A Cut Above (4 page)
“Why am I such a chicken?”
Peggy laughs—yet again. “You’re only a selective chicken. Haven’t heard you ‘cluck’ when it comes to taking trips to corners of the globe where I wouldn’t dream of setting foot.”
“Are you nuts? I’m scared stiff every time I have to leave.”
“No, you’re not. You may take a peek at the possible risks these trips might bring, but there’s no stopping you once the lure of the exotic, not to mention the potential sparkle of a gem or two, wafts by.”
“Yeah, but I don’t go around looking for risky business.”
“You don’t back away either. And that’s why I’m not going to let you get away with dodging the issue. It’s not fair to you or to Max.”
“What? Are you going to take the guy’s side now? I thought you were my friend.”
“I am your friend. That’s why I won’t let you do this. You’re thirty years old, Andie. You can’t dodge around adult feelings for your whole life. Face the facts, girl. You’re crazy gaga over this guy.”
Okay, fine. So I can’t deny it. It’s questions about the other side of the romance equation that have got me quaking in my shoes. Well, I don’t have shoes on right now, since I’m lying on my bed, in my new room, in my new house. “But what about him?”
Sure, I’m chicken. I can’t even put my fear into words, audible words that another human being will hear.
“What about Max?” she asks, her voice ripe with disbelief. “Are you blind, deaf, dumb, and stupid, woman? The guy’s so head-over-heels over you he can’t see straight. Even Josh has noticed. And trust me, my husband’s got many wonderful qualities, but emotional sensitivity ain’t one of ’em, you get my drift?”
The nervous little giggle slips out before I can stop it. Josh is the classic guy’s guy. He’s a no-nonsense straight shooter whose down-to-earth sense of humor captured my buddy’s heart. But subtle and perceptive in, as they say in those sappy-sweet chick flicks, matters of the heart? Not so much.
I try to think of something to say but give up, unable to scrape up a single thought I dare voice. See? Chicken.
Cluck-cluck-cluck.
“Think about it, Andie,” Peggy says, her voice serious. “Are you going to let fear and the memory of a wormy college jerk run your life? Are you willing to spend the rest of your days all alone because of that fear? And here I thought you came home because you’d had your fill of loneliness.”
With those thoughts rumbling through my mind, I head out to the grocery store after we agree to meet for lunch next Saturday. I pick up a couple of bags of bare essentials, return to my cozy little cottage, grill a piece of chicken, toss a salad, nuke a spud. Then, when I’m done with the few dishes I’ve used to feed myself, I head for my still-empty living room, gather my Bible, and collapse onto a massive floor pillow Aunt Weeby has stored since those heartbroken college days of mine.
Why won’t God just blare instructions out loud? It’d be so much easier to dump all these fears if he did.
Besides, I don’t do patience too well.
After a splendiferous couple of days of homeownership and unrestrained catalog ogling, I return to work. Miss Mona had insisted I take time off to “feather my nest.” She’ll be mightily disappointed in me when she learns I’m on a slow track to savor the flavor of the experience, if you catch my drift. In my position, she’d have had a whirling dervish of an interior designer whip the place into shape by now, his nasal voice pointing out a “darling” this and a “darling” that.
Not gonna happen. Not here, at any rate.
Max and I are scheduled to host a diamond special show this afternoon, and in preparation for it, we have to choose the merchandise we intend to show our faithful viewers. Since I haven’t seen him after that interrupted moment the day he helped me move in, I’m a bit uneasy.
Ah . . . no. I promised myself—and, more importantly, God—I wouldn’t wishy-washy myself again. I’m not a bit uneasy. I’m rapid cycling between teenybopper giddy (and I’ve never been so beset before in my entire thirty years of life, I’ll have you know) and sweaty-palmed, deer-in-the-headlights scared.
No way is anyone going to convince me this is good.
“Get a grip,” I mutter as I walk into my dressing room.
But it’s hard to get a grip when your heart won’t quit flippity-flopping every time you think the object of your flusteration—is that a word? It works for me, so it is now— might walk in at any moment. And that’s how I head off to hair and makeup. My cohost’s lanky self is usually plunked in the makeup chair next to mine. And he’s usually as punctual as I am.
