Chapter 3
VIVIAN
There’s a specific kind of quiet that only exists right after you unlock a shop for the day.
There’s the low sound of the lights warming overhead and the faint clink of metal as I shift a tray of rings into place.
Some mornings, I can hear the hiss of the espresso maker in the coffee shop next door.
It’s as if the store is stretching awake around me.
I flip the sign on the door to OPEN and step back inside, letting it click shut behind me.
The front windows catch the light just right this time of day, sending soft reflections across the glass cases that line the walls.
Inside them, pieces sit on linen stands and velvet trays—gold catching the sun, silver glowing softer, gemstones tucked into place like they belong exactly where they are.
Nothing in here is mass-produced. Nothing rushed. Everything is designed, shaped, and finished either by my hands or my grandmother’s.
“Well,” my grandmother says from behind the counter, not looking up as she inspects a delicate chain through her glasses, “if you keep rearranging that display, it’s going to start charging you rent.”
I smile, setting the tray down anyway.
“Good morning to you, too.”
“You’re late.”
“I’m not late,” I say, slipping behind the counter. “I just wasn’t here when you expected me to be.”
She finally looks up at that, unimpressed. “You weren’t home when I left.”
“I didn’t see you either,” I shoot back. “Which is strange, considering I left pretty early.”
When I moved back in with my grandmother, it was supposed to be temporary. Practical. My engagement had just imploded, I needed somewhere to land, and she had fallen and needed some help, so it made sense.
What I didn’t realize was that I’d somehow become the responsible one in the house.
While she’s out with her cronies, running around town like she’s got a social calendar to defend, I’m the one making sure she gets home in one piece.
I’m basically an adult babysitter.
And, if I’m being honest, I kind of like it.
“That’s because I wasn’t there,” she says simply, returning her attention to the chain.
“I gathered that part.”
“I was out.”
“Out where?” I ask, reaching for the tools she keeps lined up like they’ve never been moved in fifty years.
She hums, like she’s deciding whether I’ve earned the answer. “Here.”
I glance around the shop. “You left the house before me…to come here?”
“Yes.”
I let out a short laugh, shaking my head as I pluck the chain from her hands. “Well, I went to the gym before I came in. Which was also early.”
“And yet,” she says, “you still managed to arrive after me.”
“Impressive, I know.”
She doesn’t smile, but I can feel it there anyway.
“Where were you before here?” I press, adjusting the clasp between my fingers.
“Doing things.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only one you’re getting.”
I laugh, focusing on the piece in my hands. Ah, the joys of living with my grandmother. One of us has to be in charge here, and it’s definitely not the one who left the house before sunrise and refuses to explain herself.
“Two can play at that game,” I say lightly. “I don’t need to know anything.”
She inhales sharply. Deep. Dramatic. Southern to her bones.
I bite my lip—and lose the battle as a tiny laugh slips out.
“What?” she demands, pressing a hand to her chest like I’ve personally offended her. “This is our game, isn’t it? You’re supposed to harass me until I tell you where I was.”
I turn to look at her, folding my arms. “No. I don’t want to know anything. In fact, I’d prefer you keep it entirely to yourself.”
She narrows her eyes at me, already suspicious. Good.
I turn my back before she can respond, stepping over to the calendar pinned beside the workbench. My finger taps against the day’s appointments.
“Did you see who’s coming in today?” I ask, casual. “We’ve got another pickup for wedding rings this afternoon.”
There’s movement behind me. A tell. I don’t even have to look to know she’s about to spill—where she was, who she was with, probably a full play-by-play. That’s how she operates.
“IwenttogoseeLarryathisretirementhome.” It all spills out in a run-on sentence, and I don’t even turn around right away. I don’t have to. I can hear the victory in her voice.
I glance over my shoulder slowly, catching the way she’s trying—and failing—not to look pleased with herself.
I laugh, shaking my head. “I had a feeling you were going to see your boyfriend this morning.”
“He is not my boyfriend,” she says, which, in her world, means he absolutely is.
“You know,” I add, leaning against the counter, “you don’t have to sneak out of the house like you’re running some kind of covert operation. You can just tell me where you’re going.”
“But I like it,” she says, lifting her chin. “It keeps things fresh. Might even climb out the bedroom window next time.”
