But she finished.
At her graduation, Annie was twelve and I was fifteen.
Arthur sat beside Helen in the second row.
He complained about the folding chairs.
Helen told him surviving uncomfortable furniture for ninety minutes would build character.
When Grace walked across the stage, Arthur stood before anyone else in our row.
He clapped so hard his hands turned red.
Grace saw him.
Even from across the auditorium, I could tell.
Afterward, outside beneath a bright May sky, Arthur handed her a small box.
Grace eyed it.
“Please tell me this isn’t expensive.”
“It is not.”
She opened it.
Inside was Eleanor’s recovered ring.
Grace immediately shook her head.
“No.”
Arthur smiled.
“I am not giving it to you.”
“Good.”
“I had a replica made.”
He showed her the second ring.
Simple silver.
No diamond.
Engraved inside were two initials.
E.W.
L.F.
Eleanor Whitmore.
Laura Foster.