But not today. I can’t squash my disappointment.
As Allison Howard, our makeup genius, dabs on the last bit of beautifying potion on my right eye, the phone on the counter rings. Framed by the big, round Hollywood-starlet lights around the mirror behind her, Allie answers. “Yes, Miss Mona?”
That
catches my attention. Miss Mona rarely calls any of us. She prefers to hustle on down and do one-on-ones. Allison listens, then waggles her eyebrows at me, a wicked grin on her lips. “She’s right here.”
“For me?”
She holds out the phone and jabs a makeup brush toward me. “Lucky you.”
I laugh—briefly—then check in with our boss. “Hey, Miss Mona. What kind of trouble do I have to get you and Aunt Weeby out of this early?”
“Nuh-uh-uh-uh!”
Her singsong voice intrigues me. What is the woman up to?
“Why don’t you come on up to my office, Andie, dear? I think you’re going to like what I have to say.”
“What’s up?”
“Nuh-uh. Come on over. I have coffee and a tray of goodies all set up for us. Aa-aand, I can even see some chocolate from where I’m sitting—”
“O-kay. You got me with the chocolate. I’ll be right there.”
I hang up but catch Allison’s arched eyebrow. “Chocolate?” she says. “That’s not the right shade for your lips, you know. If you go snacking with Miss Mona, I’ll have to do some heavy-duty touch-up before you go on.”
“Are you going to tell me you expect me to believe you’d turn down ooey-gooey chocolate for the sake of a smear of lipstick?”
Allison laughs. “No, but I’m not the one headed to a chair in front of a camera and the peepers of America’s zillion bling-bling–hungry women.”
From out in the hallway, I hear a familiar voice. I even recognize his footsteps. My heartbeat speeds up. I glance in the mirror, and smile at Allison’s results. Better than the last time he saw me, all dirt-streaked and tired from moving.
Oh, good grief! Am I pathetic or what? The footsteps approach, and my middle does that flippety-flop thing again. I wonder if any other woman in history has tuned her hearing to a guy’s footsteps? Okay, fine. I am a little weird. But Max does have that lean, panther-like walk, a perk I suspect he’s gained from his sports mania.
I slide off the revolving chair. “Thanks, Allie. Gotta go see what the boss is up to. Gotta move, gotta groove.”
As I step past Max, the appreciative smile he gives me slows me down. “Nice,” he says, his voice low and intimate.
Be still, my heart! My eyes open wide with pleasure. I purse my lips, almost as if for a whistle, but only let out a happy puff of pent-up breath. Then I smile.
“Thanks,” I say in the dopey voice of the shape-shifting alien who’s moved into my body. “See you in the merchandise room when Allie’s done her thing with you.”
“I’ll be there.”
Wild horses won’t keep
me
away
.
But first I have to see what our fearless leader is up to. And, oh, do I ever mean fearless! Nothing fazes the woman.
I sail into Miss Mona’s office, transported on that romance-scented cloud. “Good morning,” I chirp.
Then I have to fight down a groan. Max is a menace. I, Andrea Autumn Adams, am
not
the chirping kind. Never have been. Refuse, absolutely refuse, to be the chirping kind again.
Note to self: deep-six the Max-inspired chirping.
“Help yourself,” Miss Mona says, waving toward the cholesterol, sugar, and calorie-laden credenza next to the window at the back of the office.
But before I get there, I nearly trip over a stranger’s mirror-polished, black leather wing-tip shoes. “Oh! Sorry. I didn’t see you there.”
I cast a questioning glance over my shoulder, and Miss Mona smiles, satisfaction in her gaze. “Go ahead, help yourself, then come sit here with us.”
A few minutes later, armed with a steaming cup of primo Colombian and a to-die-for chocolate éclair, I head for the empty leather armchair across from Miss Mona’s massive mahogany desk. I’m practically salivating over my totally unneeded extra-inch-for-the-hips, but you know what? Manners do count.
“What can I do to help you?” I ask my boss.
To my surprise, it seems I’ve hit a home run. Miss Mona beams.
