The Diamond Secret

by Ruth Wind

  "I don't understand. Why did you wait so long to call? You had to have known a lot sooner than this."

  "I've been trying all day. There was a problem with the first flight—"

  "Right," I said, cutting him off. "Whatever. It's always something, isn't it?"

  "Honey, I know you're mad at me, but don't be. I'll be there tomorrow or the next day and I'll bring you home to San Francisco. You'll like it. I've got a great apartment in a great old house, and your bedroom will be in the attic, with all these windows that look out toward the bay. You'll love it, I just know it."

  "I'm sure I will, Dad," I said, heavily.

  We talked for a few more minutes, but I was feeling the first truth of reality regarding my father: I could never expect him to be anything except unreliable. You couldn't get mad at a giraffe for being a giraffe—you had to just accept them as they were.

  And I was allowed to try to protect myself, make a better life. Somehow, I had to find a way to stay in Paris. Maybe my grandmother could be my ally—as a Frenchwoman, she loved the place herself, and she'd seen how unreliable my father was the past few years. I would give it some thought.

  In the meantime, I would enjoy this evening.

  Often, I wonder how things would have been different if Mariette had not decided to see us off. I flew down those stairs in my new pumps that made me feel so grown up, and saw Paul through the slats in the stairs, blinking in surprise, then happiness as I flew across the room in my beautiful dress that he'd chosen.

  "You are lovely," he said.

  I laughed happily. "Thank you!"

  He handed me a small box. "Here is your gift from your old guardian, huh? Open it."

  It was a jewel, of course. But not just any jewel—it was a replica of a necklace that had once belonged to the wife of an Indian Raj, made with a deep red pigeon's blood ruby, set delicately on either side with soft pink topazes. "Oh!" I cried, and my hand flew to my mouth. "It's the Princess's necklace!"

  He smiled. "A replication, of course, but I was pleased at how beautifully they did it."

  "It's beautiful, Paul!" I held it out to him. "Will you put it on for me?"

  "It would be my pleasure," he said.

  I turned and lifted my hair. Paul came close behind me and I took three seconds to close my eyes and imagine he was my lover, that those strong hands now brushing my bare shoulders would settle on my skin, open-palmed, and he'd kiss my neck.

  Of course all he did was fasten the necklace and spin me around so that he could admire it. "Beautiful," he pronounced.

  From behind us came the droll approval of Mariette. "My, my," she said dryly, "don't you look grown up tonight!" She looked closely at the necklace. "Oh, lovely, lovely."

  "Thank you."

  "I only came by to bring you some chocolates and say hello to your father—is he here yet?"

  "No. He was delayed," Paul said, putting his hand on my elbow. "We shall be late, Mariette. You'll forgive us if we move along."

  "Oh, I'm so sorry."

  I lifted a shoulder. Not even Mariette could ruin this evening for me. "It's all right."

  "Paul, you can't mean to be taking this girl out alone, just the two of you?"

  "Not only do I intend to, we are leaving now." He put his hand at the small of my back, and I felt a swelling sense of power as I met Mariette's eyes.

  She saw it, too. "Of course. You have planned it for a month, and it is impossible to let it be ruined by her father's bad manners."

  "More than that," he said, smiling down at me. "It is her sixteenth birthday. Surely you remember, Mariette? It is a special day."

  Mariette looked at me, shook her head. "I am sorry, Sylvie, but it needs to be said." She folded her arms, raised one perfect black brow, and said, "Paul, you are a generous and kind man, but it needs to be brought to your attention that this poor girl is in love with you…."

  * * *

  On the modern sea crossing to Arran, I finished my tea and waited to dock on the island. The rain held off, so I could stand outside and look at the water, watch the birds circling, imagine, as I always did, how things must have been centuries before.

  Arran was one of my most beloved spots. Once a year or so, my mother and grandmother had gathered up a group of aunties and cousins and we all drove up to Ardrossan to take the ferry across. We'd picnic and tumble through the hills all day, then sleep overnight and come back in the morning. Glorious times.

