Gilt, p.16
Gilt, page 16
“Maybe Clifford Henry could officiate? He did a great job at Tom and Aaron’s wedding last summer.”
She nodded. “I’ll talk to him.”
“And we need to figure out the guest list. You really should invite your sister, you know.”
“Oh, Jack. Don’t start with that. I doubt she’ll even be out here in August. I’m going to sign the paperwork she wants. Hopefully, that will set a good example for Gemma and she’ll do the same. I just want Elodie to tell her where the ring is . . . for closure. And then we can all move on.” Herself especially. The past few days she’d allowed herself the small hope that maybe the ring was somehow gone, and that’s why Elodie was being evasive. If it was out of the family, she was in the clear. She would be free of the curse.
“Celeste, that competition was a lifetime ago. I think everyone has moved on. You’re holding on to the past.”
It was low tide and the receding water left a band of stones and shells. An older man with linen pants rolled up to his knees picked through them, collecting some into a reusable shopping bag.
She turned to Jack. “The past just showed up on our doorstep. I’m doing the best I can.”
It was hard for her not to think of the time when Paulina had been the one to show up on her doorstep.
Celeste had just moved to Provincetown a few weeks earlier, and she and Nathan were just settling into their rooms at the Barroses. They had a routine meeting every morning for coffee in the kitchen, served by Mrs. Barros, along with homemade Portuguese rolls. Then they went off to work, Celeste at an antiques shop, Nathan at his writing space. At the end of the day, they met up again for drinks before heading home together.
One night, they reached the house sometime close to nine and spotted a couple on the second-story deck. It was just about dark out, only a faint stripe of fading pink in the sky, endless stars, and a bright three-quarter moon. Celeste remembered the way light seemed to play tricks with them at that hour; the couple on the porch seemed to radiate their own glow. They didn’t see Celeste and Nathan approach, they were so wrapped around each other, kissing in a way that felt obscene to have stumbled upon.
That’s when Celeste recognized the unmistakable long blond hair.
“Paulina?”
Her sister scrambled to her feet, the man standing up beside her. They held hands. The man looked familiar, but it took her a few seconds to place him: Elodie’s boyfriend.
“Hey. Sorry to just show up like this. I left you a message on your machine.”
Sensing the tension, Nathan continued inside, leaving the three of them alone.
Standing in the moonlight, urging Paulina to keep her voice down so they didn’t disturb the Barroses, Celeste listened calmly while the story came pouring out: They were in love, neither of them planned this, they tried to stop it but they were soul mates.
They both kept saying the same thing: “It just happened.”
Now they needed to tell Elodie. And they wanted her help.
“I’m not okay with this,” Celeste said, looking up at the stars and wondering what to do. As the eldest, she’d always felt removed from the scrum of competition between her younger sisters. Although, if she was being honest, it was really a one-way competition: Elodie had always been jealous of Paulina and never the reverse. It was their mother’s fault; Constance fawned over the baby, never failing to mention her beauty while always chiding Elodie for being bookish and dowdy.
Her first instinct was to tell Paulina to back off—to throw this particular fish back into the sea when there were so many others readily available to her. But confronted with the pair, their hands entwined, the palpable energy sparking between them, she knew it was a lost cause.
“I don’t want to hurt Elodie,” Paulina said. “That’s why we waited so long. We both hoped this would pass, that we’d get it out of our system.”
“I knew it wouldn’t pass,” Liam said, gazing at her adoringly.
Celeste shifted uncomfortably. “Look, things happen. Fine. But why are you dragging me into this?”
She already knew the answer. Elodie adored Celeste. She looked up to her more than she respected her own mother. Celeste was the one who turned her on to Virginia Woolf and Charlotte Perkins Gilman. Who introduced her to great works of art and the importance of history. Celeste and Elodie were the only two in the family who had true intellectual curiosity, and that had always been Elodie’s escape from the demands of life in the Pavlin orbit.
“I thought if you told her, if you somehow suggested that we can all get through this . . .” Paulina said.
