Chapter 33: Twenty-One

The box came while my father was cutting the cake.

It was silver, with a white satin ribbon, about the size of a hardcover book.

The courier set it on the tablecloth between the candles and my mother's good plates and asked me to sign.

My left cheek went hot before I knew why.

I touched the thin white line on my cheekbone without meaning to.

The last silver box anyone gave me had put it there.

"Who's it from?" my mother asked.

The courier checked his tablet.

"No name, ma'am. Paid cash at the counter. The man said to tell her happy birthday, and that she'd know."

He left, and the front door shut behind him.

In the parlor the grandfather clock went on ticking.

We were in the dining room of the Santoro townhouse on East 70th Street.

Six months ago the furniture in this house had still been under sheets.

Now there were tulips on the table, Nicholas's boots by the door and my economics books stacked on the stairs.

My father had carried the cake in from the car himself, because his doctor had told him not to.

Nicholas stood up.

"I'll open it."

"No."

I pulled the box across the cloth to me.

My mother put her fork down. My father held the cake knife in the air.

I untied the ribbon.

Under the tissue paper was a ring box covered in old blue velvet, rubbed pale at the corners.

I knew that box.

I knew the hinge stuck, and that you had to press the left side to open it.

I pressed the left side.

Inside was a thin platinum band set all the way around with small old diamonds.

One stone near the top sat a hair crooked in its setting.

It always had.

In my last life, Bryant Ferraro pushed this ring over my knuckle on our wedding day.

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