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“No. I’m going to return it to him.”
“Why?”
“Because a thank-you is all that is necessary.” I lift the bag. “I can’t accept something like this when I barely know the guy.”
“That’s ridiculous. You don’t even know what it is.”
“You’d accept a gift like this and wear it without any qualms?”
“Hell yeah, I’d accept it. Then I’d sell it. Look, princess, before you strain yourself figuring out how to return the Hope Diamond, open the damn box. They do carry stuff besides fancy jewelry. Maybe it’s a pen, or a key chain, or a sterling silver corkscrew to help you pull your head out of your ass.”
Rude as she is, she could be right. It’s probably just a token. A nice one, because he’s obviously got the means, but the kind of thing a person gives as a gesture of appreciation for an associate or a helpful neighbor. A key chain makes perfect sense. I bet that’s what’s inside and I’m freaking out over nothing. It’s still too generous a gift, but possibly one there’s no harm in keeping. Vaughn did go to the trouble of picking it out for me.
“I should open it.”
“About time.” Dixie puts her elbows on the counter and cups her face in her hands to watch me.
I’ve never gotten a gift from Tiffany’s before, so I have no idea if everything comes in a dark blue velvet box, but that’s what I pull out of the bag. My heart pounds a little harder as I open the box. Nestled inside isn’t a key chain but a sterling silver daisy key pendant necklace with a diamond in the center of the flower. My hands shake. It’s delicate. Beautiful.
“Huh,” Dixie says. “Looks like you’ve got yourself an admirer. Word of advice?”
“Yes,” I answer immediately without looking at her. Instead, I tuck the necklace back into place and put the box in the bag. It’s too much. I’m returning it no matter what she recommends.
“A guy like Vaughn gives a gift like that? He wants to fuck you, plain and simple, so if you’re not down for that, princess, you should follow your Hannah Montana instincts and give the thank-you back.”
I don’t bother responding. I’m not sure what the gift implies, only that it adds a layer of confusion to my bad mood. He barely knows me! I stand up and walk out the kitchen door with the bag in my hand.
Out of view from the kitchen window, I sit on the iron bench next to the gardenias Aunt Sally planted and tends to like children. Lying in the dirt beside the bench are the three large garden rocks Amber, Dixie, and I painted when we were young. Each is different in color and design but painted in similar childlike strokes. I decorated mine with calm blue swirls. Flashy purple lightning bolts zigzag across Dixie’s, and Amber’s glows with a round yellow sun. Aunt Sally tends to our rocks as well, because they’re still shiny.
Now that I have privacy, I pull the small blue envelope out of the Tiffany’s bag. I purposely didn’t tell Dixie there was a card. It was hard enough sharing the gift with her. I slip a white notecard from the envelope and read what Vaughn wrote.
Thank you for being my guardian angel. And for the sofa. I’ll trade you keys. Sincerely, Vaughn.
I slide the note back inside the envelope and return it to the bag.
I’m no one’s guardian angel. If that were true, Mason would be okay. We’d be planning our future, maybe even getting married this summer. Instead, I’m alone and desperate to find a job or career path that doesn’t include law school.
I get to my feet and walk to Vaughn’s front door. He may have meant well, but right now his thoughtfulness is too much for me to bear.
I put the bag behind the potted plant and turn and walk away. For the next couple of hours I search online for local jobs, sending my résumé to a few entry level positions that sound interesting.
That’s a lie. They don’t sound interesting. I close my eyes and wish for time to stop until I figure things out. Impossible, of course. Just like Mason’s recovery.
