birthday. Returning to the table, I picked up the first brooch, the smaller of the four, and peered at it through the loupe. The ten-times monocular lens confirmed my suspicions. Though expertly made, the pin was not diamond-encrusted. As on the earrings, the crown motifwas repeated. Turning it over, I had to search for a few seconds before finding L.S. & CO. stamped just below the clasp. I wasn’t familiar with the company, but that didn’t mean much. A lot of jewelers placed maker’s marks in their higher-end pieces.
Since I had the loupe out anyway, I checked the earrings. Again I found the same marking but no .925 stamped into the piece. Given the overall quality, my guess was that the silver had a rhodium finish, which explained the luster and replicated the look of platinum.
Turning my attention back to the stones, I examined them closely. Thanks in part to my job in trusts and estates, I’d gotten fairly good at defining CZ. Like natural diamonds, cubic zirconia was graded according to four criteria: carat weight, clarity, color, and cut. These were top-of-the-line stones and better quality than the typical quality preferred by jewelers. I’d still want a jeweler to appraise them, but I was guessing I was seeing at least five carats of brilliant cut C AAAAA.
“Weird,” I mumbled.
I repeated the process on the rest of the brooches. All but one shared the characteristics of the first. The fourth one immediately had my full attention.
It was three inches in diameter and sorta resembled the jewels at the midpoint of Elizabeth II’s official crown. Sad that I knew my crowns, since it revealed my childhood fantasy of becoming a princess. “Mom would have loved that,” I commented sarcastically. She’d value a title above all else. No more taunts about being an underachiever by choice, no more talk of law school, reinstated access to my trust fund. And just possibly a reason to like me. And vice versa. My mother and I were stuckin that place where on some level we loved each other, but on every other level we just irritated each other.
I sighed deeply and went back to the task at hand. This brooch was diamond-encrusted platinum. At least I thought so. Mentally, I added it to my list of items to have the jeweler appraise.
The doorbell startled me, and I called out, “Just a minute!” For the sake of safety, I scooped up the jewelry—again getting pricked in the process—and my loupe and put them in the junk drawer.
The instant I opened the door, I smelled moo shu, and my stomach gurgled.
“Hey there,” Jane greeted.
There was some tension around her mouth and eyes. Or maybe it was guilt.
Or maybe I was just funneling everything through my residual annoyance. Which was childish. And silly. And above all else, wrong.
Jane placed the box of food on the counter, then asked to use the powder room. In the few minutes she was gone, I set the counter up with place mats, chopsticks, napkins, and another wineglass. I retrieved my glass from the coffee table, and my nose pinched at the scent of cedar competing with the Chinese food.
Jane reemerged a different person. Gone were the form-fitting red dress, stunning silver pumps, and assorted silver accessories. Instead, she’d put on her clinging yoga clothing. I wondered if she was ever going to get saddlebags or cellulite.
Probably not.
“What’s that smell?” she asked as she took the glass of wine I offered.
“Cedar. Give me a sec.”
“And what did you do to your head?”
“Nothing major,” I assured her as I carried the bags out to the lanai and closed the sliding glass door. “Better?”
“Much. Please tell me you didn’t go on a five-bag spending binge.” She frowned.
I made a cross over my heart while saying, “Nope. That’s all Ellen’s crap. I’m taking it to the thrift store in the morning.”
“Ellen the lesbian?”
“She’s not gay,” I said. “I think she’s just asexual.”
“Does the asexual manual state that
Since I had the loupe out anyway, I checked the earrings. Again I found the same marking but no .925 stamped into the piece. Given the overall quality, my guess was that the silver had a rhodium finish, which explained the luster and replicated the look of platinum.
Turning my attention back to the stones, I examined them closely. Thanks in part to my job in trusts and estates, I’d gotten fairly good at defining CZ. Like natural diamonds, cubic zirconia was graded according to four criteria: carat weight, clarity, color, and cut. These were top-of-the-line stones and better quality than the typical quality preferred by jewelers. I’d still want a jeweler to appraise them, but I was guessing I was seeing at least five carats of brilliant cut C AAAAA.
“Weird,” I mumbled.
I repeated the process on the rest of the brooches. All but one shared the characteristics of the first. The fourth one immediately had my full attention.
It was three inches in diameter and sorta resembled the jewels at the midpoint of Elizabeth II’s official crown. Sad that I knew my crowns, since it revealed my childhood fantasy of becoming a princess. “Mom would have loved that,” I commented sarcastically. She’d value a title above all else. No more taunts about being an underachiever by choice, no more talk of law school, reinstated access to my trust fund. And just possibly a reason to like me. And vice versa. My mother and I were stuckin that place where on some level we loved each other, but on every other level we just irritated each other.
I sighed deeply and went back to the task at hand. This brooch was diamond-encrusted platinum. At least I thought so. Mentally, I added it to my list of items to have the jeweler appraise.
The doorbell startled me, and I called out, “Just a minute!” For the sake of safety, I scooped up the jewelry—again getting pricked in the process—and my loupe and put them in the junk drawer.
The instant I opened the door, I smelled moo shu, and my stomach gurgled.
“Hey there,” Jane greeted.
There was some tension around her mouth and eyes. Or maybe it was guilt.
Or maybe I was just funneling everything through my residual annoyance. Which was childish. And silly. And above all else, wrong.
Jane placed the box of food on the counter, then asked to use the powder room. In the few minutes she was gone, I set the counter up with place mats, chopsticks, napkins, and another wineglass. I retrieved my glass from the coffee table, and my nose pinched at the scent of cedar competing with the Chinese food.
Jane reemerged a different person. Gone were the form-fitting red dress, stunning silver pumps, and assorted silver accessories. Instead, she’d put on her clinging yoga clothing. I wondered if she was ever going to get saddlebags or cellulite.
Probably not.
“What’s that smell?” she asked as she took the glass of wine I offered.
“Cedar. Give me a sec.”
“And what did you do to your head?”
“Nothing major,” I assured her as I carried the bags out to the lanai and closed the sliding glass door. “Better?”
“Much. Please tell me you didn’t go on a five-bag spending binge.” She frowned.
I made a cross over my heart while saying, “Nope. That’s all Ellen’s crap. I’m taking it to the thrift store in the morning.”
“Ellen the lesbian?”
“She’s not gay,” I said. “I think she’s just asexual.”
“Does the asexual manual state that
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