The Jewels of Tessa Kent (10 page)

Finally, in desperation, Tessa decided to wear her best green linen suit, with her best white silk shirt, both of which were strictly reserved for Sunday mass. She poked and pulled at her hair until it fell untidily around her face, concealing her features as much as possible. She decided not to put on any makeup.

The general effect, she thought, as she glanced with concern into her mirror, was that of someone with the money for good clothes, someone who was too hip to care what she looked like—a casual, old-money look she’d noticed was a favorite with the mothers of her former schoolmates in Greenwich, a look that she hoped would inspire a certain amount of respect in a jewelry salesman.

She phoned the local taxi company. As soon as she saw the cab stop at the front door, she was out in a flash, calling “Bye, Mother, have to meet Fiona,” before her mother could stop her to ask why she wasn’t having
breakfast, what had happened to her riding lesson, and why on earth she was wearing her good suit.

“Tiffany’s in Beverly Hills,” Tessa told the driver, feeling a sudden surge of freedom as the cab pulled away quickly. She hadn’t been this excited since the audition that had won her the part of Jo. And what if she hadn’t talked Steve Miller, her business manager, into letting her open a little checking account of her own, Tessa asked herself delightedly. What if every last penny of the money she’d made were tied up in those safe investments that Steve told her would give her financial security when she was too old to work?

“I’m young, for heaven’s sake, Steve,” she’d told him, amazed. “I can play ingenues and leading ladies for another twenty years and I’ll still only be thirty-eight. Wow, imagine, thirty-eight! That’s practically middle-aged! Then, when it’s time, I’ll move into character parts. You’ll see, Steve, I plan to get older in some wonderful way, maybe a dignified, distinguished way, like an English actress, or in a sexy, fascinating way, like a French actress. I’ll play anything—mothers, maiden aunts, teachers, taxi drivers, nuns, you name it—because I intend to keep on working until I drop dead from real old age one day, waiting for my close-up.”

He’d laughed at her, but eventually she’d managed to get him to fork over three thousand dollars, more money than she’d ever believed she would have in her possession. Tessa’s never-used checkbook lay snugly in her handbag.

The taxi stopped in front of Tiffany & Co. at the corner of the Beverly Wilshire Hotel. She’d never been in the store—she’d hardly ever been to Beverly Hills, for that matter—yet she didn’t linger to gape at the windows but entered eagerly, marching through the door as if she’d done it dozens of times before. She moved with her characteristic walk, coltish yet swinging, both youthful and immodestly alluring, slightly boyish but enduringly graceful—a walk she was never to lose.

Swiftly Tessa cruised around the store, her proud
head on her proud neck set at a critical, appraising angle, as if she weren’t sure there could possibly be anything here she’d want to buy. She took in the lay of the land quickly. China and silver to the right; men’s watches and cuff links at one counter; women’s jeweled pins, necklaces, and earrings at another; silver picture frames, clocks, and key chains at a third. No, not what she was looking for. The salespeople all seemed to be occupied with customers, and for a minute Tessa stood still and looked around. At five feet seven inches, she was so perfectly made that she looked taller, and her disciplined posture was commanding without her realizing it. She made a vivid sight in her green suit: this tall, slim girl with a treasure of almost-black hair tumbling around her face, a face whose features were instantly translated into beauty, no matter how little of them could be seen.

“May I be of assistance?” asked a man’s voice. Tessa turned to see a pleasantly smiling, reassuringly middle-aged man who had materialized behind her.

“Yes, thank you. I’m looking for … for a pearl necklace.”

“You’ve certainly come to the right place,” he nodded. “Let’s go over to the back of the store. That’s where we keep our pearls.”

Tessa followed him to a long counter where, under glass, lay dozens of pearl necklaces and earrings. She noted that there were many differences in the size of the pearls and the lengths of the necklaces.

“Are these for a gift or for yourself?” the salesman asked.

“For myself,” Tessa answered, the normally spontaneous tone of her voice suddenly tentative as she realized that pearl necklaces came in more varieties than she had ever imagined, although she’d been daydreaming about one for over a year.

