There had been a time when Elodie walked into the Café Carlyle and felt utterly at home amidst the elite crowd of New Yorkers and moneyed tourists. The Carlyle, on the corner of Madison and East Seventy-Sixth Street, shined like a beacon of the best New York City had to offer. It represented an old world that Elodie increasingly felt slipping away.
The staff still greeted her by name. But since her mother had passed away, there was a hollow feeling to the space. The first night she’d come for dinner after losing Constance, it was all she could do to keep down her martini—Belvedere Vodka, straight up with a twist. Two years later, seated in that dark and clubby room, she felt surrounded by ghosts. The ghosts of her parents, the ghosts of the legendary artists who had performed at the piano bar, and maybe the ghost of her former self, the one who believed she’d be truly happy once she was finally given her rightful place at the helm of the company.
Now she had the position she’d always wanted. But in some ways, it felt like it had come too late. The world was changing. Just the other day she’d overheard a young man saying he’d ordered an engagement ring online. Where was the joy in that? Did tradition have no place in society anymore? There had been a time when the appointments for ring consultations were booked six months in advance. Customers took the elevator up to the fourth floor, sat in a velvet cushioned wing-backed chair, and were offered champagne while her father himself counseled them on the “four C’s” and discussed the merits of platinum versus yellow gold settings. Now what? People preferred to just click a button?
Truth be told, as much as the current state of the industry dismayed her, she’d been in a foul mood ever since the unfortunate appearance of her niece earlier in the week.
She checked her watch, hoping Sloan would be on time. Lately, her dog, Pearl, seemed depressed when Elodie stayed out late at night. She didn’t want to have to put her on Prozac like her neighbor had with her terrier.
A woman with sleek good looks entered the room, her dark hair loose to her shoulders with razor-sharp bangs that could only have been cut by Shereen at Oscar Blandi. She was dressed in a dove gray pantsuit and a Pavlin & Co platinum chain-link necklace from the spring 2016 collection. Sloan Pierce.
They exchanged an air-kiss before Sloan took the seat across from her.
“The party the other night was just exquisite,” she said. “Congratulations.”
The waiter reappeared and Sloan ordered sparkling water.
“Sloan, dear, I insist you at least consider the wine list. It’s a travesty not to.” Elodie knew there were certain people who didn’t drink, and she found them dull. Sloan ordered a glass of the Burgundy. It was a point in her favor—that would have been Elodie’s selection as well if she had been having wine.
“How are your parents?” Elodie inquired politely.
“Wonderful, thank you. Mummy is already planning the gala for next season.” Harriet Pierce was on the board of the New York City Ballet and never let anyone forget.
“She always does a fine job,” said Elodie.
The waiter placed a glass of wine in front of Sloan and she raised it.
“To new endeavors,” Sloan said with the buoyancy of the young, for whom the future was just one big adventure.
Elodie took a large gulp of her martini and smiled tightly.
After some small talk, Sloan folded her hands in front of her and said, “You must be wondering why I called.”
“I assume you need someone to chair an event. I’m happy to lend a hand. Charity is very important to me.” It was true now more than ever; her mother had raised her to always find a way to give back. Constance had been on the board of Mount Sinai, the Met, and Children’s Aid. Elodie had not been the chair of a fundraiser since her death, and it was time. It would make her feel closer to her.
“Oh, well, there certainly could be a charitable angle,” Sloan said carefully. “That’s entirely up to you.”
“How so?”
“Elodie, I’ve always been a huge admirer of Pavlin & Co. Your family commissioned some of the most iconic pieces of American jewelry of the last century. I’m certain you’ll continue that tradition well into the next few decades. And as a scholar of fine jewelry, as a passionate enthusiast for your stellar brand, I’m proposing an auction of the Pavlin Private Collection.”
Elodie’s jaw dropped. Neither her grandparents nor her parents had ever sold anything from the private collection. These were pieces that had been created as gifts for members of the family, or pieces that had been designed for the floor but ultimately considered too special to part with. It even included pieces that had been purchased at one time but then quietly sold back to the family—sometimes a generation or more later.
“The Pavlin family has never put any of our pieces up for auction.”
Sloan nodded. “Historically, I know that to be the case. But I thought this centennial anniversary might be a time to revisit that.”
“How so?”
“This is the moment when a brand moves from classic to legendary. The party was a wonderful start. But why stop there? With an auction, you could cap this year off with something that would go down in history.”
Interesting. Try as she might, it was getting more and more difficult to get press, to distinguish Pavlin & Co from the competition, of which there was more and more with each passing day. Not to mention the internet.
“I know it’s a big decision,” Sloan said. “My boss was part of the team that put together the auction for Elizabeth Taylor’s jewelry. Ms. Taylor oversaw every detail. Not only every piece that was chosen for the auction, but how it was positioned in the catalogue, how it was advertised, how the event was planned down to the type of canape served. The auction, as you well know, was one of the great jewelry events of all time.”
“May I ask how old you are, Sloan?”
“I just turned thirty.”
“Quite young to be undertaking such a project,” Elodie said.
“I’ll admit, this would be a career-making event for me.” She met Elodie’s gaze, unwavering.
Ambitious. Elodie could relate.
“Well, it’s an intriguing proposition,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”
“Great. Also, I do have a question about one particular piece.”
“Oh?”
“At the party the other night, someone asked about the Electric Rose. You mentioned that it hasn’t been shown publicly since your sister’s death. I hope you will at least consider including it in the auction. It would make for spectacular publicity.”
Elodie sat back in her seat, narrowing her eyes. “That’s not going to happen. And if that ring is your entire motivation behind this conversation, then we have nothing left to discuss.”
“No, no,” Sloan said quickly. “Absolutely not. There’s certainly no shortage of remarkable pieces to build a promotional campaign around. Really, I think it would be the auction of the decade. And again, we’d welcome your input. You are Pavlin & Co.”
Yes, she was. And really, what better way to make use of the collection? She would never have someone to hand the pieces down to. And selling it off would at least prevent her niece from claiming it.
“I’ll think about it.”