Chapter 8
8
July 20, 1965
Dear Diary:
Remember Buena Vista Hotel? Daddy worked so hard as a porter before gaining enough favor with his boss to get me a housekeeping job. Ooh, the way he stayed on to me about keeping my eyes down, working fast and “don’t let these white folks catch you slipping.” Well, I got caught, but I wasn’t slipping. Mrs. Parsons, I’ll never forget her name, said I took a diamond brooch from her room when I cleaned it last. I didn’t, but she wouldn’t listen. Lord, the way she hollered at me while I searched. Made me empty out my pockets, my apron. We never found anything, but Mr. Kelly fired me anyway. Daddy was so disappointed...
They called that sad little place in Biloxi “The American Riviera.” Ha ha! What a joke. Now that I’m in Nice, I ain’t never going back to Mississippi. In fact, the entire French Riviera is lovely, nothing like the South. Looking out my hotel room and seeing the blue Mediterranean Sea is proof of that. I’m not here to change the sheets or clean the toilets. Some French boy comes up here to deliver me room service. The porters are all white and they take my bags! Boy, if Daddy could see all of this, he’d be tickled.
Sebastian says if I enjoy this, wait till we get to Monaco. I’m absolutely sick with excitement. Lord knows how I’ll be able to leave him and go back to school after this! But I might be able to take more trips like this after my senior year. Art History is getting a whole lot more involved, and I need to start thinking about my thesis. I wonder if Sebastian will wait for me to finish school, and then graduate school. I think I love him, but some days I’m not sure... Maybe I love the jewels and the sunshine more. He’s so handsome and such a gentleman and very, very rich. He’s bought me a few pieces, sayin’ I need to look like the kind of girl he’d have on his arm. He told me I can keep the pearl necklace, but I’m not sure. Lord knows if I want anything in this world, I gotta take it for myself.
Like the emerald earrings that are now hidden in my hatbox. I took them from a jewelry counter with a little sleight of hand. You should have seen Sebastian’s face when we left out of that store. He kissed my neck and called me naughty. But he also said I was meant to have them. Shoot, I already knew that!
Celeste set Doris’s journal on her office desk and absently listened to the conversation between Beatrice and a customer in the storeroom.
“We’ll attend our next auction in about two weeks,” her assistant said. “If you’re more interested in the Queen Anne design, I would wait. I don’t want you to invest in something you won’t be happy with.”
“Mmm... I think I’d still like to look around, though,” replied a woman. “Where does this mirror come from?”
Celeste tuned them out, thinking about the passage she’d just read. Doris never spoke about her early life, and much of her thieving career was shrouded in mystery. As a born and bred Harlem girl, Celeste had heard the differences in Doris’s accent when the old woman didn’t think anyone was paying attention. She mostly spoke like a haughty New Englander, but when she was tired or snappish, a Southern twang would jump out. She would have never guessed Biloxi, Mississippi, though.
Anger burned her cheeks when she read the portion about Doris being accused of theft. The embarrassment and fear that she must have experienced while just trying to do her job must have felt defeating. You can see it in their eyes, can’t you? You can see them assuming the worst. They think they already know you... That was how Doris had spoken to her when she explained what working for her would entail. A young Celeste sat in her art professor’s office, feeling alone on a large, mostly white college campus. It seemed that Doris could sense her frustration and it didn’t take long for Celeste to open up about her background.
Before she knew what she was doing, she had confided the struggle of being raised by her grandmother, Josephine, after her mother died giving birth to her. They didn’t know who Celeste’s father was, so it was just the two of them against the world. That was until Granny Jo fell ill and died when Celeste was just sixteen.
When she became a ward of the state, she understood that no one would rescue her. She learned fast that life wasn’t kind to women who didn’t have resources. The only thing Granny Jo left her was a little mattress money that she almost didn’t find when DCFS made her pack up. It was at the Harrison Home for the Youth where teenage Celeste learned to fight, cuss and steal, while protecting her grandmother’s small fortune.
She struggled through her last year of high school but made it out well enough to attend Queensborough Community College on a needs-based scholarship. As far as studies went, Celeste didn’t know what she wanted to do until she transferred to Stony Brook University and met Dr. Grant. In the stuffy Long Island culture, where she didn’t fit in, she found another Black woman who reminded her of Granny Jo; sturdy and bold, but with a touch of elegance. Dr. Grant arrived to class every Tuesday and Thursday dressed in pressed pantsuits and a different jeweled brooch. The way she dressed herself matched the confident way she carried herself. Celeste was desperate for just a piece of poise.
Even now, at forty-one, she still had days filled with doubt...
Perhaps that was why Dr. Grant’s entry surprised her. Celeste hadn’t anticipated the giddiness and uncertainty. Her youth shined through the passage as she described living it up in the French Riviera. When she wrote about Sebastian. Celeste had never experienced such girlish fun in her life, not even when she, herself, had visited Monaco. And as far as men went, she doubted anyone had made her feel as excited as Doris’s mystery man. Well, perhaps just one man had lit a fire in her belly...
Around his twentieth final exam, Magnus had made his decision.
By the time he entered grades, he’d added a condition to that decision.
When he stood outside St. Pierre Antiquities, he’d all but kicked himself and checked his watch for the next train back to Astoria. It was too late. Today was Wednesday. He was free from his academic obligations and ready to see his former partner again. A crystallized image of her expectant eyes and parted lips took up shop in his head and plagued him for most of the day. Some of his students had Celeste’s mouth to thank for his lenient grading. Was she ready to see him?
