She sighed, and Zoë rolled over at her feet, echoing the long breath of air.
“Oh, Zoë, your poor Papa. Poor Brad.” She let her mind turn over his name a few times. It didn’t hurt too badly.
Then there was Fender. She didn’t know much about him. He’d said before that he owned a shop. Sold jewelry. She didn’t know where he lived. He talked a little about his dad, how they’d lived alone for a long time when Fender was a kid. She couldn’t tell if the mom was dead or just gone. She’d been afraid to ask. Something about Fender made him seem reluctant to talk about himself last night.
But that made him all the more interesting. She closed her eyes for a second.
I want this man in my life, she thought. She stood up and went to change her clothes. I want this man in my bed.
She didn’t have to look in the mirror above her dresser. She knew she was blushing.
Chapter Ten
IT WAS A DAY OF MILLERS. Millers: ridiculous people who would wander into the shop like lost cows—cows in sneakers and puffy parkas—slurping coffee, marking up the display cases with grimy fingers, and buying nothing.
Fender stood behind a case near a hoodrat-wannabe white kid, all flat-brimmed hat and unlaced Adidas and DGK hoodie. Fender watched him so he wouldn’t steal anything. The punk probably lived with his mommy and daddy on one of the boulevards in town, probably drove a nice sensible Subaru and walked the Labradoodle and did his calculus homework without being told—when he wasn’t pretending to be hard.
Fender thought what it would be like to reach over the counter and punch him, but then his attention was diverted by an impossibly tiny girl with bright blue hair standing in front of him.
“Excuse me?” she peeped. She was quite possibly a baby bird in disguise.
“Huh?” Fender realized she needed his attention.
The boy standing next to her stepped up. “She said, ‘Excuse me.’ We need your help, if you don’t mind.”
Of course I mind. “Not at all. What can I help you kids with?” He gave the boy a good look. The couple hung on to each other’s hands, the boy an anemic, blond, string bean in all-black: skinny jeans and a button-up shirt, plus a black trench coat for extra emo-Goth-manga-anime-I’m-so-different-I’m-exactly-the-same effect.
Good Jesus. You are twelve.
“We’re buying an engagement ring.” The white noodle in the black get-up puffed out his chest as he declared this.
“Uh-huh,” chirped the bird girl in agreement.
Fender closed his eyes, breathed in deeply, exhaled slowly.
Then he opened his eyes.
“No, you aren’t.”
The pair turned their heads, looked at each other, and turned to look back at him. Bird girl tilted her head like a confused pigeon. “Huh?”
Fender shook his head. “No, you aren’t buying a ring. I could offer you a promise necklace, or something horrifying like that, but instead, do this for me: Use your money to backpack across Europe together this summer. Take lots of pretentious pictures, get in a fight on the Paris Metro, realize you hate the way he chews his food in Milan, break up in front of the taxi stand at JFK, and spend a terrible connecting flight home to Boise wishing you’d never met each other.”
Fender took a breath but held up a hand, preventing either from inserting themselves into his tirade.
“Then, and only then, if you still think that you’ll just die without each other, come back and buy a ring from me. For now, good day.”
Boy noodle looked shocked. “What? That’s it?”
“Adieu to you, children. Have fun storming the castle!”
The impossibly young couple shrugged and walked out of the shop.
Sam strolled in. “Tell me those two didn’t buy a ring.”
Fender picked up his keys. “Of course not. I have my standards.” He pointed to the door. “I will accompany you on your errand now.”
Fender usually humored Pop with a visit to the Record Exchange. They’d look through the old LPs for jazz albums like Thelonious Monk or comb through the 45s for early rockabilly. Once they found a first pressing of The Everly Brothers’ “Wake Up Little Susie,” and Fender thought Pop was going to have a coronary.
Today he followed Sam into the store.
“Tell me what we’re looking for again?” Fender asked with a sigh.
“I can’t remember the name of the band. They were in the Gobi tent two years ago at Coachella. They had an ‘I’ in the beginning of their name.”
Fender tried, tried very hard, not to roll his eyes. “Yep, that narrows it down. My God, we’ll be here all day.”
