The saleswoman put down the mirror she’d been pretending to polish. “What are we thinking, secret lovers?”
“We’d like to pick a pearl,” Jefferson informed her.
Even though Libby knew the reason he hadn’t corrected the “lovers” part was that this lady lived in her own reality, she couldn’t help reading into it a tiny bit. Watching Jefferson distracted herfrom the familiar ritual of choosing the perfect oyster, then counting down until it was pried open, at which point another salesperson rang the bell mounted on the side of the booth to alert passersby that someone had been lucky enough to discover a pearl. (Even though it said right there on the sign:GUARANTEED AUTHENTIC PEARL IN EVERY OYSTER!)
“What a beauty! See that hint of pink?” Felicia, whose name had been revealed when she bent to measure the pearl’s diameter, continued to praise its exceptional specialness, as if it were somehow set apart from the hundreds of others she saw in a week.
“Here you go, sir.” She deposited the pearl in Jefferson’s palm. “Why don’t you hold it up to her skin? Are you more of a white or yellow-gold person, ma’am? Or platinum?”
“Um.” Libby was tempted to say,Whatever’s cheapest,because the real answer was that most of her necklaces were on wire or string. The fancy pendants, from Jean’s glassblowing phase, got a leather cord.
“Yellow,” Felicia decided, handing Jefferson a gold chain.
It seemed easier to play along instead of arguing. That was definitely why Libby unfastened the top button of her borrowed jacket, and he brought his hand up to rest ever so lightly against her throat, holding the pearl and the strand of yellow-gold in place. There was no doubt in Libby’s mind that he could feel the throb of her pulse, so close to where his fingertips brushed her skin.
“Try a little lower,” Felicia suggested. “Down in the valley, as they say.”
Libby blushed as she undid the next button, and not only because she didn’t have a valley so much as a pair of speed bumps. Jefferson let the chain slide lower. It felt cool and smooth, though it was only a matter of time before her internal combustion heated the metal until it burned them both.
“I can show you a few of our settings.” Felicia slid an album with laminated pictures of necklaces and rings across the counter. “We have options at every price point.”
Libby was grateful to have a place to point her face. Jefferson joined her in studying the catalog, both of them as serious as if they were shopping for a house instead of a souvenir trinket.
“Which would you choose?” Jefferson asked.
“I like simple.”
“Me, too.”
“My favorite is the whale tail,” Felicia volunteered. In case they were wondering. “Though we are running a special promotion on rings. Twenty percent off if you buy one of our premier settings with the matching band. Free engraving.” She glanced at both Libby and Jefferson, like they were all in on a secret.
It was a bold sales pitch:Maybe you should get married while rings are on sale?Libby should have been used to playing along by now, but this was a step too far. She hit the wall, unable to stand there another minute and pretend it meant nothing, that she didn’t wish they were a real couple with a future that might or might not involve semiprecious jewelry.
Lie about her name? No problem. Fake being a self-obsessed housewife? Sure! Act like she didn’t want to melt every time Jefferson looked at her? Forget it.
“I’ll let you finish up,” she mumbled, already walking away.
Chapter 22
lovelillibetFew things compare to the dynamism of open flames. My candle game is strong, but I aspire to level up one day. Wouldn’t it be atmospheric to live in olden times, with a flickering torch on the wall? Or one of those darling oil lamps? We all need more warmth in our lives, so why not start with fire?
Love, Lillibet
Image: The red-and-white lighthouse at Makapu’u Point with the Pacific Ocean in the background.
#eternalflame #homefires #hotornot #oldschool
Jefferson found Libby on a bench in the shade, out of the flow of tourists moving between the park and the shops. He thought the heat might have gotten to her, but the slumped shoulders and hanging head suggested the problem was on the inside.
He watched her as he approached. She hadn’t spotted him yet, so her expression was unguarded. If he had to put a name to it, Jefferson would have said she looked a little sad. It reminded him of his sister Susan in the last year of her marriage, always tensed for the next argument. Libby’s husband sure seemed to keep her on a tight leash. Financially, anyway; he didn’t appear too worried about her physical whereabouts. Or how she was feeling.
Susan had once accused Jefferson of suffering from a mild case of white knight syndrome. Her point had been driven home with a solid punch, shortly after picking him up from the hospital where he and Hildy had been kept overnight for observation.
Don’t you dare pull another stunt like that. And you better not fall for another wounded bird,she’d warned, before he could explain that he wasn’t really dating the “Snowbound SoCal Socialite.”
As it turned out, the “wounded bird” comment had been in reference to Genevieve, who—once he thought about it—had been known to showily fall apart when she wanted something. That left it to Jefferson to step in and save the day. He was honest enough to admit liking his role in their dynamic: the one who kept calm and solved problems. Compared to Gen’s revolving array of crises, his issues were easy to ignore.
In the months since their breakup, Jefferson worried he’d worn a groove in his brain, programming himself to respond to drama. Was that why he’d been immediately drawn to Lillibet? Was she a closet disaster?
