Page 50 of Five Stolen Rings
“So Stella,” Bridget says as I set my glass of eggnog next to my water. “What has it been like, living in Lucky? Is it weird being back here after so many years away?”
And look. Maybe I’m paranoid. Maybe I’m reading into Bridget’s words too much. But also…maybe I’m not. Maybe I really do see a smug gleam in her eyes, a subtle sneer curling her lips, disguised as a smile.
Bridget was the mean popular girl. There were people who were popular because they were funny and likable; there were people who were popular because they were good-looking. Bridget was pretty, but she was also mean—catty and outspoken in a way that made people slightly afraid of her.
I hope she’s changed, grown out of that tendency. But it doesn’t seem like she has.
“Living in Lucky has been great,” I say.Sit up straight,I remind myself.Do not be ashamed.
“I’m so glad you’re loving it,” she says. “I have lots of friends in the professional world—my husband Clancy likes to dabble in investments”—across the table, Sophronia and Lucretia roll their eyes—“and I heard from someone over in California about a scandal at Smith and Sons. That was your company, right?”
I clear my throat. It does nothing. I swallow, but that doesn’t help either; my mouth is still cotton dry. “Yes,” I say. “That’s where I worked for a while.”
“No one was surprised, of course,” Bridget says, waving her hand. “It’s such a prestigious company, and look at you—Most Likely to Succeed in our class, weren’t you?”
And she says it with a smile, her words fawning, like she’s proud of me. But I can hear the snide overtones that lace her voice, and a thrill of foreboding tingles down my spine.
I just nod and reach blindly for my eggnog, swallowing down several large swigs to avoid responding.
“I guess…” Bridget says delicately as one perfect brow arches. “Things didn’t work out?”
What is she trying to do? Is she trying to get me to tell her what happened? Does she already know? Is she taunting me, or is she fishing for information?
Both, probably.
I glance at Benny—for help, maybe?—but he just stares back at me, his mouth bulging with quiche, his eyes wide. He finishes chewing and then reaches for his drink, downing the mimosa in one giant gulp.
So. He’s no help.
“Things didn’t work out,” I say. There’s a dull roaring in my ears, and the pit of my stomach seems to have dissolved. Humiliation and embarrassment and anger pushagainst my lungs, making it difficult to draw breath properly.
Part of my brain is screaming at me to take control of the conversation, but the rest of me is simply frozen, strangely fuzzy. I reach for my glass of eggnog again and drink more this time; Lucretia holds up a hand, looking worried, but I down the rest of the glass.
It might be rough on my digestive system; eggnog is so thick and heavy. But?—
“That’s what I heard,” Bridget says, her voice full of false sympathy breaking into my hazy thoughts. “I’ve got a friend over there. Dawn Griffith. Do you know her?”
Dawn. Of course I know Dawn. Dawn was my coworker. Dawn sent me an email last week, a beacon of shame that’s been hiding in my inbox after I read it.
“Something with the owner’s son, right?” Bridget goes on. She shudders. “Affairis such an ugly word, but?—”
“Bridge, drop it,” Sophronia says, her voice uncharacteristically sharp. “Let’s not talk about depressing stuff. Let’s talk about fun things!” She musters a smile. “Where should we hold our next Windsor reunion?” She gasps, this expression more genuine. “Should we go to the beach?”
Bridget is right.Affairis an ugly word.
“In Colorado?” I murmur. My mind now is a flitting, evasive creature—but two thoughts solidify. 1)There was alcohol in that eggnog, and it’s beginning to kick in,and 2) Home-wreckeris an even uglier word thanaffair.
Because that’s what Dawn said, isn’t it? That I was a home-wrecker.
Dawn was a work friend, an acquaintance, someone I walked with because we were on the same path. Knowing her, she couldn’t pass up the opportunity to spread a bit ofscandalous gossip, even when that gossip was about someone she claimed to be friends with.
“The beach,” Benny says with a smile, completely oblivious to the tense atmosphere. “That would be great. I don’t mean to brag, ladies”—the twins’ cousins giggle, which is the most personality I’ve seen from them so far—“but I’m a sight to behold in swim trunks.”
Silly Benny.
I scoot out of the booth and move to Lucretia and Sophronia’s side. It was nice of Sophronia to tell Bridget to stop asking questions. It was nice of them to invite me to the party, and it was nice of them to bring me my bag.
“Thank you guys,” I say, sitting next to them. They hurry to shuffle over, making room for me right as my bum hits the seat. “You’re so nice.”
