[Love in New York 01.0] Lost and Found Page 3

  They all look at me like I’m crazy.

  I read the sign stating their hours and see that I’m here before closing. What the fudge?

  A buzzing sound comes and I realize that this is the kind of place that doesn’t leave their door open for just anyone to waltz in. I’m relieved to know that I’m not considered a threat and pull the door out so I can enter.

  The cool air washes over me and makes me shiver. I’m immediately intimated by the fact that I look like a homeless bumpkin in my gypsy skirt and that this place actually smells expensive. Is there a scented candle called money? Because if there is, they’re burning the shit out of it in here.

  “Hello, how may I help you?” asks an older woman in a business suit.

  I swear she looks like the lady who started eBay. I saw her on Yahoo once.

  “Um, I … uh … have a ring I’d like to know what the value of it is?”

  She looks at my hands and sees the chunky costume jewelry rings I wear pretty much all the time and smiles uncomfortably. “I see. And is this appraisal for insurance purposes, or…?”

  “No, it’s just for me to have a general idea.” I reach down into my bag and pull out the wad of tissues I used to protect the ring. “I … uh … got this ring from my mother, and she said she didn’t know the value but that it was probably a lot and I just wanted to know.”

  Since my mother passed away ten years ago, I don’t feel any guilt bringing her into the picture. Maybe it sounds weird, but it was actually nice to think that she was somehow doing this with me. I guess that’s what made me feel like elaborating so much. Or maybe it’s that when I panic, I kind of tend to lie a little. Here it comes. The lies. Oy.

  “She was dating this guy for a long time, but he never wanted to get married, so she broke it off and then he showed up with this massive diamond and begged her to marry him, so she did, but then he cheated on her with a tranny and she left him and they got a divorce and he told her to keep the ring, but then every time she looked at it, she got angry and thought about a woman wearing size fourteen heels, so she gave it to me and told me to do whatever I wanted with it.” I smile at the woman, hoping my lie made any kind of sense. “So I was just wondering what the value might be. I don’t need anything official or anything.”

  I scratch nervously at my neck. I should mention I also get lie-hives from time to time.

  The woman says nothing, she just watches as I place the tissues on her glass display case and start unwrapping them.

  When the first sign of the ring appears, she clears her throat. “Hold on a moment, let me get a loupe.”

  She reaches under the cabinet in front of her and pulls out a black velvet tray, a white glove, and a metal thing shaped like a thick teardrop.

  “You say your mother gave this to you?”

  I nod. “Yep.”

  “May I?” she asks, gesturing to my wad of tissue.

  “Sure.” I move my hands away and let her do her thing.

  She puts the white glove on and picks up the ring. In her other hand she picks up the metal thing she brought out, her loupe I guess, and slides part of it away. Holding the ring up with one hand, she puts the loupe up to her eye and uses it to look at the stone really close.

  “This is a genuine diamond,” she says.

  “Yeah, that’s what I figured. That’s what my mom said.” I can feel my face burning beet red. My neck hive is on fire. Lying is never my favorite form of communication, but now I’m lying and learning that I’ve found a ton of money in the form of a rock. I don’t feel quite as bad about my ridiculous story now. I curl my hands into fists to keep from scratching my skin off.

  “Color is very clear, possibly even as good as colorless. Very, very slight inclusions. It’s a natural stone.”

  “What does that mean? A natural stone?”

  She keeps examining the ring as she answers. “It means it wasn’t created in a lab. It was found in a mine.”

  “That’s good, right?” Another hive pops up on my butt cheek. I reach around and give it a quick scratch. Hopefully I’ll never see these people again.

  “Yes, it’s the best you can hope for.” She turns the ring around and looks at it from different angles. “And you say that your mother gave this to you?”

  “Yes.” I turn kind of sideways and lean my butt on the counter, hoping the sharp edge will bring me some relief. It doesn’t. I just barely stop myself from indulging in a few deep-knee/butt-scratching bends.

