Mr. Starling is an interesting man. I think he likes me well enough, but it’s hard to tell. He’s quiet. Skye says he got even quieter after her mother died in 2001, and he retired shortly after. I guess you can afford to stop working when your wife leaves you millions of dollars. Now he’s remarried; I’ve only met the new wife a couple of times, but Skye isn’t her biggest fan. I guess no one can ever replace your mom.

A few days ago, I sent Mr. Starling an email asking if we could set up time to meet for a drink. I know that, in families like theirs, it’s protocol to ask the girl’s father for his daughter’s hand in marriage. Of course, I never asked Heather’s father’s permission to marry her, but that was a very different situation since at the time Ernie Price was off on yet another bender, his exact whereabouts unknown.

Mr. Starling asked me to meet him at the New York Yacht Club, a few blocks from Grand Central. The place was sprawling and filled with stiff preppies, so I had to squint my eyes to find him in the mix. I spotted him at the bar. He wore a navy cashmere sweater and was hunched over a glass of Scotch, reading something on his phone. Disheveled but good-looking, he is a cross between a rigid New England WASP and a Black Sabbath groupie. He ran a hand through his tousled graying hair and looked up when he saw me.

“Have a seat, Burke.” His voice was thin but gentle. “I ordered you a club soda. What can I do for you?”

This guy is not one for small talk, Dr. K, so I cut to the chase. I told him I was in love with Skye and wished to ask his permission for her hand in marriage. I said that even though it hadn’t been long, I had no doubt that she was the girl of my dreams. I played the age card. I reminded him that I was forty-six—God, I feel like a creep sometimes, being forty-six in this scenario—and that I’d spent enough time on this planet to know what I wanted when I found it.

Mr. Starling peered at me through hooded eyes the color of rain, his jawline strong and square. For a moment, Dr. K, I swear I thought he was onto me. He’s the kind of man who seems like he can sniff out a lie from a mile away, like a hound tracing blood. I was suddenly nervous.

“I think you’re a good man, Burke,” he said after a few moments. “Skye is an extraordinary young woman. Complex, but extraordinary. I’m glad you see that.” He smiled absently.

I nodded. “I do.”

“If Skye decides she wants to marry you, I trust her judgment. You have my blessing, if that’s what you came here for.”

And that was pretty much it, Dr. K. He drained the rest of his Scotch while I attempted casual conversation, but I could tell he didn’t want to linger or stick around for another. When I took out my one working credit card and offered to pay the bill, he looked at me like I’d spoken in a foreign tongue.

“They don’t accept credit cards here, Burke. This is a private club. Our drinks will go on my tab.”

It struck me, then, the irony that when you get rich enough, you don’t even have to use money.

I left the New York Yacht Club somewhat disappointed. I’d hoped Mr. Starling might say something about a family ring—namely Skye’s mother’s ring, which I could only imagine he’d want his only daughter to have—but it hadn’t been mentioned. And given his detached demeanor, I wasn’t about to ask.

The truth is, Dr. K—as I’m sure you can believe—I can’t afford an engagement ring. Therein lies hurdle number two.

But I have a new plan. It involves the ring I got for Heather, years ago.

The engagement ring I gave Heather is simple but beautiful, and I’ve always been proud of it. I didn’t buy it until after we were married; we didn’t have any money until I started at Credit Suisse, my first job out of college. I knew a ring was important to Heather, so I started putting aside a small portion of each paycheck. When I finally had what I thought was enough, I ventured to the Diamond District in midtown one day during my lunch break.

My grandmother had taught me my bargaining skills. Never seem too interested, Grams said. Always act like you know what you’re talking about, even if you don’t.

That afternoon I bought a vintage three-stone ring: a round-cut diamond in the middle framed by two sapphires on a platinum band. It cost me five thousand dollars, which felt like a good deal. The ring isn’t anything too fancy—all three stones are just under two carats combined—but it’s beautiful and unique, and I knew Heather would love it.

And she did. She cried when I surprised her with it that night, and she hasn’t taken it off since. Even when she’s so angry with me I swear she could rip my head off, she still wears that ring.

