Five Stolen Rings

Chapter 27

JACK

I have to say, I don’t appreciate the judgment I’m getting here. I don’t appreciate it one bit.

“I don’t know about that,” I say to Stella in response to her claim that I have no legal legs to stand on. “I might have broken into this house?—”

“ Illegally ,” she says, her voice strained.

I wave that away. “But she took the rings. My guess is that there’s some legal way to prove they belong to me. I know my father wouldn’t have left them to—to her. ” I gesture to Maude, who just sniffs.

But come on. It’s not like my father left a grand, complicated will that a solicitor read to all of the family members—all two of us. A specific chunk of money came straight to me, but I let Maude handle everything else.

I wince internally at this thought, because I guess it’s partially my fault I didn’t get the rings. I’ve asked for them a couple times since he died, and Maude has always said no. If I had involved myself in his affairs after he died, though, this situation might not have arisen in the first place.

Clearing my throat loudly, I turn my attention back to Maude. “You took my mother’s rings, and I want them back.”

It’s a strange conversation to be having in this room that’s decked out for Christmas. It’s even stranger to be looking at my stepmother in person when the portrait of her looms on the wall above, weirdly provocative.

I shudder and look away, letting my gaze drop back to the real Maude. She’s eyeing me with one thin brow raised, but it’s hard to tell what she’s thinking. It always has been; she’s an unpredictable woman.

The other unpredictable woman in my life seems to be having trouble controlling her nerves. Stella’s leg bounces as she sits next to me, and I finally reach over and place one hand on her knee. Maude tracks the movement with her beady little eyes.

When she speaks, though, it’s not about either of us. She holds up the little brown box, five rings on display and glinting in the light of the room. “What was your plan with these?” she says, and I flush.

It wasn’t a stupid plan, I tell myself. Don’t be embarrassed.

It’s just…the mood rings from the cereal box are still in there. So I am a little embarrassed.

“I was going to replace all of them with high quality replicas,” I say, trying to keep my voice even. “The box had dust on it when I took it from your closet. It seemed reasonable to expect that you wouldn’t notice the switch.”

“Mmm,” Maude hums, her eyes narrowing. Then she points at the mood rings. “And the other two authentic rings are…? ”

“At my apartment,” I say.

Maude’s bony chin ducks into a slow nod. Then she turns her attention to Stella. “How did you get roped into this, girl?”

I bristle at this address, but Stella doesn’t seem to mind.

“Ah,” she says, her voice weak. “We knew each other when we were kids,” she says. “And I liked having him around while I was over here. It’s kind of—” She breaks off, clears her throat. “It’s sort of an intimidating house.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Maude says as she looks around the living room, and for the first time, she seems vaguely happy. “I’ve always appreciated that.”

When she turns her eyes back to Stella, however, any light in her expression dims into something more severe. “I trusted you to come into my home and take care of it while I was gone.”

Stella’s head drops. “I know,” she says quietly.

“And I expected better from someone with such high accolades.” At Stella’s questioning look, Maude says, “Highly educated, are you not? With a prestigious job at an architectural firm? That’s what sold me.” She adjusts the neckline of her dress. “Your mother said you were an architect. I’ve a fondness for architecture myself, and I know several highly respectable people in that field. It’s the reason I decided to trust you with my home and my children.”

I assume she’s talking about her pets here, and it seems like a bad time to comment, so I don’t.

“I’m not an architect anymore,” Stella says, her voice heavy. “I—lost my job.”

“Just because an artist is not painting does not mean he is not an artist. If you received the training necessary, you’re an architect, whether you have a job or not.” Maude gives another haughty sniff. “You did a halfway-decent job decorating, I will say. You’ve quite the eye for design.”

Stella brightens slightly at this. “It’s something I’ve always enjoyed,” she admits.

I look back and forth between my girlfriend and my stepmother, bemused. What’s happening right now? Are these women bonding?

“How did you lose your job, then?” Maude asks. Her voice is careless, casual, but her eyes are shrewd.

“I got fired,” Stella says. Her shoulders slump at the admission, but I’m strangely proud of her for admitting the truth so openly. “The son of the company’s owner came on to me, so I reciprocated—but he was married. His wife found out.” Her cheeks redden. “So I got fired. But I didn’t—” She breaks off and then straightens up. “I didn’t know. And I didn’t actually do anything wrong.”

“I should say not,” Maude says, looking scandalized. “Where was this?”

“In California,” Stella says. She leans over slightly, letting her side press against mine. “At a company called Smith and Sons.”

“Ha,” Maude says, a snap of bitter laughter so loud and unexpected that Stella and I both jump. “If I’ve told Fuller Smith once, I’ve told him a hundred times—that son of his is a dog. It was Junior, I suppose?”

Stella’s head whips to look at me just as I’m looking at her, and I can see my own question mirrored in her eyes: What on earth is happening right now?

“I—he—” Stella begins, stammering, but Maude cuts her off with one imperious wave of her bony hand. Then she pulls a large, ancient-looking cell phone out of who-knows-where. The next thing we know, she’s holding it to her ear .

“Fuller,” she barks one minute later, her spindly brows low. “Didn’t I tell you that son of yours is a good-for-nothing?”

The man on the other end—Fuller Smith Senior, presumably, head of Smith and Sons, the multimillion-dollar architectural firm—answers angrily, words I can’t make out.

But Maude is having none of it. “Don’t you give me that nonsense,” she says coldly. “You tell that boy to keep his body parts in his pants, and stop making advances toward employees. It’s not their fault he lies like he’s breathing.” She pauses and then adds, “I suppose Priscilla is out of there.”

