Banishing the Dark (Arcadia Bell #4)(69)

Merriment sparkled behind his squinting eyes. “You seem to be fond of my kid, too, but I really can’t figure that one out.”

“Well, that’s . . . that’s—”

My mouth fell open again. I kicked my leg over his hips and straddled him.

“Where is it?” I said, reaching for the chain around his neck.

He grabbed my hands. “Hold on, Cady.”

“No, you hold on. Let me see it. Now.”

We wrestled for a moment, but he finally gave in and scooted it around the chain from where it had twisted to his back. There it was. That big-ass stone swirling with gold and green.

“I saw it last night, when you passed out on the bed after the snakebite. I thought it was Yvonne’s.”

“Yvonne’s ring was normal,” he said quietly.

“No halo.”

“No halo. And she ‘lost’ it a couple of years before we got divorced, which probably meant she sold it for drug money. But either way, it’s long gone.”

“Oh.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

I felt the grin coming on, and I just couldn’t stop it. “That’s my ring.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He calmly shifted me from his stomach to his thighs so he could sit up. The ring swayed on its chain.

“It’s beautiful,” I whispered.

“You think so?” Oh, the feeling of pleased satisfaction that fluttered through him. I could enjoy him feeling that for days and never get tired of it.

“I’m sure I’ve oohed and ahed over it already.”

One brow lifted. “Not quite.”

“I turned you down?”

“Christ, I hope not.”

“Oh, shit. You haven’t asked me yet.”

He confirmed my horror with a clucking noise. “Things have been busy around here, in case you haven’t noticed. I’d originally planned to give it to you in France a week or so ago, but our trip got waylaid.”

Holy shit. That was the reason for the déjà vu sensation I felt when we were talking about vacations. “You gave me plane tickets for Christmas. The French Alps. We joked about it—sex vacation.”

“You remember that?”

“Barely.” I squeezed my eyes shut and groaned. “Oh, Lon. I’m so sorry I spoiled it.”

He wrapped his arms around my lower back. “I’m not. To be honest, I’m—”

“Relieved.”

He chuckled. “Yes. Very good.”

“Mmm.” I stared at the ring. I couldn’t help it. I’d never been the kind of girl to pore over wedding magazines and dream about square-jawed princes whisking me away to some fairy-tale white-picket-fence home. But the ring was pretty dazzling. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“I wasn’t sure what you’d want, but I couldn’t see you wearing something precious or girly.”

“It’s beautiful.” Had I said that already? My cheeks warmed. “And bizarre that I can’t remember anything that made you want to give it to me in the first place. I’m sorry all of this spoiled your plans.”

He took in a deep breath through his nose. “I bet a lot of couples have wondered, if they’d met under different circumstances, perhaps they would’ve taken a different path and never ended up together. And in a way, you got that opportunity. You chose me twice. If that’s not meant to be, then I don’t know what is.”

I swiped a couple of quick tears from under my eyes. “Well, when all my memories come back, I hope you’ll still want to give it to me.”

“I will,” he assured me, but I heard a little disappointment behind his words and knew I’d hurt his feelings. “I can wait. There are other . . . practical things to consider.”

“Like what? I hate to break it to you, but you’re going to be sadly disappointed if you’re expecting a dowry. I have no cattle or acreage to offer.”

“No cattle?”

I laughed. “I can give you half my share of the profits from the Tahitian pinball machine at Tambuku. And maybe—”

“Maybe . . . ?”

Oh, shit. I leaned over Lon to reach the side table and got my fingers on Wildeye’s wrinkled journal entry.

“What?” he asked.

“3AC 1988,” I said, staring at the page. “Jupe said Mrs. Vega first met my parents in La Sirena in January 1989. What if they bought the winter house instead of renting it? Not ‘3AC’ but ‘3 AC.’ Three acres.”

“Three acres purchased in 1988,” Lon murmured. He lifted me off his lap and rolled over to pull down his laptop. “If that’s right, there’s a public record of it.”

It didn’t take long to search through the state’s land-sales records, and there was nothing under Duval. But a few minutes later, under a search in the county’s real estate archives, he found a two-bedroom house on a three-acre plot of land about fifteen minutes north of Lon’s house. It sold in December 1988 to an E. Artau.

A misspelling that cut off the last letter in Artaud.

Enola Artaud. My mother’s maiden name.

The land’s previous owner was listed, and when I saw the name, I forgot how to breathe.