But his finger never healed properly.
The knuckle remained enlarged and slightly crooked.
Whenever he tried wearing the ring, it pinched painfully.
Eventually, he placed it inside a small wooden box his grandfather had made.
The box had a pine tree carved into its lid.
He kept it in his dresser.
And there it had remained for twelve years.
At least, that’s what I believed.
Now my husband had returned from a fishing trip with a perfect ring-shaped tan line.
And he wanted me to believe a fishing rod had caused it.
Every August, Mark traveled to Loon Lake with three longtime friends.
Dave had worked construction with him since they were young.
Ray, Dave’s brother-in-law, was loud, talkative, and incapable of keeping a funny story to himself.
Tommy was quieter.
He’d been Mark’s best man at our wedding.
For nine years, their annual trip followed almost exactly the same routine.
