Where the River Ends - Charles Martin [59]
“May I?”
The lady nodded and slid the ring tray out of the display. Abbie tried on several until she found one that fit. The price tag read “$280.” Abbie asked, “Do you have any men’s sizes?”
The lady smiled and pulled another tray from the display. She looked at me. “Do you know what size you wear?”
I shook my head.
She glanced at my finger. “You’re either an eleven or something pretty close to it. Try this.” She slid a ring on my finger. It was a little stubborn going over the knuckle but I couldn’t sling it off.
I turned to Abbie. “Will this work until I can buy you a real ring?” I shot a glance at the lady. “No offense, ma’am.”
She laughed. “None taken.”
Abbie spun the worn ring around her finger. “Doss, I don’t need a diamond.”
“Abbie, every girl deserves a diamond.”
“Well, then, I’ll just keep this one until that day comes. And even when it does, I’ll wear them both.”
“How much for the pair?” I asked.
“Four hundred dollars, normally, but today we’re having a spur-of-the-moment sale that’s twenty-five percent off.”
“Sold.”
“You want me to gift wrap?”
She had no real intention of gift-wrapping these rings. She was prying and we all knew it. “No thanks. They wouldn’t stay in the paper very long.”
I gave the lady my credit card, signed my name, slid both rings into my pants pocket and steered Abbie toward the jail.
It was the Friday following Thanksgiving. A national holiday. Which meant the courts were closed and most of the judges were off fishing or golfing. Surrounded by so much history, I remembered my twelfth-grade history class. The Magna Carta mandates that an arrested individual must see a judge within twenty-four hours of being incarcerated. Charleston was no hotbed of criminal activity, but certainly at least one person had to get stupid on Thanksgiving Day.
We glanced through the window into Judicial 1 where the Honorable Archibald Holcomb Fletcher III was holding court. Abbie smiled slyly. “Follow me. I’ve got this covered.” We waited quietly while Judge Fletcher dealt with three kids who got caught painting a carriage driver’s horse with blue spray paint and then two DUIs. When the courtroom cleared, he looked up over his glasses at Abbie. “Abigail, what are you doing in my courtroom with that young man?” I got the feeling he didn’t really need to ask.
“Getting married.”
He laughed. “Not in my courtroom. You’re daddy’ll have my hide. As will the rest of Charleston.”
“Your Honor, I’ll make this easy for you. You can either marry us”—she smirked and raised one eyebrow—“or not.”
He paused, not knowing exactly what card she was about to play. The tone in her voice told him that she knew something about him that few others did, but he didn’t want to suggest he had anything to hide by asking what she was talking about. “You got a license?”
Abbie shook her head. “Nope.”
“You’ll have to wait ’til Monday morning when the office opens. Eight-thirty a.m. Once you apply, there’s a twenty-four hour”—he spread his hands across the air like a fan—“‘cooling off’ period. It’s called that so impetuous young kids don’t do something”—he stared at me—“stupid. In the meantime I’ll just call your dad and make sure he’s comfortable with”—he waved his finger through the air at me—“all this.” He folded his arms.
“Judge Fletcher? Has my daddy been pretty good to you? Helping you get reelected a couple of times?”
He nodded. “And that’s exactly why you’re not getting married in this courtroom.”
“I don’t want to marry in this courtroom. I want to get married down there under that little arbor.”
He stood up. “Abbie girl.” He pointed with his gavel. “That thing is cheesy as hell. You need a proper wedding. St. Michaels, white dress, bagpipes…a priest.”
Abbie crossed her legs and looked at her fingernails. After a minute she looked up at him. “Two things. First, anywhere I get married will be in the sight of God, so I’m not worried about His blessing. Secondly, Your Honor, over the years I’ve come to know quite a few reporters. Many here in town. And seeing as how they need you in their