Page 130 of Salty Pickle

“I like to work with my hands. I can’t really have a big stone.”

“Let me show you something I made before,” Vicky says. She unlocks the next cabinet over and pulls out a black velvet display. She pulls a set of rings out and passes a wedding band to me.

“So, this solo band is lovely all on its own,” she says. “It has two inlaid stones on each side of the swirl.”

I examine it. It’s beautiful, braided gold with four stones and a lovely loop in the middle.

“But then, on special occasions, the larger stone ring fits right inside.” Vicky snaps an engagement ring with a ridiculously large diamond into the band.

It’s breathtaking. “Court,” I breathe. “I’ve never seen anything so pretty.”

“You can have that one if you want it,” Court says. “We don’t have to use the family stones.”

“Could we do it with your family’s jewels? And maybe more of a ‘v’ shape than swirl?”

“That sounds lovely,” Vicky says. “Do you have a preference on which of these gems to use?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say. “I leave that up to you as long as you use these.”

“All right,” Vicky says. “Let us catalog them before we take them to be used. I’ll be right back.”

Court and I wait by the counter. “You sure?” he asks.

I feel lightheaded with giddiness. “So, we’re doing this? Getting married?” I lean in. “You haven’t even had sex with me since before Julian was born.”

He bends close to my ear. “And hasn’t enough time passed for that?”

I meet his gaze. “It has.”

“And our house is empty?”

I grin. “It is.”

Vicky returns with a photograph of the gems and forms for Court to sign.

“Give us a few weeks,” she says. “I’ll contact you with some sketches.”

Court and I practically run back to the car.

“Are we headed for a booty call?” I ask.

“Yes,” he says. “But I have another stop first.”

“Condoms?”

He laughs. “Definitely need those. But something else.”

As we head out of the Denver suburb I grew up in, I recognize the highway we’re traveling. “Why are we going this way?” My belly quivers. It’s how we used to go to Grandma BeeBee’s.

“We should take a look,” Court says.

“I might get upset.”

He reaches over to take my hand. “Let’s face it together.”

As we crest the last hill before you can see her farm, I have to squeeze my eyes shut. I need to prepare myself. It could be a liquor store. Or God help me, a butcher shop.

I let out a long, slow breath. I picture the farm in its best days, in the summer, the front rail heavy with flowered vines, the berry bushes bursting with fruit. The barn doors would be thrown open where Grandpa would endlessly work on his latest project car, a classic BMW or maybe an old Mustang. He especially loved 1950s Ford trucks.

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