It's Got A Ring To It Read online

  IT’S GOT A RING TO IT

  a novel

  MIA L. HEINTZELMAN

  It’s Got A Ring To It is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Published in the United States by Levi Lynn Books.

  Copyright © 2015 Mia L. Heintzelman

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 0692504230

  ISBN-13: 978-0692504239

  Author photograph by Eugene Neat, Jr.

  For my husband, Daniel Heintzelman, who inspires,

  encourages, and believes in me. You are the clarity in my dreams.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Many thanks to my family and friends for their love and support. I especially want to thank Juana Neat and Eugene Neat, Jr., who have encouraged me since birth, literally. I couldn’t ask for better parents and friends.

  Special thanks to my bucket-fillers and entourage, Melissa DeGrazia, Tia Martin, Courtney McFarland, and LaDrea LaBranche. You are always there for me when it counts.

  Abiding appreciation to my patient and supportive editor, Laura LaTulipe, who polished my work until it shined.

  To my writing buddy, Alisa Howard, thank you for your continued support, accountability, and hilarious writing sessions in cold coffee houses amongst the crazies.

  A warm thank-you to a few people I know who may not be bookworms like me, but here’s to hoping that my book will be the one to bring out the booklover in you .

  And finally, I thank my husband, Daniel Heintzelman, and our daughters, Nina and Brooke, for allowing me to pursue my dream. Thank you for being patient during my late nights, writing days, and working daydreams.

  IT’S GOT A RING TO IT

  one

  The silence killed me, but I knew she would wait. That’s what she does. It’s what she did for the last two years—she waited for me to get there. Poised, regal, and professional, she sat in the same comfortably worn tufted leather club chair with her expectant eyes weighing down on me. Her piercing amber eyes squint slightly as her impatience grew. I’d studied her from head to toe every Thursday since it happened. Her salt-and-pepper hair coiled in a topknot, which she’d been wearing long before it became the latest fad. From her soft crow’s-feet to the perfectly etched lines of sage that ran along her hands.

  The way she looked on, daring me to own my truth, reminded me of being in the principal’s office. It was the second time she asked the question. I just hadn’t figured out whether I wanted to give my answer or the answer she wanted to hear.

  “Laila, are you going to answer me, or shall I ask the question again?” Hints of her British roots seeped into her words. I bordered on rude, since she was forced to address me for the third time.

  Again, I glanced at the letter between my clammy fingers and noticed my hands weren’t as fragile as they once appeared to me—no longer shaken and unsteady. My gaze cut back to the window. The numbing whir of the air conditioner kept it cool inside, but the stillness in the trees let me know the heat hadn’t subsided, yet. Outside, the day was ending, much like our time together. From that floor, I was able to see the neon skyline of casinos and high-rises glowing from the tower of the Stratosphere down to the beam of the Luxor. The city was coming alive.

  “Yes, Dr. Reese. I...” Somewhat stubborn and stalling, I glanced at the clock and then the letter once more. “I’m going to get rid of it...”

  “And what will you do then?”

  “I’ll live another day.” I lowered my head. I knew I was a disappointment to her. Somehow, I didn’t think this is where she thought I’d end up, when she met me. Probably, not skipping with uncontrollable laughter at that point, but a sense of relief and gratitude, at the least. I could tell she was still hopeful, though, the way she smiled at me, optimistic that they really were contagious. I returned the smile, more for her, than the healing qualities she often spoke about.

  By the time six thirty rolled around, I’d watched nearly every tick of the long hand. As Dr. Reese put down her pen and closed her folder, I couldn’t help but focus on the finality in the gesture. As she put away the pages, which summarized our relationship, it dawned on me that our chapter was over for her. Just like that, she got to wipe her hands clean of me. Bittersweet feelings about never seeing her again overwhelmed me suddenly. I swiped at my dampened eyes. More than anything that Dr. Reese had actually said, I’d depended on the routine, the standing appointment. No matter how high or low things got, I knew someone was counting on me to be there. Counting on me to get out of bed for something other than work. And at the very least it was a date—even if it wasn’t with a man—so to speak.

