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 hungover; 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’d 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 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. She kept him distracted and entertained. She was sweet and affectionate, and fun in bed. She was beautiful, in a tomboyish way. And she loved him. It was enough; it had to be.
T HAT EVENING , C ARSON AND HIS FATHER , J AMES, WALKED THE FENCE LINE of the McKay citrus farm, checking for rotted posts. James, a sturdy, upright sixty-five-year-old with still-dark hair, was gradually replacing the
“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 hungover; 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’d 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 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. She kept him distracted and entertained. She was sweet and affectionate, and fun in bed. She was beautiful, in a tomboyish way. And she loved him. It was enough; it had to be.
T HAT EVENING , C ARSON AND HIS FATHER , J AMES, WALKED THE FENCE LINE of the McKay citrus farm, checking for rotted posts. James, a sturdy, upright sixty-five-year-old with still-dark hair, was gradually replacing the
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