The Liar

To keep busy, she went up to the bedroom, sorted through her jewelry. Her engagement ring, the diamond earrings Richard had given her for her twenty-first birthday. The emerald pendant he’d given her when Callie was born. Other pieces, other gifts. His watches—six of them—and his army of cuff links.

She made a careful list, as she had with the clothes she’d taken to the consignment shop. She bagged the jewelry with their appraisals and insurance information, then used her phone to search for a jewelry store, as local as she could manage, that bought as well as sold.

With the boxes she’d picked up while they’d been out, she began packing up what she considered hers, and important to her. Photographs, gifts to her from family. The realtor had advised her to “depersonalize” the house, so Shelby would do just that.

When Callie woke from her nap, Shelby kept her entertained by giving her little tasks. As she packed, she cleaned. No more housekeeping staff to scrub and polish the endless miles of tile, of hardwood, of chrome, of glass.

She made dinner, ate what she could. She dealt with bath time, story time, bedtime, then packed more, hauled boxes to the garage. Exhausted, she treated herself to a hot bath in the soaking tub with its soothing jets, then crawled into bed with her pad, intending to write out the next day’s agenda.

And fell asleep with the lights on.

•   •   •

THE NEXT MORNING she headed out again, with Callie and Fifi and Shrek, and Richard’s leather attaché case holding her jewelry and its paperwork, his watches and cuff links. She tried three more banks, widening her area, then, reminding herself that she had no room for pride, parked in front of the jewelry store.

She dealt with a three-year-old cranky at having her movie interrupted again, and bribed Callie into submission with the promise of a new DVD.

Telling herself it was business, just dollars and cents, she pushed Callie into the shop.

Everything shone, and seemed as hushed as a church between services. She wanted to turn around and go, just go, but made herself move forward to the woman wearing a sharp black suit and tasteful gold earrings.

“Excuse me, I’d like to talk to someone about selling some jewelry.”

“You can speak to anyone here. Selling jewelry is what we do.”

“No, ma’am, I mean to say I’m selling. I’d like to sell some pieces. It says you buy jewelry, too.”

“Of course.” The woman’s eye was as sharp as the suit, and carved Shelby down, top to toe.

Maybe she wasn’t looking her best, Shelby thought. Maybe she hadn’t been able to camouflage the dark circles under her eyes, but if there was one thing her granny had taught her, it was that when a customer came into your place, you treated them with respect.

Shelby stiffened a spine that wanted to buckle, kept her eyes direct. “Is there someone I should speak to, or would you rather I take my business somewhere else?”

“Do you have the original receipts for the pieces you’re interested in selling?”

“No, I don’t, not for all, as some were gifts. But I have the appraisals and the insurance papers. Do I look like a thief, one hauling her daughter around fancy jewelry stores trying to sell stolen merchandise?”

She felt a scene rising up in her, a dam ready to burst and flood hot and wild over everything in its path. Perhaps the clerk sensed it as she stepped back.

“One moment, please.”

“Mama, I wanna go home.”

“Oh, baby, so do I. We will. We’ll go home soon.”

“May I help you?”

The man who stepped up looked like somebody’s dignified grandfather, the sort in a Hollywood movie about rich people who’d been rich forever.

“Yes, sir, I hope so. It says you buy jewelry, and I have some jewelry I need to sell.”

“Of course. Why don’t we go over here? You can sit down, and I’ll take a look.”

“Thank you.”

She struggled to keep that spine straight as she crossed the shop to an ornate desk. He pulled out a chair for her, and the gesture made her want to blubber like a fool.

“I have some pieces my—my husband gave me. I have the appraisals and all that, the paperwork.” She fumbled open the attaché, took out pouches and jewelry boxes, the manila envelope holding the appraisals. “I— He— We—” She broke off, closed her eyes, drew a couple of breaths. “I’m sorry, I’ve never done this.”

“It’s perfectly all right, Mrs. . . . ?”

“Foxworth. I’m Shelby Foxworth.”

“Wilson Brown.” He took her offered hand, shook it gently. “Why don’t you show me what you have, Mrs. Foxworth?”

She decided to go with the biggest straight off, and opened the pouch that held her engagement ring.

He set it on a velvet cloth, and as he took out a jeweler’s loupe, she opened the envelope.

“It says here it’s three and a half carats, emerald cut, a D grade—that’s supposed to be good, from what I read. And with six side stones in a platinum setting. Is that right?”

He looked up from the loupe. “Mrs. Foxworth, I’m afraid this is a man-made diamond.”

“I’m sorry?”

“It’s a lab diamond, as are the side stones.”