him and asked him to meet her at the tree.
‘Just come over here,’ he told her. By then he’d been living in the shed for two years; they spent most of their free time there.
‘No, I … I’d rather be outside, okay?’
‘Sure.’ Distracted by his excitement about the ring, he missed the tension in her voice. Instead, he thought of how he could give her the ring there at the tree; that was a better plan than the elaborate fancy-dinner-bended-knee thing he’d been thinking of doing. Outdoors, at their spot – a much better plan.
The sun was low, the temperature dropping with it. He threw on his denim jacket, tucked the ring box into one pocket, and hurried through the groves, past the lake, rehearsing his proposal in his head. When he got to the tree, hands in pockets, the box square and promising in his right hand, he saw Meg’s expression and pulled his hands out, empty.
‘What’s the matter?’
She was sitting at the base of their oak tree, arms wrapped around her knees. ‘I’ve been thinking,’ she said.
‘Waste of time,’ he joked, nervous without knowing why. She shrugged and looked past him, biting her lip. He squatted in front of her. ‘Just spit it out.’ Whatever it was couldn’t be so bad, not for the two of them anyway. Must be it had to do with money and the Powells’ farm – the talk was that Spencer was about to go bankrupt.
‘It’s over, Car,’ she said, looking down at her sneakers. She was about to wear a hole in the left one, at the big toe.
‘I heard. What are they planning to do?’
She looked up sharply. ‘Who?’
‘Your parents. Are they filing for bankruptcy or what?’
She shook her head and stood up. ‘No, I mean us.
I … I’m … Did you ever think how we might actually be bad for each other?’
‘What, are you nuts?’
She looked it, wild-eyed and flushed. ‘No, I’m serious. You … you need to experience other … you know, date other people. We – we’re too close. It’s unhealthy. I mean, you’ve never had any other serious girlfriend.’
‘You like it that way,’ he said, mentally scrambling to catch up to what she was saying. ‘What do you mean, too close? We’re just right, we’re perfect.’ The box in his pocket was the proof that he firmly believed his words. Why didn’t she? Why all of a sudden?
‘No, we’re just … you know – kids. We need to get some space between us and … and … and see what else there is in the world. Who else,’ she added, her voice hoarse.
‘We’re not kids. I just turned twenty, you’re nineteen – both legally adults.’ It was a weak response, he knew. The force of her insistence emanated from her like a magnetic field. Already he could feel the futility in arguing.
She looked around them, as though enemies might be hiding in the brush. ‘I can’t see you anymore,’ she said. ‘It’s for both our good.’ He grabbed her wrist, but she was already in motion, already running away before even taking a step. ‘I love you, but I have to go.’
She broke free, and he watched her run, the copper hair he loved so much streaming out behind her like a wild mare’s mane. He would let her run; she wouldn’t go far, he was sure of it.
Carson couldn’t commit to any of the wedding bands on display in the Philipsburg jewelry shop. Each silky platinum or diamond-encrusted gold band looked good, but he couldn’t quite see himself wearing any of them. Too plain, too elaborate, too gaudy, too wide, too narrow; Val and the salesman, whose English was approximately as good as Carson’s Dutch, frowned at him as he pondered.
He pushed the navy blue velvet tray away. ‘You know, our flight’s in ninety minutes … There’s this nice store in Ocala; why don’t we look there when we get in? I guess I’m just not in the mood for this right now.’
‘But the prices are so much better here,’ Val said.
Carson smirked. ‘You can afford the difference. Come on.’ He stood.
‘Okay, fine.’ But she didn’t look fine. She looked disappointed. ‘If you’re sure none of these work.’
She must have an attachment to one, one that he was supposed to also prefer, that maybe she’d been trying to signal him about and he hadn’t caught on. Well, he was still tired, still hung over; every night here was a party and his middle-aged body was feeling the effects.
Wherever Val went, she collected friends. Young, energetic friends, most of whom surfed. He swam pretty well, thanks to years of racing Meg across the lake, but didn’t surf worth a damn, so what he did most during these parties was observe and drink. Oh, people were intrigued with him, sure, but once they’d declared their love of his music and admiration for his ability to create it, they had little else to say. The conversations, when they lasted, usually turned to Val and her career, a subject of common interest.
Val. No one was more charismatic. He often joked that she’d been given an extra dose of personality, maybe the one his bass player Ron seemed to be missing. She was good to everyone around her, and he hated that he’d missed whatever signal she was trying to send about the wedding bands. So he sat down and took another look.
He supposed she wanted him to choose something in platinum, to match her engagement ring and the band she’d wear with it. When they discussed a ring for him, they agreed his didn’t need to match – that it was most important for it to suit him personally, the way hers was such a perfect match for her. The truth was, he’d made such a ‘perfect’ selection simply because when he described Val to the Tiffany clerk, the woman proclaimed he needed the Schlumberger ring – a very large, round diamond encircled by smaller diamonds and, as a modification, some exceptional aquamarines, set only in platinum – and he went along with it.
Glancing at Val’s ring, he pointed to the band that looked like the closest complement, a wide polished band with an inset sweep of nine small diamonds. ‘How about this one?’
She nodded eagerly. ‘You should try it on.’
He did, and she grinned, and when he gave the consent she’d been hoping for, she kicked him out of the shop to make the purchase, insisting that it was bad luck for him to know the price.
He waited on the sidewalk outside, glad to have satisfied her. That was the more important thing. He could wear the ring, flashy as it was. He’d get used to it. A man could get used to just about anything if he set his mind to it. He’d gotten used to being angry at Meg, gotten used to being without her after all their years growing up together. He’d gotten used to feeling incomplete and had even turned that feeling, and the associated ones, into an incredibly lucrative career. He’d gotten used to living on the road for huge chunks of time, to the sharp smell of sweat and exhaustion that filled his tour bus after a concert, to relying on Gene to tell him where to be and when and for how long. He’d gotten used to the idea of never finding a woman worth marrying.
And while he wasn’t so young and romantic as to believe that Val was his soul mate, the one woman he was meant to be with, the woman he’d waited his whole life for, etcetera, he thought they made a pretty good couple.
