Chapter 27
VIVIAN
The shop is peacefully quiet. It always gets like this after hours, the kind of silence that settles into the corners and makes every small sound feel louder than it should. My tools against the bench. The soft scrape of pencil over paper. My stool squeaks when I move the slightest bit.
I lean closer to the sketch in front of me, elbow braced on the worktable, pencil tapping once against the edge of the page before I force it back down. The outline of the trophy stares back at me—clean, simple, unmistakably a hockey puck.
I’ve drawn it six different ways already. Maybe eight. Same shape, same idea, just slightly different variations of something that still doesn’t feel like enough. It needs something.
I check my notes from the bonding sessions before I drag the tip of the pencil along the top edge, sketching in a pattern I immediately second-guess.
Tiny stones, maybe. Set low so they catch the light without trying too hard.
The girls want a diamond, but it’s not like they can afford it.
So, I’m trying to figure out something that gives the illusion of it.
Something that feels intentional instead of like they’re cutting corners.
I let a rush of air escape me and sit back, rubbing the side of my hand across the page like that might magically fix it.
It doesn’t.
“Come on,” I mutter, more to myself than anything, staring at the sketch like it might start cooperating if I glare at it long enough. It doesn’t do that either.
I reach for another sheet, already halfway into reworking the design, when the sharp jingle of keys cuts through the quiet. A second later, the front door opens.
I glance up automatically, heart giving a small, startled kick before it settles just as quickly when I see her.
“Gran?” I push back from the bench, brows pulling together as I take her in. “What are you doing here?”
Gran holds up a foil-covered container like it’s proof of something. “Larry made a casserole for dinner,” she says. “So I thought I’d bring some by.”
I stare at her, still half in my head, half in the sketch in front of me. “Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”
“I can drive a car, only need one hand to do that. It’s an automatic.”
I know better than to challenge her. And I’m too wiped out tonight to go further down this track. “Thank you. You didn’t have to do that.”
“Aren’t you supposed to be at home right now? ” She steps fully inside, nudging the door shut behind her with her foot. “The store’s closed.”
I sink back onto the stool, my fingers tightening loosely around my pencil. “Yeah, I just…” I trail off, because I don’t even know how to finish that sentence without saying too much.
Because I don’t want to go home. Because I don’t want to sit there and think about the fact that Ty still hasn’t reached out. That I’m supposed to see him tomorrow and I have no idea what I’m going to say.
That somewhere along the way, this twisted thread of guilt has worked itself under my skin and refuses to let go.
Gran hums, like she hears everything I’m not saying anyway, and sets the casserole down on the counter before wandering over to the workbench.
“Well,” she says lightly, leaning her hip against it, “let’s see what’s keeping you here, then.”
Her gaze drops to the sketch. “Oh, Vivian. That’s beautiful.”
“It is something.” I glance down at it, suddenly seeing every flaw all over again. “I don’t know if it’s the something yet.”
She tilts her head, studying it. “This is the trophy for the girls, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.” I lean forward, tapping the edge of the page with the pencil. “It’s the design we’ve been working on together. I wanted to bring something in tomorrow for the last session. Even if it’s just an idea.”
“Just an idea,” she repeats, like she already knows there’s more.
“I just…” I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair. “I want it to feel like more. I keep thinking there should be a diamond element, the girls really want that, but they can’t afford it. So, I’m trying to figure out how to make it look like one without actually being one.”
Gran’s smile curves, slow and knowing. “Diamonds,” she says, almost to herself. “Strong. Formed under pressure. Hard to break. They catch the light because of everything they’ve been through.”
I let out a quiet breath. “Yeah. All of those things.”
She reaches out, smoothing a hand gently over my hair, the gesture so familiar it makes something in my chest tighten.
“You’re my diamond, you know,” she says.
I manage an embarrassed laugh. “You say that a lot.”
“I do.” She doesn’t apologize for it. “And I’ll keep saying it. Especially now, when I’m getting a little sentimental about moving on to my next chapter.”
“You’re not allowed to say that like it’s some dramatic exit line.”
She smiles, undeterred. “I was thinking the other day,” she continues, tapping her fingers lightly against the edge of the bench, “about the store.”
My attention sharpens. “What about it?”
“Sullivan’s Fine Jewelry.” She says it slowly, like she’s trying it on. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s time for something different.”
Something in me sparks.
“I’ve actually…” I sit up straighter, reaching for the stack of papers off to the side. “I’ve been thinking about that, too. Maybe—modernizing it a little. Keeping the heart of it, but making it feel like it’s moving forward.”
Her brows lift. “Have you now?”
I flip through the pages, a little self-conscious now that she’s watching. “It’s nothing finalized. Just ideas.”
“Yes, well,” she says, amused, “I found a piece of paper in the living room the other day with a whole list of them scribbled out.”
