by Ginny Aiken
“No way was I going to be late. Does Sally have everything ready for the show?”
Miss Mona points to a stainless steel cart stacked high with tray upon tray of gorgeous gemstones. “She’s as excited as you are about the launch. You should’ve seen her. She looked like a little girl at the candy counter.”
“I don’t know a woman who can honestly say she really, really doesn’t like jewelry. And gemstones are what jewelry’s all about.”
The network’s theme song starts to play, and my excitement ditches my bad case of nerves. Oh, I’m psyched, all right. All the gemstones I could ever want, and a TV audience full of potential gem collectors. What more could a true-blue gem geek want?
A rustle of activity breaks out behind me, and Miss Mona’s face lights up like Times Square on New Year’s Eve. “Oh, Andie! Do I have a surprise for you.”
Uh-oh. Something about her excitement scares the pants off me—figuratively speaking, you know. “Can it wait until after my show? I don’t want to let anything distract me.”
“Your surprise is the show, or part of it, anyway.”
I clutch my lists to my green-silk-covered chest. My rose-polished nails dig into the pages for dear life. I take a breath and pray for strength. “Go for it. What’s my surprise?”
Miss Mona unfurls her hand in the most dramatic, most Aunt Weeby–like gesture. My gaze follows that hand, and my jaw drops.
During the last three weeks, it’s become more than obvious that the Shop-Til-U-Drop Network’s feminine atmosphere is part of Miss Mona’s genius. So imagine my reaction when what to my wandering eyes doth appear but a blond West Coast surfer and two comfy armchairs.
He smiles.
I shiver.
Wow!
The tall, Barbie-doll counterpart, towhead blond, silver silk-suited, tanned, blue-eyed surfer boy in Carla’s clutches heads toward me, hand held out. I gape like a goldfish. Then I start to hyperventilate.
Carla grabs the armchairs and brings them to the edge of the set, clearly ready to wheel them into place once Danni and her panties are done. I’m so not ready for this.
Finally, when he’s inches away, I get a grip. “Who’re you?”
“Andie, honey,” Miss Mona says.
I glance at her and catch sight of her canary-feathered grin. Why, why, why, why, why did I ever agree to do this?
Oblivious to my condition, she says, “I’d like you to meet Max Matthews, your brand-new cohost.”
“My who?” Okay, so I’m not proud of the squeaky voice. But what’s a girl to do when she gets a bombshell dropped on her head?
“You heard me. Max will be at your side for all your shows.”
“B-but this is all about us. We’re cable TV’s estrogen pack!”
“Sure, honey, that’s what we’ve been so far, and I know we’ve been very successful. But have you taken a good look at the network’s name? There’s something not quite right about the way we’ve been doing things around here. And then I had me a brainstorm. I figured out how to fix things. Max is my fix.”
Brainstorm? Try monsoon. And just as dangerous. In that scary, red-blooded American woman’s dream-man way. “How so?”
“Sugarplum—” Aunt Weeby’s voice comes from behind me—“how can the S.T.U.D. Network be the S.T.U.D. Network when we’ve got us no stud?”
Gulp. No way was I going to try to answer that sneaky little rat’s question. She was supposed to be home, watching me on her brand-new, flat-panel, hi-def TV. And I had no answer. Other than another question.
“The Stud Network?”
Miss Mona grins. “Isn’t that so cute? That’s what our customers call us. You know, S for Shop, T for Til, U for . . . well, for you, of course, and D for Drop. S-T-U-D. The S.T.U.D. Network.”
I smack the palm of my hand on my forehead right between my brows. I’ve been had. Hornswoggled. Bushwhacked. I knew this job was a bad idea. From the very start.
What do I know about TV? For that matter, what do I know about studs? And I’m so not talking horse. Trust me, I know nothing of horses, networks, brass tacks, or human studs. Especially not the dream-man kind of stud. My track record with the other half of the human race isn’t exactly stellar, as Aunt Weeby will be happy to tell you in mortifying detail.
That’s why I haven’t gone on a date in years.
When I agreed to this, no one said I’d have to take turns talking about jewels with a guy who’s prettier than me and the gems. How am I going to squeak out a sound, much less pretend coherence?
