Fanfare (27 page)

At first glance, I didn’t see anything in the small case. Then, something sparkled from the center as I came closer to it. A small light shone on the art within, and it reflected back at me in flashing shimmers of incandescence.

I stopped a few feet in front of it as realization dawned on me.

It was a ring.

Not just any ring. This ring was truly breathtaking. It sat inside a red box with the moniker “Cartier” emblazoned on the inner lid in gleaming gold script. It was an emerald cut diamond, and the behemoth flashing in the center could be no less than three carats of pressurized carbon perfection. The ring was extremely modern in its setting and presentation. Tasteful, yet fabulous.

It was so Tom.

My heart pounded in my throat, and I gasped quietly for air.

Tom walked towards me and came to stand on the other side of the display case with the flashing stone situated between us. His eyes were wide and his breath was a bit shaky as he opened his mouth to address me.

To propose to me.

“I’m done,” he began.

“Oh God,” I croaked.

He laughed nervously. “Let me try that again.” He paused to clear his throat.

“I’m done waking up and wishing you were with me.

“I’m done being apart from the only person in America who cares to hear what I’m really thinking.

“I’m done seeing something you would find ridiculously funny, and only being able to tell you about it.

“Mostly . . . I’m done being without you.”

My heartbeat drowned out all sounds except his voice.

“I want you to be my wife.”

I stared at his face. It was so full of earnest love that it consumed everything else around it in a fire of clarity. For a brief moment, I thought about the last time a man had proposed to me.

I had gone with Ryan to pick out my ring. Since he was certain that he would not be able to purchase the ideal one without my help, we had gone together. From many selections, I had chosen the ring that was perfect for me. It was everything I had ever wanted. I loved antique rings, and the center stone was round cut with tiny pave diamonds intricately woven around it and situated amidst delicate embellishments that were carved along the length of the band.

Exactly what I wanted.

The glittering rock in front of me was the last thing I would ever have selected if given the opportunity. It was so . . . big. It almost looked like a piece of costume jewelry, flashing merrily at me as every ray of light was captured and refracted in its perfectly cut facets.

This ring was so Tom. So not me.

“What about . . . my mom?” I barely made out.

“I asked her last night. She said yes.”

Bewildered as the image of Tom and my mother sitting at our breakfast table just the day before came to mind, I tried to change the subject. “It’s huge!” I whispered.

He smiled crookedly back at me. “I work in Hollywood. I’d rather not have someone look at my wife’s hand and think I’m a cheap bastard.”

I couldn’t say anything else as I stared down at what I believed to be the wrong ring. Utterly. Then I glanced back at the face . . . of the right man. He had to be the right man. Every fiber of my being wanted to throw my arms around his neck and shout “Yes!” to the world.

Why couldn’t I do it?

I was so afraid. The last time I said “yes” to a man, he had left my heart in the gutter for me to find and resuscitate by myself. When I did unearth it, it was bitter and blemished. It had taken months of agony to make it function properly again. I couldn’t go through that once more. I wouldn’t make it.

“Stop thinking, Cris!” he whispered.

I snapped out of my fear-ridden reverie and stared back into his eyes. The eyes of the right man.

“Don’t think, just do,” he murmured with a careful smile.

I took a deep breath and raced over to him to press my lips to his. He lifted me from the ground as we kissed, and I tangled my fingers in his soft hair.

“Yes.”

Chapter Nineteen

I left for work the next Monday morning twenty minutes earlier than usual. Even though I was sure to regret relinquishing those extra moments of sleep, I was more concerned with making it to my cubicle under the radar. Like a zombie, I shuffled to my desk and plopped into my seat with a yawn that rippled down my spine. Shuddering afterwards, I placed my hands on the keyboard of the computer to type in my login and password information.

There it was, resting innocuously on my ring finger for all the world to see. Yep, it definitely wasn’t a dream. It sat there obnoxiously fat and painfully brilliant and was my reason for coming into the office before anyone else noticed me. If a gust of wind blew in my general direction, I knew which side a fall would favor.

