by LYDIA STORM
The knock on her door snapped Veronica out of her reverie.
“Veronica,” John’s voice sounded muffled through the door. “It’s me. Are you in there?”
She hesitated. Despite their earlier argument, she had to admit now that the sound of his voice was comforting. There was something warm and good about him that she liked, despite her annoyance at his professional duties.
She started toward the door when she heard him strike up a whistled tune on the other side. She stopped and stood there smiling as the sound of his little melody floated into her room. Leaning back against the door, she crossed her arms, thinking. What was she going to do with John Monroe?
****
Marguerite Gateaux longed for the feel of dice in her hands the moment she arrived aboard the French financier’s yacht La Sirène. A casino had been set up this evening as a diversion for the billionaire’s international guests. Tonight, Marguerite was a hired hand. She was to perform on the web of fishing nets which hung from the ceiling decorated with gauzy draped seaweed, shimmering giant oyster shells, and ropes of black Tahitian pearls. The ship’s grand salon had been designed for the party to look like a scene out of Davy Jones’ Locker complete with a treasure chest overflowing with fabulous goodies to be presented to the highest roller of the evening. Marguerite had dressed for the occasion by ordering a designer minidress.
She had been afforded a sumptuous stateroom, which her considerate employer had stocked with dozens of white iceberg roses overflowing their elegant vases and a box of lavender-scented chocolates from Maggie’s favorite Paris confiseur. The real attraction, however, was the fact that the yacht was anchored just off Oyster Bay in Long Island Sound, less than three hours’ drive from the nation’s capitol, and after all, that was the true reason she had come to the U.S. this time around. The Diamond Ball was only a few nights away, and Maggie the Cat was itching to see how the Hope would catch the light and explode with brilliance against her naked flesh.
René escorted Marguerite down to the casino and everyone turned to look as the glamorous redhead entered the room. She made straight for the craps table where a few of her colleagues from the Ballet de l’Aire had already congregated. She could tell from their joyful faces and applause that the table was so hot she might just get burned if she wasn’t careful.
Marguerite placed ten $1,000 bills on the green felt. Her heart sped up as the croupier handed her back a pile of golden chips minted for the occasion to look like sea-salvaged Spanish doubloons. She pushed a few coins René’s way and began to lay her own across the pass line. Her stage manager, Marcel, handed her the dice. It wasn’t Maggie’s turn, but everyone at the table knew she had infallible luck and they wanted in on it.
She shook up the dice and tossed them across the felt. They rebounded against the table wall and then came to a halt in the center.
Seven!
The table exploded with delight as the croupier handed out chips and doubled the pass line bets for everyone.
She picked up the dice again and tossed them hard across the table. Everyone held their breath, waiting to see if Maggie could work her magic a second time. But the dice turned against her and a pair of snake eyes stared up at them. She frowned as the croupier swept the gold doubloons from the table.
Concentrating harder this time, she carefully placed a stack of coins on the table. She turned to René and gave him an encouraging wink, then once more shook the dice and tossed them across the table. Everyone cheered and clapped as they bounced along but went silent when they turned up a now very unwelcome seven.
Some of the guests began to drift towards the roulette table or the bar as Marguerite passed the dice to an ageing British pop star. She brought one of the gold coins to her mouth and chewed on it absentmindedly, trying to decide whether to continue or walk away.
Marguerite placed her attention back on René who had begun to pout. “Come along, René. I need you to help me into my costume.”
An hour later, as she sat before her dressing table expertly applying makeup for her performance, Marguerite pondered her misfortune at the craps table. As an experienced gambler, and jewel thief, she had learned over the years that one of the biggest elements of luck was knowing when to walk away and she could feel the tide strongly against her. Should she forget the Hope and return to France? Her gut told her it was the right thing to do, but desire gripped her so intensely it could never be filled with the rugged lustful thrusts of young René. She yearned for the famous blue diamond as she had not for any other jewel.
Marguerite powdered her face absentmindedly. Perhaps she could find a way to petition the gods for a little luck—or maybe she would just have to steal it.