“The best thing,” Miss Mona says, “is that Max will take care of all your worries about on-camera experience—your inexperience. He’s been doing TV weather for years.”
“Really?” I croak.
“Really,” the S.T.U.D. Network’s token stud says in a really nice baritone. “I’ve worked for WZZP in Willandell, Missouri, for the last five years. It’s good to finally meet you, Andie. I’m sure we’re going to be great.”
Carla drools.
Aunt Weeby swoons.
Miss Mona rapturizes.
Missouri . . . Who-Knows-Where, Missouri. Groan. And he says we’re going to be great. He’s sure of that how?
I hold out my hand. His long, tanned, sinewy fingers nearly swallow it up. And that’s when I get the shock of my life— literally. A current sizzles up my fingers, arm, stomach, and rushes straight to my head.
Do I have to tell you I’m in trouble? Or did you figure it out?
“Uh . . . yeah. Great.”
Eloquent, I am not. And great we are. Not. On camera.
You see, Max the Magnificent, stud or otherwise, knows nothing, nothing about gemstones. Which ignorance he proceeds to demonstrate to our customers. And which ignorance lights up my redhead’s temper in fifty seconds or less.
How bad is he?
Let me count the ways.
Lights, camera, action! Here we go.
“Good afternoon, ladies. My name is Andrea Adams. I’m so thrilled to join the Shop-Til-U-Drop Network”—no way am I calling it that other name—“as your new jewelry and gemstone host. And here to my right is . . .”
“I’m Max Matthews, new to the lovely state of Kentucky . . .”
How does he do it? I can’t take my eyes off him. He looks great and sounds even better, with that chocolate-rich baritone voice. Something warm swirls in my middle, and my tongue thickens to the consistency of a cotton ball. How am I supposed to do a show with him sitting so close?
I feel for the women of America, dropping like flies.
Then I realize he’s staring at me, Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona are waving like windmills, and Hannah, the camerawoman, is smacking her four fingers against her thumb like a beak in the universal gesture for “Talk.”
So I do. And for a while, we take turns giving the viewers our bios. Mine is short and sweet. Hometown girl goes Big Apple, but returns home wiser and happier to sell gemstones on TV. Then Max takes his turn. I tune out. He goes on and on and on.
When I notice Hannah doing her duck imitation again, I realize the show’s dying, and I’d better do something. Like sell the gems I’m supposed to sell.
Fortunately for all of us, Sally, the show’s merchandiser, had clamped a set of adjustable jeweler’s tweezers around a magnificent solitaire stone and left it ready for me to launch the show. I pick up the tweezers to bring the stone in front of the white velvet drape we chose as a backdrop for the product. It trembles a little—just like I do.
“To start us off for real,” I say, that nervous southern thick in my voice, “and so that y’all will get to know me quickly, I want you to know I’m a GIA certified master gemologist, and I’m about to introduce you to my favorite gemstone. Anybody know what this is?”
My cohost—aaack!—leans closer to get a look at the stone. The scent of his spicy masculine cologne surrounds me, ties my tongue in knots, and makes me hanker for those simpler days of rat-race stress and gnawing ulcer pain in New York.
Oh my.
The camera zooms in on the brilliant orange gem and off me. I’m so in trouble. But so is the ditzy duo when I get done here.
Does the word “setup” ring a bell?
Thanks to the zillion rehearsals, I stutter out my spiel. “This . . . uh . . . this is one of . . . ah . . . the earth’s rarest stones.”
Get a grip, woman. “It was first discovered in the Spessart Forest in Germany in the 1800s, and since that time, pockets have been found in Nigeria, Namibia, and even California and Brazil. The finest stones, though, have come from Namibia. The color can range from a bright yellow, through a citrusy orange, to a burning-embers shade of red. The most valuable—and desirable—hue is the exact mandarin orange I’m offering you today.”
My heart rate decides to settle down when Max leans back into his chair. Phew! I can get to my job again.
“Since there’s never been enough supply for this stone to go fully commercial”—my voice is still embarrassingly breathy—“I’m sure most of you are wondering what it is.”