  As I stood, patting and pressing at my clothes, hoping to look a little less disheveled than I felt, she rose before me and squared my shoulders toward her. Lightly, with her finger she lifted my chin and met my eyes. “Laila, everything is going to be fine. You are going to be fine. Think of this as a rebirth.” It wasn’t a statement meant to pacify me. It was a matter-of-fact order from an authority. More than anything, she knew I wanted to be obedient and worthy of her trust.

  As my eyes swelled, she gingerly cupped my face. “Honey, please don’t fret. I didn’t mean it that way. I was talking about rebuilding your life. Continue with everything we started, and soon you’ll forget that I ever had to tell you to do so.”

  With every step toward the door, I left behind pieces of myself in that room full of emotional mirrors. Willingly, my walls had come down. She knew my past and present, and compelled me to envision a future, despite every effort of pushback. Even when I was little less than a shell of a woman, she implored me to look beyond what was and see what could be. And with every step she’d guided me. I knew it was coming, but I wasn’t sure about going ahead without the net.

  From my car, as immobile as the engine itself, I stared up at her window trying to stomach the feeling of loss. Still, I found the gumption to start the ignition and pull away. It wasn’t apparent who I was really mourning at that point. I took the long way home, watching the sky blend into melancholy shades of blues and oranges beneath the veil of night. The car seemed to steer itself to our pizza place, and the little cupcake shop with the big yellow retro fridge. The lights were out at the jeweler, but I was still able to see the spot where we stood, naïve and in love. And somehow, I found myself at the entrance of the church—where I could no longer step foot. There, I bawled and remembered everything I’d been trying to forget. Only after I’d purged all that I could, I dried my eyes and vowed not to think of it again.

  At home, I lay fully clothed on the bed—still and void. From the right pocket of my pants, I pulled out the letter and crumbled it into a golf ball-sized wad. As I sat up on my knees and stared intently at the waste bin beside my nightstand, I felt as if my muscles might betray me. Before I lost the nerve, I leaned over, pulled out the nightstand drawer, slid the letter all the way to the back, and hoped that things out of sight really would stay out of my mind.

  TWO

  It took me a minute to figure out what was going on. At first, I just lay there, stared at the ceiling—listening closely—and tried to determine exactly how the sun had come up so quickly. The moonlight had been dancing on the walls and crickets were singing my nightly lullaby, then I blinked, and suddenly rays of sunshine crept through the slivers in the blinds to the beat of an incessant buzz.

  I thought the pounding in my head had spread to my body, but I realized it was the vibration of my phone as it slithered across the dresser. Reminded me of fingernails on a chalkboard, and I wanted it to stop. Immediately, I exhaled a labored sigh, ready
to pull the pillow over my head and scream at the top of my lungs. I craned my neck toward the nightstand—the clock said it was barely nine o’clock. Damn it! I could’ve slept at least another thirty minutes before my body’s alarm would’ve gone off.

  I could’ve turned the ringer off or ignored the call, but I knew it was just the first in a string of calls that would be coming. Whenever anything big happened, I pretty much expected a call from Mom first, so she could give me her exaggerated drawn-out version of someone else’s story. Before the moonlight and crickets, I vaguely recalled talking to Mom. Something about Sam proposing to Lena, taking her to some show, and getting on bended knee and singing—or something like that. The whole night was a blur, so I don’t know why she thought I’d remember anything that she said. There I was falling asleep, but she just had to be the first to tell the news. When Lena didn’t call, I knew I’d be hearing from her at the brink of daylight. Heck, it’s not every day that your little sister gets engaged.

  Psyching myself up for what I knew would be a long conversation, once we got down to the meat and bones of it, I reluctantly slid the arrow on the phone screen to the right. “Hello,” I said, pepping up for Lena’s sake.

