5
Gemma flashed her borrowed press pass at the gatekeeper, glanced at her family name carved above the entrance, then followed the tide of reporters as she crossed the threshold of Pavlin & Co for the first time in a decade and a half.
Nothing had changed. Not the deep green awnings over the windows, not the entrance itself inlaid with stainless steel columns, and not the sprawling main floor filled with glass display cases under twenty-four-foot ceilings. The double-height windows offered a view of one of the most famous retail blocks in the world.
A man dressed in a double-breasted suit directed the crowd to the far wall, where a continuous, long glass case was flanked by guards and lit from above with bright light.
“Please feel free to peruse the Pavlin Private Collection, on exhibit in its entirety for the first time . . .”
Gemma’s heart began to beat fast. She was so close. She couldn’t believe she’d finally get to see her mother’s engagement ring again. The last time she’d touched it had been in the chaotic days following her parents’ deaths. Her maternal grandmother, Constance, an imposing woman with a tiny thin frame and blond hair that never moved in even the stiffest wind, had been the one to break the news of the accident to Gemma. Surreal days blended into one another, as Gemma wandered her grandparents’ palatial apartment on Park Avenue, irrationally waiting for her mother to come get her. Out of habit, craving the ritual of watching her mother do her hair and makeup for a night out, she ventured into Constance’s bedroom. Shockingly, she saw her mother’s pink diamond engagement ring resting on a crystal dish on the dresser. This, more than anything else, made the news of her parents’ deaths seem real. At the sight of that ring separated from her mother, she burst into tears. Trembling, she slipped it onto her finger. Then, hearing her grandmother’s footsteps, she just as quickly slipped it off.
“It will be yours someday,” her grandmother said. “It’s what your mother wanted. So, something to look forward to when you’re grown up.”
Well, now she was grown up. But she’d had almost no contact with the Pavlins for the past fifteen years. They never reached out to her, and Nana discouraged her from contacting them—or asking too many questions.
“You’re better off without those people,” she’d said.
Gemma was confused. Wasn’t she herself one of “those people”?
She fell into the makeshift line of reporters, noting that even the jaded Manhattan press was quietly reverent in the face of such treasures, some—but not all—of which she recognized. The Daisy necklace, a graduated series of circular-cut diamond daisies, each set with a circular-cut yellow diamond bombé pistil, spaced by chrysoprase leaves with circular-cut diamond trim; the Lemon Drop, a detachable pear-shaped fancy yellow diamond, 9.66 carats, attached to a colored diamond neck chain, mounted in gold-plated platinum; the Constance, an art nouveau enamel and multi-gem heron designed with a cushion-cut aquamarine and cabochon opal body, extending blue and green plique-á-jour enamel wings, enhanced by cabochon rubies and calibré-cut emeralds, accented by gold wirework detail.
All breathtaking, but somewhat dated. Gemma, a student of the history of jewelry as well as its creation, had noted that Pavlin & Co had long since stopped innovating. They were coasting on their name, on people’s perception of luxury and quality. But Gemma knew times were changing, and the Pavlins’ laziness would make her job of outshining them that much easier.
Still, there was one piece Gemma’s modern creations could never compete with: the Electric Rose. But as she moved from case to case, a feeling of unease came over her as she approached the end of the exhibit.
Her mother’s engagement ring was not there.
Elodie, dressed in a custom emerald green St. John dress, greeted the press and felt like a bride on her wedding day. Or, at least, what she imagined a bride to feel like. Despite being the heiress to a fortune built on diamond engagement rings, neither Elodie nor her older sister, Celeste, had ever married. The irony had not escaped the notice of gossip columnists over the decades.
The media assembled before her now were of a different generation; aside from a few familiar faces from The Wall Street Journal and The New York Times, she doubted any of them remembered when more ink was spilled on the glamorous Pavlin sisters than on Pavlin & Co itself.
“I’m delighted to welcome you here tonight on such an auspicious occasion, and I know my parents would be touched to see such an enthusiastic celebration of our one hundred years on Fifth Avenue. Since opening these doors a century ago, Pavlin & Co has become one of the most sought-after retail destinations in the world . . .”
Elodie moved through her speech, adrenalized by the camera flashes and the anticipation of fielding questions about each of the eighty heirloom pieces on display. The press had been given a walk-through in advance of the party guests’ arrival, and their appreciative sighs and murmurs had fueled her like a drug.
