re at Petit Déjeuner,” she says. “It’s?—”

“I know where it is,” I cut her off. “I’ll be there in fifteen or twenty. Just—don’t let her drink anymore.”

“We won’t,” Sophronia says, her voice cheerful. Then, in an undertone, she adds, “And we’re not letting her talk to Bridget anymore, either, so don’t worry.”

My breath whooshes out of me as some of the tension in my shoulders eases. “That’s good. Thanks.”

Petit Déjeuner is a little French café about halfway between Lucky and Boulder. It’s small but pretentious, with overpriced quiche and tiny portion sizes. Pumpernickel is better, the little café here in town that serves giant slices of pie at all hours of the day.

I could go for some pie, actually. Those peppers I had earlier weren’t enough to fill me up.

I hurry out the door, and I make it to Petit Déjeuner faster than any police officer would approve of. But I can’t help it; as decent as Sophronia and Lucretia really do seem, I still don’t quite trust them with a vulnerable Stella.

It’s been a long time since I’ve been to this café, but I find it just fine. The parking gods are smiling on me, because there’s an open spot right next to the door. I pull in and kill the engine immediately before going inside. It does smell good, I can admit, but for the most part I’m not paying attention. My eyes are busy searching the place for a woman drunk on eggnog.

I find her in the corner booth, a wrap-around bench beneath a large window. She’s seated next to one of the twins—I’m man enough to admit I can’t tell them apart—her legs swinging under the table, head bobbing happily.

She seems fine, aside from her obvious inebriation; some of my anxiety drains away as I take a deep breath. My frown doesn’t disappear, though. If anything it deepens, because I recognize the man sitting on the other side of the booth from Stella.

It’s Benny, wearing a workout tank and probably gym shorts in this French café. He’s clearly buzzed—Benny the health nut, Benny I’ll-have-ginger-ale-with-no-ice Nuzzolo, smiling dopily at the women around him.

I grit my teeth and weave my way toward the table.

Stella lets her head drop onto the shoulder of whichever twin is next to her; Sophronia/Lucretia pats her gently on the back and lifts a glass of water to her mouth.

“Have some more water,” the unidentified twin says. “Here you go—no, the straw’s here—good job. Your sexy doctor boyfriend is coming to get you, okay? And you can go home and rest.”

Stella nods, her eyes closed, a carefree smile on her lips .

“Oh,” the twin says when she looks up to see me approaching. She pats Stella on the back again. “Stell, he’s here. Come on, hon. Let’s get up.”

“Jacky,” Benny says, louder than normal for him, his smile wide. “Jacky is here!”

Stella’s eyes open, and she blinks blearily around before her gaze lands on me.

Then she smiles—and I’d like to know where she gets the audacity to smile at me like that. It’s the same smile she gave me all those years ago, the one that sent me careening down her path—brilliant and joyful.

“Jack,” she says as Lucretia/Sophronia helps her to her feet. She blinks a few times, her smile sweetening as she stumbles toward me. She points at my face and goes on, “I’m so proud of you. You did so good at life. And you’re an amazing kisser. Ah-may-ay-ay-zing .”

And then she collapses, right in my arms.

Crap. This woman is not tastefully buzzed, of the sort you might see among high society women with secret drinking problems. She is flat-out drunk.

“Let me tell you,” Benny says as I dig around in my back pocket. “Jacky was obsessed with this girl— ow ,” he mutters when I stop searching my pockets and cuff him on the back of the head instead.

“Stop talking, you idiot,” I mutter, and he blinks stupidly at me.

“There’s nothing wrong with love, Jacky,” Benny says, shaking his head. “I think it’s beautiful. You called her after that earthquake to make— ow, ow, ow! ”

My heart is going to thunder right out of my chest; I twist Benny’s ear further and then give it a tug.

“Come on,” I say sharply, my eyes darting over the women at the table. They’re all watching with a mixture of curiosity and interest. I tug on Benny’s ear again. “Get up,” I tell him. “You’re coming with me too.”

I pull a neatly folded five dollar bill out of my back pocket and pass it to the twin who’s still helping Stella. “Add this to the tip,” I say, and she takes it with a nod.

“She’s okay, I think,” Sophronia/Lucretia says, though she looks a little worried.

I support Stella with one arm and use the other to find her pulse; it’s strong and steady. Then I tilt her chin up to look at me. She gives me another sleepy smile.

“I knew the phone call was you,” she murmurs.

Do not panic, I order myself. Priorities. Just get her home for now.

“She should be fine,” I say then, although I’m not so sure. I’ve seen my fair share of alcohol poisoning in the ER. Stella is conscious and vaguely responsive with no vomiting so far, which is good, but if she relapses… “I’ll keep an eye on her. Thanks, guys.” I say this to the twins; I do not say it to the three other women at the table, because they’re not at all helpful.

One of the twins passes me the little red bag Stella was carrying last night, and I tuck it under my arm. Then I help Stella through the café, Benny drifting vaguely behind me. The hostess looks faintly scandalized, but I ignore her, focusing on making it across the entryway instead.

