But that was a long time ago. I heard his father passed away a few years back, and I have no idea if Hollis made amends with the rest of his family after we parted ways. I always found it maddening, their snobbery, and wondered how they could condemn my family when their own closets were positively bursting with skeletons.
As far as the ring goes, I do feel bad about that. And I look for it, every now and then. When I pass by a pawn shop – whether here or in the Cities – I always nip in, check out the jewelry section. Back then, I was desperate for cash; there was never enough coming in to account for what had to go out. Now, however, I’m swimming in it. I’m a woman of wealth, and I could buy that fucking ring back ten times over if I wanted. If, that is, I ever find the damn thing.
Not that I expect to.
Still, when I come across a greasy looking shop one afternoon while out with Marla, I snag her elbow and, ignoring her questioning look, drag her inside. And since the kid is attached to her other hand, she follows.
The kid, the kid, the goddamn kid is always with us. This is our third lunch date, and Marla refuses to leave her behind, always using Hollis’s work schedule as an excuse. But that’s piss poor, because from what I can tell, Hollis adores his daughter. Marla’s just one of those control-freak mothers who refuses to let anyone else watch her child – even her own fucking husband.
Not to mention, she wears the kid like a damn accessory. I mean, it always looks obnoxious, wearing princess costumes instead of actual clothes. We’re a spectacle wherever we go; the kid always bouncing around our legs with her gaudy fairy wand in one hand and her stuffed lion in the other. People, for the most part, are polite, smiling and patting her head or even squatting down to let her “bless” them (barf). But they’re just putting up with Marla’s shitty mothering skills. Because, let’s face it, not everyone is a fan of sticky brats. Sometimes, kids need to be left at home.
Like now. The kid is galloping through the small shop, her gummy fingers reaching out to grab at this, pull at that. Marla follows, and every now and then I hear her exhausted voice, “No, Belle. Put that down. No, leave it be. Belle, I said no.”
I bend over the ring case and roll my eyes. It sounds like she’s talking to a dog.
The man working behind the counter looks up from the hunting magazine he’s reading, his eyes following the pair around the store. He’s Paul Bunyan big, with a red beard and a plaid flannel shirt that strains against his shoulders. He narrows his brows, looking irritated, though something tells me that’s just his normal appearance. When he casts his gaze my way, I give my head a little shake and shrug as if to say fucking kids, am I right?
Returning my attention back to the display, I push the button and scroll through row after row of crap, none of it worth the asking price.
“So what are we doing in here?” Marla appears by my side, her voice a whisper, like we’re in a library or a church or something. The kid is in her arms, squirming, but finally controlled.
I don’t lift my eyes from the case. “Just checking for something. A family heirloom that was,” I blow out a breath, “lost. Years ago.”
“Like a ring?”
Oh, my God, Marla. Yes, a fucking ring! What the hell do you think I’m looking at rings for, you idiot?
I’m not religious in any way, shape, or form. But right now, I could use a little divine intervention. God, grant me patience…
My snarky reply is on the edge of my tongue, which is getting harder and harder to hold around her. But thankfully, I’m saved when Paul Bunyan lumbers over, his shadow announcing his presence before his voice.
“Anything I can help you ladies find?”
He sounds bored, like helping us is the very last thing he wants to do, and I don’t blame him one bit. If I worked in this shithole, I’d be hella depressed, too. “I’m looking for a ruby ring. Silver gold, .57 carat.”
The guy crosses his arms and shakes his head. “Nothing in there that fits that description, I can tell you that much.”
I peer up at him before straightening and matching his stance. He’s younger than I initially thought; the beard and surly look pack on a good decade or two to his appearance. “Have you seen anything like that come through here?”
His expression remains blank. “Nope.”
Shit.
Sighing, I pluck my necklace from where it’s dipped into my cleavage and finger the charm, a subconscious tick I’ve taken on since receiving it from Ford last week. Now more than ever, I’d love to find that ring. How wonderful would it be to present it to Hollis after we reconnected? He’d be so grateful, so appreciative. First, I arrive out of the blue and save him from his horrid marriage. Then I reunite him with a family heirloom that was thought to be lost forever.
Hocking the ring is the only thing I’ve ever done that’s made him truly angry. Even leaving him for Nicholas didn’t bring out rage, not in the way I expected. He was a broken man, sure. Hurt beyond repair, his voice cracked with anguish rather than anger when he begged me to stay.
I must look completely pitiful, because Paulie’s tough expression softens. “If you want to give me your number, I can check with the guy who owns the place. See if he knows of anything that fits that description.”
I nod, taking what I can get, and flash him grateful smile while scribbling my phone number down on the business card he hands me. I don’t’ have a lot of hope, but you never know.
After we leave, Marla peppers me with questions about the ring. I lie, of course. Even if I told her the truth and changed Hollis’s name to, say, Barney, there’s always the chance she could go home and repeat what I say. And even if Hollis didn’t make the connection right away, it would certainly get him thinking. And I can’t have him remembering any of our bad times. Not before I can remind him of all the good. So I tell her that my grandmother gave it to me when I turned sixteen, and that my brother stole it out of my jewelry box a few years later and pawned it for drug money.
“Wow,” she breathes when I’ve finished. “That’s terrible.”
We’ve made it to the diner we’ve taken to frequenting for lunch, and Marla’s expression remains troubled as she blows on her coffee. Next to her on the booth, the kid spills her orange juice and shoves her stuffed lion’s nose in it, encouraging him to drink.
I press three sugar packets together, rip them open, and shake them over my own mug. “Family, right? What do you do?”
Marla takes a sip from her drink and shakes her head. “Fu—” She grimaces, looking down at the kid, who is now staring up at her with wide, doe-like eyes. “Shoot,” she amends. “I can’t even imagine my brother doing something like that.”
“Lucky you,” I huff, the words spilling out before I can bite them back.
But instead of being offended, Marla apologizes. “Oh, my God. Becky, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean any offense…”
I hold up my hand, successfully stopping her annoying prattle. “It’s fine, really. And I know you didn’t mean anything by it. Family is just a tough subject for me. I’m sorry if I got…snippy.” When she looks unconvinced, I smile. Smile so fucking wide my cheeks hurt. “So, I take it you’re close with your family, then?”