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“Aren’t you supposed to spend two times your monthly salary on the ring?” Troy asks, peering into the glass case. The question is asked so casually, innocently, but I know better. “Now that you’re unemployed, that’s not a lot of money.”
Any other time, I’d glare at him for the reminder about my job. But he’s not doing it to be a jerk.
The woman makes a tiny sound that borders on a choked huff. “Well, I’ll let you keep looking.” She flashes me a smile that has been stuck together with superglue, but the pieces don’t fit perfectly together. Then she walks away, writing me off.
“I owe you one,” I say under my breath.
Troy knows that hovering salespeople irritate the hell out of me. “Not to sound like her pet parrot, but do you have any idea what you’re looking for? We’re not talking about selecting a burger at a restaurant.”
“I’m well aware of that. I just figure I’ll know what I’m looking for when I see it.”
“Maybe you should’ve asked Jerome to help you. He’s married. He knows how to pick out an engagement ring.”
“He and Kim went away for the night.”
“And you couldn’t have waited till he got back?”
“Simone and I don’t have time for that.” I continue studying the rings. “Rose should be home later next week if nothing changes with her condition. And I plan to propose to Simone in front of her.”
“Didn’t you propose to her on Zara’s balcony?” He points to a silver ring with a square diamond. “How ’bout that one?”
“I did, but I want to make it official. And nothing says official like proposing in front of the woman’s grandmother. I like that one better.” I point at the square diamond with the corners cut off.
“Didn’t Jerome give you any hints?”
“He told me to pick something that Simone will like and fits her personality.”
“You haven’t seen her in what? Nine or ten years? How are you supposed to know which ring fits her personality?”
“I doubt she’s changed that much since I last saw her.” I wave to the woman, indicating I’ve found the perfect ring.
13
Simone
A week after Lucas and I decided to marry for business reasons, I push Grams’s wheelchair up the ramp Troy installed to her house. Fluffy white clouds float overhead like welcome-home balloons.
Even though she won’t need the wheelchair permanently, Grams will be in it for the next few weeks, so Troy made some modifications to her home.
“You know, Troy is single,” Grams says as I unlock the front door.
“I know.”
“He’s a nice boy. Nice to look at, too.” She winks at me with the sass of someone her age minus six decades. “But then, all the Carson boys are nice to look at.”
I can’t stop the laughter that bubbles up.
“Bigger muscles, too.” She pretends to flex her muscles—frail arms hidden beneath the sleeves of her emerald-green blouse. Her body is still bruised, but the worst of the marks have faded.
I chuckle, the sound throaty and rough at the memory of those bruises. “Yep, definitely bigger muscles.” Some very nice ones from what I can tell.
I ease the wheelchair into the house, and we enter the living room.
Grams gasps, surprise and delight widening her eyes as she takes in the dozen floral arrangements scattered around the space. “Did my house turn into a florist shop while I was away?”
“A lot of people in Maple Ridge love you, and they wanted to make sure you know that.” I park her wheelchair next to the couch and pick up a giant card from the dining room table.
On the front is a painting of a smiling tree and a smiling sun. The flowers standing on the grass are also smiling. “One of the second-grade classrooms painted the picture,” I tell her. “And everyone at the school signed the card.”
