“Why would you part with this?” he asked incredulously. He seemed a little offended that I wanted to sell it. Perfectly clear, round stones were not only expensive, they were hard to find. Even if I had the money, I would probably never be able to replace it.
“Can you sell it?” I asked, ignoring his question. Of course I still wanted it. But I had two daughters, and they needed to eat.
“Without question,” he replied. I knew his answer should have made me happy, but instead I felt the sudden urge to cry. I hoped there was no such thing as ghosts, because if there were, Grandma’s was surely going to be pissed.
“How long?” I asked, then took a slow, deep breath to hold back my tears.
“I have a couple of clients who I think might be interested,” he said. “Give me a week.”
And then I choked out the question I was terrified to ask. “How much?” I had a number in my head. If he couldn’t hit it, I would have to go elsewhere. I had identified two other jewelers who peddled high-end stones, and their addresses were already programmed into my nav.
He scooted sideways on his stool and typed a quick search into his computer, then swiveled the screen so I could see. I almost gasped. It was worth more than I thought. A year’s worth of mortgage payments, with enough left over to keep my kids in dance lessons, pay down our credit cards, and finally get my hair done.
“Yes, that would work,” I said simply. Andy’s meeting with mega mogul Jack Kimball, our supposed savior, was on the books for the first week in September. But we still had to make it through the summer. And I had no more clothes left to sell.
I said a silent apology to Grandma as I signed the consignment contract. If she didn’t want me to sell it, maybe she could gather some of her supernatural friends and make something happen for my husband.
I slid the contract back across the counter, then retracted my shaking hands.
That diamond had been my safety net.
And now I had none.
CHAPTER 17
I wanted to hate her.
But when I was sitting across from her in her Martha Stewart–perfect kitchen, eating scones fresh from her gleaming Bosch oven, and drinking espresso pressed from her top-line Breville, it suddenly became impossible. Because I realized, if my husband were working, I would buy those things, too. Perhaps we have more in common than I’d thought?
“I’m really jealous of your house,” I blurted, because keeping it in was harder than just saying it. “It’s absolutely perfect.” I meant it as a compliment, but when I said it, she looked kind of stressed out.
“It’s too much,” she said. “What do I need with a table for twelve?” she added, indicating the textured, hand-carved, reclaimed barnwood table with matching high-back chairs. Her disdain for her Proven?al-perfect dining set confused me. I would have died for a dining room like hers. Maybe she isn’t much like me after all?
“I’m guessing you moved from a smaller place?” I probed. The Connecticut brick Colonial I grew up in had a table that could seat sixteen. We rarely used it, but my sisters and I still had to dust the chandelier and polish the silver at least twice a year.
She quickly pivoted. “Sorry. I’m just not used to it,” she said, avoiding the question. “Savannah loves it here, I did it for her. So she could go to a good school.” Aha! She had not only moved from a smaller place, but also a lesser neighborhood. I suddenly felt like my husband, collecting facts to find the story. My theory of the rich boyfriend scooping her out of poverty was gaining traction. How else could she possibly have gone from rags to riches in a few short months?
“We moved here for the schools, too,” I said to show some solidarity. “Where was she before?” I asked, being careful to make it about Savannah so she didn’t feel like I was prying into her past.
“Her dad worked at the courthouse in Van Nuys, so we lived near there,” she said. I tried to imagine what a residence in Van Nuys might look like. All I knew was that they had a lot of car dealerships there. I had gone to one when we were shopping for my Lexus. “She was at the local high school,” Holly added. “It was not ideal.”
Her face flickered with sadness, and for a moment I thought she might cry. I suddenly felt terrible. My new neighbor invited me over for homemade scones, and I was grilling her like a two-bit detective. What kind of heartless bitch have I become? I was only picking her life apart because I was unhappy with mine. So she got a new boyfriend who swept her out of poverty to live in a pretty house. Lucky her!