Miss Mona makes like a traffic cop. I humor her and stop to create dramatic effect. Something clatters to my right, but I refuse to let Max distract me any more than he already has. “You may be surprised to learn that this intense, yummy color belongs to a . . . garnet!”
For some inexplicable reason all his own, Max finds my statement hilarious. I shoot him what I hope is a stern glare. But before I can gather my wits and go on with my presentation, he oh-so-generously shares the reason for his humor.
“Everyone knows garnets are red,” he says. “Come on, tell us. What is it? For real.”
A gemstone host who doesn’t know garnets? I’m so in trouble.
“You’re such a kidder,” I say through gritted teeth.
“I’m not kidding. You are. Garnets are red.”
“Not just red.”
“Red.”
“And green and orange and yellow and purple—even color-change, like alexandrite. They come in every color but blue.”
“No, they don’t.”
“Yes, they do.”
“Red.”
What am I doing? My job’s to sell gems, not to argue with a dud. A hunk of a dud, but a dud to the—oh yeah—max.
Get with the program, Andie. “Max’s response shows the common misconception about garnets. I can guarantee that this gorgeous jewel is a garnet, a spessartite garnet. The difference between this one and an almondine—that’s the red kind—is the absence of iron and presence of manganese in the chemical composition. Iron turns the material red, or worse, brown.”
“Huh?”
Did I say we’re doomed? No? Well, I’ll say it now: We’re doomed.
I turn my face so the viewers don’t think I’m totally rude, but I stare at the way-less-distracting stone. “That small difference, Max, makes the manganese-colored stones rare— and pricey.” Back to the camera. “But our wonderful vendors have negotiated for us an incredible price. And when we get a good deal, we give you a great deal. This internally clean, two-carat stone is priced at only four hundred and seventy-five—”
“That little thing?” Max roars. “Four hundred bucks?”
If I had a weapon, and if I was the violent kind, and if I wasn’t a Christian . . . well, you get the idea. I consider ducking under the desk. But I’m not that big a coward.
Yet.
“I think we can safely assume that Max has no experience with gems. A fine spessartite garnet like this”—I turn the tweezers to better show off the stone—“internally clean and beautifully cut, can go for up to twelve hundred dollars per carat. And this one is two full carats. Quite a bargain—for a mandarin orange garnet.”
“That’s insane!”
“That’s an investment.”
He snorts. “An investment’s stock in that . . . that Jimmy Buffet—no, not Jimmy, Warren—that Warren Buffet guy’s investment company.”
I ignore his blather. “Ladies and gentlemen, I can report that statistics show gemstone collecting as the fastest growing hobby in our country, and as an up-and-coming favorite investment too. So at only four hundred seventy-five dollars? How can you pass up such a great deal?”
Max wriggles in his chair. Out the corner of my eye, I see a flash of silver. Good. He’s picked up the tweezers that hold the gemstone I’m scheduled to feature after the garnets on this nightmare of a launch show. Maybe he’ll learn to use them and do something constructive.
“Here.” I angle my hand in front of the white velvet drape, then hold the tweezers so the garnet lines up with my ring finger. “See how fabulous the mandarin orange garnet looks on the hand? It’s so gorgeous that many women are choosing colored stones like this one for engagement and wedding rings. Now what girl wouldn’t want to wear a beautiful bit of captured, fiery sunshine on her finger?”
“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend . . .” Max’s baritone does a decent job on Marilyn’s trademark song. Not that I need it.
Time for damage control.
“Max has a point. But let me tell you, diamonds have gone up 30 percent in recent years. Know what a so-so two-carat diamond sells for? Way more than four hundred and seventy-five dollars. You can take that to the bank.”
“You think you can talk women into going cold turkey on diamonds?”
He’s so incredulous, it sounds as though he’s mocking me. Not cool. Maybe I can talk Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona into going cold turkey on him. “I find colored stones just as exciting as diamonds.”
