In November my sister said to me, “Let’s go to South Coast Plaza to see the Christmas decorations.”
“Sure,” I said. “I’m a sucker for twinkle lights.”
Because of my sister’s rheumatoid arthritis, the walk from the car was painfully slow. Yet her step quickened when we entered the mall, and I soon discovered that she had something other than Christmas decorations in mind.
“I want to go a jewelry store,” she announced.
“Okay,” I said. “But you know the jewelry stores here are pretty high end.”
“Oh, I don’t want to buy anything,” she said. “I just like to look.”
That’s how we ended up at the renowned jeweler, Harry Winston. Entering the store, a hulking, stone-faced guard in a black uniform, locked eyes on us. I felt intimidated, like my every move was being watched, which of course, it was, but this didn’t bother my sister. She walked in confidently, went right up to a saleswoman, and said, “I’d like to see the most-expensive piece of jewelry in the store.”
I did not see that coming. That cringe-worthy line made my face turn a brilliant shade of embarrassment pink.
Without blinking, the stylish saleswoman, whose badge said she was a Sales Executive—replied, “Certainly. That would be our yellow diamond ring.”
She led us to a locked display case and brought out the ring. Every facet of the stone glistened under the bright store lights. “This stone is a cushion cut yellow fancy intense diamond.”
What language was she speaking?
“It weighs 10.28 carats, is surrounded by white diamonds, and is priced at nine-hundred and ninety thousand dollars.”
At least I think that’s what she said. The size of the stone dazzled me and my brain went a little mushy.
I felt surreal, like I’d been dropped into a Fellini film. We were all adults, and yet we all knew we were playing make-believe. My sister pretending she had the net worth to afford a million-dollar diamond and the sales executive, pretending my sister was her most important client.
“May I try it on?” my sister asked.
In a velvety voice the sales exec said, “Of course,” and directed us to sit.
From the moment my sister slipped on that diamond, a satisfied smile spread across her face.
“This ring was made for your hand,” the sales exec said. “I do not have the style to carry off such a stone, but you do.”
Tilting her hand from side to side, throwing sparks of light in all directions, my sister said, “If I win the lottery, this will be the first thing I buy.”
The woman handed my sister her gold-embossed card. “In case you do win, keep me in mind.”
As we left Harry Winston, maybe I imagined it, but my sister appeared taller and she seemed to walk a little easier. Her disease had retreated into the background and she floated on an endorphin cloud of make-believe happiness. I loved seeing her like that, until she said, “That was fun. Should we go to Tiffany’s next?”
When my friend’s mother died, she inherited a steamer trunk. She assumed it held the sentimental detritus of her childhood: photos, baby shoes, grade school report cards, artwork from her early poster paint period
We’ve all heard of cougars, those 40-something female predators who stalk bars, hoping to sink their finely sharpened claws into the tender flesh of innocent young men. Luckily, these modern-day Mrs. Robinsons—who’ve exchanged their garter belts for Spanx—have been exposed by the media and are now easily avoided. But young men, don’t breathe a sigh of relief just yet because there is a new danger out there, lurking in cafes and restaurants, preying on your naiveté, dining out on your trust. They’re called leopards.