  “Hello, ma’am, this is John. I’m calling from Recall Collections. May I please speak with Mr. Myles Donovan?” A blend of a Southern drawl with a lisp and an Indian singsong jabber made it difficult to understand. He was respectful, but I was mad nonetheless. John could have been offering a million dollars to tell him the day of the week, but once he said the name “Donovan,” he was already riding high tide on what little bit of a nerve I had left.

  It’s one thing to wake up to hear about your sister’s proposal, but it was another story altogether to be roused from good REM sleep to take messages for a man I’d never met.

  I’d contemplated his motives and identity on more than one occasion. In my mind’s eye, he was an obese couch potato, who spent his days and nights in front of the idiot box eating gluttonous meals in a worn Lay-Z-Boy chair, ordering workout DVDs and equipment, he’d never use. Stacks of fraudulent credit cards and IDs lined his bureau drawers. His house, the littering grounds for stolen goods that he pawned on eBay or craigslist. To someone like that, paying bills wouldn’t exactly be at the top of the priority list.

  It only made sense that the two-bit, swindling loser was probably out there dodging bill collectors with a number they failed to confirm was actually phony. But it was my number being left out there. Little breadcrumbs for all the lurking vultures.

  Just the thought got me all riled up. Between my adrenaline pumping and pent-up rage, I was awake—whether I wanted to be or not. “Listen here, John.” The words seethed off the tip of my tongue against the will of my clenched teeth. Poor John, probably wished he wasn’t an overachiever, trying to get one more call in before his shift ended. If he knew it would be me on the line, he surely would’ve closed up shop early. Thinking of Johnny Boy, the latest scapegoat taking the fall for Donovan, I took a deep cleansing breath in a weak attempt to regain any composure. “This is Laila Smart and this is my phone number.” Every word came out slow and choppy. He needed to understand and take every word to heart. “Myles Donovan does not live here, nor has he ever lived here. So, when you do talk to Mr. Donovan, you tell him that I’ve got words for him. Now, take me off of your list…please.” Poor thing, I didn’t let him get a word in edgewise.

  The phone was pressed closely to my ear, as I paced the room, waiting for John to give me a civilized response. Something along the lines of an acquiescent consent to adhere to Do Not Call laws and remove me from their list, followed by an apology and a promise to ensure all other companies followed the same protocol. Hard, deliberate steps left my feet sinking into the plush beige carpet. Before I knew it, the dial tone resounded in my ear. “If you’d like to make a call…” said the polite automated operator, which only set my rage ablaze once more. How could she be so calm at a time like this, when my frustrations were mounting and I obviously wasn’t getting through to him? Ugh. I grunted and yelled to let it out, and then I kicked the couch just to prove how mad I was.

  “Shit!” I said after I hit my toe on the frame. It was all I could do not to cry. Bent over and hopping on one foot, it throbbed like hell. In the midst of my pain, I got even angrier. This was Myles Donovan’s fault, too. If it wasn’t for him, I’d still be asleep, unaware of his existence. I thought back to the operator. “Yes, I’d like to make a call to stupid-head Myles Donovan.” Lines with choice words I rehearsed many times over ran through my head. Oh, what I would do for the opportunity to give him a piece of my mind.

  The alarm chimed on cue, challenging me to get over myself, and my childish tantrum. As I still protested, I made the bed—haphazardly fixing the sheets and duvet first then piled on all of the lifeless throw pillows. Usually, I’d have tea, but that day I needed coffee—and fast. While it brewed, I pulled out the usual outfit—black ballet flats, black capris, and a black tee. A simple pair of silver stud earrings and a watch. Done.

  By the time I showered and pulled my hair into a ponytail, the coffee was ready and I’d calmed down a few notches. The smell of French vanilla felt like aromatherapy. I breathed it in, taking slow sips, trying to savor the flavor. More relaxed, I could finally think clearly and get Lena’s scoop. And frankly, I was happy to have someone else’s life to focus on.