“You’ve had quite a morning,” I tell Stella, trying to lighten the mood as we shuffle along.

She comes to a stop and turns to look at me, her bottom lip jutting out as tears fill her eyes.

“Oh, whoa,” I say, alarmed. “Don’t cry.” I glance around at the hostess and the people whose tables are nearest the entry; they haven’t noticed us stop, and I would like to keep it that way. “Come on, Princess, let’s...” But I trail off as her face screws up and more tears stream down her cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” I say quickly, trying to pat her on the back while keeping her upright. “This could happen to anyone, all right?” I sigh. “I shouldn’t have joked about it. I’m sorry.”

That bottom lip of hers trembles— you kissed those lips, my traitorous brain says—as her chin quivers…

And then, right there, in the middle of this fancy French café, Stella begins to wail.

Great heaving sobs—they could not possibly be louder—crashing through the lovely French afternoon all these people are trying to have; heads whip our direction as Stella’s face turns steadily redder, her hair sticking to her face as she cries, and good grief, there’s snot involved?—

It is at this point that I do a swift cost-benefit analysis and determine that getting out of this building is now the number one priority. So even though Stella is wailing, half-standing at best, and even though she deserves a chance to cry in peace, all I can currently do for her is lean down, pick her up, and rush her out of the café.

Like she’s a screaming infant, and I’m the stressed-out father trying not to disrupt all the other restaurant-goers.

“Benny,” I bark over my shoulder as he continues to trail slowly after us. I’m tempted to throw Stella’s red bag at him. “Come on. ”

I manage to get Stella to the car with minimal resistance; she’s not fighting me, just sobbing. I put her down and toss her bag on the floor of the footwell. Then I settle her in the passenger seat, fastening her seatbelt over her and pulling it tight.

“Someone found out,” she says, her voice devastated as fat tears trail down her cheeks. She inhales several stuttering breaths and goes on, “Bridget found out. Dawn was right. She says—she says?—”

“What does she say?” I ask with a sigh. I don’t know who Dawn is, but Stella seems to want to talk about her.

“She says I’m a—a—a home-wrecker, ” she wails, erupting into violent tears once more.

My heart picks up speed, but I keep my voice casual. “Dawn can shut her big fat mouth.” I stroke her head, pulling her hair gently away from her tear-stained face. “Ignore her, Princess.”

“I didn’t mean to,” she says. “I didn’t know.” She swipes her tears clumsily away and sniffles. “I would never.” A fresh wave of crying comes over her, and she curls in on herself like she’s trying to hold herself together. “I would—would—would never ,” she repeats, barely comprehensible this time.

Then, so suddenly I jump, her hand shoots out; she reaches for my shirt and grabs it, fisting the fabric in a tight grip. I teeter as she tugs me down, stretches my shirt up to her nose, and blows , a disgusting gurgle of snot and tears.

“ Stella, ” I groan, yanking my shirt away from her. “Oh, gross ? — ”

“Ew,” Benny says, wrinkling his nose at me.

I roll my eyes and open the door to the backseat, gesturing irritably; Benny slides on in perfectly at ease, like I’m his chauffeur. I slam the door closed.

I’ll drop him at his mom’s house; Mama Nuzzolo will give him a few good whacks with her slipper.

I step back and shut Stella’s door, hurrying around to my side of the car, getting in quickly. Then, praying to any and all deities who may be listening that we won’t get stopped on the way home, I pull my shirt off over my head.

“Why—why—” Stella stutters through her sobs, and when I glance over at her, she’s pointing at my naked torso. “Why are you hot? ”

I nearly choke on the surprise laugh that tries to come out; it breaks through my disgust at being used as a tissue. “Sorry?”

“You’re not supposed to be pretty,” she wails, dropping her head into her hands.

“Let’s go home, okay?” I say with a shake of my head. There’s no point trying to have a conversation while she’s in this state. “I’ll make you some toast and you can get some rest.”

It’s what my mom used to do for me when I was sick as a kid, something I never really appreciated until she died and no one made me toast anymore.

Making yourself toast when you’ve got a cold is not the same, I can tell you that. I’ll make Stella toast with strawberry jam, I decide, because she likes strawberry jam.

But by the time we stop in front of Benny’s mom’s house, her lids are drooping, and when we pull into my parking spot back in Lucky, she’s fast asleep.

I don’t have the heart to wake her up.

FROM STELLA’S INBOX

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: SMITH & SONS GOSSIP INCOMING!! !

STELLA OMG YOU ARE OFFICIALLY A HOME-WRECKER!!! Okay hi so this is Dawn by the way, I obviously didn’t want to use my work email. Okay so after you left guess what—Fuller Smith Jr. just announced that he and his wife are splitting!!! They sent an internal memo this morning that his wife would be leaving the company bc of it. I know you didn’t know who he was because he mostly ran the branch in NYC, but you came on to a MARRIED MAN who is not going to be married anymore!!! You are a legend. His wife was ugly anyway and I heard she wasn’t very good at what she did so I wouldn’t stress about it too much.

Okay I just wanted to tell you that!!! Bye!!!