“Well then, if you can give me some idea of what you have in mind …?” He gestured at the abundance of choice. If it were up to him, he thought, he’d dip into
the case and hand her as many pearls as her two hands could hold and tell her they were a gift from an admirer.

A genuine pearl necklace I can buy for three thousand dollars, including sales tax, Tessa told herself, but she heard herself say, “I really won’t be able to tell you much until I try one on, will I?”

“That’s absolutely right,” the salesman agreed. “Each necklace is different from any other. Even two necklaces that seem identical to the naked eye will look different on your skin.” On this girl’s very white, extraordinarily perfect skin, he thought, any necklace was going to look exquisite. No necklace would be the best adornment of all.

“Of course,” Tessa said, looking down at rows of pearls that all seemed to be the same color. Pearl color.

“I assume you’re looking for a sixteen-inch necklace?”

“Probably,” Tessa said guardedly.

“It’s the most useful length, unless, of course, you have one already.” How could she not, he asked himself? How could such a splendid creature, who so obviously came from a moneyed background, not have an entire wardrobe of pearls? Of course, she was still so young she’d probably been borrowing her mother’s.

“Why do you think sixteen inches is so useful?” Tessa asked, not about to admit that she’d never measured the inexpensive string of artificial pearls she’d been given for her confirmation. Years of hard use had worn off their glossy surface in many places and shown them to be mere painted glass beads.

“You can wear a sixteen-inch strand with anything from a ball gown to a sweater,” he said, trying to decide whether her amazing eyes were more green than gray. Tessa looked up at him. Far more green, he decided, a green like early spring in the forest on a day that was touched by a faint mist. “When you get to eighteen inches there’s always the problem of the necklace dipping under your collar.”

“Then let’s go for sixteen,” Tessa said, relieved to have one element isolated from the other possibilities.

“As for the millimeter …?” The salesman paused tactfully. The size of the pearl determined the price.

“The millimeter,” Tessa mused, not betraying the fact that she was entirely at sea. Was the millimeter the weight of the pearl or the diameter? “The millimeter, yes, naturally. Now what would you buy, if you were me?”

“For a young woman, I usually recommend eight and a half to nine millimeters, not too big a pearl, not too small, and it’s always appropriate. This strand, for instance,” he said, reaching into the case and pulling out a necklace whose pearls were only slightly bigger than those of the old necklace she’d worn out.

“Is that eight and a half or nine?” she asked, ignoring a definite stirring of disappointment.

“Both,” he answered. “A discrepancy of one half millimeter is standard in a necklace of uniform size.”

“Oh, of course, because they’re natural,” Tessa said hastily, realizing that pearl divers couldn’t be expected to pop up out of the ocean with a bunch of pearls that were exactly the same size.

“Not natural, no.” The salesman repressed even the hint of a smile. “These are all cultured pearls. You can only tell the difference if you X-ray them. There haven’t been any natural pearls available since the 1930s, unless you buy them at auction, and then they’re fabulously expensive.”

“At auction?” Tessa said shocked. “
Secondhand pearls
? I’d never do that. How would you know what you’re getting?”

“Precisely. Whereas here …”

“They’re Mikimoto,” Tessa finished his sentence, remembering the name from the ads she’d seen for Mikimoto cultured pearls.

“Actually, they’re not.”

“No? Hmm.” Tessa looked dubious to hide her confusion.

“These come from our special sources. Mikimoto is a trade name and it includes many standards of pearls,
but only one standard is considered good enough for Tiffany and Company. Our experts eliminate all the others, even if you, or I, for that matter, would never be able to tell the difference.”

It was her mouth, the salesman thought, that was making him ramble. It was just enough larger than the mouths of ordinary women to be utterly fascinating: sharply incised at the corners yet rising to an unusual plumpness, the deep indentation in the middle of her upper lip precisely the right distance from the ravishingly high peaks on either side. No wonder she didn’t wear lipstick. It would obscure this natural gift of all the pagan gods and goddesses.

“I think the only way for you to decide,” he continued, “is to sit down in our private room and try on a number of necklaces. The light is better in there.”

