Chapter 5 Penny
Penny
“Hello?”
“Penny, this is Carolynn at Yesteryear Antiques,” the voice on the other end of the line says.
I instantly sit up straighter on the couch, where I’ve been vegging this morning, recovering from last night’s three-hour cheerfest by doomscrolling an online marketplace for jewelry.
I shop every chance I get—pawnshops, estate sales, antique stores, auctions, you name it.
Anywhere I might find jewelry, I’m there, scouring for heirloom pieces I can rework and sell.
My favorite places, like Yesteryear, keep an eye out for me, calling if they get anything they think I’ll be interested in.
Carolynn is the owner of Yesteryear and has become a friend, often telling me about her grandkids and her desire to retire to Florida someday.
But so far, she hasn’t been able to relinquish ownership of the store, which she started with a hope and a prayer and turned into a bustling business for herself and the people who rent booth space from her.
Clutching my phone tighter to my ear, I say brightly, “Hi, Carolynn! Got something pretty for me?”
“I’ve got a ring here . . . never seen anything like this . . . so beautiful,” she whispers in a way that lets me know she’s looking at it as she speaks. “I know you’ll want it, so I put it back for you, but you need to get down here. Now.”
I don’t bother asking for details. If Carolynn says I’ll want it, I will. And their hold policy is only two hours if you haven’t paid and twenty-four if you have.
“Say less. I’m already on my way. Right down the street, in fact. Be there any minute,” I assure her, though none of that is remotely true. What I am doing is pulling clothes from my closet, feeling the ticktock of my two-hour hold time as I begin doing some mental math gymnastics . . .
If I take ten minutes to get dressed, plus it’s a thirty-minute trip, that’s forty. I need gas, too, so add ten, but I can grab a drink at the station, so no coffee stop, which means minus fifteen . . .
“Just hurry. Don’t hurt yourself or anything else.” Carolynn chuckles, all too aware of my bad luck with the fragile breakables in her store. “Great performance last night too.”
“Thanks, it was a good win,” I murmur, trying to balance while shoving my legs into jeans.
The last period was rough, like sandpaper-on-a-sand-covered-ass-with-a-sunburn-from-a-day-on-the-beach rough.
Dom and Griffin had kept the Beavers’ offense at bay, and just when the game couldn’t get any more tense and aggressive, Wilson had gently snuck one into the net on the Beaver goalie’s left side like he was buttering hot toast. Best of all, we won.
Her laugh rings in my ear. “I don’t care about those boys and their sticks. I saw you dancing your heart out while Todd was watching the game. I meant that you had a great performance, Penny.”
Touched, I freeze, mid-pantsing, to say, “Oh. Well, thank you.” And like I couldn’t control my mouth to save my life, I blurt out, “I haven’t even left home yet.”
“I know. Just get on down here. I’ll have the ring for you.”
I stare at the ring I’ve slipped onto my finger, speechless. The center diamond is round and easily five karats, surrounded by smaller baguettes set in thick bezel-style gold. And when I look through my monocular pocket loupe, it’s nearly colorless and flawless. It’s a truly amazing piece of art.
Honestly, it doesn’t belong at a store like Carolynn’s. It belongs at Christie’s or Sotheby’s, being sold to the highest bidder. But stranger things have happened.
Over the years, I’ve learned not to judge people’s relationship with their jewelry and, more importantly, with the jewelry they inherit.
Grandma Betty might’ve thought her wedding ring was the bee’s knees, but when her granddaughter, who doesn’t always have that same sentimentality, inherits it, she might want something vastly different or just the money it’s worth.
Sometimes it’s even the original owners themselves who want to purge their jewelry boxes when they realize their remaining days are more likely to involve bingo at the nursing home than fancy galas.
And they’re happy to sell their beloved pieces to someone who will breathe new life into them.
So, though it’s odd to find a piece like this at Yesteryear, it’s not unheard of.
“Who wears something like this?” I wonder aloud as I snap a picture for my “before” of the ring, imagining an elegant older lady holding court at the head of a fancy dinner table with a wave of her bejeweled hand.
“Someone who walks like this.” Carolynn drops one shoulder dramatically as if the ring weighs so much that wearing it would make you walk funny. I snort-laugh at her demonstration.
