The Jeweler (21 page)

“This is my favorite part of Augusta’s marker. She always teased me about my thing for music. She just about died when I told her what I wanted to name Fender. You know, after the guitar. But it amused her. She secretly liked it. I think that’s what she liked about me. So, I had the marbleworks put this on the back—like I was always humming in her ear.”

Ginger looked. On the back of the ivory stone were words. Again colorless, but the sun cast a shadow in their grooves.

“‘Rest you easy, dream you light,’” Fender’s father said. “I can’t even remember what song they’re from, but they just came to me when she died. Like someone wanted me to remember them.”

Ginger looked at the letters. The words seemed soft, casual, spoken gently. “I like those very much.”

Fender’s father smiled. “I thought you might.” They walked in front of the grave again. He placed the rock in his hand back on top of the gravestone. “Well, I better get going. I want to eat lunch at the Rendezvous today, and they’ll be out of the bean and bacon soup if I don’t hustle. It was good to see you again.”

“It was very nice to see you, too.” She didn’t want him to leave. “Mr. Barnes?”

“Yes?”

“Tell your son hello for me.”

His white smile bloomed from under the thin whiskers of his mustache. “I will.” He turned around and headed for his burgundy station wagon, parked in the shade of a fir tree.

Ginger walked around to the back of Augusta’s marker again. She said the words herself: “Rest you easy, dream you light.”

She walked to the little bench and sat down. The needles of the trees formed a soft cushion under her feet. She felt like talking again and looked around self-consciously. No one in sight. She sat alone with the past of a thousand families. The wives of thousands of husbands, sons and daughters of thousands of mothers. But no one here was her husband. She had a good friend here. She looked at Augusta’s marker. Maybe two friends here.

“I’ll tell him hello for you, Augusta.” The ground swallowed her words in the needles. She turned to walk back to the car.

“F
ENDER
!” S
AM
B
ELLOWED
. Labor Day weekend was not known as a big jewelry-shopping occasion, and the shop was dead quiet.

“Back here! And stop yelling, for crying out loud!” Fender thought for a minute about hiding what he was working on, but gave up when Sam strolled in the office.

“Whatcha doin’?” Sam stood behind him.

Fender pushed away from the workbench. “Right now, trying not to smack you for breathing down my neck.” He turned around to face his friend, putting himself between his project and Sam.

“Oh, now I know you’re up to something. You never hide shit from me. You never work, either. What gives?” Sam tried to step to the left for a better view.

Fender scooted his chair to the left. “That’s not true. And no.”

“Aww, c’mon, man. Best friend here. Show me!” Sam sounded young. Like toddler-style
lemme see
young.

This is pointless. The more I resist, the bigger deal he’ll make it.
“Fine. Jesus, you’re nosy.”

Fender got up from his chair and let Sam see what was on the workbench in front of him. It was a delicate gold setting, the prongs curving up around a deep, clear emerald.

Sam nodded. “Fender, I’m impressed. When was the last time you made something custom?”

“I don’t know. It’s no big deal.” He shrugged and shuffled some papers on the desk around.

“I’m always surprised that you’ve got the skills, but you’ve definitely got ’em. Your pop would dig this. You should show him.”

Fender pushed Sam away from the bench. “Absolutely not.”

“Why not?”

“He’d be mad. He wouldn’t understand.” Fender felt his pulse quicken, and it reminded him of a whole lot of times when he’d been in trouble.

“I don’t get it. Illuminate me. He’d love to see you actually taking an interest in his trade.”

“The emerald was Mom’s. This is special. He wouldn’t get it.”

Sam tilted his head. “You’re redoing an old setting of your mom’s? For what?” And then, as usual, Fender saw the idea dawn on Sam—his eyes always got wide in this certain way.

Here we go. He’s never going to let this one rest.
Fender winced and waited for Sam to make fun of him. But he patted Fender on the back instead.

“It’s for her, isn’t it?” Sam said softly.

Fender felt his heart warm and expand, blooming at the thought of her.
Ginger
. “Yeah. Please don’t say anything.”

“I won’t. Is it going to be a ring?”

“No. Mom wore it as a necklace. I’m just re-crafting it a bit. Plus the setting was loose.”

Sam smiled. “I still remember your mom’s chicken pot pies. Man, they were the best. If I could make them like that, I’d open my own restaurant.” He edged a little closer to the bench and peeked at the emerald through the lens perched above it. “This Ginger, it’s different with her, isn’t it?”

Fender couldn’t explain. “I think so. But she hates me.”

Sam looked him in the eyes, put a hand on his shoulder. “So, make it right, then. The path of least resistance is the path with the least payback sometimes. Sometimes it’s worth the struggle.” He paused for a moment. “But it seems you know that, because you’re here making jewelry for her.”

“I just need a little time to figure it out. Just a little time.”

