The Jeweler (3 page)

A
FTER
T
HE
F
UNERAL
, Ginger retreated to her mother’s house in Washington State. Her parents had divorced some time before, and Mom had chosen to make her home in the wet forests of the Northwest. In the woods, Ginger took long walks in the ever-present drizzle and stared out of the window a lot. At night, she turned on the TV for distraction and did not think of sleep until the sky had edges of pink in the east. She gathered her mother’s Corgi dogs and Zoë’s big Husky fluffiness around her on the bed as the dawn came. Then she fell into the deep sleep of melancholy. Whenever she awoke, she felt as though she was entering a hazy world she wasn’t connected to. And by then, her mother had gone off to work, and she was alone.

What should’ve been a few weeks’ stay turned into two months. Then—suddenly it seemed—autumn crept into the forest. On a typically wet day, Ginger smelled fall in the air as she walked along the path to the house. She kicked at the fallen leaves and pine needles under her feet, and the dogs all bobbed along the trail in front of her. As she approached the house, Ginger saw her mother sitting on the porch in one of the lawn chairs. She had a thick coat pulled up around her chin. Ginger sat down next to her. The dogs continued to circle the porch, sniffing twigs and rocks for clues. Ginger watched the dogs and avoided her mom’s gaze.

“Ginger, it’s time to go back.”

Ginger looked up at her. Her eyes seemed soft, but Ginger knew she’d be firm. So, she packed up and took one last walk with Zoë and the little squat dogs through the mist. Then she headed back to life.

When she opened the door to the house, she shuddered. Tied to the habit of unlocking the door was the expectation of Brad’s voice greeting her from the kitchen. But the house held its tongue, and loneliness settled over her. Zoë seemed to sense the tension of the moment and flew past her into the living room, skidding across the hardwood floor, butt first.

Ginger could not think. She carefully brought her bags into the house, unpacked them, brushed her teeth, put on pajamas, and climbed into bed. She held the grief and thoughts and worries and avalanche of emotion behind a wall inside of her, and lay very still. It was the only way she could figure to function. She could survive and hold on, and maybe later she could handle something more than that.

A few mornings after her return, the dry November air in Boise smelled like snow, and Ginger actually felt an enthusiasm creeping up on her. The season was about to begin, and she could lose herself in the work on the mountain. She would zipper up her winter coat and be surrounded by little girls and boys demanding her attention and love. Teaching them to ski meant distraction, and maybe even smiles.

And it was true. Snow dumped on the resort the week before Thanksgiving, and she went back to the mountain. In the bustle of a new season, it was easy to work and to forget. The one thing that tugged her back to her memories felt a whole lot like guilt. She noticed men. She’d be riding the chairlift and look down to see a strong figure cutting long, lazy curves in the snow. She’d gaze down at the man and wonder about his life. Wonder what kind of woman lay in bed next to him at night, or if he was alone—alone like she was.

And as soon as she remembered her loneliness, she remembered the reason. Then her stomach would turn at the sight of the man. Out of guilt, or fear, or remembering, she didn’t know, but Ginger’s body recoiled, whatever it was.

At night, she did sometimes sleep, mostly because of the sheer physical exhaustion of lifting little kids up from the snow all day. But many nights stretched into day, and Ginger would stare at the ceiling, turning what had happened over and over in her head.

She was torn about the house. Brad, ever the responsible one, owned it outright and had left it to her in his will. She’d never even considered a will, but Brad had his veterinary practice, he owned things, he had things to leave to people. She owned a dog. And a bike her mom had given her when she graduated high school. She could leave a nice set of luggage to someone—her grandpa had bought it for her when she turned sixteen.

Nights passed. She lay in this house that was hers now and stared at its ceiling. She couldn’t imagine selling it, but it felt suffocating. Sometimes it felt safe, but sometimes it was a reminder of so much, it felt like that ceiling would collapse in on her. It was loaded down with so many memories. All of this would tumble through her brain for most of the night, on most nights. If she were lucky, she’d fall asleep in short spurts, waking fitfully and often drenched in sweat. And then she’d drag herself out of bed and go to teach on the mountain.

She wondered when it would all feel okay again.

F
ENDER
D
IDN’T
T
ELL
P
OP
the truth. When he’d returned to the bar the night of the funeral, Pop had asked if it went well, and he’d just said yes and left it at that.

Maybe his father knew he was lying, but Pop didn’t press the issue. He was grateful for that. In fact, Pop hadn’t mentioned the girl again.

Not that Fender forgot about her. He could close his eyes and see her on that hillside—the green eyes wet with tears, the bewildered look, the long reddish-blond hair—all of it would come back to him. Then he’d shrug it off, because it reminded him that he’d turned so abruptly and headed for the car. In the middle of a funeral, no less. To him it was yet another sign that he was morally bankrupt and probably going to hell.