“I’m sorry,” Celeste said. “I can’t condone this. And I don’t want to be a part of it. I love you, but you’re on your own with this one, kiddo.”
She let Paulina and Liam crash in her room for the night under the condition that they go back to New York the following day and talk to Elodie. “No matter how difficult the truth is, a lie is always worse.”
The decision the following morning to visit the beach had been a last-minute one. After a sleepless night of thinking about this disastrous turn of events, obsessing about it from every angle, Celeste felt more compassion for Paulina. Her youngest sister wasn’t malicious, but she was spoiled and naïve. There was no scenario in which this was going to go well.
She didn’t want Paulina to leave on a bad note and suggested a quick walk on Race Point Beach as long as they discussed anything but Elodie. The walk had been innocent. But it came back to bite all three of them. Badly.
Celeste, consumed with the memory, zoned out and missed the sunset. The beach erupted in applause as it always did for nature’s light show. Jack leaned over and kissed her.
“Another day in paradise,” he said.
Yes. It was their paradise. And she intended to keep it that way.
36
Gemma recognized the New York Times reporter, but couldn’t place where she’d seen her before. Regan O’Rourke was in her fifties, with sleek orange-red hair, pale brows, and no makeup except for lipstick in an ill-advised shade of coral. She wore a navy linen dress that buttoned up the front and small gold hoop earrings. She arrived at Celeste’s house at precisely the agreed-upon time.
“The camera crew will come on a separate day,” Regan told her in advance. It took some of the pressure off, but Gemma still dressed carefully in a simple white T-shirt and jeans, her hair pulled back in a ponytail. She wanted to let her jewelry take center stage, and wore two necklaces, one short chain and one long, both gold-plated, with charms, including a vintage “Y” cutout subway token, a Casterbridge letter “G,” a gold-plated key to Gramercy Park, and a purple Met admissions button she set in a bezel. She wore citrine and aquamarine rings from Rock Candy stacked on her right forefinger.
They sat across from each other at the picnic table in Celeste’s backyard. Kate Bush music emanated from a neighbor’s house. The sun was bright overhead, so Gemma put up the table umbrella. Across the lawn, a baby bunny lifted its head from the grass.
Regan put her phone on the table. “Do you mind if I record our conversation?”
Gemma realized where she’d seen her before: the Pavlin & Co party last month.
“Sure,” she said, shifting uneasily.
“So tell me about your work. What makes you different from other designers? What’s your brand?”
Gemma took a breath. “My brand, GEMMA, is about personalization and sustainability. Everything is designed to be personal to the wearer. That’s also why I want my work to be affordable. My first collection, Rock Candy, was inspired by birthstones. I created a high-end version and lower price-point versions in colored glass and base metals.” She held out her hand with the citrine.
“And your necklace? That’s from your NYSD award-winning collection, Old New York, correct?”
Gemma nodded. “It’s all charm jewelry. The first pieces were inspired by the Casterbridge hotel. I collected all the brass letters from the guest rooms and made molds. This ‘G’ is one of them. Other charms are made from collectibles I found scouring flea markets around the city. All the charms have symbolic meaning for New Yorkers—like the subway tokens that were taken out of circulation sixteen years ago. Or this key to Gramercy Park.”
“Great idea. And so the charms can be mixed and matched to different chains?”
“Exactly. I work in silver, brass, and gold-plated steel. My chains are custom-designed so the charms clip easily on and off. I use a large lobster clasp that I find to be the most wearer-friendly.”
The reporter asked her about her studio and how much business she did online versus in physical retail sales. Without a good cover story, Gemma admitted she got booted out of her apartment for using it as a pop-up shop, and thankfully, Regan laughed. “Is that why you’re on the Cape for the summer?”
“I can really focus on the work here. And I’ve already been to some local estate sales. This area is full of interesting collectibles.”
“So maybe we’ll be seeing an Old Cape Cod collection next?” Regan said.