  I held the phone away from my ear as Lena let out an exhilarated shriek. “Can you believe it?”

  Actually, I couldn’t. She and Sam had only been dating for five months and suddenly they’re engaged. Countless guys had vied for her attention, but she’d always been anally selective, almost ruthless in her pursuit of the man she called, “the one.” Lena’s been in love with the idea of love, but unwilling to compromise her dream of this fairytale courtship and marriage she’d been planning since birth. We were both under ten years old when Mom gave us these archaic wooden hope chests and told us about how Dad had wooed her relentlessly until she’d agreed to one date. Along with the chests, came a slew of what I assumed was mostly experiential advice, which remains etched in the back of my mind against my will. A few stay at the forefront. Ladies always accentuate their curves, but leave something to the imagination. Real friends can be counted on one hand; everyone else is a passing lesson. Money doesn’t define us, but what you do with it tells a lot about you. Learn to cook at least one thing well. God’s plan is always better than your own. Be wise enough to believe in unanswered prayers. But the one that stuck with me seemed to loom its ugly head constantly. Choose cautiously, then love without limits.

  My chest remained empty for years. I gradually began to fill it with practical things like brochures of Italy and Paris, a microphone I’d sprayed gold when I wanted to be the next Janet Jackson, and fake money, hoping it would somehow turn real. For me, the hope chest was more like a test. Once, I put in a newspaper ad for a radio I wanted. Then, out of nowhere, it came in the mail—a belated birthday present from a cousin I hardly remember. I was convinced the chest would grant all of my wishes. It wasn’t until I was in my twenties that I finally put in items related to a future with career, marriage, and babies.

  Lena, on the other hand, immediately took all of the advice to heart. In no time, her chest had magazine clippings of wedding gowns, a set of pearls Grandma had given us for Christmas, and her silver baby rattle that she wanted to pass on to her own kids one day. Neighborhood boys didn’t stand a chance with Lena armed to the hilt with her newly formed interrogation tactics. Suddenly, they were all being interviewed for the position of prince charming and rarely anyone fit the bill. When she did give anyone a chance, it was only a matter of time before he committed some deal-breaker and quickly found himself on the outs or exiled to the friend zone. With her track record, I never anticipated her actually finding a worthy candidate. She always said she’d know when it happened to her. Even though they’ve yet to celebrate their semiannual anniversary—if there is such a thing—I guess, w
hen you know, you know.

  “Congratulations, LeLe!” I said as enthusiastically as possible.

  “How much has Mom told you already? I know she called you and probably told you everything before I could get to you,” she said, only slightly deterred.

  “She told me a few things, but why do you think I’m up so early? I want all the dirty details from you. Now, start from the beginning.”

  “Okay. First, we went to eat at Le Cirque in the Bellagio. That was amazing. Even though he looked nervous, I didn’t suspect anything, since we were toasting to his promotion. You know how Sam gets.”

  No, I don’t know how he gets. I don’t know much about him at all.

  “He gets all flush and jittery when something’s bothering him. But, I figured he was still in shock about the promotion, so I brushed it off…”

  She went on and about an hour later, I finally heard about them checking out Jersey Boys at the Paris. At the end of the show, when they’re about to wrap it up to “Oh What a Night,” Sam excused himself to the restroom. Suddenly, the lights in the house went down. The spotlight was on the guy who played Frankie Valli introducing someone who was going to the stage. All of a sudden, the spotlight darts over to the edge of the stage. Turned out, it was Sam on one knee, asking Lena to make him the happiest man on earth by marrying him. Next thing you know, Lena’s running up to the stage screaming “Yes,” as she kissed him in front of the whole audience. Apparently, she’d been on cloud nine ever since.

  I wasn’t surprised that she was already talking about dates, a planner, and the stack of magazines she’d gone out to get before the morning dust could settle. There’s something to be said about weddings, when it turned a happy-go-lucky girl like Lena into a crazy, coordinating dictator.