And Helen cups a blazing green egg in her hand, so bright both women look green in the reflected light, and she says, “Do you see the kind of uniform veil-like inclusions in a synthetic emerald?”
Her eye clenched around the loupe, the woman nods.
And Helen says, “Remember this. I don’t want you to get burned the way I was.” She reaches into the cosmetic case and lifts out a bright handful of yellow, saying, “This yellow sapphire brooch was owned by the movie star Natasha Wren.” With both bands, she takes out a sparkling pink heart, trailing a long chain of smaller diamonds, saying, “This seven-hundred-carat beryl pendant was once owned by Queen Marie of Romania.”
In this heap of jewels, Helen Hoover Boyle would say, are the ghosts of everyone who has ever owned them. Everyone rich and successful enough to prove it. All of their talent and intelligence and beauty, outlived by decorative junk. All the success and accomplishment this jewelry was supposed to represent, it’s all vanished.