Chapter Fourteen Tessa
Chapter Fourteen
Tessa
She had my earrings. Why did Regina have my earrings?
Then my mind goes somewhere it shouldn’t, somewhere I don’t want to follow. Gabe’s the sole link between my earrings, my son, and my home. Is it possible . . . Could Gabe have bought my earrings for Regina?
As quickly as the notion materializes, I discount it.
It’s twisted and weird, buying your wife’s art for another woman.
Besides, Gabe doesn’t cheat. I know that’s what every naive wife says.
In my case, it’s true. His father cheated.
Then denied it. Then took it out on Gabe’s mother when she caught him.
Then took it out on Gabe when he tried to defend her.
My father didn’t cheat. He was just never a part of our lives.
My mother didn’t drink because he left. He left because she drank.
It turns you one of two ways when you come from families like ours—either decidedly against having children, or all in on creating the family you never had.
Gabe and I dove in. Iron strong. It’s how I know he’d never cheat.
Still, the fact remains: Regina had my earrings.
I pull up outside the unassuming white building on Santa Monica Boulevard in Beverly Hills. I press the buzzer for Ezra Linsky & Sons. I should have called first. They’re by appointment only. If they have no appointments, no one will be upstairs. I wait as it rings, willing someone to answer.
“Yes?” It’s Maya Linsky, the eldest of Ezra’s two daughters. There are no sons at the venerable Ezra Linsky & Sons, a charade that almost made me look elsewhere for a retailer. I like Maya, though. She’s the first to admit it’s sexist, but she’ll stomach a little patriarchy if it means more sales.
“Maya, hey. It’s Tessa Irons.”
“Tessa.” She says my name like she’s been expecting me and dreading it. “Now isn’t really a great time.”
Maya and I are friends. Friendly, anyway.
Sure, we haven’t spoken since I confided that I was pregnant again and wouldn’t be able to fill my annual line.
I can still hear the uptick in her voice when I told her, the present she sent the next day—a special stretchy swaddle that was the only kind her son would sleep in as a baby.
It isn’t like her to be so curt with me now.
“It’ll just take a minute. I wanted to ask you about the earrings I made for you last year. A pair surfaced somewhere unexpected, and I want to make sure they weren’t stolen.”
The pause is too long.
“Sure,” Maya finally says. The door buzzes, and I lunge for it before it locks again.
I press the button for the elevator, growing anxious. Normally, I’d take the stairs. At thirty-seven weeks pregnant, I get out of breath from any small exertion, even a flight of stairs at sea level. I don’t want to show up panting when this already feels so awkward.
The elevator doors open, and I walk down the empty hall to Ezra Linsky’s, where Maya is waiting at the door. She flinches when she spots me, staring at my stomach as though she’s forgotten I’m pregnant, forgotten she sent me her son’s favorite swaddle.
“Don’t worry, I won’t go into labor in your store,” I joke as I waddle toward her.
The corners of her lips flit upward into something resembling a smile while the rest of her remains remote.
Then she shakes her head, breathes deeply, and reaches over to hug me.
Between my stomach and the energy coming off her, it’s a lopsided embrace.
She pats the air around my stomach. “You’re ready to pop. ”
“I’m hoping she’ll stay put for a bit.”
Maya’s eyes well. “It’s a girl?” She does that deep breathing again. “That’s great, Tessa.” Maya weaves her arm through mine. “Now, let’s see about those earrings.”
Inside, the store is minimalist, as all expensive jewelry stores are: glass cases with necklaces and rings the price of a down payment on a home, carefully displayed on black velvet. Maya motions to the couches by the window, where I wait as she gets us each a cup of tea.
“I guess you’ll have your hands full for a bit,” she says as she places the tray on the table.
“I should be back in no time.” The lie stings my teeth. I have a decent number of sketches, but it will be months before I have any prototypes, let alone finished pieces.
“Right, because it’s so easy to get back to work when you have two children,” she teases, traces of the Maya I know surfacing. “How are you feeling?”
She doesn’t mean it in the rote way people ask, assuming I’ll say tired or nervous or surprisingly good. Answers that allow them to respond sympathetically or not at all.
“I’m not sure,” I tell her honestly. In my second pregnancy, I’ve learned that what’s so nerve racking is that I can’t know the person inside me.
