Indeed, the color was astonishing—not a sky blue but a dark, steely one. A true blue-violet stunner.
“Mr. Asher, please tell these charming ladies a bit about the gemography of the stone.”
“A diamond starts out life as a piece of coal and transforms over millennia into a gem-quality stone. Its ultimate value depends on its size, quality, clarity, and color.”
The Hope, partly because of its piercing color, did resemble an eye, and I imagined it in the Hindu idol. What mystery must have surrounded the stone when Tavernier first saw it in that holy place? I looked deep into its surface and in its facets imagined I could see the ages.
“What is so unusual about this diamond, if I may, is not only its size but its color,” Mr. Asher said. “It has the depth and hue of a sapphire but also possesses the brilliance and perfection only seen in diamonds.”
Letty reached out her hand toward the necklace.
“No, please, Madame Briggs.” Cartier held out his hand to prevent my sister from touching the stone. “Please do not touch it. I wouldn’t want to be responsible for anything untoward happening to you.”
I looked at Letty and raised my eyebrows. The theatrics of Mr. Cartier’s warning were a bit over the top. But I could tell my sister was already invested in the idea that ill will followed the gem’s owners and those who came in close contact with it.
Like my father, I didn’t believe in the idea of bad luck any more than I believed in the power of prayer or a God on high looking down on all of us and making decisions about who would live or die, get sick or be well.
While the two of us shared our lack of faith, we mostly kept our conversations to ourselves, since Mother and Letty and my grandparents were all devout Presbyterians. Father agreed to attend church with my mother only when it was an occasion and even then refused to pray, much to my mother’s consternation.
“Would you like to try it on?” Mr. Cartier asked Letty.
“I’m not sure. What about the bad luck?”
“That’s what the bib is for.” He turned to Mr. Asher, who pulled a flat metal necklace from his smock pocket. It was the same shape as the Hope but extended the stone’s dimensions by at least a quarter of an inch on every side.
“This is a precaution,” Mr. Cartier said as he gestured to the undernecklace. “It is made of platinum and acts as a shield between the Hope and your body without ruining the effect of being able to see yourself wearing the gem. I don’t really believe it is at all necessary, but if there is such a thing as a curse attached to the Hope, it will protect you from having any physical contact with the diamond.”
I wanted to laugh, but Mr. Cartier was taking this all quite seriously, as was my sister. Mr. Asher was fastening the bib around her neck, which prevented me from seeing his face or gauging his reaction. So I held my tongue as the jeweler closed the protective necklace’s clasp and then turned back to the table.
Mr. Asher lifted the Hope Diamond out of its box and unhooked its catch. As he did, the necklace swung in the air. For one brief moment, I saw the blue diamond make contact with the strip of Mr. Asher’s skin between the glove and his sleeve. He hadn’t seemed to notice. But I had.
I looked over at Mr. Cartier. He’d noticed, too, and was frowning. Maybe he believed in the curse more than he’d let on. Or perhaps he was just pretending.
With care, Mr. Asher affixed the Hope Diamond necklace around my sister’s neck and then positioned the mirror so she could see herself.
Letty was mesmerized by her image. She tilted her head this way and that as Mr. Cartier murmured words of admiration.
“The color,” Mr. Cartier exclaimed with delight, “works so well with the color of your eyes. I wish the stone didn’t have such a history of ill luck, or I would suggest to Monsieur Briggs that this would be a most perfect gift for you.”
I stole a glance at Mr. Asher, who was studying the empty jewel box. Suddenly, he looked up. Like the diamond whose depths I could not read but found mysterious, his eyes were full of secrets, too. And as my sister knew, secrets were my downfall. I was pulled to them, fascinated by them. I often thought that yearning to know people’s secrets was what drew me to being a reporter, not the other way around. What people kept protected and hidden inside them, what they were ashamed of, or what they felt was too sacred to share, gave you insight that nothing else did. I’d always felt it was only worth getting to know people if they had secrets, because only in the sharing could you discover someone’s soul.
“There’s been quite a lot of interest in the stone since we purchased it,” Mr. Cartier was saying. “But it’s not going to be easy to sell. How many women are there who would dare wear something so fraught with danger?”
“Vera?” Letty asked.
“Yes, dear?”
“What do you think? Would you be afraid of the bad luck? Would I be crazy to even think of buying this?”
“I don’t believe in bad luck,” I said, glancing over at Mr. Asher again, but he was looking past me. I focused on my sister again. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t recognize danger when I see it.”
CHAPTER 3
Back at the penthouse, alone again, I opened a bottle of my father’s best burgundy. I filled a crystal glass and took it into the greenhouse. I settled into my favorite rattan armchair, took a sip of wine, and looked up at the skylight. The colors were slowly shifting from sunset ambers to evening roses and violets. The color made me think about the Hope, but neither the diamond nor its bad luck held my attention anymore. The morning would bring my brother-in-law to help me begin the process of packing up my father’s clothes and personal items.
That left the apartment intact for just one more night.
If I was good at pretending, I could have decided my father was simply away on a buying trip. But he wasn’t. He was well and truly gone.
Over the last few months, my mother’s most constant criticism of me was that by putting off the inevitable purging of his personal items, I was prolonging my mourning to a point that was unhealthy.
“Why,” she had asked at our last family dinner, “aren’t you more receptive when it comes to my suggestions? I have never wanted anything but the best for you. By waiting so many months to clean out that apartment, you are just delaying the inevitable acceptance of your father’s passing. It’s morbid, Vera. You are settling into becoming an old maid. Is this how you want to live your life?”
She was partly right, though I was never going to admit it. So in response I offered, “When will you stop despairing for my marital state and accept me for who I am?”
When I was younger, it used to take me a long time to give up hope. But I’d since accepted that my mother would never change her mind about me. To her and my sister, I was a traitor to my heritage and breeding. I was not fulfilling the role of a Garland Girl. Not following in the footsteps I’d been expected to follow in since birth.
But damn my heritage and breeding. I was an idealist—or at least, I had been until recently—and I wanted to change the world. I enjoyed my freedom, cared about my career, and vowed not to ever be subservient to any man.
My father had never argued with me about my life choices. Instead, he had given me all the support and extra love he could to make up for what my mother withheld.