The morning after the Fourth of July party, Gemma woke up to the news that she’d been summoned to a meeting with Sloan Pierce. Right there in Provincetown.
It was her day off from the store and she’d planned to try to catch up on the orders flooding in on the heels of the New York Times article. Last night, at Connor’s after the fireworks, she hinted around about meeting his investor contacts while he was busy trying to get her into bed. They both ended the night unsatisfied.
And now this.
Celeste drove the five minutes to the meeting place.
The house didn’t seem to belong in Provincetown. High atop a hill on Province Land’s Road, it was new construction, mostly glass. It looked as if a strong wind had plucked it from East Hampton and dropped it there. Gemma had biked past it on her way to the beach but never imagined she’d see the interior.
“You’re sure this is it?” she said to Celeste.
“I’m sure this is it,” Celeste said, double-checking her phone before parking in the circular driveway. “And I have to say, I’d been wondering who built this monstrosity.”
“The owner is Sloan Pierce’s friend?”
Celeste nodded. “I think the woman buys a lot of art at auction. Her name’s Sandra Crowe. I asked around at the party last night and Maud said Sandra came to town just a few years ago. She lived on the East End while building this. She also apparently bullied her way into showing her amateur paintings in one of the galleries.”
Gemma glanced behind her to take in the sweeping view of the bay, the jetty, and the marshes. They walked toward the front door, white pebbles crunching under their feet. Before they could ring the bell, a young woman emerged dressed in a white linen button-down and matching pants.
“Welcome! I’m Samantha, Ms. Crowe’s assistant. Please follow me out back to the pool.”
So much for seeing the interior. White hydrangea bushes framed the path to the rear of the house. The grass and hedges were among the most manicured Gemma had seen in town.
The pool was large and oval-shaped, the water a breathtaking aquamarine—the color of the Caribbean Sea. Elodie was already seated in an Adirondack chair alongside Sloan, drinking a tall glass of pink lemonade. As soon as Gemma took her own seat, another assistant pressed a glass of it into her hands.
“So glad you could join us.” Sloan Pierce stood from her chair. She wore a khaki-colored, safari-style shirtdress that looked casual but was probably Ralph Lauren Purple Label. Gemma didn’t know how she was meant to greet the woman who, the last time they’d spoken, had basically threatened her career.
Celeste bridged the awkwardness by shaking her hand and then sitting in the chair between them. All four seats had been assembled around a glass table with a bottle of Cristal on ice.
“Thanks for taking the time to meet,” Sloan said. “I know it’s a holiday weekend and you’re all very busy. Normally, I wouldn’t press. But my team feels strongly about coordinating this with the Pavlin & Co centennial, and the clock is ticking. An event of this magnitude takes a lot of planning.”
“Well, now that we’re all here, we can sign the paperwork and move forward,” Elodie said.
“We never agreed to sign the contract,” Gemma said, glancing at Celeste.
“I did,” Celeste said.
What? “You did?”
“On the condition that Elodie tell us where to find your mother’s ring.”
Gemma turned to Elodie, heart pounding. Elodie crossed her arms, her expression steely.
“My parents sold the Electric Rose under the utmost secrecy ten years ago. It was through a private dealer, completely underground,” she said.
Gemma felt like she’d been physically struck. It took a few seconds to find her voice. Sold? Sold?
“They got rid of it?” Celeste said, sounding incredulous. She moved closer to Gemma, putting her arm around her shoulders. She leaned against her aunt as if she were the only thing keeping her upright.
Her mother’s ring was gone.
“Why?”
“It was a business decision.”
“She left that to me. The only thing I would have of hers.” Gemma’s mind raced. Someone bought her diamond. And it was hers. Her grandfather had given it to her mother, and her mother had given it to her. It was a family heirloom, and there was such a thing as succession. Didn’t those things matter?
“I know it’s not the answer you wanted, but there it is.” Elodie turned to Celeste. “So now it’s your turn.”
“I’m sorry, Gemma,” Celeste said before leafing through the document and signing the last page. “I really am.”
Gemma felt sick. The ring was long gone. Sold not long after her parents’ accident. The news felt like another death. And it brought the feelings of that awful day rushing back to her.
She and her parents had been on one of their many trips. Gemma’s early childhood had been a constant rotation of luxury hotel rooms and yachts anchored off the coast of Europe, punctuated by the occasional visit to New York to see her grandparents. It would have been lonely except for all of the time she and her mother spent together while her father was off scuba diving and parasailing and all the other adrenaline-fueled activities her mother wasn’t interested in. Instead, the two of them would shop and take long lunches at cafés and sit on the beach. By that time, Paulina was tired of being hounded by photographers and she’d found anonymity in narrow cobblestoned streets and obscure harbors. But on that particular trip, her mother was learning how to sail.
That final morning, her father filled a thermos with white wine and told Gemma to be good for the babysitter, a local village girl. Her mother helped Gemma get the knots out of her hair, tangled from swimming. Paulina was dressed in a black two-piece bathing suit with a sarong tied around her waist. The gauzy fabric had a yellow butterfly pattern, and the color was picked up by the yellow diamond studs in her ears. Her hair, too, was pale yellow, bleached from the sun. She wore it piled on top of her head in a clip, just a few tendrils escaping that brushed Gemma’s cheek when her mother kissed her goodbye.
By nightfall, her parents hadn’t returned and the village girl put her to bed. When she woke up in the morning, her grandmother was in the living room. Her first thought was, how strange to see Constance outside of Manhattan. Then her instincts kicked in and told her something was very, very wrong. And then Constance stood up, seeming, in that moment, to tower over her. There’s been an accident . . .
Sloan Pierce looked at her expectantly. Celeste passed her the pen and the document.
Gemma couldn’t do it.