This was completely ridiculous. A normal girl would be leading with her left hand everywhere she went, just as I did whenever I was first engaged to Ryan. That month, I began to point at everything, brush my hair over my shoulder, stroke my chin thoughtfully, and juggle bowling pins on fire with my left hand. I became the Ambidextrous Superwoman. It was impossible to miss my pride and pleasure at the shining rock of commitment glistening from my finger with every movement I made.

The man I loved wanted to cherish me. For a lifetime. For a little while. The simple truth of the matter: I was incredibly uncomfortable with the recent turn of events. Never before in my life had I made such an important decision so recklessly and impulsively. Usually, everything I did was done with careful consideration, weighing pros and cons until I felt at peace with my choice.

This decision was pure insanity. My heart had spoken instinctively, and my mind never even had a chance.

What had I gotten myself into!?

I should have spent the rest of the weekend talking at length with Tom about the intricacies that came with planning a life together. I should have asked questions about my mother, about how to deal with moving, about where I could work. Should have.

Instead, we had passed the time in a suite at the Plaza Athénée . . . laughing and reveling in one another’s company with the shadow of the Eiffel Tower filling the floor to ceiling windows by the enormous bed. Completely carefree, as though the real world had been set on pause and nothing else mattered except enjoying the moment.

I blushed to myself as certain explicit memories rose to the surface of my sleep-deprived mind. Closing my eyes, I shook my head firmly in an attempt to focus on the work in front of me.

Today was sure to be . . . interesting.

Thus far, the only people who knew that we were . . . engaged . . . were members of our families. We called my mother first, and Tom had patiently smiled through her tears of happiness and almost incoherent pronouncements of joy. Anne had shrieked and carried on with abandon as soon as Tom said, “We have something to tell you.” Of course, he had been unable to get a word in edgewise as soon as she gleaned the truth from him. She had ended the conversation by breathlessly saying to me, “I can’t wait to call you my sister!”

The biggest shock of all was the reaction of Tom’s father. Truth be told, I had chewed on my lower lip nervously whenever Tom pressed the buttons on his phone to call London. His father usually thought Tom was brash and impulsive, prone to making stupid decisions based on nothing more than a whim. I assumed he wouldn’t take this news very well.

Upon hearing what had just transpired, his mother had been quietly ecstatic in the elegantly refined manner I had come to expect from her. After warmly wishing us well and conveying her delight via speakerphone, she had turned over the phone to her husband.

“Well, Thomas. I can’t say that I’m surprised,” he began.

Tom merely smiled at the phone resting in his hand.

“But . . . I’m proud of you, son.”

Tom’s eyebrows rose in reaction to his father’s words. “Thank you.”

“No, thank you. I thought long and hard about the things we discussed at lunch, and I need to take a step back and be proud of the man I raised, even if he is not how I pictured him being.”

“I really appreciate that,” Tom stated earnestly.

“You’ve chosen a magnificent young woman. She’s strong and direct, with a great sense of humor and a good head on her shoulders. She’s not likely to take any garbage you hand her way. There’s little else I put more stock into than choosing one’s partner in life. I guess you’re not as daft as I thought you were. I’m happy to give credit where credit is due. Congratulations, Thomas and Cristina. I’m very pleased for you both.”

My jaw nearly hit the floor. Not a single admonishment. I could not even detect the slightest hint of judgment in his tone. Hot damn.

We had definitely used up all our luck on that one. Today, Tom would tell Melissa about the happy development that occurred over the weekend. Yay.

As I looked through my email, I saw that Hana had sent no less than four different messages to me over the span of the last three days. She wrote to tell me my phone was going straight to voicemail, and she wanted to make sure everything was okay. The last email was slightly more petulant and brought a wry smile to my face. Crazy-ass stalker. I needed to call both Hana and Gita on my lunch break.

My phone buzzed next to me with a text message.

Blocked ID (8:49 am): fuck, it’s early

I smiled to myself before responding.

Me (8:49 am): Language! Tell me a/b it.

Blocked ID (8:49 am): i’m entitled to foul language—it’s six here

Me (8:50 am): Blah, blah, blah. Poor u :-P

Blocked ID (8:50 am): poor me is right, i didn’t get much sleep this wkend ;-)

Me (8:50 am): Whatever! I didn’t hear any complaints while it was happening!