He pushed his way into the store before he could fully consider the question. A small bell tinkled above him as he stepped inside. Immediately, he spotted the young woman from the other night, Beatrice. In the daylight, she looked as young as one of his graduate students, just not quite as cynical yet. Her bright smile greeted him from behind a counter, as he moved through the large showroom.
Talk about fronts... Celeste hid in plain sight with all this antique furniture. He didn’t have the eye for it like she did but could tell the pieces were quite valuable. Magnus couldn’t help but stop short before a massive mahogany china cabinet with flourished inlay and intricate carving detail. Did Celeste steal or bid for most of her inventory?
“Looking for anything in particular?” Beatrice asked, suddenly standing beside him. He jumped slightly before putting his hands behind his back, fearful of breaking something valuable near him.
“I’m not in the market for anything right now,” he murmured as he peered down at the girl. She was slightly taller than her boss, a lot lankier. Beatrice appeared quite different from the casual denim shorts and T-shirt he met her in while at Dr. Grant’s house. Today she wore a sleeveless white blouse and gray slacks and swept her braids into a tight bun atop her head. “Where do you get your inventory?” he asked lightly, returning his gaze to the china cabinet.
“That’s a trade secret,” she said in an innocent voice. “That’s like asking ‘who’s your fencer?’”
He chuckled at her little retort. Echoes of a secretive Doris shined through her words... Celeste was teaching her well. “Excuse me .”
“So, you and Celeste...”
Magnus glanced at Beatrice to see her looking him up and down. “Yes?”
She scrunched up her nose and shook her head. “I don’t see it.”
“Don’t see what?”
The young woman shrugged. “You just seem a little too IKEA-straight for her. Celeste is from around the way, a Harlem girl who knows how to scrap.”
He rolled his eyes. “Believe me, I remember all too well.”
She frowned when she got to the top of his head. “Does your hair move?”
Magnus self-consciously reached for his hair. “It shouldn’t,” he muttered while running his fingers along the perfectly laid strands held together by a Danish wax he specially ordered. “Is your scrappy boss in, or are you holding down the fort?”
Beatrice nodded over her shoulder. “She’s in the back going over invoices. You need me to grab her?”
“Please,” he said with a tight smile.
Before turning away, Beatrice put her fists on her hips and narrowed her eyes on him. “Are you back with the crew?”
He had to admire the girl’s boldness as he bit back a wider grin. She was definitely a toned-down version of Celeste, a lot less aloof and a lot more guileless. “I don’t seem to remember a Beatrice in our crew. You’re taking attendance now?”
She pinned him with one last look, with eyes full of mirth, before walking away. “Celeste, you have a customer,” she called out.
Magnus straightened up when Celeste’s head poked out from the back offices. He smoothed his crisp white button-down against his belly and tried to train his face to something more placid. When she locked eyes with him, he tensed immediately like she’d trapped his balls in a vise with a simple gaze.
“It’s Wednesday already?” she said, stepping into the showroom. She dressed in all black like a cat burglar: turtleneck, tight leather leggings, ankles boots. Her short black curls were glossed and falling against her brow. A pair of simple pearl earrings studded each ear, adding a small touch of softness to her overall look.
Beatrice busied herself behind the counter but kept a watchful eye on her boss and Magnus. He ignored her surveillance and focused on the woman approaching him. “I said I’d reach out.”
“How are you doing?” she asked, stopping at a heavy oak writing desk. She tapped her nails against the surface while searching his gaze.
“I’m well,” he replied. “You?”
Celeste nodded.
He couldn’t get a good read on her nod, but assumed it was her way of saying she’d handle shit on her own time. “I’d like to take you somewhere for the afternoon.”
She folded her arms across her chest. “Where?”
“Against my better judgment, I’ve made an appointment with the fine jewel counter of Bergdorf Goodman. If we leave now, we can arrive flushed, out of breath and looking like an engaged couple who lost track of time.” He looked down at his watch.
“You want to do the Ball and Chain with me ?” Celeste asked, her eyes widening in surprise.
“It’s a good way to see if we can work together.”
She seemed to turn the idea over in her mind as she stared at him. He hoped to God he wasn’t making a mistake. The driving force of the Ball and Chain was their chemistry. They needed to appear in love: cosseted affection, adoring glances, the occasional familiar caress. They’d only done it once before, back when they were in the throes of a relationship. He remembered pulling off the score without a hitch and marveling at how well they played off each other.
But that was nearly six years ago.
They did not have the same fondness for one another these days. Celeste liked a challenge, though. And even if they had to work together, she still enjoyed friendly competition. In her head, she was probably devising ways to appear more in love with him than he her.
“Let me grab my purse,” Celeste finally said. “Bea, can you watch the store?”
“Where are you going?” the young woman asked.
“Ring shopping.”
Magnus exchanged a tiny smile with Beatrice. She raised a brow as Celeste disappeared into the back. “I still don’t see it.”
He liked the girl. Her sunny disposition could be a welcome addition to the group. But her words nagged at him. If she couldn’t see the attraction between him and Celeste, there was a good chance the salespeople at Bergdorf Goodman wouldn’t, either.
He needed to fix that immediately.