“And who’s really good at sucking dick,” she adds unapologetically.
“Carolynn!” I hiss, but I’m laughing too.
She’s not wrong. I just didn’t expect her to say something so blunt.
Carolynn is in her sixties, with a sharp gray bob and huge owllike glasses, a penchant for overalls and gardening, and a predisposition for ladylike turns of phrase.
To be honest, I’m surprised she even knows the word dick and doesn’t call a penis something charmingly nondescript like a “you know what” or, at most, a “Lord Johnson.”
“She must’ve been a Hoover,” she adds, still going.
“Shoot, if Todd gave me a ring like this, I’d take care of him every day.
” She pauses, her smile evaporating as she feigns sadness and says, “For the rest of his suddenly . . . unexpectedly . . . very short life.” She dabs an invisible tear at the idea of being a quick widow with a rock this size on her hand.
I’m basically rolling at this point because this conversation is a new and unexpected turn in our friendship. “I’m sure Todd would understand,” I say with a wink.
“He wouldn’t give a good goshdarn if he went to the pearly gates if it was that good,” she surmises, giving the ring a serious glance of consideration.
As hard as I’m laughing, I do not want that image in my head, so I get back to business.
“How much is it?” I’m scared to hear the answer, but I’m already falling in love with the ring, so a healthy dash of reality seems prudent.
She’s right about one thing: This is a family-money type of ring, not your run-of-the-mill engagement ring.
It’s more like a “thanks for putting up with me for the last thirty years” type of jewelry, blow jobs included.
“Ten thousand,” she whispers.
I gasp, both at the risk of that expense and also the potential reward.
It’s honestly a great deal for a stone like this, but buying it will max out my credit line, making it hard for me to buy the smaller, less expensive pieces I can easily turn around.
And the market for resale on something like this is so teeny tiny, it’s nearly infinitesimal, which means it might take me a while to actually sell it to recoup my costs and earn a profit.
All good, valid, responsible reasons not to buy it.
But if I reset it just right, and find the right buyer, this sale could set me up financially for several months.
Plus, something like this would take my custom-design work to the next level, bringing in customers at a new, and higher, price point, and I want to grow my business—need to grow it, actually.
I’ve been steadily improving my bottom line, but at some point, I’d like to make enough to adult on another level, one where home ownership and a Roth IRA aren’t pie-in-the-sky dreams. You’d think with two jobs that would be possible, but being a cheerleader doesn’t pay much—it’s a labor of love that I won’t be able to do forever, so PLDesigns is it for me.
My only real shot at the future I want. A future that could start with this beauty on my finger.
I should hesitate, give it a second and maybe third thought, but I can’t let a chance like this pass me by.
I’m talking myself into it, but mostly, I’ve already made up my mind. I have the utmost faith in my ability to work magic with a diamond this special, so I’m choosing . . . me.
“I’ll take it,” I say before I can stop myself.
“I knew you would,” she answers with a supportive smile.
While I shakily pull out my credit card and tap it to the device on the desk, she puts the ring into a box, carefully wraps the box in tissue paper, and places the bundle into a cute little brown bag with the store name stamped on it.
She even loops ribbon through the bag handles, tying a bow, but truthfully, it’s ridiculously plain packaging for something so valuable.
Somehow, the contrast seems fitting, though, because I’m going to take the simple design and turn it into something spectacular.
“Promise you’ll show me a picture of it when you’re done?” she asks, giving me a warning look, as if I’d consider saying no.
“Of course,” I agree easily.
“Hope you find someone who appreciates their Hoover enough to reward them like this.” She wiggles the bag pointedly.
“Me too. Your mouth to the universe’s . . . dick?” I laugh at the strange decree, and she taps her nose like it’s not weird at all, but rather a spot-on manifestation.
When she hands me the bag, I immediately grip it to my chest protectively, a huge smile on my face. There are champagne bubbles of giddiness rising inside my belly . . . well, either that or my breakfast is gonna make a reappearance, but I’m hoping it’s the former.
I tell Carolynn thank you and goodbye before stepping out into the spring day, where the bright sunshine balances the slight chill in the air.
Walking down the sidewalk, I can’t help but think about how this is going to be a new benchmark in my business and in my design skills, and the ideas are already spinning in my mind.