Charles pulls himself to a standing position, his gaze never abandoning mine, not for one second. “Well, that’s a shame, isn’t it?”
Our eyes hold for a moment, and I stifle the knowing smile that threatens to curl my lips. He and I both know that the DuVernay household is a serene place when the missus is sleeping—or better yet: off on one of her solo vacations. There are more smiles when she’s away. More laughter. Less tension. More living. Less silent suffering.
We’re both prisoners of circumstance.
Prisoners with very different privileges.
Prisoners of Mrs. DuVernay.
“Goodnight, Zsofia,” he says before striding to the door. “Get some rest.”
I wait alone in his study for a beat, and then I shut off his lamp and close the door on my way out. He’s gone by the time I reach the hall, leaving nothing but the faintest trail of his posh Italian cologne.
Tiptoeing through the darkened DuVernay residence, I make my way to the apartment above the garage—the only home I’ve ever known.
Home sweet prison cell.
3
Cate
“What kind of sham operation are you running here?” The forty-something blonde standing before me late Tuesday morning slams her broken locket on the glass counter. I try not to wince at the thought of it shattering beneath her palm. “One time. I wore this one time. And now look at it.”
Her voice is laced in anger with a side of stifled tears as she attempts—and fails—to keep her cool.
I examine the timeworn gold piece—an 1847 Longcheau piece my colleague, Amada, sold two weeks back. It wasn’t cheap. Over three grand if I remember correctly—grossly overpriced in my humble opinion.
The necklace was already in delicate condition, which meant Amada should’ve gone over the purchase agreement in detail with this woman, the one that explicitly stated it was non-refundable and that insurance was highly recommended.
Some of the items in our shop are meant to be worn and enjoyed—others, like this, are meant to be stored, kept, showcased as if they were in a museum display. They’re purchased for their value more than their function, purchased so they can be passed down from generation to generation—not unlike old men who pass down coin collections to grandchildren.
Her ageless eyes flash and the nostrils of her too-perfect nose flare with each deep inhalation. “This is unacceptable. I demand a full refund or I will involve my attorney.”
“May I have your name?”
She chuffs, as if answering my question is an inconvenience. “Annette Townsend.”
The Townsend Law Firm commercials come to my mind, the ones advertised on all the billboards on my drive to work, always touting how they can make millionaires of those suffering personal injuries.
I doubt she’s bluffing, but a contract is a contract.
“One moment, please.” I head to the file cabinet in the back to locate a carbon copy of the original purchase agreement.
She can stomp her designer heels and pout her glossy lips all she wants, but she’s not getting a full refund. Of course, if this were my business, I wouldn’t run things this way. I don’t think it’s right to sell jewelry that’s practically falling apart under any circumstances, but that isn’t my call to make. If I were to give this woman a full refund and restock a broken, unsellable locket, it’d be my neck on the line.
I need this job more than this well-coiffed woman needs that three grand, I’m certain.
I return, placing the rectangular sheet of paper on the glass counter and turning it to face her. “Okay. I found the contract you signed. Unfortunately, you did initial off three times regarding the non-refundable nature of the piece.”
She scoffs. “Well this is just ridiculous. I’m going to report you to the local business association. Actually … who’s your manager? I’d like to speak to someone in charge. You’re incredibly unhelpful.”
“Ma’am, this isn’t my decision. I’m simply not allowed to process returns on non-refundable items,” I use the clear, concise, and patient tone I’ve honed to perfection over the years. My tongue hums for a Newport even though my last was thirty minutes ago. “The shop owners come in tomorrow, if you’d like to speak to one of them in person.”
“I’m leaving for St. Thomas tomorrow.” She looks me up and down as if I should’ve known. She prods an almond-shaped, taupe-colored nail against the countertop. “I need to speak to someone today. Call them. Get them in here immediately.”
The bells on the front door jangle, and I glance over the angry woman’s shoulders as a handful of new customers shuffle in—a group of teenage girls with cropped tops, reedy legs in cut-off shorts, and tiny designer bags slung over their tanned shoulders. They bump into one another as they make their way around, turning their noses up as they examine the displays, trying on sunglasses and hats and snapping pictures with their phones, tongues wagging out as they mock our beautiful things.
The woman before me is momentarily distracted by a text message on her phone, her nails clacking against her screen as she forms a series of responses.
The girls grow bored soon enough and waste no time shuffling out, squeezing past another shopper making her way inside. Peeling a pair of cat-eye sunglasses from the bridge of her straight nose, the newest patron greets me with a warm smile and a flittering, five-fingered wave—the kind of thing you’d do with an old friend or acquaintance.
It’s the woman from yesterday—Odessa DuVernay.
“Hello,” the bitter woman before me snaps her fingers in my face, and I’m instantly taken aback—physically and otherwise.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Yes.”
Annette Townsend slams her hand on the glass counter. “Are you going to call your manager or not?”
“Excuse me, ma’am, you can’t speak to her like that.” Odessa charges toward the counter, her manicured brows pointed inward.
“It’s … fine.” My attention navigates between the two women who are now facing each other, shoulders squared.
Nine years working at Smith + Rose and I’ve never seen anything like this.
“No.” Odessa speaks to me, but looks at her challenger. “It isn’t fine. It’s never okay to snap your fingers in someone’s face. Do you treat everyone like this? Like they’re beneath you? Like they’re a dog?”
The Townsend woman’s mouth forms a hindered snarl. I imagine if her forehead weren’t so filled with muscle paralyzing toxins she’d be scowling right now. “I don’t know who you think you are, but this is none of your concern.”
I’m half riveted, half embarrassed for the two of them, but intervening at this point might be akin to trying to break up a fight between street dogs, and I’m not willing to lose a proverbial finger in this.
“Ms. Townsend, I’d be happy to reach out to our owners, but I’m afraid they’re traveling today. They’ll be back tomorrow, and I can pass along your information then. They can reach out the moment you’re back from St. Thomas,” I say with the practiced pleased-to-serve-you cadence of a highly-paid concierge—not that I speak from experience.