“See?” she says to the dark-haired, older gentleman—of Miss Mona’s vintage—in exquisite custom tailoring. During my years in the Big Apple, I learned to spot fine Italian workmanship, and this guy’s slate gray wool suit is an outstanding sample of European haberdashery. Wonder who he is?
But instead of letting me in on the secret, Miss Mona keeps talking to him. “Our Andie has wonderful instincts. And that’s what I’ll be counting on, you hear?”
Although I’m dying to find out what’s up, I decide it’s time to taste my éclair. As I bite into bliss, I glom my eyes onto Miss Mona.
She stands. “I think you’ll be happier’n a hog in a mud wallow, Andie, dear. This is Rodolfo Cruz. My vendor in town from Colombia.”
I gulp down my mouthful of calories, then wash them down with a glug of scalding coffee. “Emeralds?” I manage to croak out.
“Emeralds.”
“Green gold,” Mr. Cruz says in richly spiced English.
“Green fire,” I add.
“We’re negotiating a new buy,” Miss Mona says.
Mr. Cruz tips his head in a courtly manner. “I’m offering the lady the most beautiful stones at the most attractive price.”
Forget the éclair. “Can I see them?”
Miss Mona’s smile widens. “That’s what you’re here for, Andie. I need you to make the right choices for the network. Take it away, dear.”
My eyes nearly fall out of their sockets. “Me? You want me to . . . to . . .”
I let my words dry up as Mr. Cruz starts to open up a leather pouch lined with what can only be real silk velvet. He sets it down on Miss Mona’s desk and continues opening the folds. In the end, I gasp when he finishes revealing the treasures hidden within.
“Oh my . . .”
I set the loupe down on Miss Mona’s desk, then meet Mr. Cruz’s gaze. “They’re lovely, all right. And you assure me they’re untreated? Will you put it in writing?”
His jaw tightens visibly. “Yes, Miss Andie. Aside from the usual oiling to protect the gems from the emerald’s natural dryness, they’re untreated. It’s my reputation I try to protect. Of course, if I say untreated, they’re untreated. I’ll put it in writing.”
I give him a gracious nod. “So let’s get to the bottom line. How much?”
“I use the AGL—American Gemological Laboratory— colored stone grading reports for pricing.”
“I’m very familiar with the AGL.”
He pulls out a small, black leather-bound notebook, riffles through it, and then studies the numbers on his chosen page. “For Miss Mona, I sell them at $11,000 per carat.”
I nearly swallow my tongue. When I find it again, I explode. “You’ve got to be kidding!”
Miss Mona sputters. “Andie.”
Mr. Cruz’s cheeks redden under the tan. “I do not kid. Not about my emeralds. These are top, top gem quality.”
I use my flattened palms against the desktop to push my chair away, and stand. “I’ll grant you they’re better than middle-of-the-road, but I wouldn’t put them at the LI1— lightly included top level, where you could ask $11,000 for them, wholesale. True, they have the
jardin
type of accepted inclusions, not black carbon bits, but I can show you, and I’m sure you can see, that each stone has more than one or two slight inclusions.”
He narrows his eyes. “Ah, but the color, Miss Andie. They’re colored stones, and color is everything. These stones are at least 4 or 4.5 in color grade.”
I glance at the beautiful green gems. They are outstanding, but Mr. Cruz is shooting for the moon, what with that kind of price. And these are stars, not moons. “They do have good color, but it’s more blue than even a 4.5 deserves. You know as well as I do that a 4.5 or better, a 4 or a 3, has to be almost purely primary grass green.”
He responds with an elegant shrug and a tight smile. “Primary grass green is—how do you Americans say? Oh yes. In the eye of the beholder. These are primary grass green to me.”
“All right. It is subjective. But I would put the tone at no more than 50,” I counter, absolutely certain of my assessment. “That’s good, but not excellent. And we’re not talking amethyst, citrine, or peridot here. I’d need at least a 65, above the mid-range, you understand, for that kind of price. $11,000 for these is retail, and high retail, at that. We can’t sell for above-retail prices. You know that.”
The vendor clamps his lips. He stands, meets my gaze square on. “I know the cut is outstanding, and the brilliance is better than 50 percent. You must agree.”