  It was my mother who'd shown Paul the cottage for sale in Lamlash, and he bought it nearly on the spot. It has other memories for me now, and I had not thought I'd like going across on the ferry this time, worried that the memory of that one piercing time would interfere with my pleasure in it.

  To my surprise and pleasure, it did not. I stood on the decks of the ferry and watched the island approach, feeling something lighten in my heart. I remembered happy days with my mother, and Paul, and even my father, who'd sometimes come with us. Sunnier times than these.

  As the ferry neared the bank, however, I felt nervousness well up in my chest. It had been a long time since I'd last seen Paul, and it seemed the last encounters had all been humiliating in one way or another. The most humiliating was when he rescued me here, on Arran, when I was seventeen.

  I did not think I would remember that one just now.

  As I came off the ferry, I looked for him, my heart beating too quickly. I wondered if my face was red. And then I saw him and it didn't matter.

  He stood against the gray sky like a pillar, in a long wool coat and a knitted scarf around his throat. He wore no hat, and his hair, a little long, very thick, blew in the wind. His face, long and carved, with harsh cheekbones and that strong Gallic nose, showed no expression.

  And I could not help it—my heart squeezed so hard I almost could not breathe. What would I say, after all this time? What would he say?

  As I came out of the gate, he spied me and came forward, rushing, I thought. Did I imagine that his expression brightened? I found myself hurrying, too. My heart hurt and I was determined not to show it. I thought I would faint with it when he stopped in front of me, and there was Paul, my Paul, standing there in the flesh after five full years. I could not find a single word to say.

  But then he bent down and swept me up into a hug, his wool arms and gloves warm around me, and I flung my arms around his neck like a drowning child.

  "Sylvie," he breathed against my ear. "Thank God."

  For one long moment, I allowed myself to rest against him, then I pushed a hand between us, and stepped back. I held up my hand, as if warding off an evil spell.

  Something quivered in the air between us, a ghost, or the past, or a dream. Something. "Sylvie," he said, frowning, "you look exhausted."

  "I don't have the diamond."

  "Are you all right?"

  "Luca stole it," I explained.

  He lifted a hand toward me—I backed away. "How did you hurt your chin?"

  "We need to go after him!" I said. "He's probably halfway to Romania by now."

  "Sylvie—child—let me look at you! You have bruises!"

  "Paul!" I backed away, out of his reach. "Are you listening to me?"

  He caught my arms. "Are you?"

  Something about the angle of his jaw, cleanly shaven, as if only moments ago, and a place on his exquisitely carved lower lip that was slightly chapped, abruptly unnerved me.

  I suddenly saw him. A lock of thick, light brown hair blew across his brow. There was a thread of silver in it. I saw new creases at the edge of his eyes. His beautiful, beautiful gray-green eyes.

  "I hear you," I said, deflating like a balloon.

  He pulled off a glove and with his bare fingers touched the marks on my face—my eyebrow and chin—and pressed his palm against my cheek, brushed hair away from my eyes. "Your lip looks very sore," he said, but did not quite touch it.

  "I lost the diamond, Paul."

  He nodded, shrugged. "We will get it back, do not worry. For now, Sylvie
, come back with me to the cottage, and I will make phone calls, and make us a coffee. You look as though you could use it."

  "All right."

  He put his arm around me, in a bracing sort of way, and I melted all at once, just melted into the broadness of his chest and the smell of him, a richness I could never quite identify and was just…Paul.

  At my capitulation, he enfolded me, resting his chin on top of my head, his ungloved hand cupping my ear, my face. I put my arms around his waist, closed my eyes. For this one minute, this one—

  He bent his head close, pressed his lips against my temple. Fiercely, he said, "Sylvie, we must never let this much time go by again. Do you hear me?"

  "Yes."

  "Never," he repeated, and gave me a little shake. His lips moved against my brow. "I cannot bear it."

  "I know. I'm sorry. You were right about him, about Timothy. I knew it that day."

  "Shhh," he whispered. "It doesn't matter."

  A wave of dizziness washed through me, equal parts relief, regret, and love. Yes, it was still there, as solid as it ever had been. How could I have dared let so many days, weeks, months, years go by without hearing his voice, speaking his name?