  She places the ring very carefully onto the velvet tray and takes her glove off. “It’s a beautiful stone. Are you interested in selling it?”

  I shrug, my heart going a million miles an hour. “Maybe. I guess it would depend.” I go up on tiptoes and then lower myself back to my heels, using the corner of the counter to scratch my itch. I want to scream with the itchy torture that is my left buttcheek right now.

  “On…?”

  I try to act casual about the fact that I’m being a money-grubbing fiend right now, but it’s impossible. I’m sweating bullets and finding it impossible to look this woman in the eye. Instead, I focus on a small mole next to her nose.

  “On how much it’s worth and how much I can get for it, I guess.” I wave my hands around. “I’m not even sure I want to sell it. I’m just gathering information right now.”

  It feels better to say that, like I haven’t yet committed to selling something I don’t really own.

  “Well, if you have the certificate for the diamond it would be a lot easier for me to tell you precisely what we could give you for it.”

  “Certificate?” I ask, my tone going meek. What in the hell is that for? Are they born? Do they die?

  “Yes. Does your mother have the certificate for the diamond?”

  “I don’t think so.” I shrug, trying to look innocent. “I’m not sure she even knew it came with one.”

  The woman puts her glove on again and picks up the ring, once more putting her loupe to it. “There is an identification number laser-etched into this stone, so we could look it up for you, follow the sales history on it.”

  I almost have a heart attack at that little bit of information. Suddenly, I feel the extreme urge to get the hell out of there. More hives. Holy itch-fest.

  “Okay, well, that’s great. I’ll take that into consideration and then decide what to do.”

  I want her to put the damn ring down, but she keeps looking at it. I’m worried she’s memorizing the identification number.

  “Oh, crap, sorry,” I say, as I not-accidentally use my purse to knock her velvet thing off the counter.

  She pulls away from the diamond and looks at what I’ve done.

  I hold my hand out for the ring. “I’m very clumsy sometimes. Sorry about that.”

  She hands me the ring and bends over to pick up my mess. “No big deal, don’t worry about it.”

  I quickly wrap the ring up in my tissues and shove it into my bag. “Thanks so much for your time. I have to get back to work, though, so I should be going.”

  “Don’t you want to know what the ring’s worth? I thought that’s what you came in here for.” She’s staring at me with a challenge, like my real intention was to come in here and rob the place or something. Wench.

  I put my purse strap over my shoulder and grip my bag with my elbow. “Sure, yeah. Do you know already? I thought maybe you’d have to do some calculating.”

  “I did.” She gives me a tight smile. “The ring is approximately seven carats, and with the color, cut, and clarity I see there, assuming you can provide the certificate for it, I’d say its value is anywhere from five-hundred-thousand to six-hundred and fifty thousand dollars.”

  I can’t breathe. Nine-one-one. Somebody call nine-one-one.

  “Since there is an identification number there, however, you should be able to get a copy of the certificate from the seller of the stone linking it to your mother’s husband and you’d be fine.” She pauses and stares me down. “But if you cannot get a cop
y of the certificate for whatever reason, you’ll have a hard time selling it for more than a hundred thousand, because diamonds like this are traceable and selling something that isn’t yours is a crime.”

  If I thought my face was burning red before, that was nothing compared to what it’s doing now. I’m pretty sure I’m about to spontaneously combust. Fire engines. Me. We’re the same color.

  I want to defend myself and tell her to go eff herself for suggesting I’m a thief, but since I did find this ring and my mother’s been gone from this earth for a really long time and she didn’t leave behind a jilted husband who secretly likes trannies, I keep my indignant response to myself.

  “I understand,” I say with complete calm. “Thank you very much for your help.” I can literally feel a nerve-inspired hive pop out in my armpit. I clamp my arm harder on my purse to keep from scratching the hell out of it.

  “Here’s my card,” she says, sliding it across the glass. “Give me a call if you want me to track down the certificate for you. After you talk to your mother, of course. Maybe she has one and it can save you the trouble.”