Because his train of thought about the girl usually ended in a picture of him frying for all eternity, he tried not to think about her.
Tried
being the operative word. There was the ring, after all. Every night he passed the ring box on his dresser as he went to brush his teeth. Some nights he’d open the box just to check that the ring was still in there. And it would be, the pear-shaped diamond reflecting up at him like a cat’s eye in a dim room, sparkling.

After some months, as the weather turned cool, it was easier to walk past without picking it up. But it was still there, and it still summoned the vision of that lovely young woman, dress fluttering in the breeze, standing under the burden of her loss.

A realization struck him one night in bed, and the force of it sat him straight up out of a deepening sleep. As he’d been dozing, the sickening pop of metal and glass echoed somewhere in his memory, and he saw the flash of a slow ambulance pulling away. Then the dry, sunny day at the cemetery flickered in his drowsy mind. Hell or no hell, it was right to give her the ring. Find her and give her the ring. Even if his mad dash to the car the day of the funeral had doomed him,
she
gave him the resolve to find her. It certainly wasn’t his moral fortitude. No, it was the girl herself who asked him to do this for her. Or at least that’s how it seemed as he sat up in bed one night.

So, he did some detective work. He looked at Brad’s address on the sales slip, and then spent at least a good month talking himself into it first. In fact, all the soul-searching took Fender into the autumn months.

When he went to the house in November, there was a chill in the air. The tips of the mountains were already piled with snow, and flurries had been threatening the valley on a regular basis. The weather matched the house’s mood; it was quiet, and in the gathering dark of a fall evening, it seemed to hold no promise of the girl.
Maybe she moved after he died, genius. She may never even have lived here with him.
Fender hated his own stupidity sometimes.

He sat in his car for at least half an hour, contemplating the sad face of the house. He realized it was not within his power to get out of the car. He just watched the sycamore in front of the house let its leaves drift to the sidewalk.

He was still sitting there when the car pulled up—a little white hatchback. It zipped into a parking space in front of the house, just down from Fender’s car. The car’s lights winked off, and the driver’s door swung open. There was snow on the bumper and at the base of the windshield.

Fender held his breath. She got out of the car. It was the girlfriend, no question. The long hair was swept up in a sloppy ponytail, her slim form outlined in a black turtleneck and black leggings. From where he was parked and in the increasing darkness, he couldn’t see her face very well. Oh, but it was her. Then he realized he should breathe again and gasped noisily.

She began to take something out of the hatchback of her car. A clue to her life. What would it be?

She hauled out a pair of skis and a big black parka with the words
Blackwolf Ski Resort
across the back. She was a skier.
Of course she is
, Fender remembered. Brad had told him she was. He felt an idea forming in the crevices of his brain. A skier. Maybe he could track her down at the resort.

He’d been sitting here long enough. He started the car and turned in the seat to back out of the space. His elbow leaned against the steering wheel, and his heart jumped as the horn blared into the night.
Sweet Jesus!
Fender peeled out, flying past the little white car and its owner.

Ginger jumped when she heard the car’s horn. She turned around as its engine revved too high and the black sedan peeled out.

That was weird.
She tucked her parka under her arm. She’d forgotten to turn on the porch light this morning, and it was getting dark quickly. The faded two-story house sat quietly under its bare sycamore tree. She still wasn’t sure how she felt about the house. Sometimes it was a familiar friend. Sometimes it just reminded her of Brad and what had happened to him. She’d resolved to worry about staying or selling it after some time had passed, at the very least after ski season was over.

Because she didn’t want to think about that now. Tonight she was going to start living her life again, no matter how hollow it made her feel.

After he’d hounded her for weeks, Ginger had decided she’d go out with Bode, a ski patroller. She said hello to him every day at the top of the Deercreek lift, where he manned the patrol lookout. He was a little younger than she was, but he was always very sweet and had been especially nice to her since the word got out about Brad. This season, when he saw her, he’d always ski along with her for a few feet and ask how things were going. This little routine had been going on for three weeks when, one day, Bode touched her elbow and stopped her from heading down the cat track.

“Ginger?”

“Yeah?” She looked into his scruffy face.

“Hey, can I ask you something?” He shifted on his skis and stabbed at the snow with the tip of his pole.

“Sure.” She looked past him at the eight-year-olds she was supposed to be teaching. They pummeled each other with snowballs. “You better ask me quick, though—the natives are getting restless.”

“Yeah, those little guys are cute. I think it’s great how you teach ’em to ski. Really great.” He smiled at her. They just stood there, smiling at each other.

“Bode, what were you going to ask me?”

“Huh? Oh, okay. Hey, I was thinking you could go out with me. We could go have pizza, or if you don’t like pizza we could have Chinese, and it would be casual—not serious ’cause I know how you felt about Brad and all—geez, I didn’t mean to remind you about that—but anyway, do you want to sometime?”