Sam sighed. “Everybody wants more time. It’s not our luxury to waste.”

“Uh-huh.”

“All righty, then. I need to eat. You coming?”

Fender looked back at the necklace. “Go on without me. I’ve got some work to do.”

“Yes, my friend, that you do.” Sam slapped him on the back and left.

Fender felt mired by his thoughts and his project and his problem to fix. It all hung heavy on him, an albatross on a fine golden chain. He’d returned to his work with the emerald when he heard the phone—a couple times, actually—but he let it go to voice mail.

When he finally got around to checking, the first message was from Pop, and then the second message was from Sam, calling to let him know Pop had called him, too. Pop never called around town looking for him anymore, not since high school, so this messaging worried Fender for a minute. What if Pop was sick? He could’ve fallen and broken something. It occurred to him that, yes, his pop was getting old, kind of.

Fender thought about this and decided to drive over to the house to check on him.
Whatever the message is must be a big deal. I can’t believe it. Pop’s going to get sick and die, and I’ve never thought about it before. I’m an evil son
. He sighed, closed up the shop, and went to the car.

“What’s new, right?” he said, either to the steering wheel or to the lady in the SUV on his right at the stoplight.
Yes, ever the prodigal son. Thank God I didn’t have siblings. I’m a disappointment, and my parents never even had a normal child to compare me to
.

When he pulled up to Pop’s house, there was an unfamiliar car in the driveway.
That’s it, now I know he’s dead. Someone missed him at the Rendezvous, and they’ve found his poor lifeless body.
Fender felt a twinge of worry.
And he’s been so nice to me lately
…

He still had the key from his temporary “vacation” at Pop’s house, so he let himself in the front door. “Please let him be all right,” he said to himself as he walked into the house.

Music came from the den, Fender’s old room. It was one of Pop’s old scratched-up records. Pop had eclectic taste in music. Jazz was his first love, all kinds. But he was also partial to the Steve Miller Band. In fact, Fender thought he could hear Pop singing, something about peaches and shaking someone’s tree.

Fender walked in the door of the den. “You’re in a really good mood.”

He saw why. Pop had his arms wrapped around a much younger woman. She had dyed black hair with white-platinum streaks through it. The bangs were held out of her eyes with—

“Barrettes!” Fender said loudly. He basically yelled this, and he felt his face flush crimson in embarrassment. Lo, the owner of the barrette Sam had discovered in the couch was not Amy Rasmussen from the fifth grade, but the lovely vixen currently in Pop’s arms.

Who yelled, in turn, when Fender yelled at her. She and Pop turned around to face him. They untangled themselves and stood shoulder to shoulder, like elementary kids in trouble.
I can’t believe it—everybody is getting laid but me. Even my ancient father is getting a piece
. Fender turned off the music and had a vision of what it would be like to be the parent of an adolescent.

Pop spoke up, regaining his composure. “Sonny! We were listening to records. This is Fiona.” Pop’s hand went to his chest to smooth a nonexistent tie. Old habit, probably. Nervous gesture from Pop’s days as the consummate salesman.

She stepped forward and shook Fender’s hand in a lively sort of way. She had a big, happy grin on her face, like a contented dog or little kid. “Jerry’s told me a lot about you. It’s nice to meet the man named after a guitar. Very cool.”

Yay. Bonding over stories about the kid, who in this case would be me. And I appear to be older than the bonding prospect
. “So, how’d you meet?” Fender tried to keep sarcasm out of his voice.
Be nice
.

Pop smiled. “Fiona works at the library. In the periodicals section.”

Fender nodded. “Of course.” All the time at the library made so much more sense now. Women. There was nothing Pop loved more than women.

Fiona picked up a shiny, patent leather handbag off one of the recliners. She wore those funky black cotton Mary Janes from China.
Wow. My father has a cool girlfriend. Who would’ve thought?

Cool Girl spoke up. “Jerry, I’m going to go. I’ve got practice in an hour. Are you coming by later?” Fender detected a pinkish blush to her cheeks when she asked the last question. She gave Pop a peck on the lips and squeezed past Fender, breezing through the living room and out of the door.

Fender’s curiosity was up. “Practice?”

Pop grew an inch, he was so proud. “She’s in a band. Plays bass and sings backup. I’m getting them a gig at the Rendezvous. I already squared it with the owner.”

“Hey, Pop?”

“Yeah?”

“We found her hair clip. In the couch. Fiona’s.”

Pop grinned. “Adults do things, Fender. Do we need a review of that talk? I thought that was one of the only times I really had your attention. Guess not.” Pop was enjoying this and would probably milk it for eons. He’d be insufferable at the Rendezvous.

Fender slapped him on the back. “You’re amazing, Pop. Really.” He silently scolded himself for worrying about the old man. Pop was going to outlast him, easily.

