Underneath the legal certificate was a thin envelope containing an old letter from my late sister, Julie. Her familiar, rounded handwriting covered the blue paper, reminding me of the long days we spent together in the county office trying to get the paperwork approved.
I ran my fingers over the faded ink, remembering how hard we had worked to bring Ethan home.
I opened my checkbook to record the afternoon transaction, the blue pen dry against the paper.
The empty space in my checkbook where my life savings used to be.
By nine the next morning, Martha was standing in my bedroom, her arms full of winter blankets we were moving to the top shelf of my closet.
Martha was my next-door neighbor, a retired nurse who still wore her white orthopedic shoes and smelled of lavender soap.
She reached into the dark corner of my cedar wardrobe and pulled a crumpled slip of paper from the pocket of my heavy winter coat.
“Did you drop this, Stephanie?” she asked, smoothing the blue sheet against her apron before handing it to me.
It was a duplicate receipt from a jeweler on Michigan Avenue, dated three weeks ago.
The total at the bottom was five thousand dollars.
The name on the card used for payment was Ethan Herrera.
“He told me they were buying simple silver bands,” I said, my thumb rubbing the gold wedding ring on my right hand.
Martha adjusted her glasses and peered at the paper in the morning light. “This says a platinum band with channel-set diamonds.”
“The billing address is his office,” I said.
“Maybe Ashley’s mother paid him back for it,” Martha said, reaching for another blanket.
I did not answer her.
Ethan had sat at my kitchen table two days ago, his face pale as he begged for nineteen thousand dollars to save the wedding from cancellation.
He had sworn that every penny of his own savings was already gone.
Now, the receipt in my hand proved he had spent a small fortune on a single piece of jewelry.
The drive to the Willow Creek Country Club took twenty minutes through the grey autumn afternoon.