“I don’t know. I might want to do something more general that really opens my pieces up for the individual to create their own meaning. My dream is that someone who buys a GEMMA necklace today will keep adding to it throughout his or her life. It’s meant to grow with the wearer. In other generations, jewelry was something people got as gifts. Like, for some women, their first real piece of jewelry might be their engagement ring. But that’s old thinking. I believe the future of jewelry is gifts to ourselves. I want us to mark our own milestones, big and small.”
It was the first time she’d said the words out loud, but it instantly gave her the idea for a future collection she could call Mile Stones. She’d have to remember to write that down after the interview.
Regan smiled. “It’s interesting to hear you speak of the traditional engagement ring as passé considering your family essentially put them on the map.”
Gemma swallowed hard and reached for her water bottle. She’d been realistic enough to expect the question and mentally prepared for talking about the Pavlins. At least, she thought she had. Now that it was happening, it took her a moment to find her voice.
“I didn’t grow up with that side of my family,” she said carefully. “So it’s not that remarkable that I have a different idea of jewelry.”
“A different idea, maybe. But Pavlin & Co is a century-old company. It’s an institution. You have no interest in designing for them?”
With that one question, Gemma felt utterly exposed, as if the woman had seen inside of her soul.
“Yes, Pavlin & Co is an institution,” she said carefully.
As a teenager, she dreamed of designing for Pavlin & Co. The thought of working at the company gave her a sense that she could somehow continue her mother’s legacy. Both of her parents’ legacies, really. Her father had been instrumental in their advertising campaigns, and her mother had been his muse. It was only fitting that her mother’s engagement ring was the most important piece in the entire Pavlin & Co collection—one of the most important diamonds in the world. Surely, Gemma was destined to be a part of that ongoing story. Jewelry design was in her blood, and where else would she direct her talent but the company her family had built?
“Don’t be foolish,” her nana told her. “They don’t want anything to do with you. Isn’t that obvious? And for the record, you’re better off without them. Don’t look for trouble.”
Gemma didn’t believe her. She waited and waited to hear from her mother’s family, but the day never came. Not until she was in college, and the first of the photo albums arrived in the mail. By the time her grandmother finally reached out to her, it was too late. Gemma’s heart had hardened toward the Pavlin family. The years of silence spoke loud and clear. She was unwanted. She was cast aside. Her only inheritance was grief.
So her dream changed. She wouldn’t be a part of Pavlin & Co., but she would be a part of making them obsolete.
“But it’s an institution of the past,” Gemma said, looking the reporter in the eye. “I’m all about the future. I’m looking forward. And it’s a great view.”
* * *
Alvie insisted on celebrating Gemma’s interview and her own last day at Queen Anne’s Revenge. They were going to Tea Dance at the Boatslip, a sort of dance-party happy hour. It seemed like a great idea last night when Alvie suggested it, but after talking with the reporter for hours, Gemma wasn’t in the mood.
Still, she dutifully met Alvie at Maud’s old Victorian with the pink shutters. On the way, she stopped at the post office to mail that day’s jewelry orders. Sealing up the Priority Mail boxes, she didn’t feel the usual sense of satisfaction.
She thought she handled the reporter’s questions just fine. At least, on the outside. But the conversation was eating at her, hours after they shook hands and said goodbye.
Pavlin & Co is a century-old company. It’s an institution. You have no interest in designing for them?
She couldn’t delude herself that she was anywhere close to disrupting the conventional jewelry business—nowhere near competing with Pavlin & Co. She’d been living in a fantasy world. What had she expected? That she’d graduate from college and some billionaire would throw money at her? That they’d look at her Instagram and anoint her the second coming of Elsa Peretti? Even winning the NYSD award—the small, attainable goal she’d set for herself along the way—wasn’t a game-changer. Instead of focusing on what she was doing, the reporter seemed more interested in what she wasn’t doing. And wouldn’t anyone who read the article feel the same?
