Tricia shook her head. As a matter of fact, she didn’t. This meant she owed him nothing—except some favor in the vague future. She didn’t like that—not one bit.
“Call me tomorrow,” Russ said, got up from the booth, and left the diner.
Tricia signaled the waitress, ordered soup to go, vacated the table, and paid the check. It took only a minute or two for her to-go order to arrive before she, too, left the diner. She was halfway to her car when she spied a jewelry store on the other side of the strip mall. A neon sign winked OPEN. Tacky, she thought, and instinctively reached for the post in her left ear. On the spur of the moment, she decided she could use some exercise. She and her little take-out bag headed for Maxwell & Sons.
A small bell tinkled in greeting as she opened the door. No other customers loitered around the small, sedately decorated showroom, and in seconds a salesman stepped through a dark velvet curtain at the back of the shop. “May I help you?”
Tricia stepped up to the glass showcase. “I hope so. I was wondering, can you tell cubic zirconium from a genuine diamond?”
“That’s quite easy to determine. Do you have something you’d like checked?”
Tricia touched her left earlobe, twisting the stud earring a quarter turn. “I got these earrings from a friend, and . . .”
“Ah,” the gentleman said, and nodded in understanding. “Customers come in here all the time wanting to know the value of gifts they receive.”
“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” Tricia said. “I just wanted to make sure for . . . for . . .” Her mind whirled. “For insurance purposes.”
The salesman’s placid expression never wavered. “Very good.”
Tricia set her purse and the soup on the counter. She carefully removed her earring and handed it to the jeweler, who collected it in a soft gray shammy. He rubbed the stone for several seconds before he popped a loupe onto his eye and examined the earring. “Hmm.”
Tricia felt her stomach muscles tense. Was that a good or bad “hmmm”?
“May I take a look at the other?”
Tricia removed and then handed him the second earring. He examined it with the same poker face, before removing the loupe. He pulled out a small scale and weighed each. “A full carat each.”
“Cubic zirconium,” she stated.
“Diamonds, ma’am. They’re both exquisite—and beautifully cut.”
“Real diamonds?” Tricia asked, her throat tightening.
“Did you want to sell them?”
“No!” But did she want to keep such an expensive gift?
Yes! Too bad they’d come from a man who’d unceremoniously dumped and then divorced her.
And yet . . . why had Christopher now sent her two gifts of jewelry? She fingered the chain on her neck. On impulse, she unfastened the catch and handed the chain to the jeweler. “Is this chain real gold?”
He inspected the chain, and then had a look at the locket. “Both fine specimens.” He opened the locket. “Pretty kitty.”
“Thank you,” Tricia managed. Her head was spinning. What was she supposed to make of these gifts and the reason behind Christopher sending them?
The jeweler handed back the necklace and Tricia refastened the chain, hiding the locket beneath her sweater once more. She put the earrings back on, too.
“Were you interested in purchasing anything while you’re here?” the salesman asked.
Tricia looked around the showroom. The man had been so nice about checking her jewelry, and since Ginny was leaving, maybe she should buy her a nice gift while she was here. It might be hard to get away from the shop once Ginny started working at the Happy Domestic and Tricia only had Mr. Everett working for her part time. “Yes. I’m looking for a gift. A friend of mine is about to start a new job and I thought it might be nice to get her something. Maybe a watch?”
Ten minutes later, Tricia left the store with her purse, her take-out bag of chowder, and a gift-wrapped watch for Ginny.
And a whole lot more on her mind than when she’d entered the store.
Thirteen
The words the Happy Domestic were beginning to grate on Tricia’s nerves, so much so that she decided to spend her three or four dollars for a good-bye card for Ginny at the convenience store up near the highway instead of patronizing what was once Deborah’s store. She picked up a couple of condolence cards, too, although she still wasn’t sure she wanted to send one to David.
Traffic was light, and all too soon she found herself heading back from Stoneham’s municipal parking lot toward Haven’t Got a Clue. As she passed the Patisserie, she decided to stop in and buy a treat for Ginny. She loved cupcakes, especially those made and decorated by Nikki Brimfield, their friend and the Patisserie’s owner.
Several customers stood in line to be waited on, and Tricia grabbed a ticket with a number from the little machine just inside the door. The heavenly aromas of bread, cookies, and pastries nearly lifted Tricia off the ground. She’d buy some of the raspberry thumbprint cookies Mr. Everett liked, too. Then she remembered that Mr. Everett was spending the day with Elizabeth Crane at—she winced—the Happy Domestic. Still, her customers would probably appreciate them.
Tricia studied all the wonderful desserts in the large refrigerated case and decided to get a cupcake for herself, too. Since she’d begun allowing herself the occasional sweet treat during the past two months, she found she’d gained three pounds. She still ran four miles on the treadmill every morning, and her clothes still fit, save for one pair of slacks that felt a little too tight for all-day comfort. Was she letting herself go—or was it the inevitable middleage spread? No doubt Angelica, who’d always battled her weight, would laugh at the idea of being three pounds overweight.
Tricia took stock of her life as the line grew shorter. Was she too worried about what men thought of her appearance? And what for? Grant Baker wanted a companion with no long-term commitment. Russ Smith still kind of pursued her, although for some reason had dropped the solicitous act this morning, which was good, as she couldn’t bear the thought of being with him ever again. And her ex-husband, Christopher, was sending her conflicting signals. He hadn’t wanted to stay married but now he was sending her expensive gifts. What did that mean?
Nikki called out the next number, and the line dwindled yet again.
Apple turnovers, date bars, iced cut-out cookies, or whole wheat oatmeal raisin cookies—were they really a toboggan ride to diet hell? Did eating comfort food somehow make you an inferior human being, or was it a red flag that should send one to the nearest shrink in search of the catalyst for such behavior? Grant-Russ-Christopher and all that each man represented could be the reason Tricia had indulged. No doubt about it, she wasn’t getting what she wanted or needed in a relationship, and an occasional cupcake or an extra cookie a day had somehow found its way into her usual routine. And honestly, three pounds wasn’t the be-all and end-all of life. In fact, it was just an extra forty-eight ounces. A two-liter bottle of soda was heavier.
Okay, if the weight gain continued for too long, there could be trouble, but Tricia found the idea of a coconut cupcake now and then far too good to resist.
“Fifty-eight,” Nikki called out, and Tricia realized that it was her turn to order. She raised her hand, stepped forward, and discarded her paper ticket in the little wicker basket atop the tall glass display case.
“Hi, Tricia,” Nikki said brightly. Did her voice sound unusually high?
“Hey, Nikki. It looks like it’s a coconut cupcake day. I’ll take two. And a dozen of your raspberry thumbprint cookies.” And an apple turnover—or four! something inside her wanted to shout, but she exercised all her self-control and let the order stand.