She turned to René who lay naked on the bed, his glorious tanned body resting comfortably, his cheeks flushed and covered with the sweaty glow of lovemaking.
“Can you do me a favor, cher?” she asked.
He pulled a few pillows behind his head and propped himself up. “What is it?”
“I need a very fast car.”
René smiled; he knew she was up to something and he loved it. “What for?”
“I’m going to pick up a little good luck charm,” she replied mysteriously.
“How little?”
Maggie furrowed her brow as she calculated in her head. “About 215 carats.”
“Mon Dieu!” exclaimed René, sitting up.
Maggie calmly turned back to her reflection and met a pair of jade green eyes lined in theatrical black liner. “Exactement.”
Chapter Six
The following afternoon, John and Veronica made their way into the Smithsonian’s Hall of Geology, Gems and Minerals with a cool distance between them. She was playing ice princess and he was letting her. Veronica was dressed for the occasion in a chiffon dress that fluttered around her slim figure, making her look as demure and ladylike as any Sweetbriar undergrad. She had on the same rocks as yesterday, except today she sported a pair of matching earrings and a big, shimmering, pink diamond ring surrounded by bright white brilliants set in platinum. John thought the flashy ring looked like something out of the most elegant bubblegum machine in the world. She had pale pink lips and nails, and her dark hair was pulled back from her face, revealing the perfect structure of her cheekbones and those incredible eyes.
John wore his best suit, which he had picked up at an old vintage store in upstate New York during one of his reparation outings with his mother. He looked snappy and he knew it. He had seen it by the flicker in Veronica’s eyes when she met him in the hotel lobby, just before she slipped on her Jackie O’s and made a big show of ignoring him.
Maybe Veronica was playing it cool. The ash-blond ladies in their buttoned-up Washington DC lunch suits and demure pearls, however, looked him over like a big shiny lollipop they couldn’t wait to get their collagen-infused lips around. He flashed the ladies a bright smile as they entered the dark gallery.
The room was almost black with big light-up display windows giving John the odd feeling of being in an aquarium. Inside the cases, piles of famous, glittering jewels flickered in the spotlights like the geological superstars they were. Marie Antoinette’s icy teardrop diamond earrings sat next to the flaming orange cushion-cut Pumpkin Diamond, so named because the House of Winston had acquired it one day before Halloween. The mystical Star of Bombay, a 182-carat sapphire bequeathed to the museum by Mary Pickford, glowed like a view from outer space—a ghostly six-pointed star glimmering across the milky way of its blue cloudy world. Under the spotlights next to the Star nestled Queen Nefertiti’s elaborate rose-gold necklace with over five hundred finely crafted turquoise beads. These were just the tip of the iceberg. The obscene piles of rubies, emeralds, and amethysts, exquisitely cut and crafted into some of the most beautiful jewelry ever made, was almost too much to take in at once.
The ladies chatted amongst themselves as they entered the room. Some of the younger, more press-worthy socialites compared notes on which designers were lend
ing them gowns for the ball and what their stylist envisioned for them. Only Veronica, who wore her own gowns and wouldn’t dream of allowing someone else to dress her, stepped away from the crowd to check out the gems. Hidden in the corners of the room, security guards stood in dark suits, purposely fading into the scenery. More museum security watched the room through hidden cameras on black-and-white grainy TV screens in a control room at the back of the museum.
A woman in an ivory pants suit with gray-streaked hair spoke up and thanked the ladies for coming. She was Kay Hopkins, the museum’s social director. A polite ruffle of applause ran through the room and she smiled graciously.
“Well now,” she said, peering through the dimly lit room, “I think we’re all here, except for Cynthia Spencer. Has anyone seen Cynthia?”
The DC matrons twisted their necks around and scanned the room, but there was no sign of the president’s daughter.
