Chapter 11
January
Three Months Until The Wedding
This is the third store Sabrina and I have been to this morning and I’m already failing on multiple counts.
First, she’s barely added anything to her registry, which is the main objective of this venture.
Second, she does not seem to enjoy my presence in the slightest. It’s a stark contrast to our conversation at the luncheon.
I’m not sure whether it’s me or the shopping, but even though we’ve spent a total of three hours together, we haven’t spoken more than twenty words to each other.
Which isn’t helping at all with the third count.
I’ve made zero progress on discovering anything about her family’s missing diamond.
But if I’m going to find out anything, it’s going to be here. We’re at Tiffany’s, after all. Maybe the diamond gods will see fit to smile down upon me and Sabrina will spill all her secrets.
She picks up a peacock-colored vase and scrunches her nose.
Then again, maybe not.
A store attendant scurries over. “Another option you might consider is our sterling silver collection. We’re known for our craftsmanship, and we have a popular decor piece I could show you. It’s a glass apple with silver acc—”
Sabrina groans and rests her head on one of the glass encasements.
I shake my head at the store attendant, and she retreats back from where she came, looking sour. I don’t blame her. Sabrina is presenting a huge missed opportunity for her commission.
I approach Sabrina. Her forehead presses into the top of the glass case, like a toddler smooshing her face against a window.
Should I comfort her? I reach my hand out and pull it back.
We’re alone on the fourth floor. No potential allies in sight.
Not surprising that we’ve scared away customers and employees alike.
“Sa—Sabrina? Is everything okay?”
“It’s a load of shite, actually.” Her voice is muffled by the glass. She raises her head and there’s a pink indent on her forehead. She is, regrettably, adorable. “I don’t need any of this.” Her hand circles the gallery. “No one needs a four-thousand-dollar serving tray. It’s appalling.”
“Well, while I see your point—” I step between her and the overpriced vases. “Listen, this is a good thing. Your loved ones want to buy you gifts. To celebrate you and Carter. People like to give in these situations.” As if I know anything about these situations.
“That’s bullshit.”
“What?”
“They’re not giving us gifts out of some notion of love and support. It’s all part of some sick cock-measuring contest of who can spend the most, who gives the best luxury item, so they can enjoy the cocktail hour with a side of boasting.”
I swallow, scan the room, and make sure no one decided to reemerge just as Sabrina said “cock-measuring.”
She straightens her spine and presses her fingers to her eyes. “Fine. I’ll pick a few things.”
“That’s good.”
She grabs the price gun used for adding items to the registry and points it toward a diamond-encrusted ballpoint pen. I glance at the price tag: $630. Shit.
Sabrina shrugs. “I like writing.” She moves to a nearby section and scans a three-thousand-dollar candleholder. “By candlelight.”
We wander through a few more sections. Sabrina rolls her eyes at the more absurd items. There’s porcelain china fashioned to look like to-go coffee cups. They’re beautiful and quirky. I must stare at them too long because she turns back to me.
“You like them?” She shoots the price gun at the cups.
“No, I couldn’t possibly—”
“No arguing with the bride.”
In the kitchenware section, she scans a sterling silver bread knife. “For my enemies.”
“Death by bread knife?” I chuckle. “Brutal.” Is Sabrina Carmichael a bit unhinged?
“I think that about does it.”
“Sabrina, that’s, like, five items.”
“I’m hungry. Let’s get lunch.” She sets the price gun on the counter and walks toward the exit.
—
We sit in a booth at the closest greasy spoon within walking distance of Tiffany’s.
This is possibly the last place I would have expected to be lunching with Sabrina Carmichael.
Unfortunately, time is slipping away from me, and I still haven’t broached the subject of the lost diamond.
There’s only one topic that might get us there, even if it gives me heartburn.
“So how did Carter propose?”
She covers her mouth as she finishes chewing a large bite of hamburger. “He never told you?”
“No.” He didn’t tell me much about Sabrina at all, in fact.
Whenever we spoke while he was away in London, he would casually mention his weekend, wild nights out with friends.
Normal stuff for Carter. The whole time, I was under the impression we were still best friends.
But how can that be true if he kept me in the dark about something so significant?
It was like Sabrina magically appeared out of thin air one day and they were engaged the next.
She looks down at her plate. “There’s not much to the story, really.” She fiddles with the ring on her finger. “Well, you know Carter.”