“Okay, now.” I laugh again, turning back toward the bench. “Let’s please table that for another conversation another day, shall we? But also, let’s start locking that window—one day we’re gonna get robbed and I don’t want to say ‘I told you so.’”
My grandmother built this place. Not just the shop, but everything it stands for. This was hers. Hers and my grandfather’s. They came here with a dream, a set of tools, and hands that knew how to turn raw metal into something people would hold on to for the rest of their lives.
They made something out of nothing.
And somehow, now, that same instinct lives in me.
It shows up in the way I sketch, in the way I shape, in the way I see a piece before it exists.
It runs through my veins and settles in my hands, steady and sure.
Now I’m the one behind the bench. The one people come to.
For wedding rings. Anniversary gifts. Birthday pieces that mean something more than just a box and a bow.
I’ve even started designing push presents—rings for new mothers, chosen by husbands who look equal parts terrified and in awe. Tiny, perfect pieces meant to mark a moment that changes everything.
It’s not just jewelry. It’s a memory, it’s meaning, and it marks the moments people don’t want to forget.
And the best part? I don’t do it alone…but the darker side? I don’t know if this is what I want. But I can’t tell her that. Not yet.
I glance over at my grandmother, who’s pretending not to watch me work. We stay like that for a second, her half-turned away, me pretending I don’t notice.
I reach for the drawer beneath the workbench and slide it open, pulling out the small velvet tray I tucked in there earlier. The piece sits exactly where I left it, unfinished but close—close enough that it’s been calling to me all morning.
I pick it up, turning it between my fingers, already working through the next step in my head, trying to ignore the very obvious feeling that I’m being watched.
This lasts about five seconds.
I set the piece back down and look up. “You know, when you watch me like that, it makes me nervous.”
“I know,” she says easily. “I can be such a petulant child.”
I huff out a laugh. “Petulant is kind of a big word when what you do makes me crazy.”
“But you love it, don’t you?”
I shake my head, even as I smile. “I swear, sometimes you choose to torture me.”
She laughs, not even trying to deny it. “I’ve had years of practice.”
“Well, you’re very good at it.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m still smiling as I reach for the piece again.
“How about this,” she says, pushing off the counter. “I’ll get the jewelry out that’s being picked up today. I’ve already polished some of it, but we can have everything ready. Your first appointment will be here soon.”
“Okay,” I say, nodding. “That sounds good.”
I tap the calendar lightly, scanning the names again.
“Actually,” I add, glancing back at her. “This is the woman I was telling you about.”
“What woman?”
“The one who came in for the wedding rings,” I say. “She mentioned she works with a group—girls, I think? A class or a team. I can’t remember exactly, but she asked if I’d be interested in doing some jewelry workshops to double as bonding sessions for the group.”
My grandmother pauses, one brow lifting slightly.
“I thought it might be a good way to get our name out there,” I continue. “And maybe start something a little different. Extra income, but also expand into something new.”
She crosses her arms, studying me.
“See, this is why I’m glad you’re the one running this storefront now. You’ve got the energy for all of this,” she says. “You get the good ideas.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “No, I got lucky. She came in for rings and decided she wanted to do something else. I didn’t go out looking for this, we brainstormed and it came together.”
“Like most good ideas do,” she says, unconvinced. “You’ve got a horseshoe shoved up your—”
“Grandma!” I half laugh, half choke. “I have nothing shoved anywhere. Just…polish what you need to and then I’ll find something else for you to do. Or maybe I’ll go get you another iced coffee to satiate?”
“Ha!” She wags a finger my way. “Trying to call me out for having a coffee, are you?”
“I could smell it on your breath. The doctor told you to watch your caffeine intake, so stop going to Larry’s and having coffee with him and your friends. Have a nice decaf tea instead.”
She’s got her back to me now as she opens the door to the safe and pulls out all of the boxes lined up for today’s pickup. I watch as she sets them on the counter, shaking my head the whole time because I can tell when she’s choosing to ignore me. It happens more often than not these days.
“Your mother called last night,” she tosses casually over her shoulder. She doesn’t turn around when she tells me because she probably figures I’ll make the face I usually do. Which I am. It ain’t pretty.