  I take the card just so I won’t seem rude and head for the door. “Will do. Thanks!”

  I welcome the heat that blasts me as I step outside the door. Those cold-sweats that had started up in there were making me feel like it was winter time, and the shivers weren’t far off. How much of a psycho would I have looked like then, shivering all over with my fire-red face? She would’ve pressed that secret button under her counter and had the cops all over my hivey butt in seconds. Thank God I got out of there when I did.

  I scratch at my neck, armpit, and butt until they burn and practically run I’m walking so fast. I have no idea where I’m going. All I do know is that I need to get away from that woman and her guilt-inducing tone of voice. I swear it feels like the ring is searing a hole right through my purse and into my hip, especially now that I know it’s worth more than a half a million dollars.

  A half a million dollars! Oh my god! My butt is on fire!

  Chapter Six

  I CANNOT SLEEP. EVEN THOUGH I’ve managed to sneak back home without being accosted by Larry the Perve, and my hives have subdued themselves, I still can’t rest. The ring is still in my purse and my purse is wrapped around my body as I lay on my pull-out-couch bed.

  I’m afraid to put it down anywhere, worried I’ll somehow manage to lose it in my shoebox of a studio apartment or that this will be the night some asshole decides to break in and rob me of everything I own. Murphy’s Law. It owns me.

  After staring at the ceiling for hours and imagining all the ways I could change my life with half a million dollars and then ruin it by spending it all and having to go back to poverty, I finally give up. It’s three in the morning when I say to myself, No wonder that chick threw her ring in the fountain. Who needs this shit?

  I sit up in bed and take my purse off me. I’m pissed now. I tried to tell myself that this ring came to me as a solution to my no-rent problem. I tried to tell myself this was karma rewarding me for all my good deeds — like all the times I didn’t clock Larry upside the head when he made suggestive remarks, like all the times I gave change to the homeless guy down the street, like all the hours I worked for Belinda for no pay or minimum wage … but it wasn’t working.

  It’s not my damn ring, and I know I can’t keep it or I’ll end up going nuts over the guilty feelings. Some girl owns this ring or the guy who bought it for her does, and I just have to give it back. And if some asshole wants to rob me of it today, saving me from the trouble of tracking down the owner, at least I’ll have a great story to tell later — about how I was almost in the money for the first time in my life but then decided to be a good person and give it back but then got robbed.

  Man, what a sucker I am. I’m going to be poor forever; that’s the only conclusion I can come to. For. Ev. Er.

  I shove my bag under the couch and lie back down, determined to get some sleep before I have to go to work tomorrow. When dreams come, they involve me getting arrested by a SWAT team as I stand at a jewelry store counter with my wad of tissue papers in my hand.

  When I finally wake up, it feels like I never slept at all. Stupid ring. I’ve got to get rid of it.

  Chapter Seven

  BELINDA FROWNS AT ME. “WHAT’S got you all hot and bothered today?”

  I can’t look at her or she’ll read my mind. I’m terrible at keeping secrets from her.

  “Nothing. Just on my period.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re not due for another week.”

  I pause in arranging books on a narrow shelf and look at her. “You’re tracking my periods?”

  She shrugs, running her pencil eraser down a list of figures in front of her on the counter. “It’s kind of hard to miss. Your moods follow the phases of the moon almost perfectly. You’re definitely a moon-child.”

  I roll my eyes. “Or you’ve just noticed no toilet-paper-wrapped packages in the bathroom trash.”

  “There’s that too.”

  I smile and go back to my arranging. Maybe today a customer will come in and appreciate my organizational efforts. One can only hope.

  “I’m fine,” I say. “I’m just nervous.” Oops. Did I say that out loud? Now what? Am I going to tell her I found a half-million-dollar ring in the fountain too?

  “Nervous?” She stops her tallying. “Nervous about what? Or is it a big secret?” She winks at me.