That’s feeling less true every day, actually. I grimace but lift my coffee cup to my mouth and hide my face.
“He wanted to do the whole thing the right way.” She makes air quotes over the last two words.
“He picked me up at my flat. We did the tasting menu at Alain Ducasse. Ordered a bottle of Dom Pérignon. When the dessert course came around—which was called ‘strawberries in their natural way’ and I’m not even joking—all I could think was that Carter had dropped loads of money on this meal and we were eating strawberries we could’ve gotten down the street at Sainsbury’s.
Anyway, dessert course came, he got down on one knee.
A ring handpicked by my father. The rest is history. ”
She’s a straight shooter, I’ll give her that.
None of the typical wide-eyed romanticism that usually accompanies engagement stories.
It eats at something in the back of my brain—I wonder how my own reaction would have differed from Sabrina’s lack of emotion.
Is this what Carter is looking for? Or is their relationship not what it seems?
Still, I perk up at the mention of the diamond handpicked by her father.
“The ring is beautiful,” I say.
“Thanks.” She holds out her hand and I inspect the massive cushion-cut diamond on her dainty finger.
“Is it a family diamond? Is that why your father picked it?” My heart rate accelerates. I remove my hand from hers.
“No, though that would make sense, wouldn’t it?
” She raises her hand and inspects her ring in the fluorescent light of the diner.
“No, this is just one of my father’s newer, more valuable diamonds.
” She laughs. “I think Carter knew no ring would pass Father’s test unless it was one he picked himself. ”
I take a sip of my coffee and nod. “But your family must have some special heirlooms, right? Diamonds they don’t sell but hand down through generations?” Diamonds that are lost? My hand sweats around the handle of the mug. I am officially the world’s worst spy.
She dips a french fry into ketchup and wrinkles her brow.
“You know—it’s interesting. My family is actually rather unprecious about jewels.
They can admire and appreciate a flawless cut, certainly.
But at the end of the day, it’s just business.
I think we all see our money as better spent elsewhere.
Not hoarding treasures.” She takes a bite of french fry.
“Except for the random trinket or antique they seem fond of placing a great deal of importance in.”
My heart sinks.
“Speaking of money better spent! Tell me about the Marchane Society.”
I blink twice. “The—oh! Yes, well.” I spread my hands facedown on the laminate table.
“They’re a wonderful organization. I’ve volunteered for years with a similar high school program, which supports gifted students in underresourced school districts, but this new initiative is focused on early elementary education.
There’s so much research now about how those early years can set the trajectory for a child’s educational future.
If we can intervene sooner, those students will have a better chance. ”
“How did you become interested in this work?” She shifts in her seat. “This kind of program—is it something you always had a passion for?”
I breathe, in, out. I try not to think of the massive chasm separating Sabrina’s and my childhoods.
“I was raised by my grandmother. She’s an amazing seamstress, but we weren’t flush with money.
The opposite, actually.” My cheeks are on fire.
Please, please stop. I shrug and speed up my explanation.
“I liked school and something like the Marchane Society could have provided me better access to opportunities my school didn’t have. ”
“Before you transferred to St. Miriam’s, where you met Carter.”
“Yup.” I keep my gaze glued to my hands resting flat on the table. I can’t bear to see any pity in Sabrina’s face right now.
A small, manicured hand slides on top of mine. I look up and she’s smiling with a mischievous glint in her eyes.
“I have an idea,” she says.
“Okay?” My voice wavers.
She reaches into her purse and pulls out her phone. Her fingers fly over the screen and she continues to grin the entire time. It’s unnerving. She tap-tap-taps for several minutes.
I clear my throat. “What are you—”
“Just updating the registry.” She flips the phone around to face me and I read the screen.
There’s a disgustingly beautiful grid of photos featuring Carter and Sabrina on the Hudson River Greenway, next to the Thames, and on various other travels.
I flick my finger and scroll down to the heading that reads Registry.
It looks blank. Almost all the superfluous household items have been removed and a link sits in their place.
The bride and groom ask that you forgo a gift and donate to the Marchane Society. Click here to donate.
“Let’s watch them squabble over who can give the highest donation.” Her smile is wild.
I’m dumbfounded. Sabrina is…wonderful.
“I—I—”
“Like I said. Our money—or theirs, in this case—could be better spent elsewhere.”
“Sabrina, that’s…”
“Don’t worry, I left your porcelain cups on there.” She winks.