Ginny Aiken - Priced to Move

I scramble out, fighting my natural urge to run ahead.

I don’t think the demure Burmese can handle a crazed American rushing their prized market. And I have a sneaking suspicion I’m actually allergic to Burmese jails. I itch at the thought.

Our translator follows me into the maze of vendors, and I’m off to the races. The first table I stop at has little to look at. The ruby rough is tiny, cloudy, and nothing I want to mess with.

The next table I visit, though, is a whole other story. While this vendor has no rubies, he does have other goodies. Our translator gestures for me to sit, and moments later, Miss Mona does the same. The gem-dunce follows. Lucky me.

The vendor pulls out a silver bowl and a folded-paper rectangle. My heart starts to pump. As he draws out the moment, unfurling each flap with painful deliberation, I grow giddy. Tha-thump, tha-thump, tha-thump .

I can’t stand the overdone suspense. Finally, the slip of paper blossoms out flat. In the very center multiple stones twinkle and wink at me. I bend closer. They glow stormy-ocean blue. “Ah . . .”

“Nice?” the vendor says.

I rein in my stampeding glee. “I’d like to loop them.”

When he nods, I reach into my pocket, pop open my 10x magnifier, and look at the stunning, clean stones. The man’s carat scale reveals decent weight. These babies should set up great. “Do you have more?”

“More?” The vendor leans over, digs around in a beat-up old suitcase, and after a few minutes bounces back, a larger folded packet in hand. “More.”

You know I buy all those sapphires.

Miss Mona slips the two parcels into her handbag. “Oh, Andie. I’m so excited! Our viewers are gonna eat these beautiful pieces up with a spoon.”

“That’s what I thought when I laid eyes on the first lot.”

“I knew the color was good,” Max said.

“You’re learning.” I hope.

“Everyone knows sapphires. It’s all that stuff about other unknown stones that can trip a guy up.”

“A guy who doesn’t know his gemstones . . .”

“When you know all about football and golf . . .”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“D’you see me turning blue?”

To keep from saying anything more, I find another table— not a hardship, since I figure there’s about a couple million of them under the umbrellas. Just a tiny exaggeration, but that’s how crowded the pink and blue mushroom world feels. I wave at our translator. “Could you please ask this gentleman to show us what he has?”

He nods, singsongs something at the vendor, and after a slew of smiles and more nods, this guy rummages through a white canvas bag slung over the back of his chair. I sit down across from him. Miss Mona takes the chair next to mine. Max the Magnificent stands.

“Spinel,” the man says.

I nod. Most people think of spinel as the fake, man-made stuff they put in most class rings, but real-deal spinel is a thing of beauty. Especially the Burmese material. I lean forward and hold my breath.

This man is more progressive with his packaging. He keeps his stones in mini-ziplock baggies. Another silver bowl comes out of the canvas sack, and the gems are poured into its center.

I sigh. “Beautiful . . .”

He has purple, blue, pink, and the big mama of spinel: red.

Max leans forward. “That’s not ruby?”

“Isn’t it amazing?” I say. “But it’s spinel, not ruby. And you’re far from the only guy to mistake fine spinel for ruby. It actually tends to be cleaner, more transparent, and the color? There’s a whole world of rubies that dream of being spinels when they grow up.”

“No kidding.”

But enough with the chitchat. Out comes my loop. I wave it at my armed nanny. “Does he mind?”

The men sing out Burmese. When both nod, I take up my trusty tweezers and loop away.

It doesn’t get much better than this. To make sure I’m not dreaming, I set down the loop, slip my empty hand under the table, and pinch my thigh. “Ow!”

“Did you just pinch yourself again?” Max asks.

“Yeah. I don’t want this to be some dream. Doesn’t it freak you out even a little that you’re here, all the way around the world, in a country few people have visited in forty or more years, and looking at some of the most spectacular gemstone material ever ?”

“The travel’s cool.”

“But not the stones?”

The devastating smile shows up again. Aaack! Even when he makes me crazy, his smile melts my bones.

He crosses his arms. “What can I say? They’re okay.”

Rather than try to answer, I shake my head and turn back to my gems, soon to be Miss Mona’s and the S.T.U.D.’s gems.

We make our way around, up, and then finally down all the vendors’ tables. I collect perfectly green peridot; all colors of tourmaline—except Paraíba; amethyst so purple it makes me want to cry; green—you hear that? Green! — zircon; squeaky clean aquamarine; velvety navy-blue kyanite; super-rare green kornerupine; and not just the more common colorless danburite but also sunny yellow and fancy pink.

As we head back to the van, exhaustion almost brings me to my knees. Miss Mona, however, is sassy as ever, the usual spring still in her step. How does she do it?

I struggle to keep up with her and Max, but my eyelids get scratchy and my arms and legs weigh about a ton each. In the van, I collapse into my seat. Miss Mona settles in, and Max fills the back bench with his long, lean figure.

Miss Mona hugs her handbag close. A tiny smile curves up the corners of her mouth.

“How does it feel to carry around a king’s ransom?” I ask.

“I’ve never done anything like this,” she answers. “But I love it. I’m so glad you agreed to work for the network. I wouldn’t have had this chance any other way. And I wouldn’t trade this trip for anything in the world.”

Even though I’m pooped, I realize how right she is. “I wouldn’t trade it either.”

I’d consider trading Max the Magnificent for an air conditioner . . .

It’s hot in Burma. And it doesn’t help that every time the guy looks at me, my temperature rushes right up to stratospheric heights. I’ll just have to work harder to control my response. I can’t fall for a jock who doesn’t know rocks.

You’re going to help me, Lord, right? I can’t do this alone. All I know is that Max Matthews is more dangerous than any of the poachers the vendors have told us about.

Maybe I can get on his nerves so much that I’ll chase him away— Whoa! I can’t be that awful. True, I feel as though I’m teetering on the edge of a cliff, and Max is either about to push me over or catch me on the way down. Beats me which, but I’m scared. Still, aside from knowing nothing about my field of expertise, what has Max done? Nothing so bad. Right?

Oh, phooey! The truth is, I’m afraid if I have to spend a whole lot more time around him I might . . . let’s just say I don’t even want to know what might happen.

He’s way too attractive. And I might start to believe there’s lots more behind that amazing smile, those twinkling sky-blue eyes, the dumb-jock routine.

Miss Mona’s nobody’s fool. She hired him. Maybe . . .

Even if he doesn’t know his chalcedony from his chryso-beryl.

Heaven help me. Please!

Dinner tonight is more of the same mystery mix— fishy-flavored this time—veggies, and rice. The best part of the meal is the fresh tropical fruit we’re served for dessert. Afterward, I sleep like a dog—totally oblivious to everything but my off-the-wall dreams. Okay, so maybe I don’t chase my tail in my sleep, but I do spend a ton of time trying to catch Max before he makes another one of those bloopers of his.