Good as Dead(31)

“Hi there,” she said through the open passenger-side door. “I’m Holly, Savannah’s mom.” She smiled at him, then glared at me for not making the introduction.

“Hi, I’m Logan,” Logan said with a little wave from behind the wheel.

“Thanks for driving her home,” Mom said, and my heart raced in my chest. What if she asks about the other girls? I hadn’t told Logan I’d lied to her about our date.

“It was my absolute pleasure,” Logan said, then flashed that killer smile. “You have a lovely home,” he added, gazing up at our house, and I wondered if he was trying to butter her up.

“Thank you. Are you a classmate of Savannah’s?” Mom asked, no doubt wondering what a boy was doing at a girls’ track team dinner. I braced myself for her reaction when he told her he was a coach.

But he didn’t tell her he was a coach. He said something utterly mind-blowing.

“No, I’m her boyfriend.”

My mom looked at me, and I shrugged a little. I could feel the rush of blood burning across my cheeks. I could have contradicted him. But I didn’t.

And just like that, I had a boyfriend.





LIBBY


Three months ago

“Where did you get this diamond?” the jeweler asked as he examined the 2.5 carat rock through his 10x loop.

“It was my grandmother’s,” I said. “She gave it to me right before she died.” I had intended to make myself a ring for my fortieth to honor her memory, but we needed a roof over our heads more than I needed a new diamond ring. And we’d eaten through my haul from the thrift store in exactly one day.

He slid it under a microscope and examined it from every angle. “It’s almost too perfect to be real,” he said a little aggressively. Grandma’s diamond was dazzlingly rare, and indisputably real. Only the most discerning jeweler would appreciate its value, and I was hoping he was one of them.

“She was from Belgium,” I said by way of explanation. Antwerp was well known to have the best diamond cutters in the world. “It’s a VVS1,” I added, sliding the certificate of authenticity across the counter, waiting to retract my hand until I was sure he saw my Rolex—a 1940s chronograph that would signal I was credible as the owner of such a rare and precious gem. “Only one microscopic inclusion.”

“A clear bubble near the point,” he said quickly to show off that he had seen it.

“That’s right,” I confirmed. That bubble was the only thing preventing the stone from earning an IF, or “internally flawless,” rating—nearly impossible for a stone of that size. As he set the diamond on a scale with fine-point tweezers, I remembered the day Grandma gave it to me. We were visiting her in her Chappaqua home, and she called me up to her bedroom. I was eighteen. She died not long after that, during the summer before I went to college.

Your grandpa bought this for me, she had said as she held up a small, black velvet pouch. Her advanced Parkinson’s made her hands shake in a way that scared me, but I knew something important was about to happen, so I didn’t dare look away. She made me open the pouch, because she “didn’t trust” her hands, and I thought the contents must be something delicate, like a prissy antique brooch or dangly earrings I would never wear.

I tipped the pouch, and the perfectly round diamond rolled out into my palm. Even in the dim evening light its brilliance was cartoonish. She flipped on her desk lamp, and a thousand tiny rainbows danced across my hand. Don’t tell your mom, she’d said with a twitchy wink, and I suddenly knew what she was giving me was extremely valuable. Now, twenty years later, I held my breath as I waited for the snooty jeweler to tell me just how much it was worth.

“It’s as close to colorless as I’ve ever seen,” the jeweler said, not really to me. The certificate of authenticity said it was a D, which is the highest color grade. It appeared Mr. Snooty Jeweler Man agreed.

“Why would you part with this?” he asked incredulously. He seemed a little offended that I wanted to sell it. Perfectly clear, round stones were not only expensive, they were hard to find. Even if I had the money, I would probably never be able to replace it.

“Can you sell it?” I asked, ignoring his question. Of course I still wanted it. But I had two daughters, and they needed to eat.

“Without question,” he replied. I knew his answer should have made me happy, but instead I felt the sudden urge to cry. I hoped there was no such thing as ghosts, because if there were, Grandma’s was surely going to be pissed.

“How long?” I asked, then took a slow, deep breath to hold back my tears.

“I have a couple of clients who I think might be interested,” he said. “Give me a week.”

And then I choked out the question I was terrified to ask. “How much?” I had a number in my head. If he couldn’t hit it, I would have to go elsewhere. I had identified two other jewelers who peddled high-end stones, and their addresses were already programmed into my nav.

He scooted sideways on his stool and typed a quick search into his computer, then swiveled the screen so I could see. I almost gasped. It was worth more than I thought. A year’s worth of mortgage payments, with enough left over to keep my kids in dance lessons, pay down our credit cards, and finally get my hair done.

“Yes, that would work,” I said simply. Andy’s meeting with mega mogul Jack Kimball, our supposed savior, was on the books for the first week in September. But we still had to make it through the summer. And I had no more clothes left to sell.