But then it didn’t matter, because someone sneezed two rows of records over.
A guy spoke up. “Bless you.”
“Thanks.”
I know that voice! Fender’s whole nervous system came to attention. Ginger.
He looked up, but the display was too high to see over. He elbowed Sam in the side. “Heads up. Ginger’s in the store.”
Sam looked at the back of a Village People record. “What?”
“Ginger’s in the store.”
“That girl you saw last week?”
“No, some random chick. Yes, that girl. Who else would I give a shit about?”
It was Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “Excuse me. Go say hi to her.”
Suddenly Fender’s hands felt clammy. “I don’t know.”
“Come on. Go say hi to her.” Sam gave him a push down the row.
Fender put his shoulders back. C’mon, Fender. Man up. He took a deep breath. “Fine. I’ll just go say hi.”
He padded down the row and turned the corner.
Ginger thumbed through the LPs. Her hair hung long and soft and reddish-gold down her back. She was rapt, examining the back of an old record. Dust floated in the air, stirred up by her turning of the album cover. She wiggled her nose and sneezed again.
“Gesundheit.” Fender walked up to her.
She looked up in surprise, and a wide grin spread over her face. Her green eyes twinkled. “Fender! What are you doing?”
“Shopping. Sam’s looking for a needle in a vinyl haystack.” He edged closer to her and smelled a subtle fruity scent. God, she smells good. I never noticed that skiing. He reminded himself he was supposed to be talking to her. “And you look like you’ve scored.”
She held up the old R&B album. “Bell Biv DeVoe, brother. This is gold.”
“You were a year old when that came out.”
“So were you. Still a classic.” She smiled at him.
I like it when she smiles. Fender edged a little closer to her and felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle. Ginger bit her lip and seemed to take a tiny step closer to him, too.
“Ginger, did you see this?” A guy strolled up behind her, and Ginger took an abrupt step away from Fender.
What the hell! Fender looked the guy next to Ginger over. He was a deep bronze color and had sandy blond hair. He had a Bob Marley album in his hand. Douchebag.
“Bode, this is my friend Fender.” Ginger stepped out of the way so the men could shake hands.
I don’t want to shake Malibu Ken’s hand. Who the hell is he and what’s he doing here and who names their kid Bode? Fender shook his hand. “Bode.”
Malibu Ken looked at Fender for a second and then resumed his line of questioning. “This is, like, a really old copy of this album. I wonder if it’s worth anything.”
Ginger smiled again, and Fender imagined she was apologizing for her golden retriever friend. “It was good to see you, Fender. Season’s over soon. Hope to see you up on the hill.”
I’m going to kill this guy. We were about to have a moment, and he ruined it. “You know it. Take care, Ginger.”
She held up her prize LP, gave Fender a little nod, and followed the jerk who ruined everything over to the other side of the store.
Fender stood, watching her walk, drinking it all in.
“Did you say hi or did you just stare at her l
ike that?” Sam whispered in his ear.
Fender smacked him and pushed him away. “God almighty. Did you see that guy she was with? What the hell is up with that?”
“You mean the bro? I did. Hope that’s not your competition. He looks like he does healthy things regularly. I hate guys like that.”
“Yeah, Malibu Ken could be a problem.”
Sam looked Fender up and down. “You could get a spray tan. That might help.”
Fender threw up his hands. “Why am I friends with you? Go find your hipster album, and let’s go.”
It sucked to leave with Sam when Fender knew exactly who he should be leaving with. One thing was for sure, she smelled nicer than Sam ever had.
Chapter Eleven
IT’D BEEN A LONG TIME since Fender gave a crap about anybody. At least that was the articulate way Sam put it during their conversation a week or so after their record store errand (when Fender was supposed to be working). Actually, he’d put it that way several times in the conversations they’d had since his night at Ginger’s house.
“Thanks a lot, Sam. What about you and Pop? I don’t give a crap about you guys?” The office of the shop was quiet, as was the rest of the store, even though it was three o’clock in the afternoon.