“Hmm, well, we’ll just start without her and I’m sure she’ll be here any minute.” Kay exhibited the smooth manner of an accomplished hostess. “Georgette, my assistant, is going to pass out numbers to you all. They will be your marching order, so to speak, for the jewelry show. If you’re number one, you’ll be the first one to come out and walk down the red carpet. Two will be second and so on. Are there any questions?”
The ladies nodded their ash-blond heads.
“Good!” said Kay with her gracious smile. “Now, you all are going to walk along this red carpet. Of course, for the ball, we’ll be downstairs in the rotunda, but for now you can just practice.” She displayed the path into the room marked by a red carpet which had been laid for the occasion. “When you come to the end of the carpet,” she stomped her feet deliberately as she reached the edge, “you will stand and smile as pretty as you can and the press will take your picture with all your lovely jewels. Then you will turn around and walk back the way you came. Do y’all get that?”
The ladies’ heads bobbed in unison.
“Great. Now, most of y’all will be wearing your own beautiful gems, but there are a few of you who will be modeling some of our very own Smithsonian treasures…” She paused midsentence as a team of secret servicemen slid into the room, along with a sullen teenager with limp blond hair and dark purple circles under her eyes. The girl wore a blue Izod shirt, pink bell-bottom corduroys, and faded white sneakers. Her sunburned skin was starting to peel at the tip of her nose while two braided cornrows adorned with colored beads hung against her cheek, looking out of place on the “WASPy” president’s daughter.
John watched the awkward teen enter the room. Someone just returned from a nice sunny spring break in the tropics.
Everyone turned to stare at Cynthia, and an expression crossed her face like she wanted to sink into the core of the earth and never be heard from again.
Kay plastered on a smile that looked fake, even for her. “Cynthia, I’m so glad you made it.”
“Sorry I’m late.” The teenager dropped her dishwater gray eyes to the floor and combed back one of the braided cornrows with her chubby fingers.
“That’s all right; you’re just in time,” said Kay brightly.
As the social director babbled on about who would be wearing what, Cynthia spotted Veronica at the edge of the crowd and shuffled over to her. “Hi, Veronica,” she said quietly under Kay’s speech.
Veronica turned and looked down at the girl who was a good six inches shorter than her. “Hello, Cynthia.”
The disapproval and dislike in Veronica’s voice took John by surprise, and though he hated to admit it, it made him feel a little bit better. She might not be crazy about him, but he’d yet to get that particular tone of disgust directed his way.
“How are you enjoying Yale?” she asked the sulking girl.
Cynthia gave an awkward shrug. “It’s okay.”
“Hmm,” Veronica turned away.
“I guess you talked to my mom.” The teenager sounded discouraged.
“Yes, I have,” replied Veronica shortly.
A blush crept into Cynthia’s wan cheeks and tears welled up in her dull gray eyes. When Veronica saw this, she tightened her jaw and did her best to ignore the girl. Eventually, she cracked and laid the hand with that bubblegum pink diamond on the teenager’s shoulder. She whispered in a kind but exasperated voice, “Don’t worry…”
Veronica caught John staring at her. Closing her mouth, she patted the girl’s shoulder a few times and turned her back to him to listen to Kay blab on about how wonderful it was of the ladies to come down, how ecstatic the Smithsonian was to have them, and what a spectacular event this was going to be.
When Kay finished her spiel, Veronica broke away from the pack and drifted into the Harry Winston Gallery. The room was a circular shape lined with displays of dimly lit crystals, rock formations, and meteorites. In the center stood what looked like a small Greek temple with a domed ceiling and marble floors. A single display case stood inside the structure; it was lit up like Time’s Square on New Year’s Eve.
Veronica stepped past the bronze bust of old Harry standing guard over the temple’s treasure. She stopped in front of the display case and gazed in fascination at the magnificent dark blue diamond glittering on a platinum chain of forty-six white-hot rocks. She appeared to be hypnotized by the explosion of violet light that was the Hope Diamond.
John couldn’t help noticing as he approached Veronica that the jewel perfectly matched the color of her eyes.
“Still sure you don’t want it?” he asked, almost in a whisper because he understood that for her this place was church.
