25. Jake #2
Pay for flowers? I was dubious about that, but I nodded.
My hands were on his slender hips, and in my heart, as I kissed him, I was already standing beneath that green-leafed cottonwood tree with the sound of the river in my ears. Dalton’s love and affection as plain as day for anyone to see.
“But first, I need a hat.” He pointed to his own head. “Can we go into town?”
“I need to work—”
“Fuck work,” he said. “Dear sweet Jake, you have the whole day off. You can go back to work tomorrow, and so can I.”
If Dalton didn’t have me wrapped around his little finger before then, he did now.
We got into Daybreak and snuck off—not very sneakily at all—to town. I had my hat on. The windows were rolled down. My new ring glittered on my finger on the steering wheel. Dalton’s smile outshone the sun. It was the best day of my life, and I did not doubt there would be many more like it.
We parked near the Mercantile, and Dalton followed me inside to where the hats were. His fingers splayed on the counter as he took in the offerings.
“You want straw, don’t you?” I said, thinking, suddenly, that this was as important as the rings. “Pick out one. Any one you like.”
“One like yours?”
“Anything.”
Mentally, I’d already chosen a hat for him; I’d spotted it the second we came up to the counter. It was a pale cream straw hat with two rows of a diamond-shaped pattern along the brim. The hatband was dark brown with a tiny arrow for a buckle. And it was a Stetson.
He was watching me. Tracking where my eyes went. And so, with a grin, he pointed the clerk to the very hat I wanted for him.
The clerk wrapped a cloth measuring tape around his head to measure him, then brought down a hatbox of the proper size.
Dalton opened the box. She placed an oval mirror on the counter. I stood behind Dalton and could see his eyes as he put the hat on his head.
He was only looking at me in the mirror. Not at her. Not at the hat.
His hands were on the brim, pulling the hat level, but that wasn’t the way it should be worn, so I adjusted the fit: brim down to shade his eyes.
“That feels good on my head,” he said to the clerk. Then he asked me, “Should it feel this good so quickly?”
“It should if it’s a Stetson,” I said, thinking that the same might be said about our relationship. “Only the best for you, sweetheart.”
He flushed with pleasure and dipped his chin, flicking a saucy glance at me from beneath the brim.
“We’ll take it,” I said, reaching for my wallet. When Dalton looked like he was about to protest, I told him, “Hush. This is like rings. Hats and rings. You see?”
He did. He was patience itself, letting me buy that hat for him. I told the clerk to keep the box, but Dalton protested that it was a good box, whatever that was, so we were laden with a bulky empty box as we left the store.
I placed the box in Daybreak’s bed and left Dalton in front of the coffee shop, on a wooden bench in the shade. Smiled when he assured me he’d behave himself. And went into Bancroft Antiques.
I stepped cautiously between the glass-topped display cases and the shelves of antique books and the glossy furniture, going all the way to the back of the store, because everything there glittered as if a spotlight was on it.
Half the case was necklaces with dark stones, bright orange coral earrings, and ivory clips. The other half had rings. By the sizes and styles, half looked like they were for ladies. The other half was for gents.
One of the purple velvet half-moon spaces in the gents’ section was empty. I looked at the ring on my finger and thought it might fit, that it might be where my ring used to rest.
“Are you Jake?”
I looked up to see a man wearing clothes that looked like they belonged in another time: dress pants and a paisley vest. He was skinny, and his hair was all done up like he was about to appear in a magazine.
“Yes, sir,” I said, puzzled.
“I only know because I’m the owner,” the man said.
He had an accent. I thought it might be English.
There was a smile in his amber-brown eyes.
“And your friend Dalton, who came in this morning to buy that ring you’re wearing, told me all about you.
Roland Bancroft, at your service.” He held out his hand for me to shake.
“Don’t tell me how much he spent,” I said, eyeing the prices, which were more than I’d been expecting.
“I wouldn’t dream of it, sir,” Roland said. “I presume you’ve come in to purchase an accompanying ring. You won’t find anything that matches what you’re wearing, but I’m sure we can find something that suits your friend.”
“My fiancé,” I corrected, relishing the feel of the word in my mouth.
“Your fiancé,” he agreed. “I’m very pleased to hear it. Now, what do you think he would like to wear?”
“Something gold.” I spun the ring on my finger, getting used to the smooth feel of it.
“To match the gold in this one. Something with blue in it—” I paused, feeling a flush along the back of my neck.
I wasn’t ashamed of how I felt about Dalton.
It was just that I wasn’t used to saying the quiet parts out loud.
“To match his eyes. Maybe something with stars. I dunno.”
Roland bent to unlock the back of the case. He pulled out the three purple-velvet-lined trays, as he must have done with Dalton earlier that day. Then he shook his head and put one tray back. “Those are all silver, sir.”
I hadn’t noticed that. There was so much glitter and shine, it was distracting. But as he gestured to the two remaining trays, I was able to focus again.
Then, pointing his finger, he drew me to a particular ring. It was thick and sturdy, and the scrollwork in the gold made it look like it was swirling. In the middle was an oval of blue, and inside that blue were dozens of gold specks.
“This Art Nouveau ring comes from Russia.” He pulled out a fold of black velvet and pushed the trays aside, placed the velvet on the glass, and put the ring on top of that. Everything about the ring shone against that black velvet.
“The cabochon-cut stone, supported by six prongs, is midnight blue lapis lazuli. What looks like stars are inclusions of gold pyrite. The style resembles Fabergé rings made around the turn of the last century, but the maker’s mark was lost during a resizing, so there’s no way to know for sure.”
Only a small part of that made sense to me: that the ring was old and that he, too, could see the stars in the blue stone.
“How much is it?” I asked, thinking of my bank account. Thinking of what I could beg or borrow so that my sweetheart could wear that ring on his finger. But I knew better. Before Roland even opened his mouth, I knew the ring would be out of my price range.
“Normally, it’s $1,500, sir.”