The Jeweler’s Most Precious Gem

The Jeweler’s Most Precious Gem

Mere weeks before my fiancé and I were to be married, we went to an art gallery in town. There, tucked in its corner, we found a jewelry store run by a husband and wife. They were young, though he was a bit older than she, and only two years married. Positively beaming with pride and affection, the wife Michelle showed me the pendant dangling from a heavy gold chain linked around her neck. Holding the necklace out like a talisman, she told me the story behind its creation: how, for a wedding gift, her husband David had melted down her family’s ancient treasure trove of coins, carefully bent everything into a single heart, and soldered pin-head rubies around the outer edges.

“Isn’t it just beautiful?” she’d breathed, running her fingers over the ruby and gold as if stroking her husband’s face. Jerking on the chain, she added, “And if somebody ever tries ripping it off my neck, David even put a special catch so the clasp will spring open and not choke me.”

While David cleaned my engagement ring (he said he couldn’t stand a diamond not to shine), the wife passed the time by flipping through a photo album from their wedding day. She pointed out the dress she wore: the layers of Chantilly lace, the herringbone corset, which cinched her tiny waist down to the size of a wasp’s. She then told me the story of how this gown, her grandmother’s very own wedding gown, was rescued from the ravages of Hurricane Katrina.

Her husband returned with my engagement ring dangling from his pinkie finger, and he and Michelle shared an exclusive smile before recounting their love story. Afterwards, they ladled out advice about love and working with your spouse–something my fiancé and I were about to do.

“I just close the door whenever he gets on my nerves,” she quipped, warm brown eyes and dimples flashing.

David, laughing, placed his hand in the dip of her back and tilted his head toward hers. Their love was overwhelming, all-encompassing. Before we left, the jeweler inspected my engagement ring one more time before passing it back to me. The wife smiled and held out her left hand: her ring finger was aglitter with a large, square diamond in an antique setting. Reaching out to squeeze David’s arm, she said, “Two years’ married and he still cleans mine every day.”

Six months later my husband and I were walking to the restaurant beside the art gallery when David, the jeweler, passed us. In his hands he held a to-go cup of coffee so hard the cardboard was buckling. His black wool coat was pulled tightly around him, the lapels folded up around his ears as if he were trying to block out the winter chill or the sounds of life altogether. I knew he wouldn’t recognize us, for it had been their lives that had impacted ours, not the other way around. So, at my husband’s insistence, we silently slipped past him without saying a word.

One year after that my husband and I were on our way back to that same restaurant for date night when a woman crossed the street in front of our car. In the headlights her black hair — cut into a spiky, geometric pattern — looked like chips of volcanic rock had been glued to her head. She wore a tight red sweater, flared black skirt, and jagged black heels.
“Somebody’s definitely dressed to kill,” I drawled, pointing below the dashboard so the woman couldn’t see.

After we’d finished eating at the restaurant, my husband and I walked up the sidewalk to the art gallery. The place was ablaze in lights. Nicely-dressed greeters were at the door, trying to lure us in with offers of free cheese and chocolate. Two minutes later, munching on hors d’oeuvres, my husband and walked around the art gallery while admiring the displays of pottery, blown glass, and intricate jewelry. I was peering in a glass case, contemplating a gift for Christmas, when — like a fiery Bird of Paradise — a flash of red and black passed in my peripheral vision. I turned my head. It was the woman who had jaywalked in front of our car. The one dressed to kill.

I unabashedly stared at the back of her spiky black hair, her spiky black shoes. As if feeling my gaze, the woman pivoted on her six-inch heel and faced me. I gasped, but popped a truffle into my mouth to hide it. It was Michelle: the woman married to the jeweler. Gone were her warm brown eyes and parenthesis dimples. Instead, her eyes were glittering with the hardness of obsidian; her face was hollowed, her cheekbones jutting like weapons. Perhaps it was the glittering of her eyes that made me look down at her left hand. For some reason I was not shocked to find her ring finger bare. I looked at her throat. She still wore the ruby pendant her husband had made, but not suspended from a heavy gold chain as before, just a thin piece of black velvet.

Breaking off my stare, I ducked into the jewelry store and saw David smiling while passing out cards to garner future patrons. I looked through the jewelry store’s glass door. Michelle was pacing in front of it, one finger tugging on the pendant at her throat. I looked back at David, then down at his hand. He also no longer wore a wedding ring. I watched him glance up and through the door. A pained expression washed across his face like someone had splashed it with bleach. His blue eyes clouded a moment, but then he continued smiling and passing out cards to wealthy ladies, like he hadn’t a care in the world besides the upkeep of their precious gems.

My husband and I were among the last to leave the art gallery. I don’t know how it worked out that way; after seeing David and Michelle and knowing they were no longer “David and Michelle,” I had lost all interest in Christmas shopping, but still we were there–perhaps a part of me wished what I knew weren’t true.

I was staring at a vintage turquoise ring in the display case when David came up and asked if I needed anything.

“No, no,” I murmured. “Just looking.” Swallowing hard, I glanced up. “Do you remember us? My husband and I?” I pointed over to where Randy was staring up at a flock of floating glass birds. “You cleaned my ring for me…” I fluttered my hand out. “About a year ago, I think it was?”

The dawn of recognition suddenly warmed David’s face. He nodded. “Yes, yes…I remember you two.” He slid his hands into his dress pants pockets and asked, “So, how’s married life?”

I couldn’t help but smile. “Great,” I said. “The best decision I ever made.”

Glancing around the jewelry store, I said, “I saw your wife earlier. Michelle. Right?”

“Her name is Michelle,” he said, then took his left hand out of his pocket and held up his ring finger. “But…well, she’s no longer my wife.”

“But–but she’s still wearing that necklace you made for her…” I put a hand to my throat. “I saw it tonight!”

David smiled, but it didn’t move the clouds covering his eyes. “Yes,” he said, “I believe she still wears it.” After rearranging the stack of business cards on the jewelry counter, he turned back to me and added, “We’re actually not divorced–yet. But she’s filed.”

“Then there’s still hope!” I cried, clasping my hands to my chest. Then, realizing how ridiculous I was being, I folded my arms and looked down. “I mean…it’s not over ’til it’s over, right?”

David dragged a hand back through his hair. “We’ll see,” he sighed. Probably not even 40, he suddenly looked a thousand years old.

Overhearing my futile attempt at being Dr. Phil, my husband came over and put a hand on my elbow. “Honey,” he said, “we’d better go.”

“Yes, yes,” I murmured, suddenly near tears. “We probably should.”

But before I pulled the jewelry store’s door shut behind me, I turned around and quietly said, “Don’t forget, David…she might not be wearing a wedding band, but she is still wearing your necklace.”

He nodded, bowed his head. Before we left the art gallery, I looked back. David was still standing over the display case with both hands spread out before him, his shoulders hunched. To any passerby, he would’ve looked like he was carefully examining his jewels for the height of their brilliancy or the minutia of their imperfections.

I knew, though, that what he was really thinking of was a ruby and gold pendant and the precious gem that had slipped right through his grasp.