Although there are tests to calculate the likelihood of various conditions, while I can gauge her size by fruits and vegetables, hear her heartbeat, I won’t know what she’ll look like, her personality, her disposition, until she’s here.
I know I’ll love her, but I have no idea if I’ll like her too.
“So, this might not be something you usually do, but—” I fidget, trying to get comfortable.
“The white gold with the four rose-cuts I made last year?” Maya nods, knowing exactly which ones I mean.
I made five pairs, and they sold so quickly, Maya asked me to make more.
Instead, I made something similar in platinum that were twice as expensive and sold even faster.
Maya knew better than to ask for a third round.
Five is the most I’ll make of any piece.
With molds, it’s easy to churn out multiples, more cost-effective.
Gabe’s always trying to convince me to scale up, to find ways of optimizing profit while making myself a household name.
It’s smart business, but it isn’t my style.
“I met this woman who had a pair of them, and something seemed fishy about it. I want to make sure they weren’t stolen.”
“No one’s reported anything stolen to us. We haven’t heard from any insurance companies or the police. What’s her name?”
Even if Maya had heard about the drowning, I doubt she’d remember Regina’s name. Still, I’m not ready for her to know this has something to do with Regina. I wish I’d lied, told Maya that I needed the contacts for my newsletter.
“She wouldn’t have purchased them herself. If I could see the list of people who bought them, I might be able to figure out how she had them.”
Maya starts twisting everything she can: her hands, her mouth, her ankles. “Tessa, I can’t give out—”
The phone rings, and Maya motions for me to hold on as she goes to answer it.
This was a mistake. I shouldn’t have come.
I shouldn’t have put her—or my career—in this position.
What was I thinking? I tug my bag higher on my shoulder, inch forward to commence the multistep process of standing.
Once she’s off the phone, I’ll apologize for bothering her and leave.
There are other jewelers who will sell my lines.
“What are you doing? I told you to stop calling,” Maya whispers into the phone. She peers over at me, and I quickly become interested in my purse. “Of course this is hard for me too . . . That’s not fair . . . Paul, you have to stop.”
I can sense Maya watching me, so I pull out my phone to give her privacy. There are two texts from Barb.
Is everything okay???
Tessa, I’m worried. Are you home? Is your husband there?
Three dots dance on her side, and I jump in before she gets carried away. I’m fine! At jewelry store to see about the earrings. Will keep you posted!
The ellipsis continues to undulate until she writes, 1 of the appointments on Regina’s list is Mon morning? 10 AM. Should we go?
I’ll pick you up after my husband leaves for work, I write, relieved Barb didn’t ask to meet over the weekend.
We only have two weekends left, three if by some miracle the baby is head down and Dr. Avagyan lets me go to term.
This is sacred family time with Jasper and Gabe, who has promised not to work on weekends until after the baby arrives.
I stare at my phone, partly waiting for Barb’s response, mostly trying to maintain a veil of privacy for Maya, who continues to whisper-fight.
In my periphery, Maya hangs up and rubs her arms, warming the chill of that nastily quiet call. Then she slips into the office and returns with a binder.
When Maya sits across from me, she’s even sadder than before. She pulls in one exaggerated sniffle, then opens the binder. “What’d you say her name was?”
“Is everything okay?”
Maya folds her hands on top of the open binder, tears pooling. I’m about to apologize for prying when she says, “My ex-husband. Almost ex. After our son—” Her voice cracks. She doesn’t need to finish her sentence. Any mother who talks of a child like that, it can only mean one thing.
“Oh, Maya. I’m so sorry.” Of course I have questions, but they’re voyeuristic, self-centered, meant to assure me that nothing so terrible could happen to my children.
“It’s been five months. Paul’s having trouble coping. He’s paranoid. And obsessed. I can’t help him.”
“You need to take care of yourself.” It’s a little too close to advice, and she shudders. I’m about to apologize when she sniffles again, flips through the binder, and angles it toward me.
“Here’re the people who bought the white gold pairs.”
I scan the list. I don’t recognize the first four names. Then the fifth steals my breath. Dan Huntsman. My best friend’s husband. My neighbor. He bought my earrings. Regina drowned in front of his home. Not mine.
My finger wobbles as I point to Dan’s name. “Is he a regular client of yours?”
Maya shakes her head no.