Elodie’s publicist gave her the signal that it was time for the Q and A.
“I’ll take a few questions,” Elodie said. The first hand that shot up belonged to a young woman in a black dress. Elodie pointed to her and nodded, an alarm bell sounding deep inside as she noted there was something eerily familiar about the beautiful blonde.
“Why isn’t the most famous piece in the Pavlin collection included in the exhibit?” the woman said. “Where’s the Electric Rose?”
Elodie felt the blood drain from her face, her heart pounding as recognition materialized: That woman was her niece, Gemma. Every nerve in her body wanted to summon security, to have the interloper thrown out. Instead, she smiled calmly.
“The Electric Rose has not been shown in public since the death of its owner,” Elodie said. “Nor will it be.”
A reporter raised her hand. She was in her early fifties, with straight red hair the color of a new penny. Elodie recognized her, too: Regan O’Rourke from The New York Times, formerly a gossip columnist who’d written some absurd items about Elodie and her sisters. And some not so absurd.
“Is that because of the curse?” Regan asked.
Oh, not that nonsense again. It had been years since she’d thought about the old rumor that the Electric Rose diamond was cursed and doomed her family to be unlucky in love. Leave it to Regan to bring it up. She was probably the one who’d started it.
“No, we don’t make decisions based on tabloids from the 1990s,” Elodie said with a forced laugh. She glanced once again at her niece, a mirror image of her mother.
She stopped taking questions.
Gemma followed the tide of journalists from the press area back onto the main floor.
She walked directly behind the red-headed reporter who asked about the curse. Growing up, Gemma had tried to make sense of her parents’ deaths, searching online and finding a revolting trove of gossip items about her family. Yes, some said the Electric Rose, just like the Hope Diamond, was “cursed.” Some claimed that her mother’s oldest sister, Celeste, ran away to New England and joined a cult. She read that her mother stole her father from Elodie, and that her grandfather had an affair and originally unearthed the Electric Rose to win his wife back. Gemma knew every gossip item was garbage, but out of all of them, the curse story was the one that persisted. But even as a teenager Gemma knew it was childish—lazy—to try to explain away real-world tragedy with magical thinking.
The front doors were now open to the wider party, well-heeled guests pouring in, vibrating with the specific energy of people who felt included, chosen, special. The last time Gemma had been inside the store, she had felt that way: Included. Chosen. Special.
Being around diamonds and emeralds could do that to a person. Her mother always told her that the value of precious gems went beyond their beauty—that each stone had unique properties that enhanced the spiritual life of the owner. “They’re little bits of magic.” Emerald stimulated the heart chakra, healing emotions as well as the physical heart. Rubies improved energy and concentration.
“What about pink diamonds?” Gemma once asked, because of course that was her favorite stone of all.
“Pink diamonds heighten our intuition.” And she wagged her ring finger with the breathtaking gem.
Has not been shown in public since the death of its owner.
She felt a hand on her shoulder.
“I need to speak with you,” Elodie said.
Escorted by security guards, Gemma had no choice but to follow Elodie out a side entrance onto East Fifty-Third Street.
“You’re trespassing,” Elodie said, her ash blond hair pushed back in a headband that matched her dress. Her only jewelry was a gold chain-link necklace and a gold Pavlin & Co watch. Her figure was matronly; her voice had the huskiness of a former smoker, and a slight twang that suggested nonexistent Southern roots. She had deep creases around her mouth, but was blessed with the same beautiful blue-green eyes as all the Pavlin women.
“Do you know who I am?” Gemma said.
“I do. That’s how I know you weren’t invited.”
“Where’s the Electric Rose?”
“That’s none of your business. It’s a family piece.”
“And I’m family. My mother left it to me.”
“It wasn’t hers to leave. It belongs to Pavlin & Co. At best, it was loaned to her. I hate to disappoint you, but you’ll have to go gold-digging elsewhere.”
Gemma felt a fury she’d never experienced before. She would never understand why the Pavlins cast her out as they did, but at least in this moment she knew what to do about it.
“I’m not going anywhere. That ring belongs to me. And the future of jewelry belongs to people like me. The glory days of Pavlin & Co are over.”
She turned and walked away, leaving behind the celebrated building that haunted her dreams. Knowing that in order to fulfill her destiny, she had to destroy her legacy.