finger?”
“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend . . .” Max’s baritone does a decent job on Marilyn’s trademark song. Not that I need it.
Time for damage control.
“Max has a point. But let me tell you, diamonds have gone up 30 percent in recent years. Know what a so-so two-carat diamond sells for? Way more than four hundred and seventy-five dollars. You can take that to the bank.”
“You think you can talk women into going cold turkey on diamonds?”
He’s so incredulous, it sounds as though he’s mocking me. Not cool. Maybe I can talk Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona into going cold turkey on him . “I find colored stones just as exciting as diamonds.”
His muttered response isn’t—thankfully—clear. I try to ignore him and get on with my job. “So how many of you lovely ladies out there are going to be so lucky as to own one of these gorgeous stones? I see on my monitor that a bunch of you have already taken advantage of this great offer. You’re smart shoppers. And we still have some quantity left for the next few callers—but not a lot. I don’t even have enough for two per state, so hurry, grab yours before they’re all gone.”
Five feet behind the camera, Carla, Miss Mona’s assistant, mimics a phone with her hand. Relief is good.
“Let’s go to the phones.” I squint against the studio lights to read the monitor screen on the desk. “Hello? Is this Sissy from Alaska?”
Giggles titter over the air. “Yes! I can’t believe I got through!”
Even a giddy viewer is better than Max. “I’m happy you called. What do you think of the spessartite?”
“Oh, dearie, it’s just precious! I saw it, and just had to elbow Charlie. I told him I had to have it. So he bought it for me. Told him it’d keep me thinking of him while he’s on the road all those days at a time.”
“Are you a collector, Sissy?”
“Oh, dearie, I collect everything . I haven’t met the teapot I haven’t loved. And porcelain dolls? Why, they’re my babies.
Well, aside from Fritzi and Mitzi, my Pomeranians. And then there’s the plates and the quilts and . . .”
Her list boggles this mind. “So tell me, will you be setting the stone? Do you need a diamond semi-mount? Because if you do”—I lower my voice to girls-sharing-secrets level—“I have a faboo tray of them to show you. Six, six beautiful diamond semi-mounts.”
“And we’re off to the races! Giddyap!” Max says. “What’s a semi-mount?”
I spin my chair and face him, distracting or not. “You don’t know a spessartite from spit, and now you ask me what a semi-mount is? You don’t know a thing about the gem trade, do you?”
Tweezers in hand, he shrugs. “Never said I did.”
“But—how . . . you’re supposed to be a gem expert!”
“Why?”
“Because we’re selling gems.”
“No. We’re not selling gems. You are selling gems.”
“Fine. But then what good are you?”
Just beyond the camera, Miss Mona is making like a football ref calling for a time-out. Everything about her blares STOP. Okay. I’ll stop. For now. But just wait until this fiasco is over . . .
“We have three more stones available. Who’s going to pick them up? Who’s going to own a stone that’s close to extinction from the earth’s crust? Who wants—”
“Ooops!”
Max’s tweezers clatter onto the desk. Something sparkly skitters across the surface, falls off the edge, and I see it bounce toward the camera tripod. My jaw drops.
Did he really just do that? And Miss Mona thought he was a good idea because . . . ?
When I collect myself, I point at Max. “You! How could you? What kind of idiot drops a princess-cut diamond? What were you thinking?”
“Before you get a chance,” he says in that ridiculously wonderful voice, “I’ll say my kind of idiot. What’s the big deal? I dropped it. It’s not as if I tossed it through the goalpost uprights, then did a victory dance on top of it. I’ll just go pick it up.”
“NO!” I leap
“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend . . .” Max’s baritone does a decent job on Marilyn’s trademark song. Not that I need it.
Time for damage control.
“Max has a point. But let me tell you, diamonds have gone up 30 percent in recent years. Know what a so-so two-carat diamond sells for? Way more than four hundred and seventy-five dollars. You can take that to the bank.”
“You think you can talk women into going cold turkey on diamonds?”
He’s so incredulous, it sounds as though he’s mocking me. Not cool. Maybe I can talk Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona into going cold turkey on him . “I find colored stones just as exciting as diamonds.”
His muttered response isn’t—thankfully—clear. I try to ignore him and get on with my job. “So how many of you lovely ladies out there are going to be so lucky as to own one of these gorgeous stones? I see on my monitor that a bunch of you have already taken advantage of this great offer. You’re smart shoppers. And we still have some quantity left for the next few callers—but not a lot. I don’t even have enough for two per state, so hurry, grab yours before they’re all gone.”
Five feet behind the camera, Carla, Miss Mona’s assistant, mimics a phone with her hand. Relief is good.
“Let’s go to the phones.” I squint against the studio lights to read the monitor screen on the desk. “Hello? Is this Sissy from Alaska?”
Giggles titter over the air. “Yes! I can’t believe I got through!”
Even a giddy viewer is better than Max. “I’m happy you called. What do you think of the spessartite?”
“Oh, dearie, it’s just precious! I saw it, and just had to elbow Charlie. I told him I had to have it. So he bought it for me. Told him it’d keep me thinking of him while he’s on the road all those days at a time.”
“Are you a collector, Sissy?”
“Oh, dearie, I collect everything . I haven’t met the teapot I haven’t loved. And porcelain dolls? Why, they’re my babies.
Well, aside from Fritzi and Mitzi, my Pomeranians. And then there’s the plates and the quilts and . . .”
Her list boggles this mind. “So tell me, will you be setting the stone? Do you need a diamond semi-mount? Because if you do”—I lower my voice to girls-sharing-secrets level—“I have a faboo tray of them to show you. Six, six beautiful diamond semi-mounts.”
“And we’re off to the races! Giddyap!” Max says. “What’s a semi-mount?”
I spin my chair and face him, distracting or not. “You don’t know a spessartite from spit, and now you ask me what a semi-mount is? You don’t know a thing about the gem trade, do you?”
Tweezers in hand, he shrugs. “Never said I did.”
“But—how . . . you’re supposed to be a gem expert!”
“Why?”
“Because we’re selling gems.”
“No. We’re not selling gems. You are selling gems.”
“Fine. But then what good are you?”
Just beyond the camera, Miss Mona is making like a football ref calling for a time-out. Everything about her blares STOP. Okay. I’ll stop. For now. But just wait until this fiasco is over . . .
“We have three more stones available. Who’s going to pick them up? Who’s going to own a stone that’s close to extinction from the earth’s crust? Who wants—”
“Ooops!”
Max’s tweezers clatter onto the desk. Something sparkly skitters across the surface, falls off the edge, and I see it bounce toward the camera tripod. My jaw drops.
Did he really just do that? And Miss Mona thought he was a good idea because . . . ?
When I collect myself, I point at Max. “You! How could you? What kind of idiot drops a princess-cut diamond? What were you thinking?”
“Before you get a chance,” he says in that ridiculously wonderful voice, “I’ll say my kind of idiot. What’s the big deal? I dropped it. It’s not as if I tossed it through the goalpost uprights, then did a victory dance on top of it. I’ll just go pick it up.”
“NO!” I leap
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