Anyway, back to my plan. It began to take shape in my head earlier this evening as I strolled back to the West Village from the New York Yacht Club in midtown. I needed the long walk to have a good hard think.

The key word here, Dr. K, is moissanite. In case you’re not aware, moissanite is a rare mineral made of silicon carbide, and it’s the best fake diamond in the business. The naked eye can’t tell moissanite from a real diamond. Same deal with synthetic sapphires. But there are ways to note the difference, and something tells me that Skye and her crowd would be the first to figure it out.

Heather, on the other hand—bless her heart—probably doesn’t even know moissanite exists. It would never even occur to her to suspect that I’d gone through the trouble of swapping her ring with a less valuable replica. A quick internet search reveals that plenty of custom-synthetic-jewelry designers are out there. All I have to do is send them a photograph of Heather’s ring.

When I got home a couple of hours ago, Skye was already passed out, the clothes she’d worn to her work dinner sprawled messily beside the bed. Makeup coated her eyes, which told me she hadn’t had the energy to wash her face. Skye had been tired lately, plus she tends to drink too much at these bimonthly dinners with the author whose book she’s editing. She drinks too much in general, in my opinion. But in cases like tonight’s, it works to my advantage, because the girl was out cold. So I opened up my laptop and decided to get right down to business. I can’t exactly be wasting time, Dr. K. There’s simply too much at stake.

I grabbed my phone and crafted a text to Maggie. I reminded my youngest daughter that I’d be coming home from Dubai in two weeks for a visit and asked if she could do me a favor regarding a surprise I was planning for Mom. I asked Maggie to stealthily take a good clear picture of Mom’s engagement ring and send it to me. I told her it had to do with a belated Valentine’s Day present I was bringing home.

Next, I researched custom jewelers. It’s amazing, Dr. K; you can get anything on the World Wide Web. I’m pushing fifty and the internet continues to amaze me. From the looks of it, I’ll be able to buy a moissanite and synthetic-sapphire ring identical to the one I gave Heather for just six hundred dollars. When I’m back in New Haven, I’ll find a way to swap Heather’s ring for the replica. Then I’ll take the real ring back to the city and propose to Skye.

Now, I don’t expect anyone to be blown away by the ring I give Skye. It’s a modest piece of jewelry where the Starlings come from, I’m sure, but it’s not my fault Mr. Starling didn’t offer up his dead wife’s rock. Besides, Skye isn’t half as materialistic as you might imagine—I’ve even heard her say that true WASP style is understated and classic. The real significance of the ring is what it means. Skye is going to be over the moon when I propose. And that’s all I need for this plan to work.

Sometimes I can’t believe this is my life, Dr. K. All this scheming makes me bone weary, and I miss Heather something fierce. But you of all people know that love and risk go hand in hand, that marriage will push you to take leaps and bounds you never could’ve fathomed. You said so yourself in that interview on The Huffington Post. You emailed Heather and me the link to the article after our first session. I still have it bookmarked.

Chapter Eighteen

Heather

MAY 1990

Libby and Peter were going to a wedding in Bermuda over Memorial Day weekend. Originally, I was going to stay home and look after the kids, but the week before Libby had a change of heart and asked Gus and me to come along.

“It’ll be fun,” she said. “It’s been such a mucky, rainy spring. We could all use a long weekend away from Langs Valley.”

I didn’t bother reminding her that I hadn’t had so much as a night away from Langs Valley in years, not since my mom was still alive and we drove down to Philadelphia for her father’s funeral. I also didn’t tell Libby that I’d never been on an airplane, but I think she assumed as much when she showed Gus and me how to properly buckle our seat belts. Nate passed out almost instantly; I had the feeling this was far from his first time flying. But Gus’s round eyes were a mix of fascination and fear throughout the whole flight, and I squeezed his chubby little hand.

“You’re going to love Bermuda, Gussie,” Libby said from across the aisle. “Some of the beaches have pink sand! And there are tons of fish to see in the water.”

“Fishies!” Gus squealed. His eyes bloomed, the same green color as my own.

“Gus can’t swim,” I whispered to Libby.