“I don’t know.”

“Hey, you know, you’re so pretty, and you seem so sad, and I thought you might deserve a nice night out.” He smiled really wide again, and his sun-streaked hair hung in front of his eyes.

The Ultimate boys. He’s just like one of the Ultimate Frisbee boys in the park during the summer
. “That sounds good. When do you want to go?” Ginger breathed in deeply.

So, now she was hustling into her house to get ready for a date. They were going to Peking, the Chinese restaurant downtown, and she was terrified. A couple times today, as she’d gotten off Deercreek lift, she’d thought about canceling. It was too soon. Brad would’ve thought it was too soon.

But then she’d seen Bode, and it seemed like it wasn’t the worst idea in the world. He’d been tossing pistachios into another patroller’s mouth in front of the patrol shack. That’d reminded her again of the Frisbee boys. Some part of her thought it might not be too bad to go.

She pulled on her jeans and tried to ignore the terrible feeling clutching at her heart. She felt as if she were drifting. No routine, no regular way to handle this. She’d relied on familiarity, patterns, to keep her life on track. A date with another person had never been part of the routine while Brad was…
Oh, Brad
. She blew off the tight feeling in her chest.
Screw this. I’ve got to go out, and that’s it. It’s time to be alive again.

A car pulled up in the drive. It was Bode. She grabbed her keys and got the hell out of the gloomy house.

“I’m a snake.” Bode announced sixty-eight minutes later as they dug into the General’s chicken. Ginger paused mid-chew. Had she misheard him?

“What did you say?”

He swallowed a very full bite. “I’m a snake.”

She wondered if she was supposed to protest. He’d seemed nice enough this evening. “Okay…”

“What are you?” He smiled at her and stabbed his chopsticks into a big pile of lo mein.

“Excuse me?”

He shook his head. “You have no idea what I’m talking about. Chinese zodiac. What sign are you?” He pointed a chopstick at the placemat on the table, the animals of the Chinese zodiac pictured in an illustrated wheel.

She took a minute and looked. “Dragon.”

“That’s cooler than a snake. I sound like I’m not a good guy.” He chewed and thought about it for a minute.

“Are you?” Ginger wondered what he might say.

Bode had already moved on. “Am I what?”

She smiled.
Frisbee boy.
“Nothing. You’re pretty quick with the chopsticks.”

He nodded and launched into a story, waving his chopsticks around aimlessly. “I’m the youngest of three brothers. Back when I was little, if I wasn’t fast, I’d end up with no food on my plate.” He shoveled another mouthful of rice into his mouth with the sticks sideways. She listened and watched him eat and talk. He seemed only vaguely aware that she was there. He’d probably talk and eat like this with or without someone across the table.

Snake or no, he was definitely entertaining.

Three hours passed with a lot less pain than Ginger had expected. As Bode parked his car in front of her house, she felt pretty good. She’d even stopped checking the time on her phone after the main course. He’d kept the conversation moving through dinner, and they never once touched on the subject of Brad.

“Do you want to come in for a second?” She heard it come out of her mouth.

After some glasses of red wine in the living room, Ginger found herself on the couch with Bode. Now he was definitely paying attention to her. Definitely knew she was there. Things felt increasingly intimate. The conversation had stalled, and he touched her arm. He rubbed her shoulder in light circles with his fingers. She tried to think of something funny or witty to say to distract him, or her, from the fact that he was working up to something.

Ginger could see where this was heading. She felt a twinge of dread.

He was still for a moment and looked into her eyes. “You’ve got a stray hair.” He brushed the hair off of her cheek. Then he leaned close to her and kissed her.

“You’re a really beautiful gal.” Bode rubbed her back. He said it again. “You’re so beautiful.”

If he kept talking, he was going to ruin it. Who says
gal?
She hated the word
gal
. The hair move was a little cheesy, too. Everything that came out of his mouth now sounded tired and well-practiced. He was a player—that’s what everyone on the mountain said. Maybe he really was a snake.

She couldn’t quiet her brain. How many women had he used these lines on? She started to feel a little claustrophobic.

At that moment, there was an awful shredding sound from the center of the room. It sounded like the seams being torn out of something.

“What the hell was that?” Bode sat up on the couch.

Ginger reached behind her and turned on the light. Zoë stood in the center of the rug with Bode’s red Patagonia parka in her teeth. The zipper had been torn completely out.

“Hey, dog! That’s my coat!” He leapt off the couch and tried to wrench the shreds out of Zoë’s mouth.

“God, I’m sorry. She’s being protective, I guess.” Ginger left off there.

“I think I’m going to go.”

“Okay.” Ginger didn’t put up much of a fight. It wasn’t time to try this yet.