She gave it to me on the morning after Andreev. She handed it to me without ceremony in her kitchen and said only ‘for when you are ready,’ and I put it in my coat pocket and drove home, and I have been carrying it for forty-two days.
Early on, I took it to a jeweler in Beacon Hill to have the prongs checked and the stone cleaned. The jeweler asked if I wanted it sized. I said no, because asking my potential future wife for her ring size would have been a tell, and I had not yet given her the chance to know without my asking.
The ring is two carats.
The stone is an old European cut, which was used in the 1950s before modern brilliant cuts. It catches light differently than a modern stone. The way it caught light in 1958. The way it caught light on Kalliope's hand for forty-seven years.
The metal is yellow gold. I am keeping the word for last. I will tell her the word when she puts the ring on.
Maeve is crying.
She’s crying without sound, the way she’s been crying since the first time I saw her cry, which was the night Andreev was finally arrested, and she sat on the kitchen island in my T-shirt and wept silently because she had not let herself weep at the federal building. Her tears are on my chest. Her hand is at my heart. Her hair is across my throat. I am still. I let her cry.
After a long time, she says, "Lex."
"Yes."
"Tell me what you want."
"What I want."
"For the asking-with-words. Tell me the shape of it."
So I tell her its shape.
I tell her: I want to do it the Greek way. The traditional way.
I tell her: I want to ask Nora if she’ll take my name. Konstantinos. The same as me. The same as my mother. The same as her cousin Sofia. I want to ask her in a way she can understand. I want her to choose. I want her to know she gets to choose. I am her father in every way she’s known me, and I will be her father in every way the world can see, and I want the asking to be the quiet, enormous moment when she decides her own name.
I tell her:I want all of it.
I tell her:I want it loud.
I tell her:I want everyone we love to be in the room.
Maeve doesn’t speak for a long time.
When she speaks, her voice is wrecked.
She says, "Lex."
I say, "Yes."
She says, "I want all of it, too."
I say, "Okay."
She says, "All of it. The blessing. The ring. Nora. The room full of people we love. All of it."
I say, "Okay."
She says, "And I want Nora to choose. I want her to know she’s chosen. I want her to remember choosing it for the rest of her life. I want it to be hers."
I say, "Yes."
She’s crying again. I am holding her. The candle on the bedside table is still burning. I have not blown it out.
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