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The ruby birthstone ring Scarlett buried her husband with was not after all lost to the perfidy of the funeral directors. During his short, reckless life she believed the precious gem protected him from harm. The violent motorcycle crash in the summer of 1971 tore all hope of redemption of the man and marriage from her.
A gift that burned in the blackness of his soul, the ring sparkled now from his ghost’s right middle finger but she noticed it was not always present. It had never been more than an ornament in life, a love token unappreciated but worn from duty and perhaps a sense of pride and a flicker of love. She had given him the ring on his birthday two years before their wedding, two months after they first met in a fever, hotter than a chili pepper.
Scarlett leafed through the
