Wished

Chapter 7

7

The Barone showroom is in a classically elegant six-story sandstone building on the water. The French influence is obvious. The building could easily be transported to old Paris and no one would question its right to sit near the Seine.

It captures the understated elegance of the 1800s, where beauty was found in symmetry, smooth stone, and softly capped rooflines. The sandstone has a soft-buffed glow that sparkles in the late morning sunlight when the rays catch on the glittering quartz. It has the unique effect of making every person on the street turn toward it as they pass. I imagine the light urges them to wander inside the showroom to see more sparkly, beautiful things.

Or maybe that’s the giant gold and crystal engagement ring above the door, or the elegantly scripted six-foot-tall gold “Barone” prominent on the fa?ade, and glistening in the sunlight.

Either way, when people walk past, they don’t turn toward the water, where white swans swim past curving their slender necks. The people don’t pause and lean over the railing to squint at the Jet D’eau spraying mist high into the air. They don’t turn toward the bridges spanning the Rhone, point to the flowering gardens, or marvel at the panorama of stone city, smooth water, and low-slung mountains. No. They turn, like flowers to the sun, toward the Barone building.

It’s in the jewel-cluster of showrooms situated near the Jardin Anglais, overlooking the bridges, the Jet D’eau, and the regal stone buildings on the opposite bank. Every jeweler worth its diamonds is within spitting distance of this congregation. I’ve never been inside Max’s building, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know where it is.

Everyone knows.

The crystal and gold engagement ring on the building is practically a city icon. No matter the hour of the day, you can bet someone will be taking a selfie in front of the ring. Usually, it’s an ecstatic couple, newly engaged. Although once I saw two chihuahuas having their doggie wedding photos taken in front of the building.

On a windless day you can hear the carrying notes of the tour guides on the boats pointing out the Barone building to all the tourists snapping photos as they glide past.

Once, years ago, when Emme was still a baby, my mom and I went for a picnic with her in the Jardin Anglais. Afterward we wandered along the bank pointing out the swans to Emme. They swam after us as we meandered along, hoping for a crumbled handful of our leftover baguette. We were about to toss a few crumbs into the sunlit water when Emme saw the giant shining ring. Her arm shot out, her chubby finger pointed at the glittering facets, and she squealed with pure baby delight. She was mesmerized by that giant ring.

I’d seen it a thousand times before, but that day I saw it differently. My mom grabbed a man in a leather jacket and sunglasses passing by, shoved her camera in his hands, and asked him to take our picture. We stood under that giant ring and the gold Barone logo, grinning like fools.

Three years later, I met Max for the first time.

But that day, when a stranger took our picture under his building, I didn’t know who Max was. I only knew there was a large, beautiful jewelry store on the bank of the river, and when I stood under the ring I felt happy.

Six years ago I didn’t have the money to buy the diamond, sapphire, and ruby creations displayed in the windows. Three years ago, after I met Max, it didn’t feel right to wander through his store.

So today is the first time in my life that I’ve marched into this glamorous showroom. It’s entirely the same, and infinitely different than I imagined it would be.

The best word to describe it is ... light. Walking inside the showroom feels almost the same as walking into a diamond lit from within. Everything is full of light. The windows span the entire front wall. They’re tall, beautifully arched, and fill the space with abundant light. The ceilings are a high, beautifully carved plaster, with opulent crystal chandeliers throwing strands of light through the showroom. The marble floors are pure snowflake-white and reflect light off their pristine surface.

The entire effect of the windows, the chandeliers, the tall ceilings, the white walls, and the white marble floors is that when you step into the showroom, you’re in a great glittering ball of light.

It reminds me of the absence of light in my bedroom, and then the vast amount of sunlight that rained over me in Max’s bed.

The air is cool, with the brisk, clean scent you’d find at the top of a snowy mountain. Classical piano music tinkles softly through the showroom, lending an aura of sophistication and elegance. There are beautifully dressed staff waiting to help. Three women who are all so neatly tucked and ironed I can’t tell them apart. Two men in precisely ironed suits, both formal and wearing gold-rimmed glasses. There are plenty of customers, all being helped. Yet everyone speaks in quiet murmurs, with smoothly choreographed movements. It’s as if I’ve entered another world where people all speak softly, drink champagne while browsing, and no one ever has a single hair out of place.

One of the neatly tucked women sails toward me when I come in. I’m certain she’s about to politely ask me to leave, or forcibly shove me out the door, but instead she says, “Madame Barone, what has happened? You must see your husband, yes?” And then she ushers me through the showroom, past security, and toward the winding spiral stairs at the back.

