Ginny Aiken - Priced to Move

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 out of my chair. “Don’t you even think about it. Don’t move.”

As I kneel to pick up the gem, the channel’s theme song starts up again. Relief turns my knees to overcooked linguine, and I plop down onto my butt.

Thank you, Lord. The launch show is over. The nightmare has ended. I can get back to the rest of my life. Far, far away from the S.T.U.D. studios.

You know it.

6 00

Decision made, I scramble up, shaking. I’m so mad. Diamond in hand, I stalk off the set and, like a bride on Filene’s Basement gown sale day, make for Miss Mona. “I quit! There is no way I’m working with that joker ever again. He knows nothing, nothing about gems.”

“Oh, Andie!” She chortles. “You have no idea. This is the most successful show we’ve ever had. You and Max are wonderful.”

“Huh?” I stick a finger in my right ear and jiggle. “What’d you say?”

“The phones haven’t stopped ringing since the two of you went on. We sold out of the spessartites, all the semi-mounts went too—sight unseen—and the viewers want to know when you and Max are on next. They don’t want to miss it!”

Now I’m really living in a nightmare. “But he doesn’t know a thing! He said some really dumb stuff on the air. And he dropped a diamond. A diamond, Miss Mona. The one we were supposed to feature next—but couldn’t. He messed up the show from the start.”

Aunt Weeby clumps up, a radiant grin on her face. “Sugarplum! You and Max are a hit! I was in the call room with the customer service girls, and I heard all them phone calls. You’re a hit! The viewers love you and Max. They think you’re a perfect couple—you know: Hepburn and Tracy, Moonlighting ’s Maddy and David, Miss Piggy and Kermit.”

Oh great. Her plan really is for me to join the ranks of pink-obsessed pig puppets. “But—”

“It’s everything I wanted and more,” Miss Mona adds. “Sparks! Fireworks! Chemistry! I knew it would work.”

Chemistry? Did these two ever think to check my past? I’m the one who got kicked out of chem lab once for setting the place on fire. I hardly think their plan included spontaneous combustion of the redhead-with-a-temper kind.

“You two are nuts. Keep Mr. Chemistry. I’m outta here. You can teach Max the Magnificent a thing or two about the gem trade. Oh, oh! And how ’bout this? I’m sure Miss Piggy would love to stage a comeback and be his sidekick. I hear she’s between projects these days.”

With no dignity left, I don’t care that every employee stares at me as I stomp out of the studio. I can’t believe I set myself up for this. And to think I gave up that fab career of mine in New York for a pair of lunatic seniors, the chance to humiliate myself before millions, and a know-nothing pretty boy. I thought that was a good idea because . . . ?

“But you were great . . .” Miss Mona’s wail follows me all the way to the door.

We were great, all right. A great, big, fat flop.

I should’ve known better than to let Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona take over my life.

Now what, Lord?

In the parking lot, I realize something’s cutting into my palm. I glance down and groan.

You got it. I walked out with the diamond Max dropped. And while I can return it in the morning, once I’m not so mad, I don’t feel right taking a three-carat treasure home with me.

But would you want to go back to the scene of that crime? I don’t either.

And that’s when my conscience kicks in, right on schedule. I’m convinced that mental tyrant of mine is hitched at the hip to heaven. So I try to reason. Why? I don’t know. I’ve yet to win a single argument. But I give it a go anyway.

“Okay, Lord. I know I have to take it back. But it was such a perfect exit!”

I take three steps toward Aunt Weeby’s old, clunky VW Jetta—she loaned it to me until I find myself a decent set of wheels to buy. Mine bit the dust when I pulled into town.

Where was I? Oh yeah, praying. God?

Since he doesn’t answer me, my discomfort grows.

“Aw, c’mon. You know I’m honest. I’m not going to run away with Miss Mona’s property. I’ll bring it back. Besides, I’m too embarrassed.”

Then it hits me. No matter how much I want to flee, there’s nothing I can do about it. There’s a very good reason the Bible calls anger a no-no. I let mine get the better of me, and I stormed out without my purse. Uh-huh. You know it.

No purse, no keys. No keys, no Jetta getaway.

Bummer.

“Oh, okay. I get the message. I gotta go back in there and eat humble pie. And when I see anyone, today or tomorrow, I’ll have to confess and ask forgiveness. As always, you’re right. Just don’t leave me now, Lord. Help me through it all.”

Not feeling a whole lot better, I retrace my steps, push open one of the massive glass doors, and reenter the building. In the lobby, a tall brunette in a gorgeous black suit stops me.