Chapter 24
A few days after the tense party at Evalyn’s, I welcomed the escape to New York City.
It was a relief to push everything aside, and I looked forward to spending time with my father.
He was in good spirits, chattering more than usual on the train.
As the city came into view, I felt my own mood lift.
The sprawl of buildings was unimaginable, and nothing could have prepared me for the steady stream of people.
By midafternoon, we had deposited our suitcase at our lodgings and were on the streets of the largest, most remarkable place I’d ever seen.
We ate street food and watched shiny new automobiles and omnibuses and bicyclists come and go.
We passed rows of storefronts, the occasional park, and more taverns and restaurants than I could count.
I marveled at the frenetic array of people making their way to their destinations.
Like Washington, the city bustled with immigrants and workers, vendors and families, and businessmen in a hurry, though on a much larger scale.
Washington, DC, suddenly felt sleepy in comparison, dull and rather pedestrian compared to the color of New York.
Amid it all, I watched my father come alive.
This was good for him, to be away from home and away from the memories of all that had been lost. It was good for me, too, to free myself of the cycle of parties and luncheons and working strange and late hours between social engagements where I was expected to be ready to entertain with a smile.
Father and I walked the length of the grand avenues and paid a visit to one of the few places I truly wanted to see in the city: the American Museum of Natural History.
He humored me as we viewed each and every exhibit, spoke with docents, read each plaque.
Most of all, I imagined what it must be like to work in such a great place, with its towering ceilings and magnificent halls and the nest of labs and offices cocooned behind private doors.
It made my pulse quicken to think of it.
I didn’t share my thoughts with my father or the dream that had blossomed the afternoon I’d toured the museum with Julia Wane.
That life wasn’t an option for me, so there was little sense in feeding it.
“You’ve changed,” Father said as we exhausted the last of the exhibits and descended the staircase in front of the museum.
“In what way?” I asked as a bus roared by us on the street.
“Your hair. Your clothes.”
“Ah, yes. You noticed.”
He shook his head. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice it sooner.”
As I looked at the grooves in my dear father’s face and thought of the years they reflected, the sorrows and the joys, the last of the anger I’d felt toward him since Julien’s death dissolved.
I squeezed his hand. “We’ve both changed.
I suppose that’s the natural way of things, especially given what we’ve been through. ”
He nodded. “Given that, yes. But I want you to know, I see that you’ve grown into a confident and well-spoken woman. And you’ve always been intelligent, beautiful, too, but we both know there’s much more to life than beauty, even if we sell it for a living.”
I smiled a genuine smile at him for the first time in a long time.
“I thought jewelry was more than beauty? To quote someone I know, ‘The stones are nature’s art, and we bring them to their highest level of beauty in jewelry that will long outlive us. They are immortal, priceless, and we merely have the good fortune of keeping them to admire for a while,’” I teased.
“Who said that?” he said, eyes full of mirth.
I linked my arm in his. “I’m starved. How about a snack to tide us over until dinner?”
We enjoyed espressos and a scoop of ice cream stuffed into a sweetened cone made from a rolled flat pastry.
Later, after travel and hours of walking, Father and I slept well, despite the simple and tiny rooms we’d rented in an inn above a pub.
Thankfully, it didn’t appear to be a busy one, so the Irish band finished the last of their songs by ten o’clock that night.
The next day, we set out to do what we’d come to do in the city.
“Ah, here at last,” my father said.
We looked up at the incredible mansion at 653 Fifth Avenue in awe.
Cartier’s store was five stories high with a mansard roof.
I’d heard the former home had been purchased with one hundred dollars and a million-dollar pearl necklace.
As I stood outside the building amid a steady stream of pedestrians, for the first time, I understood why my father had left Paris to pursue his own business in Washington, DC.
He couldn’t possibly compete with such a well-known name in a city that considered Cartier the king of jewelry.
Not in Paris and not here in New York. And yet I found my father’s jewelry easily as beautiful and as innovative as Cartier’s. More so in some cases.
Inside, we were greeted by a young man in a black suit and tie.