Blocked ID (8:50 am): and u never will

Me (8:50 am): That’s good to know.

Blocked ID (8:50 am): i wouldn’t mind a distraction—seeing melissa in a few hrs

Me (8:50 am): Keep a chew toy handy. Rub some catnip on it.

Blocked ID (8:51 am): lol

Me (8:51 am): Are u free later on?

Blocked ID (8:51 am): no, i have a date with a hot blonde

Me (8:51 am): Ha! No, srsly. We need to talk a/b . . . logistics.

Blocked ID (8:51 am): u would say that—ur a total buzzkill

Me (8:51 am): I’m serious.

Blocked ID (8:51 am): i know—i’ll call u after ten tonight, ur time

Me (8:52 am): Thank you. J

Blocked ID (8:52 am): tell cletise the security guard to “back up off my shit” ;-)

Me (8:52 am): Your shit? You swine. Tell Jenna to find another shoulder to cry on.

Blocked ID (8:52 am): lol

Me (8:52 am): I love you.

Blocked ID (8:52 am): i love u

I put down my phone with a peaceful grin and turned to my mountain of work, temporarily separated from the storm of thoughts in my head. Perhaps it was weakness on my part, but Tom never failed to distract me from myself. Unfortunately, this proved to be quite problematic when I actually wanted to have a serious discussion with him about rather important things . . . like getting married. His laissez-faire attitude was contagious, and I really needed to hash out some of the more pressing issues to appease my ranting mind—for a little while.

“Cristina?”

I jumped in my seat at the voice behind me. It was my boss, Marta.

“Hey!” I squeaked as I spun around and simultaneously shoved my left hand into the pocket of my slacks.

“I didn’t mean to startle you. You’re in early for a Monday.”

“Uh . . . yeah. Just wanted to get myself situated and organized,” I stated lamely.

“Great. I’m glad you’re here. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that community outreach project you’ve been working on recently. ‘Master Classes for Kids’?”

“Oh!” With inspiration from Tom and the support of my friends, I had contacted musicians from the North Carolina Symphony in Raleigh and put together four different master classes in public schools for members of the student orchestras. The principal violinist, cellist, flutist, and percussionist had volunteered their Saturdays for open forum lessons with gifted students that were meant to engage and inspire kids to continue pursuing music. It was amazing to witness the kids surrounded by the support of their fellow orchestra members and the positive encouragement from industry professionals. Many of these children had never had a private lesson and could not really afford to pay for them, so this sort of environment was perfect for cultivating their shared love of music. I know, I know . . . eat your heart out, Oprah.

“We’ve gotten terrific feedback from the community on it,” Marta continued.

“Thanks. It was a lot of fun, and the kids really enjoyed it.” There appeared to be no end to the lame sound bites on my part.

She nodded slowly. “So, I received a call on Friday from Mecklenburg County. They wanted to talk to you about helping them organize something similar there.”

My eyes widened.

“Of course, we don’t really have the budget to continue sponsoring these things, but Mecklenburg County recently received a donation from an anonymous patron of the arts. This individual indicated the desire to see something like ‘Master Classes for Kids’ develop into a recurring event in North Carolina,” she continued.

“That’s really wonderful. Seriously, Marta. It’s definitely going to make such a difference. I know it was tough getting approval for any funding whatsoever on this, and I wanted to thank you again for all of your efforts.”

“Thank yourself. You did all the work. So, are you interested in helping out Mecklenburg County? It should be a lot easier without the budgetary constraints we had here. Anyway, think about it. I’ll email you the contact info. Of course, I don’t want it to take away from your work here, but if you can manage the time commitment, I’m sure they would love your input,” she finished.

I nodded. “Absolutely. Thanks so much for the vote of confidence.”

She smiled back at me knowingly and turned to leave.

Puzzled by her strange expression, I sat still for a moment trying to figure out the source of her amusement. Whatever. It was probably just my paranoia rearing its ugly head.

I responded to Hana’s emails by saying I would give her a call at lunch—that way I could make sure I had the full functionality of both my eardrums for at least half of the day. Her reaction to Paris was sure to be heartfelt and deafening.