The Sapphire Pendant

by Dara Girard

In her room, Syrah grabbed her sneakers and pulled them on. She didn’t need a stupid babysitter, but Aunt Jessie needed a job, and she owed her. She began to tie her shoelaces. Yeah, Aunt Jessie needed a job; too bad it wouldn’t be watching her. She had plans that didn’t include anybody else.

  She grabbed a sock from her drawer and turned it inside out, letting its contents fall on top of the dresser. She loved the sound. It was like the pleasant ring of coins falling on a countertop. Sure, she had promised Uncle that nobody’s dog would go missing. She hadn’t lied; she wouldn’t steal pets. Jewelry, however, was another thing completely. The day Aunt Jessie had caught her, she’d been able to hide some stuff in her shoes. Good thing, too. She hated working and ending up with nothing.

  She picked up a bracelet, then toyed with a ring. They weren’t exactly beautiful. The bracelet had a bunch of large beads that shook like maracas, and the stone in the ring was kind of small. But since someone had bought them in the first place, they would probably want them back.

  She sighed. She couldn’t wait until someone placed an ad in the classifieds, because when they did, she’d be ready.

  The day progressed smoothly. Jessie and Syrah played Frisbee in the front yard, ate their way through a pepperoni pizza, then went to the arcade and played games. Towards the evening, Jessie took Syrah with her to the park so Jessie could play tennis with Wendy.

  “So who’s this?” Wendy asked, offering Syrah a friendly smile.

  Syrah hid behind Jessie and looked at the woman with suspicion. “My name’s Ace.”

  “Her real name is Syrah,” Jessie corrected.

  Wendy raised a brow. “Like the wine?”

  “Yes. She’s visiting her uncle Kenneth.”

  Wendy’s eyes lit up. “As in Kenneth Preston?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, la, la. I’m impressed. How did you manage that?”

  She sent her a warning look. “It’s a long story.”

  Wendy turned to Syrah. “Well, any relative of Kenneth’s is a friend of mine.”

  The girl didn’t smile.

  Undeterred, she leaned towards her. “How would you like to have a do—?”

  “She’s not interested,” Jessie cut in.

  Wendy gave her a classic French shrug. “It was worth a try.” She handed Jessie a book.

  Jessie read the title. “How to Flirt?”

  “It works. That’s how I got Bruce.”

  They turned to the man flexing his muscles for a passing female jogger.

  Jessie looked at the cover and frowned. Which means it doesn’t work properly, she thought.

  * * *

  “Your friend seems okay,” Syrah said as they returned to the house.

  Jessie smiled at the grudging respect in her voice. “Yes, I like her.”

  She took off her hat and wiped the lip with her hand. “Is she married?”

  “No, but she has a boyfriend.”

  She put the cap back on. “And you want a boyfriend too?”

  Heat rushed to her cheeks. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because she gave you that book.”

  “She was trying to be funny.”

  “Oh…” Syrah considered the statement, then her face spread into a grin. “Oh, I get it. You like Uncle.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not it at all. She just wants…she…well. Don’t worry about it.” She tugged on her wet shirt. “I’d better get showered. I’m all sweaty. Your uncle should be home by now.”

  Syrah watched Jessie open the door. “I can help you if you want.”

  “I am not interested in your uncle.”

  “Fine. Why don’t you come up to my room and play a game, or, um…we could watch TV or something. You don’t smell that bad.”

  “Thanks, but I’d prefer not to smell at all. I feel grimy.” She went inside.

  In a perfect world, she would have entered the house and had the opportunity to shower and change. Then, completely refreshed, she would greet Kenneth. But it wasn’t a perfect world. She entered the house with a sticky T-shirt, with her hair plastered to her head, and she saw Kenneth sitting with a woman that put sugar to shame.

  * * *

  Rodney Phillips used his Street Nerd T-shirt to wipe his glasses and squinted at the computer screen. It was amazing the things a guy would do to get laid. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten into this mess. Fortunately, disbelief didn’t automatically lead to regret. He certainly didn’t have any.

  He shoved his glasses onto his face, then quickly decoded the numbers in front of him. Everyone was entitled to do something shady at one point in life. As long as no one got hurt, what did it matter? He had always been a good kid. Where had that gotten him? Nowhere. Twenty-one, and his first sexual experience had cost him a hundred and twenty dollars. He still wasn’t sure if he had gotten a fair deal. It didn’t matter anyway. The second time wouldn’t cost him a thing.

  This time he had a woman who was truly interested in him—and not just any woman: Brooke Radson, prime, unadulterated female. He remembered seeing her in the hallways at Radson, and being ashamed of his dirty thoughts when she brushed past him. Her scent always lingered in the air, making him rise and salute every time. It disturbed him, because she was so cute. It was like lusting after one of those princesses in Disney cartoons. But hey, she was still a woman, and there was something sexy about her, despite her wide eyes and dimpled cheeks.

  He’d nearly crashed into a plant when she had first said hello to him. Guys like him didn’t get noticed. He’d spent his entire life blending into the background. And in a family of seven, that hadn’t been too hard. He hit the Enter key and scowled. He would never forgive his parents for having so many damned kids. It was uneconomical, and it made him feel like part of a mob. He was the loner in his family, while his older brother, Nathan, was the playboy, handsome, confident, and leaking charisma like a snitch leaked information. He had broken his first heart at the age of five.

  Nathan liked to tease him about his love affair with the computer. He wouldn’t be teasing him now. Geeks were gaining power, and the computer was a ticket to success. It wasn’t guys like Nathan or Kenneth Preston who ruled the world. They only had the illusion of power; guys like him controlled it.