“Pop and me, we’re guys,” Sam explained helpfully. “You don’t have sex with us. I am stunned—stunned, I tell you—that you went over to her house and just talked. This is the first time I can remember when you weren’t trying to crawl into a lady’s underwear. Are you sure your name is Fender Barnes? And are you ever going to see her again? Ski season’s just about over, so you’ll have to man up.”
Fender stood up and walked out of the office. This topic made him sweat, and he paced around the shop trying to get away from it. “Sam, it amazes me that you ever get laid with a mouth like that,” he called over his shoulder.
“It’s been a while, my brother, but I don’t think my colorful vocabulary has anything to do with it.” Sam was into one of the display cases now. He had a tray of sapphire rings out and loaded two on each stumpy finger.
“Would you stop that? You’ll make the rings all clammy.”
“No, really. The reason I can’t get with a woman is my contentment.” Sam stood a little straighter behind the counter. Whatever his “contentment” was, Fender noticed he was proud of it. Or he liked having all that jewelry on.
“Are you going to elaborate on this?”
“I’m content. I have a job, kind of. I like my life. I don’t care if my breath stinks and my hair clogs up the drain in the shower. And I’m not willing to clean the shower or brush my teeth or do anything else for a woman. I don’t need fixing, and I won’t do it just to get some satisfaction in the equatorial region of my life. Women should dig who I am, and if they don’t, I’m not going to leave the contented zone to meet ’em on anything.”
“Uh-huh.” Fender had lost track of what Sam was saying. He’d been, for the last few moments, watching a bubble of frosted blond-brown hair bob down the sidewalk, headed straight for the store. He did the only thing that seemed right.
“Fender, what the hell are you doing? You’re sitting on my toes.”
Fender replied from the floor behind the counter, indeed, from the floor at Sam’s feet, on Sam’s toes. “You need to hide. It’s Naomi, Jimmy’s wife. Hide, Sam!”
Sam sat down, Indian-style, in one fell swoop. He kind of plopped down on Fender in such a way that knees and butts and weight were not evenly distributed, and Fender yipped like a kicked poodle.
It was too late. She was in the store. The bells above the door jingled her arrival merrily. And someone was with her. And whoever it was had noticed the commotion behind the counter. Fender looked up and saw Jimmy.
“Fender?”
Sam popped up with a rapidity that seemed impossible for a man his size.
“Hello, sir, is there something I can help you with? Mr. Barnes is unavailable at the moment.” Sam tugged his T-shirt down over his belly.
“He’s not unavailable. He’s sitting at your feet. Behind the counter.” Naomi pointed an airbrushed nail tip at Sam.
Fender rose from behind the counter in surrender. “I’m right here, Naomi. Hi, Jimmy.”
“Well, hi, Fender. What in the Sam Hill are you up to? Damn strange behavior.” Jimmy eyed Sam.
Sam grinned from ear to ear and whacked Fender heartily on the back before retreating to the back office. Jimmy straightened his tie and put an arm around Naomi’s waist.
Fender tried to recover. “Jimmy, I’m sorry about that. We were talking about…never mind. How are you? And Naomi…” Fender forced a smile, remembering her solo trip in early December to appraise the canary diamond. “How’s the lovely bride?”
She giggled nervously. Jimmy leaned over to kiss her on the lips, but she grimaced and wiggled out of his embrace.
Fender resisted the urge to gag. Jimmy had no idea what a piece of work this Naomi was. Or maybe he did. “Now, Jimmy, you’re going to make her blush.” Fender stopped himself from sticking his tongue out at her. He settled for giving her the old squinty Clint Eastwood look instead.
Naomi gritted her teeth at him, and then turned to face Jimmy with a wide, plastered-on smile. “Jimmy says I’m hell-on-wheels. Isn’t that cute?”
Hell-on-wheels, my ass. More like bitch-on-wheels. Fender couldn’t believe these two were still together. Amazing. He didn’t understand.
“Fender, we need a ring.”
Fender almost choked. “Another one? What for?”
Jimmy frowned at him. “It’s for our anniversary.”
“But you only just got married.” Fender stopped before he said anything else.