  "Paul," I said, just because I could.

  "Sylvie," he said, and I felt him smile.

  I needed to find out what part he'd played in all of this, what lines he had crossed himself. Squeezing his wrist to avoid showing my feelings, I slid out of his embrace. "Let's go then."

  For a moment, he paused, looking at me. So intently. So closely. Then he nodded, held out a hand. "Come."

  Chapter 18

  Cleavage: refers to the tendency of a diamond to split along the grain parallel to one of its octahedral faces. It is also a term applied to rough diamonds that have at some time been cleaved from a larger stone.

  —www.costellos.com.au

  Paul and I arrived at the cottage—and it really was a cottage, with whitewashed walls and a thatched roof that looked quaint and provided no end of headaches, not the least of which was finding a thatcher to do the upkeep. It was charming, however. Sometimes, violas grew in it, tiny purple and yellow flowers.

  We arrived with the rain, which surged over the building like a wave blown up from the ocean.

  "Good God," I said. "It's like Armageddon."

  "Only Scotland," he said, and smiled. "You've just forgotten."

  I held my hands out to the fire. A little nervous, maybe. Not looking at him too much.

  He tossed his keys down and brought out a cell phone. "Forgive me," he said. "I must check messages."

  "That's all right. Find out where Luca will be."

  "I'm certain he's still in Scotland," Paul said, phone to his ear. "They've been canceling flights left and right all morning, thanks to weather. Gusts are too strong. He can't have gotten out." He picked up a pen and started writing on a tablet on the kitchen counter. For a moment, I watched him, thinking he looked like an ordinary businessman, in the long wool coat and the cleanliness of his hands. He looked like a television commercial for an upscale line of electronic equipment, or possibly wine.

  Not at all like the Paul who had come here to rescue me when I was seventeen. Or maybe I was just old enough to finally see him clearly.

  I had lived with my father for a year in San Francisco, but I did not fit in there, either. By then, I was fairly sure I didn't fit anywhere, and I would be a misfit in every school I ever attended. In America, I was lost in the popular culture everyone else shared. They were joined together by sitcoms and commercials and a history of toys and books they'd shared—what did I know of Wayne's World or Roseanne or gangsta rap? I didn't understand American football or basketball and, having just come from Paris and Rio, hated the whole dressing-down idea for girls. What was the point?

  They called me that "weird French girl."

  With a crushing recognition, I realized it would be the same in Paris, perhaps even worse—there I would be the weird American, though perhaps my father's standing would have more clout in Europe. He was, in spite of everything, always in the top three drivers every year, and age seemed to be only giving him more power.

  Actually, my father was fine, at last. We did have a lovely apartment in a good neighborhood, and I attended a good school. He, no doubt prompted by my grandmother and Paul, was attentive and learned how to spend time with a daughter. It helped that I was now a sophisticated sixteen-year-old instead of a gawky thirteen.

  I was still painfully lonely. All through the rainy San Francisco winter, I pined for my Paris bedroom, the smell of Brigitte's cakes, the clatter of the produce vendors in the streets. And Paul, of course. To make myself less lonely, I immersed myself in the study of gems. It made me feel closer to Paul, but it was largely my own passion that made me want to explore them. I haunted the city's many museums, but there were not enough old or large gems to capture my attention, and I began to haunt estate sales.

  In some ways, that was one of the finer times I spent with my father. Then, a happiness for him, a disaster for me—he fell in love. Not the lust-filled affairs he'd had until then. It was love, with a woman not quite a decade older than me. Clearly, she adored him, and it was mutual, and she was kind to me. But once they married, I decided it would be better to begin my own life.

  Very maturely, I thought, I sat down with my father and asked his assistance. I wanted to go to Glasgow, to discover my Scottish ties, see who I was in that world. He agreed to give me a stipend and help arrange everything on two conditions: one, that I go into Ayr once a week and see my grandmother, and two, that I would choose a college and direction at the end of a year.

  Fair enough.

