Ginny Aiken - Priced to Move

“I’m Max Matthews, new to the lovely state of Kentucky . . .”

How does he do it? I can’t take my eyes off him. He looks great and sounds even better, with that chocolate-rich baritone voice. Something warm swirls in my middle, and my tongue thickens to the consistency of a cotton ball. How am I supposed to do a show with him sitting so close?

I feel for the women of America, dropping like flies.

Then I realize he’s staring at me, Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona are waving like windmills, and Hannah, the camerawoman, is smacking her four fingers against her thumb like a beak in the universal gesture for “Talk.”

So I do. And for a while, we take turns giving the viewers our bios. Mine is short and sweet. Hometown girl goes Big Apple, but returns home wiser and happier to sell gemstones on TV. Then Max takes his turn. I tune out. He goes on and on and on.

When I notice Hannah doing her duck imitation again, I realize the show’s dying, and I’d better do something. Like sell the gems I’m supposed to sell.

Fortunately for all of us, Sally, the show’s merchandiser, had clamped a set of adjustable jeweler’s tweezers around a magnificent solitaire stone and left it ready for me to launch the show. I pick up the tweezers to bring the stone in front of the white velvet drape we chose as a backdrop for the product. It trembles a little—just like I do.

“To start us off for real,” I say, that nervous southern thick in my voice, “and so that y’all will get to know me quickly, I want you to know I’m a GIA certified master gemologist, and I’m about to introduce you to my favorite gemstone. Anybody know what this is?”

My cohost— aaack! —leans closer to get a look at the stone. The scent of his spicy masculine cologne surrounds me, ties my tongue in knots, and makes me hanker for those simpler days of rat-race stress and gnawing ulcer pain in New York.

Oh my.

The camera zooms in on the brilliant orange gem and off me. I’m so in trouble. But so is the ditzy duo when I get done here.

Does the word “setup” ring a bell?

Thanks to the zillion rehearsals, I stutter out my spiel. “This . . . uh . . . this is one of . . . ah . . . the earth’s rarest stones.”

Get a grip, woman. “It was first discovered in the Spessart Forest in Germany in the 1800s, and since that time, pockets have been found in Nigeria, Namibia, and even California and Brazil. The finest stones, though, have come from Namibia. The color can range from a bright yellow, through a citrusy orange, to a burning-embers shade of red. The most valuable—and desirable—hue is the exact mandarin orange I’m offering you today.”

My heart rate decides to settle down when Max leans back into his chair. Phew! I can get to my job again.

“Since there’s never been enough supply for this stone to go fully commercial”—my voice is still embarrassingly breathy—“I’m sure most of you are wondering what it is.”

Miss Mona makes like a traffic cop. I humor her and stop to create dramatic effect. Something clatters to my right, but I refuse to let Max distract me any more than he already has. “You may be surprised to learn that this intense, yummy color belongs to a . . . garnet!”

For some inexplicable reason all his own, Max finds my statement hilarious. I shoot him what I hope is a stern glare. But before I can gather my wits and go on with my presentation, he oh-so-generously shares the reason for his humor.

“Everyone knows garnets are red,” he says. “Come on, tell us. What is it? For real.”

A gemstone host who doesn’t know garnets? I’m so in trouble.

“You’re such a kidder,” I say through gritted teeth.

“I’m not kidding. You are. Garnets are red.”

“Not just red.”

“Red.”

“And green and orange and yellow and purple—even color-change, like alexandrite. They come in every color but blue.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Yes, they do.”

“Red.”

What am I doing? My job’s to sell gems, not to argue with a dud. A hunk of a dud, but a dud to the—oh yeah—max.

Get with the program, Andie. “Max’s response shows the common misconception about garnets. I can guarantee that this gorgeous jewel is a garnet, a spessartite garnet. The difference between this one and an almondine—that’s the red kind—is the absence of iron and presence of manganese in the chemical composition. Iron turns the material red, or worse, brown.”

“Huh?”

Did I say we’re doomed? No? Well, I’ll say it now: We’re doomed.

I turn my face so the viewers don’t think I’m totally rude, but I stare at the way-less-distracting stone. “That small difference, Max, makes the manganese-colored stones rare— and pricey.” Back to the camera. “But our wonderful vendors have negotiated for us an incredible price. And when we get a good deal, we give you a great deal. This internally clean, two-carat stone is priced at only four hundred and seventy-five—”

“ That little thing?” Max roars. “Four hundred bucks?”

If I had a weapon, and if I was the violent kind, and if I wasn’t a Christian . . . well, you get the idea. I consider ducking under the desk. But I’m not that big a coward.

Yet.

“I think we can safely assume that Max has no experience with gems. A fine spessartite garnet like this”—I turn the tweezers to better show off the stone—“internally clean and beautifully cut, can go for up to twelve hundred dollars per carat. And this one is two full carats. Quite a bargain—for a mandarin orange garnet.”

“That’s insane!”

“That’s an investment.”

He snorts. “An investment’s stock in that . . . that Jimmy Buffet—no, not Jimmy, Warren —that Warren Buffet guy’s investment company.”

I ignore his blather. “Ladies and gentlemen, I can report that statistics show gemstone collecting as the fastest growing hobby in our country, and as an up-and-coming favorite investment too. So at only four hundred seventy-five dollars? How can you pass up such a great deal?”

Max wriggles in his chair. Out the corner of my eye, I see a flash of silver. Good. He’s picked up the tweezers that hold the gemstone I’m scheduled to feature after the garnets on this nightmare of a launch show. Maybe he’ll learn to use them and do something constructive.

“Here.” I angle my hand in front of the white velvet drape, then hold the tweezers so the garnet lines up with my ring finger. “See how fabulous the mandarin orange garnet looks on the hand? It’s so gorgeous that many women are choosing colored stones like this one for engagement and wedding rings. Now what girl wouldn’t want to wear a beautiful bit of captured, fiery sunshine on her 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.”