43
Gemma’s first clue that something happened was her pinging phone. She was just too busy to stop and look at it.
The sun was barely up when she set out her equipment: needle-nose pliers, soldering paste, soldering pad, interlocking tweezers, goggles, the torch, and the pickle pot. She’d seen a robin’s egg on the ground the other day, and then minutes later spotted a cloisonné egg at a shop called Global Gifts on Commercial. This was the way inspiration worked: She was turning the cloisonné egg into a charm.
She secured the egg in a clamp and looped the wire through the hook with the other end looping through the clasp and then twisted it closed, making the joint meeting as close as possible so she could solder it.
Her phone demanded attention: ping, ping, ping.
She fire-coated the top of the egg and the clasp to protect it from the heat. Next, she used her soldering paste and applied it as accurately as possible just to the joint—she had to keep it isolated from the rest of the piece so the heat didn’t melt any other parts. Goggles on, she flipped on the torch and set it to continuous flame. One of the first things she learned in metalworking was that the heat from the flame drew the solder to where she wanted it. She could still hear her professor saying, “Solder flows to the hottest point.”
Ping, ping, ping.
She put down the torch. What was going on? She opened her Instagram account and saw it was flooded with orders. More orders than she could possibly fulfill. There was only one possible explanation.
Heart pounding, she clicked over to The New York Times. There it was: “Something Old, Something New: Meet Gemma, the Next Big Thing in Jewelry Design.”
She scanned the article quickly, looking for any mention of the Pavlins. It came later in the article, only as background. Gemma was relieved to see that the article focused first and foremost on her work. The reporter did a great job articulating her values and vision, and she even included a shout-out to Sanjay and his photography for her online shop and social media. The whole piece was as positive as she could have hoped for, except for the timing. If she’d had an investor in place, the article would have been an accelerant for her scaling up. But without funding, she couldn’t buy even a fraction of the supplies needed to meet the sudden demand. All she could do was hope it helped make her case with investors. If she found one to make her case to.
Shaking with excitement, she forwarded the article to Sanjay. At the very least, maybe it would bring him some photography work. She hadn’t heard from him since he went back to the city the week before. Still, she thought about that kiss on the beach over and over again. Even when she tried to discipline herself not to think about it during the day, she dreamt about him. She’d hoped spending time with Connor Harrison would help her feelings for Sanjay fade, but so far not so much.
Her phone rang, and for a split second she thought it might be Sanjay calling to congratulate her. But the incoming number was unfamiliar.
“Hello?”
“Gemma, Sloan Pierce here. What a fabulous piece in the Times.”
“Oh, thanks, Sloan—”
“But I do have to ask: Since things are going so well for you, why do you feel the need to be obstructionist?”
“I’m sorry?”
“Elodie told me you’re refusing to sign off on the auction contract.”
“I’m not refusing,” Gemma said. “I just made it conditional. She can’t keep the Electric Rose from me. And since you want to know where the diamond is, too, we have a shared interest in this.”
“You need to get out of the way,” Sloan said.
The woman had nerve. Even by New York standards, she was getting too pushy for comfort.
“Actually, I don’t need to do anything.”
“You know, it really is a lovely article. But the jewelry business is a very small world. I should know: I’ve been making a name for myself for nearly a decade. This auction will be a game-changer for me. I’ll be able to write my own ticket at Whitmore’s or anywhere else. That is, if you don’t mess it up. And really, it would be a shame for you to make enemies this early in your career.”
Before Gemma could respond, Sloan ended the call.
Elodie pedaled behind Tito on the final stretch to Herring Cove Beach, then coasted into the parking lot.
Avoiding bike rides hadn’t lasted very long. It was a point of pride that Tito didn’t drive to Herring Cove unless it was above ninety degrees or if it was late in the day and they risked missing the sunset. Starting a week ago, they daily made the ten-minute bike trip up Province Lands Road, past the salt marshes and Boy Beach. Occasionally, they went all the way to Race Point, but she didn’t have the stamina to do that all the time. She was well out of her comfort zone as it was. But Tito had that effect on her. When she was around him, she felt like a teenager again, like she had her entire life ahead of her and anything could happen. She felt a weight lifted. She felt almost . . . happy.
Tito stopped his bike before making the usual left turn toward the beach path. Then she noticed the truck parked off to one side and a small crowd of onlookers gathered behind it. The truck had a large trailer attached to the back and read “Marine Mammal Rescue” on the side.
Elodie pulled up beside Tito and hit the brake.
“What’s going on?” she said.
