Gyeck, it still gives me chills. There really wasn't much to write, it kind of speaks for itself. The post read "ew, creepy, huh? The end."
Well, there was more story to that day, or rather, there is now. To back up a little, the gallery is the Warson Woods Antique Gallery. From what I can tell, you can rent a locked set of shelves or a cubby, set it up any way you like, and sell your old loot. I mean, antiques.
With all due respect, "gallery" seems a pretty fancy title for what is the Warson Woods Antique Gallery. If I were to lure you there, I'd probably use the term "flea market." It's a complete sensory overload of old stuff—big old stuff, like bureaus and desks, and tiny old stuff, like hat pins and silver spoons. There is tons and tons of any old
On that day, we browsed until our brains were tired, when a ring in one case just grabbed me. It sat amisdst such a myriad of other trinkets that it was hardly noticeable except for the angels singing when I glanced at it. A sterling silver setting held very large chunk of amber with an old-fashioned cameo carved in the back.
Cameos have always struck a romantic, nostalgic nerve within me. They remind me being a little girl, and of my grandmothers, and of dressing up—of them dressing up, and of my dressing up in their clothes and jewels. Despite that, I was never a prissy little cameo girl. I've never dressed so finely that a cameo would fit anywhere on my being with any sense of congruency.
But here was a cameo with moxy! A great big old cameo bauble that smacks more of eclectic bohemian than it does conservative Victorian. I had the proprietor open the case, and guess what? It slid onto my finger like that glass slipper fell on to Cinderella's foot.
Of course it did. It also cost more than I could spend at the time, it was too much of a whim. I just couldn't. I handed the ring back over. Sniff. When we left the store, I actually said, outloud, "Bye ring. I love you."
NOW, it's (at least) a year later, and we were back in St. Louis a few weekends ago. Clint and I had few hours to kill before meeting back up with Jen and Bill, and I was still obsessing about that ring! I finally broke down and called the store. "You're going to think I'm crazy," I started, "but I saw a ring there a year ago..." I could just imagine the clerk rolling her eyes, but I stood my crazy ground, and she agreed to look, and call me back.
It was about half an hour before the my phone rang. "The ring is not here," she said. "I'm sorry."
Well, poo. Ok. That is that, then. I knew it was a longshot, I told Clint. Now I know, I can stop thinking about it.
But then, about 15 minutes later, I told him "That ring is there! There's no way someone bought my ring, can we just go, so I can see for myself?" He figured there would be no harm in trying (don't you love that?) and we were out the door within minutes.
I started my apologies on the way over, "I know this is a wild goose chase. And maybe I don't even remember the price; maybe it's more than I thought and I can't afford it. And maybe it's better in my mind than it will be when I see it again, so I'm sorry if I drag you out here and then I hate it, ok?"
When we pulled into the parking lot, I was barreling out of the truck before Clint had they key out of the ignition. Come on! Come on! What if someone gets it while I stand here?!! I waltzed in with purpose, went straight to the shelf that I imagined it to be in, and ....
And I still loved it, and it still fit like a dream, and I by-God wore that ring back to the counter and began digging out my cash.
Sweeter yet, Clint reminded me that we had an anniversary of sorts coming in 3 more days—it had been 4 years since he walked me back to my car, and gave me the sweetest goodnight kiss of my life. He bought the ring for me, for our 4th Kissaversary.
Don't you just love happy endings?