“Fine,” Tessa agreed quickly. Out of the corner of her eye she’d noticed several people looking at her with the kind of interest that she’d learned meant that she’d been recognized.

The salesman unlocked the case, extracted three identically sized necklaces, and escorted Tessa to a small room lined in gray velvet, where there were a desk, a chair, and a large round mirror on a stand. He laid the necklaces out carefully on a square of gray velvet.

“Which one would you like to start with?” he asked Tessa.

“That one,” she said, pointing at random. He undid the clasp and, standing behind her, fastened the necklace around her neck.

Tessa fell silent in wonder. The necklace that had looked so similar to her old necklace was quite different as it lay on her neck, reaching just below the hollow between her collarbones. There was something softly mysterious about it, as if a light were gleaming from deep within each pearl, which made them seem slightly larger than they were. But the lapels of her suit held her shirt too close to her neck for her to get the full effect, so she shrugged her jacket off quickly and flung the silk collar of her white blouse backward,
so that she could see as much as possible. Still her hair obscured many of the pearls, so Tessa fumbled in her handbag for the wide elastic band she kept there and quickly made a ponytail.

“Ahhh, that’s better,” the salesman approved, with what little breath remained in his lungs after watching Tessa take off her jacket. Just a girl, yes, but those breasts … how … how … splendid.

Still Tessa said nothing, too absorbed in the effect of the pearls to speak.

“Not exactly what you have in mind? Here, try these,” the salesman said, whisking the necklace away and replacing it with another. “They have a slightly more creamy tone. The others leaned slightly toward the pinkish.”

“Mmm,” was all Tessa could manage.

“Not these either? Now here’s a strand with a definite silvery quality,” he said, replacing the second necklace with the third.

“They all look pretty much the same,” Tessa commented, finding a crisp tone from somewhere, unwilling to commit herself to anything until she found out what they cost.

“I’ll go and get a few more strands. You’ve just begun to look,” the salesman offered immediately. As soon as she was alone Tessa examined the tiny white price tags that hung by a thin string from each necklace. Each one was the same price, three thousand four hundred dollars. Shocked and dismayed, she sat back, trying to decide what to say to make a graceful exit. She wished she’d never let herself get trapped in a private room. Oh, what on earth was she going to do? Especially since she’d taken up so much of the salesman’s time? But before she had time to find the right words, the salesman was back with three more necklaces.

“These are between twelve and twelve and a half millimeters each. Also, they’re South Sea pearls, not Japanese. With your height, the length of your neck,
and the width of your shoulders, I suspected that you’d probably be happier with something larger, something more important. Now,” he asked, as he closed the clasp of one of the new necklaces, “tell me if I’m right or not.”

“Oh,” Tessa said, fighting down a hysterical laugh, “you’re right. These do more for me, there’s no question about that.” And they did, oh, they did! These were exactly the pearls she’d had in mind, these were her dream pearls, gleaming with a pink-white magnificence, precisely the right size, a size that made the other necklaces seem … dinky.

She lifted her ponytail above her head with a recklessly lovely gesture that made the salesman restrain a gasp, and turned her head from side to side, preening. “Do you have a hand mirror?” Tessa asked. In for a penny, in for a pound, she thought. “I’d like to see these from the side.”

He produced a hand mirror from the desk and she looked at herself for long minutes, expressionless. “How much are they?” she asked simply. That, it had suddenly come to her, was the question any normal woman would ask.

“Fourteen thousand five hundred.”

“But they’re only three millimeters larger than the others. Why should they be so much more expensive?” Tessa asked, the necklace giving her the courage to sound as indifferent as a duchess who had happened to notice a sudden rise in the price of eggs.

“It’s a question of time: the years and years it takes to lay down all those layers of nacre, and then, of course, to find such a perfect match, such luster.”

“There’s one problem.”

“I know. You want earrings to go with them. That won’t be a problem at all.”

“It’s not that. I have only three thousand dollars in my checking account and I don’t have a credit card. So I’m afraid I’ll have to leave these here,” Tessa sighed. She should have known better than to let him put them
around her neck. She’d never forget how they looked. “Perhaps they’ll still be here when I come back … or something like them.”