The redbrick path to the house was lined with flowering bushes. While most of the homes on Commercial had neatly trimmed hydrangea bushes, the front garden of Maud’s pink-shuttered Victorian was a maze of tall grass, marigolds, purple zinnias, sunflowers, and ferns. The house itself was marked with a metal plaque—one of dozens around town—designating the building as having once been the home of a notable artist.
Alvie sat on the front porch, nestled in a cushioned wicker chair with an open bottle of wine on a side table.
“Hey,” Gemma said, sitting on a swinging bench across from her. “I thought you said we needed to be there by five to get a spot.”
“We do,” Alvie said. “This is just pre-gaming. No one shows up at the Boatslip sober.”
Gemma accepted the glass Alvie poured for her. It was a pale white, fruity but not sweet. It went down easy and she had to force herself not to drink it too quickly. She hadn’t eaten in several hours and in her frame of mind she’d be on the fast track to wasted.
She glanced at the front door, wondering if Sanjay was inside. He’d texted her earlier, asking how the interview went. She’d written back, Fine. She’d managed to work in a mention of him when the reporter asked about her success on Instagram. “Photography is instrumental to my business,” she’d said, and told the story of how she and Sanjay began working together to launch her brand.
“Maud should be down any minute and then we can head over,” Alvie said.
Gemma barely heard her because at that moment Sanjay rounded the sidewalk corner, heading to the house. He had his camera bag over one shoulder and was talking on his phone, not noticing the small group on the porch until he was almost at the steps. He abruptly ended his call.
“Hey, have a drink with us,” Alvie called out. Sanjay climbed the stairs and set his camera equipment down on the ground.
“So what happened with the interview?” he said to Gemma.
“Nothing happened,” she said. “I texted you that it went fine.”
“Exactly. You were interviewed for the most culturally influential newspaper in the country and all you had to say about it was that it went ‘fine’?”
“Maud always says that understatement is a sign of confidence,” said Alvie.
As if on cue, the front door opened and Maud strolled out with a bottle of vodka in one hand and three shot glasses in the other. She was dressed in the same outfit of rolled-up jeans, black V-neck T-shirt, and white Converse high-tops that she’d worn to the engagement dinner at Celeste’s.
“Hello, ladies,” she said in her husky drawl. “Oh—and gentleman.” She sat on the landing of the front door and set the vodka and shot glasses down beside her.
“We started with wine, babe,” Alvie said.
“Wine? I thought you said we were celebrating tonight.”
Sanjay stood, picking up his bag and pulling it back over his shoulder. “Have fun tonight.”
“What do you mean? Come along,” Maud said. Sanjay shook his head.
“Thanks but I want to take some photos tonight after dark. The monument, the wharf . . .”
Maud checked her Apple Watch. “It’s four hours till sunset. And Tea Dance ends at seven. You haven’t experienced P’town until you’ve danced at the Boatslip. Bring your camera.”
Sanjay glanced at Gemma. She shrugged.
“Well, I’m all for experience,” he said.
37
The club was set right on the water, with a wide deck, hoppin’ bar, and a female DJ wearing a fluorescent sports bra and cranking out remixes of Lady Gaga and Kanye West songs circa 2010. Shirtless men abounded—young, old, six-pack abs, and potbellies. No one cared. Gemma felt she could take off her own shirt and no one would raise an eyebrow.
Sanjay had given up on taking photos an hour earlier. But he’d hesitated to leave his camera at their table.
“This is P’town! Lighten up,” Maud said, pulling him out of his chair by the hand. Gemma wasn’t sure if the comment meant that no one would steal his things, or that dancing was mandatory, but either way, the four of them fell into the groove of the crowd.
Maud ordered food for their table—chicken fingers, a hummus plate, and a spicy noodle salad. She insisted everyone stop and eat something because it was clear they were all crossing the line from pleasantly tipsy to sloppy drunk. But every time Gemma thought about slipping away to grab a bite, the DJ hit them with an even better song. A man wearing a Speedo, a glowstick around his neck, and a sailor hat handed out small water bottles. Gemma wanted to dump it over her head but knew she’d feel better in the morning if she started drinking something other than vodka.