The wife , Stella mouths at me when I shoot her a questioning look.

“Never liked her anyway,” Maude says, and even though we can’t hear exactly what Fuller Smith’s response is, it could not more clearly be a grumble of agreement. “Well, tell that boy to rein it in,” she finishes. “And for goodness’ sake—do something about your hair. It looks horrible.”

Then, without waiting for a response, she jabs the End Call button.

“You can’t even see his hair,” I say, because I have so many questions, and this seems as good a place to start as any.

But Maude just cackles. “Don’t need to see it,” she says. “It always looks bad.” She hesitates, her eyes on me. Then, without warning, she tosses the box of rings.

I barely catch it because I’m so surprised. When I look at my stepmother with a gaping mouth, she frowns.

“You may find this difficult to believe,” she says, “but it’s nice to see you so fired up about something. Take the rings if they mean so much to you. I have no use for them anyway. ”

And it truly is not possible for my jaw to drop any lower. “I’ve asked you for them in the past,” I say incredulously.

“Yes,” she says, the word careless, like she’s already losing interest. “But that’s different from trying to steal them, isn’t it?”

“I—”

“Do you know how to fix my window?” she goes on.

“What?” I say. The word is weak as it leaves my mouth, because I’m not sure my brain is functioning properly.

“My window,” Maude says impatiently. “The one you crawled through at your leisure while I was gone. Do you know how to fix it?”

“I—probably,” I say, taken aback. “Yeah. I could fix it.”

She nods sharply. “Do that, and I won’t call the police. And you,” she barks at Stella. “You owe me several rolls of plastic wrap, I believe.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Stella says as her leg begins to bounce again.

“Send me an invoice for your services via the payment app of your choice,” she goes on. “You have my number.” Then Maude stands up, adjusting her sparkly purple…dress? I think it’s a dress. We’re clearly being dismissed. But on her way out of the room, she looks over her shoulder.

“There’s an architecture firm in Boulder,” she says to Stella. “Newer, but very good work. If you’re open to someplace smaller than your previous company, try Steadman’s.”

“Steadman’s,” Stella echoes, sounding dazed.

And with one last nod, Maude sweeps out of the room.

STELLA

My parents could not be more thrilled that Jack and I are now a couple. My father, bless his sweet heart, is genuinely shocked—he picked up on absolutely nothing yesterday.

He has strengths in other arenas.

Jack comes over on Christmas morning, still in his pajamas (my instructions) and without having eaten breakfast (my mother’s instructions). The four of us eat cinnamon rolls on the couch while watching the 1966 Grinch. We open presents afterward, at which point my mother presents Jack with five wrapped gifts of his own.

“Just a few things we put together,” she says, beaming. She got up early with me to go to Walmart, and I love her for it. Jack looks just as shocked to be handed his own gifts as my dad looked when he found out we were dating.

I think it’s been a very long time since he spent Christmas with anyone that felt like family.

“I have something for you,” he tells me later that day, when we’ve snuck out of the living room and into the kitchen for more cinnamon rolls.

I eat mine straight out of the pan with a fork. “I have something for you too,” I say with my mouth full, and Jack wrinkles his nose.

“Chew and swallow, you heathen,” he says. Then he grabs the fork that’s halfway to my mouth and pops the bite into his own instead.

“Hey,” I say, but I’m smiling. I reclaim my fork and nod to the pocket of my pajama pants. “Look in my pocket.”

“Now, now, Stella girl,” he says as a grin unfurls on his face, a wicked glint in his eyes. “It’s too soon for that kind of thing, don’t you think? ”

I lick my fingers one by one and then reach into my pocket myself, pulling out the bracelet I made.

“Here,” I say, waving it in his face. When he doesn’t respond, I snap my fingers. “Jack,” I say.

He startles, his eyes wrenching away from my lips. “Huh?” he says. “Oh—” But when his gaze falls on the bracelet, his expression softens. “Look at that, Princess. We thought alike.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a bracelet of his own, deep purple and braided.

I tie his onto his wrist, and I can feel his eyes on me the whole time. He smells like spearmint and cologne and home, and I like the sight of him in his pajamas in my family’s kitchen. I like the gentle way he ties my bracelet on next, with steady and practiced hands.

“Merry Christmas, you filthy animal,” I say, quoting Home Alone.

He glances up. “I’ll be your filthy animal?—”

But I cut his ridiculous words off with a laugh, and he smiles too. “Would you really not visit me in prison?” he says.

I grin at this. “Depends. If you asked very, very nicely, I would consider it.”

He finishes tying my bracelet and then lifts my arm, pressing a kiss to the inside of my wrist. “I can ask nicely.” His nose skims down my wrist and to the palm of my hand, where he places another kiss. Then, with a tug, he pulls me closer; my arms wind around his neck as his wrap around my waist.

“Will you, Stella Partridge,” he breathes, his lips so close to mine that I can feel them move, “please visit me in prison if I ever end up there?”

“Definitely…” I say slowly, letting my lips br ush against his, “ not. ” He snorts with laughter as I go on, “You’re a grown man. Get your act together. If you go to jail, I’m out. Unless you were framed,” I add quickly. “Or if you were secretly innocent.”

“Noted.” And then he’s kissing me, slow and lazy and deep, promises of things to come—a prison-free future of Christmases and family and quiet, unhurried love. “My true love,” he whispers against my lips as we kiss.

“Yes,” I agree, running my fingers through his dark hair. “Your truest love.”