  So I established myself in a flat on the outskirts of Glasgow, and all I felt was lonely and lost. Bad months, those. I fell in with a fast crowd, drinking and other things, and I had my first lover, a boy two years my senior who had a nearly incomprehensible accent and a thick lock of hair that fell over his forehead in a way that slayed me.

  But as first loves will, it ended, and badly. I caught him with a pretty neighbor of mine, and that was that. In despair, I took the train to Ardrossan, called Paul to be sure I could use the cottage on Arran, and laid in supplies. Being seventeen and dramatic, it was in the back of my mind to commit suicide, and I suppose I wanted him to know where I was so when I didn't turn up they could find the body before it got too disgusting.

  Instead, I fell asleep in the tiny bedroom, sobbing. I felt absolutely alone, deserted, crushed. It seemed there would never really be anyone in my corner, someone who had my back. I wished for a sister, my mother, even a single friend I could call upon.

  Somewhere in that long night, I resolved to stop looking. I would be my own rescuer, do what I pleased and find my own way in the world. We were all alone, anyway.

  When I awakened, there was a glaze of milky daylight beyond the windows, and standing before the kitchen windows with their starched eyelet curtains stood Paul in his shirt sleeves, cracking eggs into a blue bowl.

  "Bonjour, mon petit chou," he said cheerfully as I sat up. "Would you like eggs? I'm glad I thought to stop for supplies. There's not much here, and you look like a girl who could use a good cup of tea."

  "How very British of you," I said, tossing my hair out of my face. I tugged a sweater on my arms. "Yes, eggs, and yes, tea."

  He smiled very slightly as I pushed by him to go to the toilet. I looked like hell in the mirror—swollen-eyed and splotchy—and of course, I'd forgotten a toothbrush, but he'd anticipated that and laid one still in its package on the sink. I tied my long hair back in a knot looped upon itself, and scrubbed my face with chilly water. It helped. I only looked a quarter dead instead of all the way there.

  I went back to the main room, tugging on an oversized red sweater that I'd taken from a hook. It smelled of him. I lifted the sleeve to my nose without thinking, and only realized what I was doing when I saw him looking at me.

  "You like that cologne?"

  "I guess
." I slumped the table and he put down a big ceramic mug of tea. "Thank you."

  He kissed the top of my head. "You will live, no?"

  "I didn't think so yesterday."

  "So it is, with a broken heart."

  "How did you know?" I straightened to let him put a plate of fluffy eggs and buttered bread down before me. He settled his own plate, discarded the apron, and sat down across from me.

  "Eat," he said, nudging my hand.

  I picked up my fork.

  "I just knew," he said.

  "I don't want to fall in love ever again," I said.

  He nodded, and his eyes were kind. Knowing. Without a hint of irony, he said, "You will learn to bear it."

  * * *

  It was impossible not to remember it all, as I stood in the room where we'd spent so much time. It struck me that he was older. As I was.

  I didn't actually know what he did for a living. Art collecting. Gems. He'd made a fair pile of money during his racing days and had invested wisely—but still. It often seemed there was a hushed aspect to his work. Was he a criminal? The aspects of Luca stealing the Katerina certainly seemed to suggest it.

  I felt a sinking sensation in my gut, putting together these things I'd never thought about. When he flipped his phone closed and looked up at me, he must have seen it on my face. "I won't lie to you, Sylvie. Ask whatever you wish."

  "Did you hire Luca to steal the Katerina?"

  He stripped off his coat, folded it neatly over a chair, rolled up his sleeves. "Yes," he said at last. "It isn't quite that bare, but the short answer is yes, I did."

  I sat on the edge of the sofa, my hands on my knees. "And you couldn't buy it why?"

  His mouth turned up on the right. "I was trying to buy it. The dealer gave it to Gunnarsson for his debts."

  With a scowl, I shook my head. "He had to have been a fool to throw away such wealth on a drug deal."

  He simply lifted his eyebrows.

  "Right. Drugs, fools, all the same." I rolled my eyes. "I still don't think it was okay for you to have it stolen."

  He poured water into the kettle and set it to boil on the gas stove. "It isn't as if it was in a museum or some other sacred place. It wasn't even as if it had a proper owner who loved it had taken possession of it."