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I open the letter first.

Dear Javier,

I owe you an apology.

I should have sent this years ago. I told myself I was waiting for the right time, but perhaps I simply found it difficult to let go.

I made your mother a promise.

My eyes stop there. I sit down. Then keep reading.

This ring belonged to your grandmother. Véronique wanted you to have it.

She told me that if the day came when you found the person you wanted beside you for the rest of your life, you should have something from the women who loved you first to give to the woman you chose.

Your mother believed you would know when that day came.

Forgive me for taking so long to keep my promise.

With all my love.

I read it again. Then set the letter beside the box.

For a long moment, I don't touch it. Finally, I lift the lid.

The ring is old and beautiful. A diamond catches the kitchen light, surrounded by smaller deep-blue sapphires. I remember it on my grandmother's hand. I remember my mother sitting beside her at a kitchen table in France, their hands close together as they talked. I was too young then to understand how many things survive us: a recipe, a story, a ring, a promise one sister makes to another.

I lift it carefully from the box.

Your mother believed you would know.

I do. I know exactly who I would give this to.

That's the part that hurts. Knowing who doesn't mean knowing whether I'll ever have the chance.

I place the ring back inside, close the lid, and put it somewhere safe.

Friday comes the way most Fridays do. Early chores. A broken irrigation valve. Lunch eaten standing up. An afternoon spent going over next week's work with Jack.

Maddy sends me a message before dinner service.

Long night ahead. Talk tomorrow?

I answer.

Tomorrow.

Nothing about the day suggests my life is about to change.

***

Maddy

***

Friday afternoon, I stand in the restaurant office with my suitcase beside the desk and my coat over one arm. Julian is studying the weekend schedule.

"Your car here?"