As the cool marble soothes my raw feet, half a dozen people nod to me, lift a hand in greeting, or murmur a quick, sympathetic hello.

I may never have entered this building before today, but apparently, in this reality, I’m a frequent flier.

Max’s assistant—an older woman who looks like she drinks acid for breakfast and tortures biker gangs for giggles—melts as soon as I step into his outer office.

“You poor dear,” she says, thrusting Max’s black overcoat at me.

“You’re quite distraught!” she cries, pushing a cup of tea into my hands.

“What has happened?” she asks, holding out tissues.

“I’m here to see Max,” I say hesitantly, watching the closed door of his office.

“But of course!” she says.

And that is how I find myself about to come face-to-face with the man I’ve been married to for seven years.

I wonder what kind of memories he has of our time together. I wonder what sort of things we’ve done. I wonder if he’ll try to kiss me when he sees me.

I flush, then I grip the fabric of his black overcoat, pulling it tight around my dress shirt. The coat is an expensive trench that smells just like the sheets on the bed this morning—clean, with an exhilarating hint of fresh air and the subtle scent of the soap Max uses.

“Just a moment, Mrs. Barone,” Max’s assistant says. She punches numbers into the black desk phone and clamps the receiver to her ear. “Your wife is here to see you,” she says into the phone.

I watch the door, waiting for it to swing wide-open. Waiting to see what Max will do.

Her voice lowers, then she hisses something into the phone. I glance back. A red flush is slowly crawling over her cheeks.

I can hear Max’s clipped response through the door. His deep voice is brisk and impatient, and although I can’t make out his words, I gather their meaning.

He doesn’t want to see me.

I glance back at his assistant. Her nostrils flare and she looks as though she’s about to knock some heads together.

“Your wife ,” she says to another of Max’s objections.

I frown at the gleaming walnut door barring the way to his office.

Standing on the other side of his door, only feet away from him, I wonder, why is he objecting?

Does he have a rule that his wife shouldn’t visit him at work?

Did we fight last night?

Do we dislike each other in this life? Not married and in love, but married and in hate?

Did all the photographs in the house lie? Were our smiling faces hiding the reality that our marriage is in tatters?

Is that why he doesn’t want to see me?

Along with these thoughts comes another more important thought. We aren’t married! Not really! Why am I worrying about the state of a nonexistent marriage and whether or not my husband likes me?

I want to see Max—need to see Max—to figure out what is going on. I need to see him so I can ask to see the necklace again. So I can reverse what has happened.

Whether or not he likes me, loves me, or hates me, none of that makes a difference.

Yes, I know I wished that he loved me. But I took it back.

While the marriage end came through, I’m not sure the love bit did. Especially when I hear Max’s grim-faced assistant hiss, “I wouldn’t have come to the wedding if I’d known you’d treat her this shabbily. I have a mind to quit.”

She covers the receiver with her hand, leans toward me, and gives me a woman-to-woman “men are idiots” look. “I apologize, Mrs. Barone. He says he won’t see you.”

I can tell by her expression exactly what she thinks about that.

I give her a reassuring smile. I don’t know why Max said he won’t see me. It doesn’t matter. I have to see him. “Please tell him it’s urgent.”

She nods, then her brow wrinkles as Max says something more.

“Excuse me?” she asks, and then, “Of course I did. So did all the employees. So did half this city. What of it, if you aren’t going to see your own wife on your anniversary? I wouldn’t have bought you those fancy silver salt and pepper shakers. I would’ve bought cheap pewter ones if I’d known you’d turn away your own wife. Shameful.”

I bite the side of my cheek. I love how this woman is taking Max Barone to task over some salt and pepper shakers.

“He asked if I’m feeling all right,” she says, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling.

“Maybe I’ll just go in,” I say, nodding toward the door, “since it’s our anniversary.”

“I’m feeling better than you will be. I put your anniversary in your calendar, didn’t I? Not that I should need to,” she says to Max.

She gives another snort, rolls her eyes heavenward for patience, then bangs the phone down. “He said to send you in.” She casts a censorious gaze toward the tall wooden doors. “I worked for his father. Never once have I thought he’s anything like the senior Barone. Not once. Until now.”

“Umm . . .” I look between the door and the gray-haired woman. “Well. Thank you.”

She waves and then pats down her hair, plops a pair of bifocals back on her nose, and turns back to her computer. The keys click under her punching at the keys.

I take a deep breath, step toward the doors, and slowly turn the brass handle.