Epilogue
One Year Later
I shake my head. “No, a hired stranger is not better than my best friend.”
She laughs. “Liar.”
I can’t help but smile. “You’re totally right. I tried every website listing I could find, and called like twenty people. I did end up buying an antique Leica, but alas, no trained assistants in the greater San Francisco bay area for today.”
“And it’s their only day?” she asks, plucking a silver heart necklace from the display, holding it up to her throat.
The jeweler, a thin and uptight looking man in an expensive suit, pinches the necklace from Kat’s fingers, controlled disdain wilting his lips. “Let’s not play with the jewelry.”
“Sorry,” Kat says, turning to me. “Now, what’s left?”
Surveying the u-shaped glass cases full of elegant and high-end jewelry, I spot the only section left that I haven’t photographed. Lifting the camera from my neck, I point to the last section of the glass case along the wall. “The rings and bracelets there,” I tell him.
Kat repositions my equipment in the corner as David pulls items from the last case. First, a diamond tennis bracelet, white gold and absolutely stunning. As with each item today, David rattles off all the details about the bracelet as I position it on the velvet, inside my light box.
After snapping a few photos of the bracelet clasped, open, in a loop, lying straight, one of the clasp itself, an up close shot of the diamonds, I hand the item back to David.
We repeat this, getting through the last few pieces within thirty minutes.
My stomach burns from hunger, because this job has taken way longer than I thought.
Surprisingly, Kat hasn’t complained much but I did promise her a free steak dinner after.
David produces one last ring from the case.
“This Art Deco engagement ring features a 1.27 carat old European cut diamond, K color and VS2 clarity, set in box prongs. The center stone is flanked by marquise-shaped bezels set with single cuts, which was all the rage at the time this ring was made. The geometric mounting is bordered by an outer halo of additional single cut diamonds,” he continues, using his tool to point out said diamond.
“The total weight of the additional diamonds is approximately 0.27 carats. This ring is antique and was handcrafted in 1920.”
Nodding, I stare down at the otherworldly ring. It really is beautiful. “This is the last piece in the case,” David says. He cuts his gaze to Kat then back to me. “This ring photographs best on a hand.”
David looks at Kat again then me. “Preferably a hand that doesn’t require chipped polish to be fixed in post-editing.”
Smiling, I look across the case of jewellery, at all of the items I’ve already photographed in a lightbox. “If I took photos of this ring on a model, this photo set would be completely unlike all the photos I’ve taken today.”
His smile is terse. “The ring is special. It should be photographed on a person.”
I shake my head. “I didn’t bring a hand model with me, David,” I softly argue. “And you don’t like Kat’s nails,” I remind him, knowing I’ve just added a whiskey to the tab, right beneath the steak.
“You have lovely hands,” David says flatly. “And what are you? A 6.5?” he questions, staring down at my naked ring finger.
“Yes,” I reply, surprised. “I am a 6.5.”
He plucks the ring from the box and holds it out, waiting for my hand. My cheeks flare pink. “David, I’m the photographer. I can’t take the photo if I’m modeling the ring,” I say awkwardly. “Who would take the photo then?”
Kat gently lifts the camera from my hand, and David, for some strange reason, smirks before he disappears behind the black curtain that divides the shop from the back. I reach for my camera in Kat’s hand. “I’ll take it,” I whisper. “You wear the ring, I’ll just photoshop your nails.”
She shakes her head, and brings my camera up, looking through the digital screen, framing me.
“Kat, what are you–”
“You should wear it. After all, it’s your ring.” Ford’s voice wraps around me, and I turn to find him stepping out from behind the curtain, the ring in his hand as he falls to one knee.
The shutters whoosh, and my heart pounds in my eardrums.
“Juliette, my love, marry me.”
Tears sting my eyes, and fall without permission down my cheeks.
My heart booms. Kat sniffles from behind the camera, still taking photos every few moments.
I nod my head, bottom lip wobbling. I knew this was on the horizon.
And after a positive pregnancy test a month ago, we discussed it. But no set plans.
“Say something, sweetheart,” he rasps, my eyes blurry from tears and the shine coming off that ring. I wiggle my finger. “Yes, Ford, yes,” I sob, “now put that on my finger because I am obsessed. I cannot believe something so beautiful is mine.”
He presses his lips against mine, soft but warm, and from a few feet away, Kat snaps a photo.
Ford slides the ring onto my finger. “I could say the same thing.”
He smiles. “I love you, Juliette.”
I smile. “I love you, too.”