Chapter Twelve
Memphis
We were doing very well, I thought, but there were some things that seemed to be a wall between us. I’d assumed he didn’t want to go anywhere fancy because he couldn’t afford it, the same reason he chose to live in the building he did. But there was something more there, and I couldn’t pin it down.
Ridge absolutely did not want to discuss it, either, so I didn’t push.
He had the right to his privacy, just as I did.
But it bothered me. I made a good living, and why have money if I was not going to be able to spend it on the person I cared about most in the whole world?
It made no sense to me…but I knew it did to him.
I just didn’t get it. But when I hinted, he either deflected or ignored me—not something he did about anything else, and I was just going to have to be patient. Maybe it was that he felt bad that he didn’t have much money. But that I knew.
We’d figure us out as we went along. I didn’t mind trying out all the fun dive-type restaurants we visited.
A lot of them were very good, and the few that weren’t, all had some sort of charm that made it worth the trip anyway.
Kitschy decor, amusing staff, gift shops filled with ridiculous items. One even had a salsa garden where you could eat surrounded by all the ingredients for the salsa that came with the chips.
So delicious! And fun to see the tomatoes, peppers, onions, and herbs growing.
I liked living in my apartment, but we talked about getting an herb garden growing on the windowsill.
But recently I’d learned something important.
And not from Ridge directly. Ernie told me that it was going to be my little’s birthday soon.
I wanted to make it special. Since he did not want to go to a fancy restaurant or anything like that, I decided to make him something.
And I wanted it to be a really special, from the heart.
Whenever he came over to my place, he always ended up wrapped up in that soft blanket my sister crocheted.
And I thought he might like to have one of his own.
Which would have been no problem, except that I did not know how to crochet.
And my sister, who could have taught me, lived in another city entirely.
I called her and asked if she’d make it for him.
Not optimal because I really wanted it to be made with my own hands, but having it for him was far more important.
Unfortunately, Gwen was eight-months pregnant and did not have the bandwidth to make a blanket right now.
“Don’t you know anyone there who crochets?
” she asked. “Who’s that friend of yours who makes the patterns? ”
“Bridger!” He made his living designing patterns for crochet. Many of the littles at Chained had stuffies made from the patterns, but he did all sorts of things.
“Yes, that’s the one you told me about. I’ve looked up his stuff online and even made something for the baby. The cutest little yellow duckie. Ask him to give you a lesson, but I warn you, that yarn is slippery and not really for beginners.
“But he loves that blanket you made.”
“You could give it to him and I’ll make you another when I have time.”
I told her I’d check with her in a few days and see how she was feeling then hung up and called Bridger.
He agreed to give me a lesson or two but shared her concerns about the Minky.
The softest yarn in the world, he said, and not for beginners.
But I was stubborn, and after a great deal of angst and starting again over and over, I had crocheted my first-ever item, using a yarn not recommended for people like me. Newbies.
In all fairness, it was not like Gwen’s, but I hoped Ridge would recognize how much love I put into every stitch and forgive the imperfections, of which there were many. The yarn was a really beautiful lavender color and my lack of skill did not make it any less soft.
It currently sat in a box tied with a big purple bow on the dining room table, next to a cake with frosting the same color as the blanket, or as close as I could get.
I didn’t bake much either. Before Ridge, I either ate out or heated up dinners from a service that dropped them off once a week.
Not that I didn’t know how to cook, but I rarely made the time.
Something I’d been correcting since Ridge came into my life. His schedule tended to be fluid, and if I wanted to spend time together, mine had to be as well. Which turned out to be quite freeing. I still spent most days in the office, but my priorities had changed.
So…I baked a cake after watching a video on it over and over.
And like the crocheted blanket, its imperfections were legion.
The cake looked all right, but of course, I hadn’t tasted it yet and the proof would be in the eating, as my sister liked to say.
She was an old soul in a young body. Which was probably why she had said nice things about the blanket when I sent her the picture of the finished product.
Gwen wanted to meet Ridge, who she knew of as my boyfriend, but she couldn’t travel until after the baby came.
The doorman buzzed to let me know Ridge was coming up, and I ran to the door to be ready to let him in as soon as he arrived.
The balloon arch, all the shades of purple, was in the dining room doorway, dinner keeping warm in the oven, and the gift…
the one I even now considered not giving him, in its box.
If I didn’t give him that, I had no other gifts, so it was going to have to be the blanket. My heart lay in it in many ways.
I opened the door and headed down toward the elevator, too excited and nervous to wait, and when the silver door slid open, he stepped out and into my arms. After a birthday’s worth of kissing, I led him inside for his party.
“Surprise!” I stepped aside so he could be sure and see the balloon arch. “Happy Birthday!”
He loved the cake, the arch, the pasta dinner I’d prepared, and then it was time for the gift.
“If you hate it, it’s okay,” I assured him. “It’s just a little something I hoped you would like. A little.”
“Oh, now I really want to know what’s in here.” He tugged on the ends of the ribbon and it fell away from the white box. “Is it a sweater?”
“Nope.”
“A jacket? It’s about the right size box.”
“You’re going to have to open it and find out. And don’t laugh.”
But when he took the lid off, laughter was the last thing on his mind, or at least in his expression. He held up the blanket and burst into tears.
“Oh no. It’s not that bad. We can go shopping and buy you a different present.”
He threw himself into my arms, blanket and all, sobbing. “No. I don’t want a different present.” I just patted his back, telling him it would be all right. I’d insulted him, with my poor effort, and now, he was afraid to let me give him anything. Darn! “You made this yourself? For me?”
“I did. Daddy Bridger taught me, and my sister offered advice. I know it’s terrible but—ouch! Why did you hit me?”
“I just tapped your arm for saying that about the most beautiful gift I’ve ever received. I’ll treasure it always. The blanket, the cake, the dinner…it’s the best birthday ever.”
When he calmed down a bit, he began to spill the beans about his childhood and his family’s expectations for him.
He wasn’t broke. Far from it, but he refused to touch the trust fund.
“I may be stubborn, but I won’t make money the way my family has.
” By the time he finished, I understood all the times he didn’t want to do anything fancy.
Why he valued the small things like his beloved dives.
And why there was tension between him and his family that had made him feel very alone in the past. And when he’d cried it out, he went back for more cake, all smiles again, and definitely going to spend the night.