“You told me the scholarship covered it.”
Judith narrowed her eyes. “Did it not?”
“No. You sold your wedding ring.”
Her fingers moved instinctively to the ring she had carried for years.
Jacob’s eyes were shining.
“I thought I lost it.”
“You did not lose it,” he said. “You gave it away.”
Judith glanced down at the old ring.
The wedding ring had not been Samuel’s. It had belonged to her mother. Samuel had placed it in Judith’s palm the morning they married and told her that anything valuable should be used for something that mattered.
She had sold it for Jacob’s trip, then bought it back years later after the vineyard finally turned a profit.
Jacob reached into his pocket.
“I had it repaired.”
He opened his hand.
The ring rested there, polished and bright, with a small new inscription inside.
For the one who stayed.
Judith’s breath caught.
“You should have told me.”
“I thought you might be angry.”
“I am.”
He looked alarmed.
She touched his face.
“I’m angry that you found out and kept it secret for six weeks.”
He laughed, and she pulled him into her arms.
This time, she held him first.
The children began chanting for the ribbon.
Judith released him and cut it.
Applause filled the greenhouse.
The sound was not like the applause at the wedding. It did not demand perfection. It did not reward appearances. It rose because people were glad to be there, because something broken had been repaired, and because no one had been asked to stand behind a column.
That evening, when the guests had gone, Judith and Jacob remained at the long table beneath the lights.
They ate soup from chipped bowls.