An official-looking woman with wild curly gray hair and wearing a uniform blue T-shirt with a life jacket around her neck crossed in front of them, speaking into a walkie-talkie.
“Judy,” Tito called out. “It’s Tito from the marina. You need any help?”
“Oh, hey, Tito. I think we might. We got six adult dolphins who were grounded ashore in Wellfleet. We’re just waiting for the rest of the crew to get here for the release. Hop in the truck—there’s extra boots and gloves in back.”
He turned to Elodie. “Sorry to run off but—”
“Of course! Go—I’ll just wait here,” she said.
“She’s with me,” he said to Judy.
Police cars pulled into the parking lot, and two women in sheriff’s office uniforms conferred with Judy while Elodie followed Tito to the truck. There was no time to talk. Tito ushered her to the rear of the trailer. It was open in the back with a metal walkway that extended to the pavement. She was shocked to see dolphins lying on the floor, each wrapped in some sort of tarp or blanket. Another woman in a blue T-shirt tended to them. Tito disappeared inside.
More police arrived, conferring with Judy. A van pulled in, and half a dozen women jumped out all dressed in orange all-weather uniforms with long sleeves and long pants, water boots and gloves. A flatbed on wheels appeared, and the women moved it close to the trailer.
The crowd of onlookers had tripled, and there was a sense of urgency in the air. People spoke in hushed tones, a lot of them snapping photos of the dolphins. Elodie wondered how long the dolphins had been out of the water, and how long they could survive like this.
Tito emerged from the trailer dressed in brown waterproof coveralls and boots, with a blue IFAW baseball cap over his thick head of hair. The women in the orange uniforms surrounded him, and they huddled together intently. She thought again in that moment how very attractive he was—a man’s man. So unlike the suits she met all the time in the city.
Things moved quickly. The rescuers carried the dolphins out one by one in red tarps and then placed them on the flatbed on wheels. She realized the bed was a mobile stretcher, and Tito pulled it from the front with the six women surrounding the dolphin along both sides and the back. The procession headed swiftly but carefully down the nearest pathway to the beach. The crowd followed, rushing through the nearest alternative path to the shore, giving the procession a respectful wide berth.
The beach was particularly rocky that day and she was thankful that she had sneakers on. The beachgoers in flip-flops did not fare as well, slowed down by the need to step over stones and rocks and shells. Some gravel made its way into her sneakers but she didn’t miss a step, so intent was she on not missing a moment of the dolphins’ journey.
The police had cleared the perimeter, and some beachgoers were still grumbling about uprooting their umbrellas and chairs and coolers. There was confusion about what was going on, but as soon as the rescue teams were in full view, the sunbathers backed off.
Elodie spaced herself far enough away from the dolphin procession that she felt comfortable she wasn’t crowding in. They stopped the first stretcher about twenty yards from the water and moved the first dolphin onto what looked like a blue tarp on the sand. Elodie saw the animal fully revealed. It was very still, and she couldn’t tell if its eyes were closed or if that was simply the way it always looked. It was tan on the under half and black on the top, its dorsal fin lying flat. It seemed lifeless, and the high she’d felt watching the team in action gave way to the sobering realization that the outcome might not be good.
A group transported the second dolphin, and then four more teams, each with a dolphin, reached the first. The only thing she could hear was the lapping of the waves. The smattering of onlookers were completely silent, reverent in the face of delicate work. She watched Tito in conference with his team, and after a moment they reconfigured around the tarp and lifted the dolphin, taking slow and steady steps to the water until everyone stood waist-deep. The rest of the groups followed them, and they fanned out, side by side, standing about ten feet apart, each surrounding their dolphin.
Elodie expected the dolphins to perk up and swim right off, but nothing happened. Minutes ticked by, and her curiosity turned to anxiety.
“This is normal,” a woman next to her said. “They need to get their muscle memory back. It’s almost as if they forget how to swim when they’re out of the water for a while.”
Sure enough, Tito’s team shifted as their dolphin wriggled free of the tarp and swam off. Seconds later, another dolphin followed. After a few more minutes, all of the animals were free. She wanted to clap or cheer and waited for her fellow onlookers to do the same, but the respectful silence continued until the rescue workers turned to walk back to the parking lot. Then the applause began, a smattering that turned into a raucous shouting and whistling.
Tito gave her a wave, and her heart began to race. She wanted to throw her arms around him. She wanted him.
Standing with her feet planted firmly in the sand, she knew the dolphins weren’t the only ones resuscitated that day.
She couldn’t deny it any longer: She was falling for Tito Barros.