I guess after three years of friendship, she decided she didn’t like mine anymore because the fruitcake ghosted me without reason or warning.
“You must love it then,” she says. “I think I would too, being surrounded by beautiful things, meeting new people all day.”
I crack a semblance of a smile. She isn’t wrong. I love my job. My bosses, while typically sour-faced or shit-faced, depending on the time of day, are decent to me, and it beats the hell out of sitting behind gray cubicle walls forty hours a week. Or following in my mother’s professional footsteps and managing the housekeeping department at Le Bleu Meridien Hotel for decades on end.
Not only that, but I’ve always had an affinity for the genuine.
In a self-absorbed society with a narcissism epidemic, everyone values image perception over reality. No one cares about being real anymore.
But all of the items in this shop? They’re as real as it gets.
None of them are trying to be anything they’re not.
They don’t care about what came before them or what came after.
They don’t care that they were replaced by newer, better things.
They’re original.
True.
Authentic.
“Yes, it’s a wonderful place to work. So what are we thinking with the ring?” I change the subject. “It really does suit you. And I’ve never heard that about opals being bad luck … it must be an old wives’ tale.”
She laughs under her breath. “I’m sure. It’s crazy how these stories come to be, isn’t it? Are there a bunch of bored housewives sitting around a coffee table making up ridiculous rules about jewelry to entertain themselves? Surely they have better things to do with their time …”
Probably not.
This town is full of old wives (though you’d never guess any of their ages), most of them bored, bronzed, gossipy little drama magnets trying to one-up one another. It’s its own culture and, honestly, I find it fascinating.
I take the opportunity to get a closer look at her. Glassy forehead. Not a single crinkle around her eyes or between her brows. She could be thirty or she could be a fifty-year-old science experiment—Lord knows, Palm Shores has some of the best plastic surgeons in the country, if not the world.
“All right,” she exhales, clasping her elegant hands over her heart. “I’m sold. It’s too beautiful to pass up.”
“Wonderful. I can take that for you.” I place my hand out, palm facing up. She slips it off her ring finger and places it carefully in my hand, like it’s the most precious thing she’s ever touched. I retrieve a wooden box made of unstained, matte white oak and a white satin ribbon. “I’ll wrap this and meet you at the register—unless you’d like to keep shopping?”
I steal another glimpse of the sky, which is now a deeper shade of blue, blanketed in malignant clouds. I’m guessing she has five minutes tops before that rain destroys her pristine blow-out.
The woman checks the glinting diamond-and-white-gold timepiece on her wrist, releasing a quiet hum. I take another gander at her ring, the stone having fallen to one side with its weight. I’m guessing it’s five, six carats tops—excessive, yet more tasteful than the postage-stamp-sized hunks of carbon many of our shoppers wield.
“I’m supposed to meet my husband for lunch at that new place on Sapphire Shore Drive in a few …” she says. “Though I could spend all day in here."
“No worries. We’re here seven days a week.” I carry the box to the register closest to the front door. She follows on the opposite side of the counter, heels clicking against the marble floor with each step. “You’ll just have to come back and pick up where you left off another time.”
“Absolutely.” Her tone wholeheartedly convinces me.
“Five hundred sixty-four dollars and eleven cents,” I say a short minute later.
I swipe her card, setting it down while it processes. Then I help my curious self to a one-second peek at the name on the bottom.
Odessa DuVernay.
Palm Shores is a magnet for celebrities, billionaires, and Golden Age-old money types—but I don’t recognize the name. It’s possible she’s a transplant. We get a lot of New Yorkers down this way, though I didn’t catch an accent. She could be anyone from anywhere.
The card reader beeps before expelling a paper receipt, which I slide across the glass countertop along with a blue-inked fountain pen etched with the Smith + Rose logo. Despite the fact that they’re imported from Switzerland and twenty dollars a pop and are always being “accidentally stolen,” my employers refuse to consider more economical alternatives, considering them tax write-offs well spent.
It’s all about the complete Smith + Rose experience. Every detail, from the fig and cassis scent being diffused from strategic sections of the space to the helpful-but-not-too-personal staff on the sales floor to the smooth flick of the fountain pens as they sign their receipts has all been carefully orchestrated by long-time best friends, high-end retail aficionados, and sun-bronzed Betties: Elinor Smith and Margaret Rose.
The sky releases a groan and little specks of rain pelt the sidewalk. Odessa doesn’t notice or, if she does notice, she doesn’t care … it seems she’s too focused on me.
“Thank you so much, really. You’ve been so kind and helpful.” Her voice is airy and laced in profound appreciation—which almost distracts me from calculating my fifty-dollar commission from the sale of this ring.
“You’re so welcome.” I smile so big my cheeks hurt.
“I don’t believe I caught your name?” She lifts one brow.
The owners have never required nametags, claiming they’re just another formality that downgrades the high-end shopping experience. We’re supposed to assist the customers, not get personal with them. According to Margaret and Elinor, most of these people don’t want to be bothered with friendly banter and exchanging names is a gateway to that.
“Cate.” I come around from behind the register to hand-deliver her purchase. “Receipt’s in the bag. I do hope you’ll come again soon.”
Odessa DuVernay glances over her shoulder on her way out the door, her voluminous blonde hair bouncing with each click of her aqua-bottomed heels. “I absolutely will. Take care, Cate.”
Just like that, the sky opens and the kindest Palm Shores trophy wife I’ve ever met disappears into a tropical thunderstorm sans designer umbrella.
I lock the front door, flip the “Be Right Back” sign, and head out back for my two-minute smoke break and a quick sip from my can of Royal Crown cola in the breakroom. For a moment, I consider the patrons stuck in the downpour and a twinge of guilt slices through my middle, but it’s quickly replaced by the restless nicotine craving screaming through my blood.
In my PVC jacket a minute later, fingers gloved, I stand beneath an overhang, back against the brick. I light a menthol Newport, and while the rain pools in the pitted blacktop pockets of the parking lot, I take my first drag.
I was a crisp eighteen when I started smoking, and for the dumbest reason. Some kids buy a pack of cigs on their eighteenth birthday because they can. Me? The nostalgia practically called to me by name. The packaging was almost straight out of the eighties—which was the last time I saw my father. And the brand name—Newport—had this East Coast, old money feel to it: also reminiscent of my father, seeing how he and his “real” family hailed from Newport, Rhode Island and the Cabots were Golden Age legends alongside the Astors and Morgans and Rockefellers.