Pop looked at Fender in surprise. “Oh! Fender, I’ve got news for you that you’re going to love. I tried to find you. I left a message on your phone, but you didn’t call back, and when I called Sam’s house, I thought he was going to bite my head off.”

Fender plopped down on the couch. “Don’t worry about Sam. He probably hasn’t paid his Sears bill again. He gets kind of testy.”

Pop sat down beside him. He would get to the news, but he seemed to want to pause dramatically.

“So. Pop, you had something important to talk to me about?”

“I won’t beat around the bush. This is big, Sonny. I saw her.”

Fender’s mind was a few steps ahead, but he didn’t let the thought gel. He kept it crouched in the corner of his head, hoping. “Who? Who did you see?”

Pop readjusted on the couch. “Well, I was visiting Augusta—”

Fender panicked and broke in. “You saw Mom? You thought you saw her alive? She’s been gone a long time, Pop.”

This wasn’t a good move. “Fender Barnes. Are you looking for a way to put me in a nursing home? No, I didn’t
see
your mother. I saw your girl. Ring girl.”

Fender’s eyes hurt. Blood built up behind them from excitement. “Ginger? Really?”

Pop loved when people asked that. He had a stock answer: “No, not really.” He slapped Fender on the thigh. “Yes, of course! She was at the cemetery.”

The memory of Dead Boyfriend reared its ugly head. “She was visiting him, huh?”

Pop nodded solemnly. “Yes. This morning. She was lost, but I helped her find his grave.”

Fender was mad for a second. “You’re not supposed to do that, Pop. You’re supposed to be helping my cause.”

“Well, apparently I did something good, oh son of little faith, because she and I talked for a while.”

“About what?”

“I introduced her to your mother.”

Oh, Jesus. Now the crazy father-son team of Barnes and Barnes is going to steal the show.
“What did she say?”

“She liked the inscription. She seemed a little unsettled or lost.”

“You already said she was lost, Pop.”

Pop shook his head. “No, not literally this time. When she was standing there, she just looked like she didn’t know what to do next. Lost.”

Fender could still see her standing on that hill in the summer sky. “She looked that way at the funeral.” He sighed. “She could have been the one, Pop. The big time.”

Pop looked like he was holding his breath. “She said to tell you hello.”

They both were on their feet. Fender was very close to doing something that could only be described as jumping for joy. Then he suddenly saw his reflection in the sofa table and stopped before he horrified himself. Trying to regain his composure, he patted Pop on the back. Then he hugged him.

“I’m glad for you, son. Now go take care of business.”

Fender felt a little scared. The proverbial door was open. She had obviously opened it. Even a social misfit like Fender could tell when a girl was giving a guy another chance. Maybe. At least he thought he could. “I’m going to find Sam. Thank you, Pop.” He had his keys in his hand and flew out of the house.

Sam would know what to do.
Please, God, let Sam know what to do.
Fender tried to breathe and rushed to the car.

Sam didn’t answer the door at first. He did that sometimes, especially now that he and Molly were dating. Fender knew he was home, though—he’d said as much in the message he’d left about Pop’s phone call. Fender would bet money Sam just didn’t want to answer the door. But he changed his mind, apparently, after Fender pounded with his fist for a full five minutes.

By the time the door finally opened, Fender was readying himself to break it in.
Kick at the lock with the heel of your foot
, he reminded himself. Sometimes a misspent youth had its advantages. He’d lifted his foot and was psyching himself up when the door flung open.

“Jesus Christ!” Sam wore a wifebeater T-shirt that didn’t do a lot for his physique. “This had better be the damn Second Coming! I was sleeping.” Sam surveyed Fender, whose foot was still poised for judo action. He hadn’t put it down, trying to gauge whether or not he was going to have to defend himself against Sam. “And what the hell is the deal with the foot? Who the hell are you, Ralph Macchio?”

Fender put his leg down.

“Go away!” Sam slammed the door in Fender’s face.

Never give up in the face of adversity
. Some high school guidance counselor had said that to him a long time ago. He took the advice now and began to pound on the door again.

It opened again, slowly. Sam stood away from the door with swim goggles on his eyes and a Super Soaker in his hand, aimed at Fender. “Again, this had better be the full-on Four Horsemen, because your level of intensity is scaring me. I have taken the opportunity to arm myself, and I will fire if provoked.”

Fender stayed very still. He and Sam had ruined an entire set of living room furniture in a water fight once. And while the prospect of playing with Sam was diverting, he remembered that he did have a certain life-or-death matter on his hands: Ginger was ready to speak to him again.

Sam looked like he was losing interest. “Speak, or I will again close the door, never to reopen it until I’ve had a good nap.” He made a threatening gesture with the giant squirt gun for emphasis.

“Ginger. It’s about Ginger. There’s hope.”

Sam pulled the goggles up onto his forehead. “Hope? For what?”