Sam was right behind him. He jabbed Fender in the ribs. “Aren’t you supposed to encourage them to buy something, moron?” he whispered.
“It’s the anniversary of our first date. We celebrate all of our special moments. What about this one, Jimmy?” Naomi pointed to a ring on the second shelf of the case next to them. Fender looked to see which ring the vulture had laid her eyes on. A sudden sinking feeling gripped him by the neck.
Naomi pointed to a large solitaire diamond in a platinum setting. The diamond sparkled under the case lights. Fender thought for just a second it was winking at him. Oh shit. It isn’t any diamond. It’s that diamond. That ring. The Ring.
Fender had put it out on the floor to dispose of it, but now that he was faced with the prospect of selling it, he wasn’t so sure. Could he get rid of the problem by getting rid of the ring? Sure you can. Get the ring out, let Naomi the hyena latch on to it, and sell the thing. He opened the door to the case and fished the tray out. Time to lay it on thick.
“Oh, Naomi, you sure do have good taste.” He looked up at her. She mouthed something at him that looked like “Bastard.” He grinned even wider. “Nope, Jimmy, your girl here has an eye for the good stuff, no doubt about it. You’re never gonna get a cheap piece of jewelry past those beady, er, sharp eyes of hers.”
Sam coughed. He shot a glance at Fender. His ability to spot bullshit from a mile away was renowned.
Jimmy picked up the ring from the gray velveteen tray. Fender’s heart started to pound. He wasn’t doing anything wrong. No one probably even noticed that Dead Boyfriend’s check never cleared. He was dead. A little money out of a ring D.B. couldn’t use anymore wouldn’t hurt anyone.
Naomi and Jimmy had taken the ring over to the store window, followed by Sam. Now he held it up for them, rotating it and tilting it in the natural light. Fender knew letting him near customers was asking for trouble. The last time Sam had “minded the store,” when Fender had served jury duty (total hell and he swore he’d never do his civic duty again, but that’s another story), Fender had regretted it. Sam had fashioned a crown out of coffee filters from the back office, and every time a woman purchased a ring, he’d had her don the crown and sing “It’s My Special Day,” while he took pictures. That’d scarred some formerly repeat customers for life.<
br />
But right now, if Sam distracted Jimmy and Naomi, that was fine by Fender. Is this all right? They were going to buy the ring. What if he told Ginger the truth someday, and she wanted to see the ring Brad was going to give her and he’d sold it? Would she be mad? Would she stay with him?
Now he laughed at himself. Like she was “with him” now anyway. Even if they were a couple, it was all a matter of time. That’s why he didn’t believe in marriage. Sooner or later, people drove each other crazy, and somebody would leave. That was always the way it went. He stared at the back of Naomi’s bubble head of hair and stood a little taller. Ginger was going to figure him out soon enough, and he might as well do things the way he always did: for himself. And if he got to suck some more money out of a twisted couple like Jimmy and Naomi, then so be it.
“So, what do you think?” He needed to close this deal and get these two out of the shop.
Naomi batted her eyelashes at Jimmy. Sam, standing behind them, grimaced. Fender held back a surge of pure nausea.
“Fender, charge my card. You know the drill.” Jimmy gave his wife a hug.
He didn’t even ask the price. Astounding.
Over Jimmy’s shoulder, Naomi sneered at Fender, like she’d won some kind of game. “Do you want to wear it home?” Jimmy talked to her in a voice reserved for small children—babyish and high. He signed the sales receipt without even looking at it, mooning over that horrible woman the whole time. Fender rolled his eyes at Sam. Sam made that grimace again.
“You two go on. I’m glad we could be of help.” Fender walked them to the door of the shop. He shut and locked the door behind them.
“Well done, my friend. That was a pricey ring!” Sam slapped him on the back.
“You have anything going on?” Fender walked to the office in back, fighting the acid rising in his throat.
“Do I ever have anything going on?” Sam looked curious. “Why, what’s your plan?”
From the top file cabinet drawer in the office, Fender pulled a bottle of Cuervo. “Because I’m going to drink myself blind, and I thought you might want to participate.”
The Jeweler Page 10
