Page 1 of Five Stolen Rings

STELLA

You want to know the difference between me and my dog, Grover?

Grover looks cute when he slinks home with his tail tucked between his legs.

Actually, that’s not entirely true. Grover is a pretty ugly dog. It’s not his fault; he’s a mutt and a half. He’s got droopy eyes and a perpetually squashed face like he’s just run into a wall—and oftentimes hehasjust run into a wall, since he has poor vision on account of the whole droopy-eyes thing. His hind legs are bowed, and his tongue always lolls because it’s too big to fit in his mouth.

He has a great personality.

My personality, on the other hand? I’m not sure it’s great enough for me to lookcutewhen I run home with my tail between my legs. I returned to Lucky, Colorado, two weeks ago, and my family has yet to call me anything of the sort.

I’ve moved back in with my parents. So that’s really good and fulfilling and exactly where I want to be.

It’s fine, I tell myself silently, giving my cheeks a few sharp pats.Lots of people live with their parents. You’re lucky they love you enough to let you stay.

And to be fair, it’s not like I’ve returned to my old childhood bedroom, where my boy band posters have probably merged with the wall on a cellular level by now. I’m renting the basement, which as of my occupancy is its own living unit—its own freezing living unit, because Lucky in the winter is frigid, and the heat circulation in my parents’ house is subpar.

It’s not a bad little space, though, really. One tiny bedroom, a bathroom, and a wet bar with a mini fridge. I set up a microwave, and if I need to cook, I’m fine with going to the kitchen upstairs. I’m just grateful for my own space.

But the first thing I did when I moved in was buy a space heater for the bedroom. I’ll probably end up buying another once I figure out where I need it most—and where it will fit.

Because if I have to choose between room for a space heater and room for my books, I’ll choose the books.

I’ve been slowly but surely unpacking my library in between bouts of lying face-down on the floor and wondering how my life managed to go so wrong; Mrs. Driggs across the street saw me carrying a stack of my favorite books last week, and she told me about tonight’s book club. I thought it would be good for me to go and make peace with my new existence.

I used to water Dina Driggs’s flowers for five bucks an hour. She would give me popsicles afterward. Now I’m calling her by her first name and hanging out with her in the evenings. This is the new me. Stella Partridge is back intown, folks, not by choice but because she failed spectacularly at her dream company and couldn’t afford big-city rent without a big-city paycheck.

But there must be something in the water in Lucky these days, because tonight’s book club is unlike any I’ve ever attended—and I’ve attended my fair share. I pull off my gloves and hat as I look around; Dina Driggs doesn’t seem to have arrived yet. Am I in the wrong place?

The possiblewrong placein question is the basement of the old church building at the corner of First and Main. It’s a maze down here, several long hallways with carpeted classrooms or meeting rooms or whatever they use this space for. I just followed the sign taped to the wall in the lobby—blue construction paper withBOOK CLUBscrawled in permanent marker and an arrow pointing to the stairs.

I didn’t get here early enough; that’s the problem. When I walked through the door, my paperback copy of this month’s book tucked under my arm, everyone was already sitting in a circle. One nice-looking older woman smiled at me and patted the folding chair next to her, so I hurried in and sat down.

But I’m the only person here with a book, and I didn’t expect there to be so manymen.

Not that men can’t read, obviously, because they can. I’m just…surprised. There’s a guy across the circle from me wearing scrubs and a tired expression. The guy next to him has a pierced eyebrow and the wordPAINtattooed across his knuckles.

Did they really readChristmas Shopaholic?

I inspect the rest of the people in the circle. Everyone is chattering quietly, so I lean over to the nice woman next tome. “This is such a diverse group,” I say, my eyes lingering on the tattoo-lover-slash-chick-lit-reader across from me.

“Oh, yes,” the woman says with a nod. She has on a cute checkered scarf, and a pair of mittens is folded neatly in her lap. “All walks of life. And you”—she smiles kindly at me once more—“you must be new in town. Is this your first time?”

“Yes,” I say, my fingers curling more tightly around the Sophie Kinsella novel clutched in my hands. “Or, well—kind of. I grew up here, but I returned a couple weeks ago.”

“Oh, did you grow up here? Lucky duck. It’s a wonderful little place, isn’t it?” she says fondly. “I’m located about thirty minutes north. Well, we’re happy to have you. I’m sure Ted will have you introduce yourself. Our moderator,” she adds when I look confused.

Moderator?

I’m just about to double check that I’m in the right place when a man a few chairs away from mine stands up, and the quiet chatters dissipate into silence.

“Welcome,” the man says—Ted, I guess—as he beams around the circle. “I’m Ted, and I’m an alcoholic.”

…Oh, no.

“I’m also the moderator for this meeting,” he goes on cheerfully, his hands clasped together in front of him, his balding head reflecting the yellow fluorescent light. “This is the regular meeting of the Northern Colorado group of Alcoholics Anonymous.”

Oh,no.

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