His muttered response isn’t—thankfully—clear. I try to ignore him and get on with my job. “So how many of you lovely ladies out there are going to be so lucky as to own one of these gorgeous stones? I see on my monitor that a bunch of you have already taken advantage of this great offer. You’re smart shoppers. And we still have some quantity left for the next few callers—but not a lot. I don’t even have enough for two per state, so hurry, grab yours before they’re all gone.”
Five feet behind the camera, Carla, Miss Mona’s assistant, mimics a phone with her hand. Relief is good.
“Let’s go to the phones.” I squint against the studio lights to read the monitor screen on the desk. “Hello? Is this Sissy from Alaska?”
Giggles titter over the air. “Yes! I can’t believe I got through!”
Even a giddy viewer is better than Max. “I’m happy you called. What do you think of the spessartite?”
“Oh, dearie, it’s just precious! I saw it, and just had to elbow Charlie. I told him I had to have it. So he bought it for me. Told him it’d keep me thinking of him while he’s on the road all those days at a time.”
“Are you a collector, Sissy?”
“Oh, dearie, I collect everything. I haven’t met the teapot I haven’t loved. And porcelain dolls? Why, they’re my babies.
Well, aside from Fritzi and Mitzi, my Pomeranians. And then there’s the plates and the quilts and . . .”
Her list boggles this mind. “So tell me, will you be setting the stone? Do you need a diamond semi-mount? Because if you do”—I lower my voice to girls-sharing-secrets level—“I have a faboo tray of them to show you. Six, six beautiful diamond semi-mounts.”
“And we’re off to the races! Giddyap!” Max says. “What’s a semi-mount?”
I spin my chair and face him, distracting or not. “You don’t know a spessartite from spit, and now you ask me what a semi-mount is? You don’t know a thing about the gem trade, do you?”
Tweezers in hand, he shrugs. “Never said I did.”
“But—how . . . you’re supposed to be a gem expert!”
“Why?”
“Because we’re selling gems.”
“No. We’re not selling gems. You are selling gems.”
“Fine. But then what good are you?”
Just beyond the camera, Miss Mona is making like a football ref calling for a time-out. Everything about her blares STOP. Okay. I’ll stop. For now. But just wait until this fiasco is over . . .
“We have th
ree more stones available. Who’s going to pick them up? Who’s going to own a stone that’s close to extinction from the earth’s crust? Who wants—”
“Ooops!”
Max’s tweezers clatter onto the desk. Something sparkly skitters across the surface, falls off the edge, and I see it bounce toward the camera tripod. My jaw drops.
Did he really just do that? And Miss Mona thought he was a good idea because . . . ?
When I collect myself, I point at Max. “You! How could you? What kind of idiot drops a princess-cut diamond? What were you thinking?”
“Before you get a chance,” he says in that ridiculously wonderful voice, “I’ll say my kind of idiot. What’s the big deal? I dropped it. It’s not as if I tossed it through the goalpost uprights, then did a victory dance on top of it. I’ll just go pick it up.”
“NO!” I leap out of my chair. “Don’t you even think about it. Don’t move.”
As I kneel to pick up the gem, the channel’s theme song starts up again. Relief turns my knees to overcooked linguine, and I plop down onto my butt.
Thank you, Lord. The launch show is over. The nightmare has ended. I can get back to the rest of my life. Far, far away from the S.T.U.D. studios.
You know it.
6 00
Decision made, I scramble up, shaking. I’m so mad. Diamond in hand, I stalk off the set and, like a bride on Filene’s Basement gown sale day, make for Miss Mona. “I quit! There is no way I’m working with that joker ever again. He knows nothing, nothing about gems.”
“Oh, Andie!” She chortles. “You have no idea. This is the most successful show we’ve ever had. You and Max are wonderful.”
“Huh?” I stick a finger in my right ear and jiggle. “What’d you say?”
“The phones haven’t stopped ringing since the two of you went on. We sold out of the spessartites, all the semi-mounts went too—sight unseen—and the viewers want to know when you and Max are on next. They don’t want to miss it!”
Now I’m really living in a nightmare. “But he doesn’t know a thing! He said some really dumb stuff on the air. And he dropped a diamond. A diamond, Miss Mona. The one we were supposed to feature next—but couldn’t. He messed up the show from the start.”