“This diamond wasn’t meant to be worn,” she said, unable to lift her eyes from the play of light dancing in its depths like a cold blue fire.
“What do you think it was meant for?”
“Worship.” She breathed out the word like a prayer.
“I don’t know about that.”
“Don’t you?” she asked, and turned to him, smiling playfully. “Do you want me to tell you the rest of the gem’s history, now that it’s here in front of you and you can really see what I’m talking about?”
He looked at her quizzically and wondered if maybe it wasn’t coyness or perversity that had stopped her from reciting the full story of the diamond yesterday in the car. Was it possible she had purposely been waiting until now? Did she really care that much about giving him the experience?
He decided she didn’t. She would have grabbed a bum off the street, or Cynthia Spencer for that matter, and given them the same treatment, just for the pleasure of sharing her enthusiasm with another human being. She’d make the story real for them, so it could be real for her again.
“Well, you remember about Tavernier and the wild dogs?” she began.
He nodded.
“Anyway, before he was killed, Tavernier took the Blue Stone, as it was known at the French court, and sold it to King Louis XIV.” Her face glowed with the delight of a child reciting a favorite bedtime fairytale. “Well, King Louis wore the diamond one time and immediately contracted smallpox and dropped dead. His heir was smarter than his father. He knew where the jewel had come from and that it was cursed. So he never wore it; but guess who did?” She stood there waiting for him to guess.
“Uh, I don’t know.”
“His son and daughter-in-law, none other than Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette and we know what happened to them!”
John drew a finger across his throat and whistled.
“Correct.” She nodded like an approving grade school teacher. Only she was much more beautiful than any teacher he’d ever had. “The diamond disappeared from the scene after the French revolution, but in 1830…”
“You know your dates.” John was impressed.
“Yes, I do,” she agreed. “Anyway, in 1830, it reappeared in London and was bought by a British banker named Mr. Henry Thomas…can you guess his last name?”
“Hope?” he ventured.
“Yes, and not much is known about him, but in 1890�
�”
“You mean no terrible, cursed thing happened to him?” John teased her.
“Not that we know of,” she said, making it clear from her tone he was ruining the story. “In 1890, the diamond was inherited by the Duke of Newcastle, Lord Francis Hope. He was married to an American actress, and as soon as Lord Hope got his hands on the diamond, she ran off with another man.”
“Well, what did he expect, marrying an actress?” asked John. “You don’t need a cursed diamond to tell you an actress is going to…”
“Don’t interrupt me, John,” she said, interrupting him. It was the first time she had called him by name and he liked the way it sounded coming from her. The word struck a chord somewhere inside his chest, maybe a chord that had no business sounding when an employer was speaking to you, but it throbbed and hummed just the same.
“As I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted,” she continued, her eyes dancing, “Lady Hope, the actress, ran off to Boston where she ended up dying penniless. Of course, she had worn the diamond. Lord Hope, who had possessed a massive fortune, went inexplicably bankrupt. Next an Eastern European prince, what’s his name?” She wracked her brain and rubbed her hands together trying to spark her memory, but it was no use. “I can’t remember. This prince was in love with a dancer from the Folies Bergère, but he mistakenly believed she was in love with another man and shot her. Next, a Greek gem dealer got ahold of it and he drove his car, with his wife and children in it, off a cliff! After that, a Turkish Sultan named Abdul-something took hold of it and was almost immediately overthrown by his own army officers.”
“Okay, I believe you,” said John smiling.
“I’m not done,” she snapped. “After that, in 1911, Evelyn Walsh McLean, who was married to the owner of The Washington Post, got her hands on the diamond and her son was killed in a car accident, her daughter overdosed on sleeping pills, and her husband ended up in an insane asylum. Finally, after she died, Harry Winston bought the Hope and was smart enough to donate it to the Smithsonian, which put it right here, safe and sound.” She smiled at him, satisfied at last. “Now do you understand why you couldn’t pay me to take ownership of this necklace?”
