Page 37 of 28 Summers
“What kind of engagement ring are you looking for, handsome?” Lonnie asks.
“The kind that looks more expensive than it is,” he says, and she laughs. She asks about his budget and he says five thousand dollars because it sounds like a reasonable round number, and she says she can work with that. She produces one ring after another, from the minuscule to the absurd, displaying them on a black felt cloth. He can’t decide. She asks rapid-fire questions about “the lucky girl,” a term that would surely make Ursula shudder. Jake says, “She’s been my girlfriend for the past fourteen years, on and off, but we’ve both been with other people.”
This ratchets up Lonnie’s enthusiasm. “You were each with other people but you’ve found your way back,” Lonnie says. “Nowthatis true love.”
It’s a lot more complicated than this, but he won’t get into it with Lonnie.
“She’s an attorney for the SEC.” Jake waits a beat to see if Lonnie is impressed, but she might not know the SEC from the FCC or the EPA. Washington is a town of acronyms. “She’s a serious person. I don’t want anything flashy.”
“Simple,” Lonnie says. “Classic, tasteful. Does she wear other jewelry?”
Well, he says, she’s fond of a gold cross she received from her parents for her confirmation in ninth grade, and she wears the slim gold watch they gave her when she graduated from law school. She has a strand of pearls, Jake says, but her ears aren’t even pierced. He feels like he’s slurring his words, but if Lonnie notices this or the smell of cigarette smoke and cooking grease that followed him out of the Tombs, she doesn’t mention it.
“This,” she says, “is the ring I would recommend. You’d be a fool not to get it. It’s a bit out of your price range—sixty-four hundred—but it’s head and shoulders above the rest of these rings. A carat and a half, clarity at the top of the charts, in a setting of white gold.” She holds the ring out on her outstretched palm.
“Okay,” Jake says, looking at it. “Let’s go with that one, I guess.”
“Don’t sound so excited,” Lonnie says with an exaggerated wink. “Trust me, handsome—Mallory is going to be thrilled with this ring.”
Jake’s head snaps up. “Mallory?”
Lonnie’s eyes grow wide and a bit of glitter under her eye shines like a tear. “Did I get the name wrong? You said Mallory, I thought.” She lays her hand on his arm. “I’m so sorry.”
“It’s Ursula,” he says. He’s drunk! He told Lonnie his girlfriend’s name was Mallory! Why did he do that? Probably because he was thinking that when this was all over, he would have to call Mallory, and as soon as she answered the phone, she’d know. She knew before he even left Nantucket, he’s pretty sure. She was silent when she drove him to the airport in the early morning on Monday. When he’d said, “Same time next year?” she’d shrugged.
“No matter what, Mallory Blessing,” he’d said. He kissed her, climbed out of the Blazer, then turned back. “No matter what.”
Jake makes himself focus on Lonnie—eye shadow, hair spray, and all. “My girlfriend’s name is Ursula. Her name. Is Ursula.”
Lonnie doesn’t miss a beat. She snaps the box closed, rings up the purchase, and accepts his credit card. “Ursula is going to be very happy,” she says.
He wonders how to propose. Over a romantic dinner? He can’t imagine Ursula agreeing to go out to dinner when she’s still so sad, and she wouldn’t eat anything anyway. He could take her to one of the monuments tonight—the Lincoln Memorial or the Jefferson. He could lure her on a jog tomorrow and get down on one knee in front of the Reflecting Pool just as the sun is rising and the wavering image of the Washington Monument appears on the surface of the water.
Paris was a missed opportunity, he thinks.
He considers waiting for Thanksgiving, when they’ll be back in South Bend. He can take Ursula to the skating rink on Jefferson, the place where he screwed up his courage to ask her to skate couples. He was so nervous back then that his hand had been sweating inside his glove.
He holds the vision of thirteen-year-old Ursula—still in braces, wearing a turtleneck printed with bicycles under her navy-blue Fair Isle sweater under her navy pea coat, the striped hat with earflaps and strings that ended in pom-poms on her head—as he enters the new apartment. The apartment is so big that if Ursula is in the bedroom, she can’t hear him enter.
The foyer is dark and Jake thinks she must still be at work until he sees her attaché case at the foot of the mail table.
Jake heads down the hall to the bedroom. He’s a man on a mission. He taps on the door, cracks it open. Ursula is lying on the bed in a sleeveless navy dress, the belt of which is pulled to its last hole. She has a washcloth over her eyes.
Jake eases down onto the bed next to her. “You okay?”
She reaches up to remove the washcloth. “Headache.”
Jake holds out the box. “I got you something.”
She blinks, accepts the box, opens it. Her expression reveals nothing—not surprise, not joy, notWell, it’s about time.She takes the ring out and slips it on the fourth finger of her left hand. It’s too big, he can see that, but they can go back to the store and have it sized.
“It’s lovely,” she says. “Thank you.”
“Will you marry me?” Jake asks.
Ursula sinks back onto the pillow and closes her eyes. “Yes,” she says, and all Jake can think is how devastated Lonnie would be if she could see Ursula in this moment.
Summer #5: 1997
