relaxed – she looked beyond me, as if she was thinking of them, and the memories they’d created in their years of matrimony. I watched her for a beat. She was unaware of my analysis, caught somewhere inside her mind, glassy-eyed, almost hypnotized, at wherever her reminisces were taking her.
A fine trail of goose bumps broke out over my skin, a surefire sign I could trust her with my exquisite jewelry. Sometimes, I relied on my own visceral reaction to a person more than any other sign.
Agnes’s gaze darted to a simple solitaire ruby pendant in the display cabinet, and there it stayed. She wasn’t greedy, she didn’t want them all, only wanted one perfect piece – you could read it on her face as clearly as if the words were written on her skin.
The precious gem twinkled magnificently even in the shadow of noonday. Her fingers found the hem of her shirt, and she toyed with it as if she was trying to stop herself from reaching for the ruby. She had chosen well. Classic, timeless, and utterly captivating. Luscious red so deep you could get lost in it.
I prided myself on finding out the origins of any purchases I made, as I believed without that the piece lost some of its luster.
“Come closer.” I gestured to Agnes. “I bought that pendant a few years ago from an estate sale in Provence. Would you like to know more about its past life?”
She nodded. “Oui, I’d like that very much. I’ve never seen anything so perfectly suited to my maman. Somehow the rest of the jewelry fades in comparison.”
It was the right pendant; of that I was certain. I said quietly, “When I was at the sale a neighbor came to watch her late friend’s belongings be auctioned, so I approached her and asked what she knew of the ruby pendant – what it had meant to its former owner. Like you, it had called to me amongst everything else on show. The neighbor told me the woman had found love as a young girl, and it had lasted a lifetime.”
Agnes smiled, perhaps recognizing the same in her parents.
I continued: “Her husband had given her the ruby on their honeymoon, and she was always fumbling with it, touching it to make sure it was still there. Of all the pieces she’d owned, the neighbor said the ruby was what most represented their love, and its longevity.”
Agnes cocked her head as she absorbed the story of the ruby. “Did she live a good and long life?” When a customer bought something sacred like the ruby, they’d be carrying the previous owner’s story forward too. The ruby absorbed fragments of the heart and soul of its owners, past and present, like osmosis, becoming part of the fabric of it for eternity.
I smiled. “She did. They both did. Octogenarians, until death came for him, and then soon after, her. The neighbor said it wasn’t all lavender fields and laughter. They argued high and loud about his job, which took him all over the country, and left her alone at home. They fought about her hair: he liked it long, so she cropped it short. Once she threw all his clothes off the balcony in a fit of pique, and he laughed, which made her angrier. The neighbor said they were drawn to each other like magnets. The highs, and lows were many, but only because of their fierce love for one another.” I paused, watching Agnes’s face light up at their epic story. This was the best part of my job, knowing intuitively that the ruby was going to be prized not only because of its beauty but also because of its history.
I continued: “They were married for sixty-two years before he was summoned away. It was said she wrote him love letters every day until it was her time. I almost kept the ruby for myself, I was so taken with their love story.” That day there had been antiques worth more and easily saleable but I was drawn to the ruby and knew I had to have it. And now I knew why – for Agnes’s mother.
If I closed my eyes, I could see it as it had been, hanging brilliantly against her olive-skinned décolletage, the faint scent of lavender in the air, an olive grove in the distance. But perhaps that was just a daydream, a picture painted by my imagination.
Agnes gave me a wide smile. “My parents still hold hands walking to work. They bicker about whose baguette recipe is the best, and I mean really bicker in typical French style, hands on hips, red-faced, low steady growls, until someone intervenes, and placates them saying both recipes have their merits. Maman calls him a goat, and he says she’s a mule, and they affect animal noises, until one of them starts howling with laughter, scaring the customers. Some days, they don’t talk at all, because they’ve spent the day chatting to their regular clientele and they’ve run out of words. Other days she rests her head on his shoulder and he murmurs to her as if they’re the only two people in the world. Their love still shines…”
“And now it will sparkle,” I said with a grin.
Carefully, I took the pendant from its housing. It winked under the lights as though it was saying yes. “For your maman.” I offered her a closer look.
With a slight quake in her hands, she took the proffered pendant and whispered, “It’s perfect.” She blanched when she saw the price tag, but admirably reined herself in. For such a unique and precious gift, it was worth every cent. Any fiscal talk set my teeth on edge, and I was glad she didn’t mention it. It was poor taste, and I didn’t negotiate, and neither did any of my self-respecting Parisian customers. “Can I take it…?”
I gave her a nod. “Let me wrap it for you.”
Oceane smiled her thanks while Agnes watched me polish the pendant before I placed it in a satin-lined box, wrapped it, and tied an antique lace ribbon around to finish it off.
“May they have many more anniversaries as special as this one,” I said. Agnes handed over a stack of well-thumbed Euros, her face bright like a child’s on Christmas Eve. Times like this I realized how much I loved my little antique shop, and pairing something from a lifetime ago, to start over in a new home, with a new family. I knew Agnes would recount the story of the former owner of the pendant to her parents, and they’d know it was more than just a piece of jewelry. And when they passed it on, their love story would be remembered too.
“Merci,” Agnes said, cradling the box in her open palms as if she held something as delicate as a baby bird.
Just then a rowdy tour group appeared by the window. I stiffened in response.
“Merde. There’s so many of them,” Oceane said, following my gaze to the tourists outside, led by a guide who was purposely bringing these people to me knowing I’d turn them away. Innocents, who just wanted to see what all the fuss was about.
“Ah, the ever-present legacy of Joshua, the American whose shadow is felt even when he’s not here,” Oceane said. I’d confided in her recently about my ex-boyfriend, Joshua, who spitefully informed the editor of Solitary World, one of the biggest guide books sold on the planet, about my little antique shop and the secret room. Since then, I’d been inundated by people wanting to take photos and mark off another stop on their to-see list in Paris.
My blood boiled each time I saw their faces fall, the groups expecting to clap eyes on something marvelous and instead told there was no such thing. But I had to protect the delicate objects in my care. If I opened the doors to just anyone I’d be overrun and things would be damaged. Or worse, stolen, and I couldn’t face that again. I hadn’t told Oceane the rest of the bitter breakup story because I didn’t want any more pity, but his vindictiveness was the least of what Joshua had done in his efforts to ruin my life.
“Do you want me to tell the guide off? He shouldn’t be bringing them here only to disappoint them,” Oceane asked, glaring at the group forming at the front door, their noses pressed against the glass.
“Non,