  “It’s not a man, if that’s what you’re hinting at.” Not exactly. I mean, there is a man involved if you count the guy who spent a wad of money on a ring that’s in my bra right now making it look like I have a tumor on my boob.

  “You need to date more,” she says. “When was the last time you met someone for coffee?”

  “How about never.” I laugh. “Who does that? Just meet for coffee, I mean.”

  “People. People do that.”

  “Not this person. If you want to date me, you date me. If you want to buy me coffee, then forget it.”

  “I don’t understand that attitude,” Belinda says. “Why wouldn’t you want to meet someone for coffee?”

  I shrug. “I don’t know. It’s so cliché. How much can you possibly learn about a person’s real self over coffee at Starbucks? It’s like you’re there for show, to be cool. If you really want to get to know a person, you do something alone. Something that doesn’t involve the rest of the world watching you, giving you a nod of approval. I don’t like being on parade.”

  “Now who’s the shut-in?”

  I give her a raspberry. “Hush. We have work to do. I’m expecting a crowd today.”

  She puts her pencil in her teeth and speaks around it. “Good, because we could use a crowd around here.” She leaves me in the main part of the store for the back room, her big log book wrapped in both arms.

  The bell hanging from the door jangles as someone walks in.

  I turn with a big smile, ready to help this customer spend her money on everything in sight, but then my smile disappears when I realize who it is. And how bad he smells.

  “Hey darlin’,” he says in his southern accent. “How’re you today?”

  “Mel, what are you doing here?” I rush forward to greet him at the door.

  He lowers his voice. “Sorry to bug you at work, but I was just hoping I could bother you for some change. I missed my normal group this morning … couldn’t get out of bed in time to get my best spot.”

  I turn him around and push him gently outside the door. “Just wait out there and I’ll be right back.”

  “Thanks, darlin.’” He limps out and leaves me alone in the store.

  I rush to the back room and then slow down as I enter it through the colorful hanging beads, whistling like I don’t have a care in the world.

  Belinda’s standing on a stool, pushing boxes left and right trying to arrange them on a high shelf. “Give me a hand with this, will ya?” she asks.

  “Just a second. Someone’s out
front.” I grab my purse and leave before she can ask me any questions. Stealth mode, activated.

  I shove my hand in my bag and tilt it as I walk rapidly to the front of the store. A few coins fall into my palm along with several crumbs, paperclips, and bits of things I can’t identify.

  Looping my finger through the door handle, I pull the heavy glass open and step outside. Mel is waiting for me out on the sidewalk.

  His clothing is stained and baggy, and his shoes are held together with duct tape. His hair hasn’t seen a shower or a brush in I don’t know how many months. I know the shelter he prefers doesn’t provide showers, so that’s probably why. Or maybe he’s allergic to water. Either way, he’s a mess, and I can never say no to him. He reminds me of my alcoholic father who went six feet under five years ago with cirrhosis.

  “Here, it’s all I can afford.” I hand him eighty-three cents covered in purse-lint.

  “Good enough for a cup of coffee.” He smiles at me, revealing teeth that have also been neglected for way too long. He leans in to give me a hug, and I accept it with only a slight cringe. His stink has a tendency to stick to my hair and clothes, and all it takes is one little touch, but I never say no to a hug. It’s kind of a personal policy I have. Luckily, Larry has never asked for one and challenged my stance on that.

  “You okay?” he asks me as we separate.

  “Just low on rent money, no big deal.” I shrug.

  I’m not going to tell him the tumor in my bra could have us both living large for the rest of our lives because it wouldn’t be fair to get his hopes up like I’d done with my own. The ring is not mine or his. I can’t keep it or gift it, no matter how many problems it would solve. I try not to cry over the vision of Belinda’s, Mel’s, and my futures being so much brighter.

  “But you got a job,” he says, confused, gesturing at the store.

  “Yeah, but it’s only part time. Belinda doesn’t have a lot of customers.”

  “That’s a damn shame,” he says, and he means it.

  “I know. But I’ll survive. I always do.”