Page 129 of Salty Pickle

Court moves forward.

I roll up the window. “Did I remember everything?”

“I’m sure you did.”

I set my phone in the lap of my blue cotton dress. I reclaimed all my clothes from the yurt a couple of weeks ago. “I can always text them anything I forgot.”

“Exactly.”

Court had all the baby things shipped from his apartment. Maggie is slowly packing everything small in advance of the team, who will eventually move all the furniture when he’s ready for it.

He says he’s never going back there. His home is here.

So far, so good. We’re learning how to care for Julian together. Like he said in the hospital, we take each challenge one at a time. We almost never talk of the distant future, other than a vague notion that we’ll know when it’s time to have a wedding.

We head for the family-owned jewelry store to get a proper engagement ring, even though I told him I don’t need one.

“Remember, I don’t want any diamonds,” I say. “Too much conflict. Too many bad apples in mining.”

“Got it. But the fair-trade gold is okay?”

I nod. “Yes.”

“What if we use estate gems from old family jewelry?”

“I guess that would be okay. We’re not taking part in a trade with despicable practices.”

Court nods, and I let out a slow breath of relief. He says I’m like an onion, and he’s constantly revealing an additional layer of how I want the world to be, and what I won’t be a part of. It’s my choice. I don’t force my beliefs on anyone, not even him.

Which can be evidenced by how many times my dad springs him from the house to get barbecue. I don’t even mind the leftovers in the fridge, not that Court leaves any. The man loves his meat, and that’s okay.

We pull up to the small store that specializes in ethically sourced gems and metals. Court takes my hand. As we enter the showroom with its lighted glass cabinets, I can’t help but feel excited. “I’m in a Valentine’s Day commercial,” I tell Court.

He smiles as a young woman in a pink dress comes forward. “You must be Court.”

“I am.” He passes her a roll of velvet. The family jewels, I’m guessing.

“I’m Vicky, one of the designers here. You’re Lucy?”

“Yes. And I like things simple.”

“I understand completely,” Vicky says. “Let’s look at the family gems and see if we can come up with something you’ll love.” She unrolls the velvet.

Inside, clear plastic pockets each hold a gem, some large, some small. A couple of them are attached to their original settings. A single earring. A pendant.

“I see we have a couple of rubies, an emerald, sapphires, and several diamonds.”

“Lucy doesn’t like diamonds,” Court says.

But they’re so sparkly. “How old are these?” I ask.

“Some of them over a hundred years,” he says. “My great-great-grandfather gave these earrings to my great-great grandmother, but then my great-grandfather accidentally grabbed one straight out of her ear and threw it into the Grand Canyon. Only one survived. But she kept it. It was his first gift to her.”

“So much history.” I run my fingers over the gems. “No one who mined or cut these is alive anymore.”

Vicky nods. “Only their work remains.”

It does seem a shame all this beauty is lost to the world. But it isn’t practical for me.

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