Ginny Aiken: Priced to Move

When I snap shut my clamshell cell phone, it sinks in. As does my stomach, so to speak. “What am I going to do with all that stuff?”

The rumpled woman who is crashed on the sofa across from me opens one eye and mumbles, “Whassup?”

“Nothing, nothing. Just muttering.”

Sure, sure. Why shouldn’t she look at me like I need help, of the straitjacket kind? I’ve been reduced to mumbling sweet nothings to myself.

Is this that big payoff my career was supposed to bring? What am I going to do with myself? I have no job, no income, and no raging desire to twiddle my thumbs.

My phone rings again. “Yes, Al. What else do you need?” “Al?” Roger asks. “Who’s Al?”

“My mover, Rog. You know, the guy who’s brought all my things from my closet-sized apartment here for me. I’m fine, thanks for asking. And how are you? How’s Tiffany?”

“Ah . . . well, yes. How did your trip go?”

“How nice of you to ask!” What can I say? I’m far from perfect, and I fail to stop my smart mouth from smarting off. Lucky for me, this time no one sticks me in a corner to ponder the error of my ways—like all those times back in my schoolgirl days. I shake my head, shoot a prayer for selfcontrol heavenward, then go on. “But I do know one thing. You didn’t call to see what kind of mileage I got on the drive, or to see how much wreckage Al and his pal wrought on my stuff. So what’s up?”

“What do you mean, what’s up? I called to see if you’d worked this tantrum out of your system yet.”

“I’m sorry, Roger. I am a smart-mouth, and that’s not so cool.” Okay. I’ve faced up to my part. But I hate it when he pulls his daddy-thing on me. “Tantrum? I’m not throwing a tantrum. I just couldn’t go on. I worked, worked, worked, and didn’t have a life. It all just got to me.”

“Oh, all right.” His long-suffering sigh rings alarm bells. Roger is known for his determination. “How about a 25 percent raise? Will that do it?”

Wow! Twenty-five percent . . .

Temptation lasts about two seconds. “I wish it were as simple as money. It’s the stress, the ulcers that don’t heal, the crazy rents that had me living in an apartment smaller than my aunt’s downstairs powder room.”

The woman on the couch glares. I shrink into my chair and lower my voice. “Where was I? Oh yeah. New York, I’ve come to believe, is a great place to visit, but not one for me to inhabit. Sorry.”

“B–but . . . what about . . .” His words trail off. He sighs. He gulps. He stays quiet for a moment, two . . .

Roger is really upset. I’ve always known he respects my work but never thought he cared much about me as a person, an acquaintance, a friend. Or is it my gemological knowledge he loves so much? After all, a time or two, when he was gung ho on making a questionable purchase, I stepped in and managed to save his bacon. Big time.

“Andie, I really need you here.” The sincerity in his voice catches me by surprise. “I don’t know anyone else with your talent, expertise, and honesty. You can spot a flaw a mile away, never mind a fraud. Where am I going to find someone else who can do that? Besides, we’ve always worked very well together.”

I take a gulp of coffee . . . two. “Thanks for the compliment. It means a lot. Really. It does. But you know the GIA graduates top-notch gemologists all the time. That’s where I learned what I know. Call them. I’m sure they’ll hook you up with the right person.”

“They’ll know their stuff, but will they care?”

“Sure. Gemologists love rocks.”

“But will they care ? About business. About negotiating.” “I can’t make any promises.”

“See? I need you back.”

“No, you don’t, Roger. And I can’t go back. You might never understand.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Even though you think I went temporarily insane when I jumped at the chance to come home again, I had been praying for a change. Aunt Weeby’s accident just gave me the push I needed.”

“But what about your career? All those years of studying?” Aargh! The guy does know my weak spots. As I think of an appropriate response, I glance at the woman on the couch. She shuts her eyes fast in a lousy effort to pretend sleep. I feel bad for disturbing her, but I can’t handle cell phone and coffee and walk all at one time. So I tell Roger, “Thanks for the free trip down the guilt aisle, Rog. It just won’t work. I quit.”

“I really need you, Andie. Take a couple of days to think it over. I can postpone the trip to New Delhi while you reconsider. I won’t hold it against you once you come to your senses.”

Big of him, huh? And here I thought I’d come to my senses the minute I decided to come to Louisville. “Don’t, Roger. Don’t hold out hope. I’m staying here.”

“Not for long, you won’t. You’ll get bored in days, and besides, what are you going to do for a living? Can’t imagine there’s a huge need for gem experts down there.”

“I don’t know one way or the other.” I tamp down the panicky butterflies in my stomach, and give the by-now irate woman on the couch an apologetic smile. “But I do know I’m staying here. Now, hang up and call the GIA. I’m sure the perfect gemologist is out there, waiting for you to find him . . . or her.”

“Andie, really. I—”

“Good-bye, Roger. Give Tiffany my love.”

This time, the snap of the closing phone sounds more like the thud of the floor falling out from under me. What am I going to do with myself? Does anyone need a gemologist in Louisville? If so, where? Who? And if not, then what else does my skill with expensive sparkly stones qualify me for? My nerves detonate another stomach salvo, one unlike the earlier butterflies. This one threatens to wake up my dormant ulcer.

I burst up out of the uncomfortable chair. “Well, enough of that.”

Your choice, your choice, your choice. My footsteps seem to mock me as I march down to Aunt Weeby’s hospital room. She has to be done with that sponge bath by now. There isn’t a whole lot of her, so how long can a lick-and-a-promise swab-down take?

I slam the door on every thought that even considers popping into my head as I put foot in front of foot.

3 00

At the door, I hear a familiar, throaty laugh.

I grin. “Hey, there, Miss Mona! I didn’t know you were coming.”

“But here I am, and I need me a hug.”

As always, Miss Mona Latimer looks like a million bucks, somewhat less than she’s reported to be worth. Her sage green suit brings out the green in her hazel eyes, and her hair is in its usual sleek silver bob. By comparison, I feel ready for the next episode of What Not to Wear in my boring blue-on-white pinstriped button-down shirt and gray pencil skirt.

After I extricate myself from the solid, comforting hug, I catch a glimpse of Aunt Weeby. Uh-oh. The tricky twosome is up to something, and this time, I don’t think it has anything to do with matchmaking. That’s Aunt Weeby’s thing. Miss Mona would rather eat ground glass than mess with someone else’s love life. And she’s said so. About a million times.

“Okay, you two.” I frown and waggle a finger. “Spit it out. I can tell when you’re making trouble.”

“What?” Aunt Weeby can’t pull off the blasé thing worth beans. “Can’t a woman be happy to see her best friend and her favorite niece both at one time?”

“ Favorite niece? What’s up with that? I’m your only niece, you fraud, you. And you and Miss Mona fight more like sworn enemies than best friends. So tell me what’s up.”

Aunt Weeby turns to Miss Mona. “It’s your idea, so go ahead and tell her.”

“Of course it’s my idea, but she’s your niece, and you think it’s a pretty good idea too, so you tell her.”