“May I help you, sir? Madam?”
“Thank you, but we’d like to take a look around on our own first,” Father said.
“Should you need assistance, please don’t hesitate to ask.”
We walked by case after case filled with an array of jewelry, hair clips, brooches, and more.
Behind each case stood a salesclerk, ready to jump at our every whim.
We gazed at the artful displays, studying, assessing, and memorizing dimensions, styles, and stones.
Father stopped at a case at the rear of the showcase floor and pointed at a piece he wanted to examine more closely.
“Might we see this ring?” he said.
“As you wish, sir.” The salesclerk unlocked the case and set a tray of rings before us.
Father reached for the most interesting of the bunch, turning it over, eyeing its craft, and when he’d finished, he gave it to me. I studied the mount, the prongs, the lovely design.
“It’s exquisite,” I breathed as I gave it back to him. “Is that a red diamond?”
“Mmm,” he replied. I could almost hear his mind whirring with ideas.
“Would you like to see anything else?” the clerk asked.
My father seemed startled to realize someone else was there. “Is Monsieur Cartier here today? I am a jeweler myself and an old friend. I’d like to say hello.”
To my father’s dismay, Cartier was not only out of store that day but out of the country at the moment.
We browsed and stopped to examine several more spectacular pieces.
When he was satisfied we’d seen everything, we continued our journey to three other stores, each time stopping to take notes on a particularly striking piece.
We also rode the subway train downtown to Maiden Lane near Wall Street, where a row of gem merchants sold multitudes of jewelry and loose gemstones.
A light burned in my father’s eyes, and I was glad we’d come, if for no other reason than to see his interest and perhaps even some excitement in his eyes.
I helped him sort through piles of cabochons, examine dozens of quality diamonds, discuss the trends and patterns we saw on display.
As he collected stone after stone as if to buy them, I laid my hand atop his.
“Should we buy these now, when we are just caught up on our accounts?” I asked.
“With these stones, we’ll get ahead, chérie. I can already see what I will make.” He pointed to his temple. “And I have a good idea of what you will make, too.”
My smile faltered. I felt further than ever from designing a new, innovative piece. “If you’re sure?” I said.
“I’m ready to work again, every day,” he said quietly. “It’s time.”
My heart squeezed as I realized what that meant. He was moving on from Julien’s death, and all would return to the way it was before: me as assistant and my wishes of little consequence in the end. I smiled weakly and embraced my dear father, keeping my thoughts to myself.
We finished the day with a meal of moules frites and red wine—Father’s favorite—at a little French brasserie, and after, we sat in the lobby of our inn. I flipped lazily through the pages of my sketchbook, hoping an idea might spark after all I’d seen that day, but my mind was woefully blank.
“What are you thinking about?”
I looked up abruptly, surprised my father had been watching me. I cleared my throat. “Only that so much of what we saw looked the same. It was pretty but uninspired. I must say I’m surprised, given that New York is supposed to be the place for jewelry.”
“Mm-hmm,” my father said, bending over his own sketchbook. After some time, he looked up again, his eyes alight. “What happens when a particular idea or style becomes overused and saturated?”
I shrugged, knowing the question was more rhetorical than not.
“The pendulum swings,” he said.
Slowly, I nodded, understanding. New ideas often came as a reaction to what was once popular, and the next designs would either be some variation of what was already popular or, for the brave creators, the exact opposite in some way.
“Art nouveau has been the popular style for well over twenty years now. I say, ‘Away with the tiny details, the nature scenes, and the filmy, swirling plasticity of enamel.’” His pencil scurried across the page as he worked in swift strokes.
I sat on the sofa next to him. “Can I see?”
He’d drawn three quick sketches, still unfinished, but their direction was clear. Clean lines and shapes with hard angles rather than the soft, rounded cabochon gems and heavily intricate details of art nouveau.
“What do you think of these?” he asked, reading my face. “Precise angles. Geometric designs. Heavily metallic and shiny. Do you think women will find the hard lines appealing?”
“Let’s have a look again at your sketchbook.”