I pause, heat rising to my cheeks. “You weren’t supposed to see that.”
“And miss all the fun?” She leans in closer, peering down as I spread the page out between us. “Let’s see…Sullivan’s Jewelry Studio. Sullivan & Co. Oh—I like this one. Sullivan and Stone.”
I shrug, trying for casual and probably missing it. “I was just playing around. Seeing what felt right.”
“What is it that you want?” she asks.
I look back down at the page, my fingers tracing over half-written names and crossed-out ideas.
“I think…” I exhale, swallowing the nervous lump in my throat. “I think that I don’t want it to just be jewelry anymore.”
Gran stays quiet, letting me work through it.
“I still want to do bespoke pieces. I want to honor what you built here because this place matters.” My eyes lift to hers.
“But I want more than transactions, you know? I want people to come in and stay awhile. I want workshops and classes and community nights. I want people making things with their hands again instead of just scrolling through their phones.”
A smile starts tugging at the corner of Gran’s mouth. Encouraged, I keep going.
“I want this place to feel alive. Like it belongs to the neighborhood as much as it belongs to us. If we can help people connect or create something meaningful or even just feel less alone for a couple hours…” I shake my head lightly. “Maybe that matters.”
My throat tightens unexpectedly.
“Maybe that’s how we leave something good behind. Not just jewelry, but…” I glance around the shop. “An impression. A legacy. Something that adds value to our street, our block, our little corner of the world, one small piece at a time.”
Gran looks down at the paper again. Then, without hesitation, she taps one name with her finger.
“All right,” she says simply. “Then that’s the one.”
I follow her hand. The Sullivan Collective.
“This is your store now, Vivian.” Her voice is gentle but certain in that way only she can manage.
“I had my turn building it. Now you get yours.” She reaches over, squeezing my hand.
“I’ll happily sit back and become a silent partner while you turn this place into whatever beautiful thing is living in that head of yours. ”
My eyes sting instantly.
“And for the record,” she adds dryly, “I fully expect preferential treatment when you become wildly successful.”
A laugh escapes me at the exact same moment my vision blurs. She leans in, presses a gentle kiss to the top of my head, lingering there for a second before she pulls back.
“I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“Look, my dear,” she says, her voice softer now, but steady.
“I’m going to tell you the same thing I told your mother years ago.
You can’t run from anything. No matter how far you go, or what you do.
Whether you cross oceans, like she did, or hide yourself away somewhere quiet”—her gaze flicks meaningfully around the shop—“and think you’re shutting the world out, it always comes back to you. You’re the one you have to live with.”
“Why are you telling me this?” I ask her, genuinely confused.
“Because, you’re sitting here on a Friday night working. And I know you’re going to tell me you have to be here to fix that trophy for tomorrow, but we both know you’re avoiding your own thoughts.”
Something in my chest hitches, but I let her keep going.
“I want to make sure you’re right on the inside, in your heart. That you feel steady. That you feel good about the choices you’re making.” She tilts her head slightly, studying me. “And also, I need you to go see that man of yours.”
I toss my head back and laugh. “Gran—”
“No, let me speak. You know what he’s dealing with,” she says gently, cutting me off in the kindest way possible. “We all have our journeys. Our things we’re working through. But it’s not the worst thing in the world to reach out and go through it with someone else, is it?”
I shake my head, quiet now. “No, it’s not, but he has to let me in.”
“Sometimes, we need to go knock first.” She smiles, satisfied with herself, and gives my hand one last squeeze before stepping back. “Now walk me out before I decide to stay and reorganize your entire workspace.”
I huff out a laugh and slide off the stool, following her to the front. The bell above the door gives a little jingle as I unlock it for her, the cool night air slipping in around us.
“Drive safe,” I say, leaning in to hug her.
“Always do,” she murmurs, squeezing me tight before pulling away.
I watch her go, waiting until she’s safely in her car before I step back inside and lock the door behind her.
I lean back against the door for a moment, her words still sitting heavy and warm all at once. Letting things be what they are, and choosing what comes next.
My gaze drifts back toward the workbench. Toward the sketch. Toward the idea that’s been circling all night without quite landing. Diamonds. Pressure. Strength.
My feet move before I’ve fully decided to let them, carrying me across the shop to the safe tucked behind the counter. I crouch, spinning the dial by muscle memory, the faint click of it opening loud in the quiet.
Inside, nestled exactly where I left it, is the ring. I lift it carefully, the diamond catching the light even in the dim glow of the shop. For a second, I just look at it. At everything it used to mean. At everything it doesn’t anymore. And then it all becomes clear.
A small breath leaves me as I turn it slightly between my fingers, watching the light catch along its edges.
“I think,” I murmur to the empty shop, a quiet smile tugging at my lips, “I’ve finally found where you belong.”