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“I vetted her and checked all her references. They were stellar.” I don’t tell her what I’ve learned about her personal life…which, while not much, is troubling.
“Well, I think there’s more than meets the eye.” She swishes her drink, the ice cubes clinking against the crystal tumbler. “I want to investigate her. Do you have her address and social?”
“Mother, there’s no need. I’m sure Ned already did.”
She takes a resigned breath. “Well, I do hope you put your rings in a safe place.”
“I did.” I hurl the words at her, not telling her where I hid them.
My mother readies to pivot on her heel. “And seriously, Ava, do consider getting rid of that hideous dollhouse.”
“Stop!” My hand shoots up like a traffic cop’s. In my head, I remember my mother raising her hand, her palm facing me, and telling me in the coldest of voices to “talk to the hand” whenever she didn’t want to hear anything more from me. And every time I begged for a Barbie doll.
Without another word, she chugs her drink and stomps out of the room. The clack of her heels rattles me to my core.
TWENTY-EIGHT
AVA
My mother gone, Gabe still in my head, I find myself alone, confused, my eyes hot with unshed tears. The truth is I wish I’d never let Ned put a ring on my finger. Was I so blinded by bling? Caught up in the moment? Pressured by my gold-digger mother?
I have the sudden urge to toss my rings out the window. Or flush them down the toilet. After a quick check on Isa—she’s still sound asleep—I retreat to our bedroom and pull open my lingerie-slash-sock drawer. I hid the rings inside my favorite pair of socks—“Home is where the heart is”—that I’ve often gifted to clients. Finding them in no time, I unroll the pair and my stomach churns. The rings aren’t there! My heart pounding, I dig my hand into each sock to double-check. Then turn them inside out.
Nada. No five-carat engagement ring. No pavé-diamond wedding band.
I will myself to calm down, but my heart won’t listen. Frantically, I rummage through the drawer, pulling apart dozens of rolled-up pairs of socks and tossing them onto the floor.
Still nothing.
I’m positive I put them inside the red-and-white heart-print socks. But maybe, in my hormonal pregnancy fog, I hid them somewhere else. My pulse racing, I rifle through the rest of the drawers.
Still nothing.
I squeeze my temples. Think, Ava, think. Then, I close my eyes and cover my face with my hands. Think, Ava, think.
No…I’m certain I hid the rings in those socks.
My mind races. Maybe our housekeeper, Rosita, moved them before she left. But where? In my condition, it’s not like I can tear up our room—lift up our mattress, look under our bed, search my closet, and turn over every piece of furniture. Plus, that would take hours. And what would neat freak Ned think if he came home to an utter mess? A new thought…maybe Rosita washed the socks. Could the rings be sitting in the bottom of the washing machine? Or the dryer? Did Nurse Marley possibly discover them and not tell me?
No, no, it’s not possible!
Then another thought flies into my head. Nurse Marley rifled through my drawers the other day. Borrowed my clothes. Did she steal my rings?
No, she’d never do that, I convince myself despite what my mother thinks. Our nanny is a righteous churchgoing woman.
Close to hyperventilating, I hurry to the kitchen, racing through it to the adjacent laundry room. To our stacked front-opening washer and dryer. I yank open the stainless-steel washing machine door and look inside. I don’t see any diamonds. I run my hand inside the cold metal drum just to be sure, but nothing makes contact with my fingers.
I blow out a breath, then move on to the dryer beneath it. I have to squat down and it hurts. I open the door. Inside the tumbler is a bunch of Isa’s still warm little onesies—all laundered and dried. God bless Nurse Marley! Screw my mother. Marley’s a saint, not a thief! One by one, I toss Isa’s clothes into the nearby plastic laundry basket, shaking each one with the hope of a ring falling out. At least the five-carat-diamond one.
Again, no luck. I run my hand inside the dryer, searching from corner to corner. Just like the washing machine… nada.
Nothing.
I slam the dryer door shut and dash back to the kitchen. It’s not even one o’clock in the afternoon, but I need a drink. Am I turning into my mother?
The events of today whirl around my head. My encounter with Gabe, my mother, and my missing rings. It’s all too much.
I pad over to the refrigerator and find an open bottle of wine.