  Guys like him helped create the systems that offered a sense of security—but with a few keystrokes, he could crash that security from its tower. He lightly ran his fingers over the keyboard. The sense of power caused beads of sweat to form on his upper lip. He had the power to create and destroy right at the tips of his fingers. No, he had no regrets. He wasn’t doing anything deadly, just making a little side profit with a South African company and impressing a girl in the process. He sat back in his chair, easing the tension in his groin as he thought about Brooke in his bed. Yep. Life was good.

  Chapter 12

  Jessie stood paralyzed in the hall, imagining sweat dripping from her and forming a puddle at her feet. She stared at the cutest woman she had ever seen. A woman so cute that she looked edible.

  “I’d like you to meet Brooke Radson, my executive assistant,” Kenneth said. “This is Ace and Jasmine.”

  Brooke grinned, showing brilliant white teeth. She dimpled prettily. “Hi, Ace, Jasmine.”

  “It’s Jessie.” She shook Brooke’s outstretched hand, hoping not to crush the delicate fingers.

  “But Kenneth just said—”

  “He was wrong. Don’t worry, it’s not uncommon.”

  “Oh.” Her eyes took in Jessie’s disheveled state with the grace of one pretending not to notice. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  Nice isn’t the word, Jessie thought. She looked at her complete opposite with disgusted admiration. Her gray dress draped a soft feminine figure; wide, appealing brown eyes were framed by perfectly arched eyebrows. And her full cupid lips looked so kissable that Jessie wouldn’t be surprised if Kenneth jumped her once she and Syrah left the room. She sat, poised with the nonchalant arrogance of having the right degrees from pres
tigious schools, and glowing from the privilege of being part of the right class.

  Jessie felt her unfinished degree hanging over her. Here she was, standing in front of Kenneth, looking like a gym sock, and Brooke looked as if she were a pageant contestant. Jessie resisted the temptation to ask her what she would do if she won the crown. She was as sweet as a kitten. No amount of charm could disarm that.

  “You’re Michelle’s sister, right?” she asked.

  “Yes.” She was always just Michelle’s sister to people like Brooke. She wasn’t the “smart” sister, after all. She looked at the papers on the table, determined not to be intimidated. “So what are you two working on?”

  “We’re trying to negotiate a contract with Trans Moore,” Kenneth said. “We want them to use our software.”

  “That sounds great. You know, I always thought the best way to negotiate was to—”

  “I’m sure you’ve got a great strategy,” Brooke interrupted, with a gentle smile. She rested her antique beaded handbag on her lap and pulled out a pen. “But this is big business. We can’t afford to make any mistakes.” She glanced pointedly at Jessie’s tennis racket.

  Ouch. The kitten had claws. Jessie narrowed her eyes, suddenly noticing that there was no kindness in the wide-eyed gaze.

  “I’d be happy to listen to your strategy when I have time,” Kenneth said absently.

  Jessie took a step back, ready to leave. “Thanks.”

  “We had the best day, Uncle,” Syrah piped up, touching his hand.

  He pulled his hand away. “I’m glad to hear it. When dinnertime comes, you can tell me all about it. Right now I have to finish some work here.”

  “Okay.” Syrah lifted her shoe and pretended to scratch her ankle. Jessie saw her wipe the dirty bottom of her shoe on her hand. She went up to Brooke. “It was nice to meet you.” She held out her dirty hand.

  Brooke successfully covered her disgust and shook the tips of Syrah’s fingers. Once the girl had turned, she discreetly wiped her hands on a tissue.

  Syrah pulled Jessie’s sleeve. “Come on, let’s go.”

  * * *

  “That wasn’t very nice of you,” Jessie told her as they climbed the stairs.

  “I don’t care,” Ace said. “I don’t like her.”

  “You don’t like anyone.”

  “I like you and Uncle.”

  “Which makes your taste questionable. What don’t you like about her?” Jessie asked, shamefully glad that Syrah agreed with her.

  “She’s fake.”

  “She could be your uncle’s next girlfriend, for all you know.” And he would deserve her. Two well-made frauds.

  She shook her head. “Nah, she’s not his type.”

  Jessie playfully poked her in the back. “How do you know that?”

  Syrah threw a smug grin over her shoulder. “Because he called her Brooke.”

  “So? That’s her name.”

  “Exactly. Uncle always changes people’s names. Like he calls me Ace or Rah and he calls you Jasmine, not Jessie.”

  “He only does that to be annoying.”

  “No, it’s ’cause he likes you. I told you, if you really want him, I can help you.”

  “Forget it.”

  When they entered Syrah’s room, the large window greeted them with a panoramic view of the forest. Stuffed animals fought for space on the bed, with some balancing precariously on the edge. Next to the window sat stacks of puzzles, board games, and books. In the closet, a basketball, soccer ball, and rollerblades peeked through.

  Syrah followed her gaze. “Uncle took me shopping this weekend.”

  Jessie nodded. The room, in spite of its crammed quarters, was incredibly neat. Not a chair or drawer was out of place. All her clothes were neatly put away, and her shoes lined the room.

  “Are you expecting a military inspection?” she teased.

  Syrah took off her shoes and socks, then pushed them against the wall in line with the others. “What?”

  “Your room is so neat. When I was your age, I had things all over the place. It would drive my mother crazy.”

  Syrah smoothed out a wrinkle on her bedcover. “It’s not good to be messy.”

  “You know, it’s okay if some things aren’t perfect.”

  “I know,” she said in a quiet voice, straightening a picture next to her bed. She checked for dust on her lampshade.

  Jessie began to bite her nails. “Does your uncle expect things to be this neat?”

  She shrugged, nonchalant. “I just don’t want to make him mad. I like to be clean anyway.”

  “I’m sure he won’t mind a little mess,” Jessie said. Syrah shifted her attention to the window. “Why don’t you write your father and tell him what a wonderful day you had?”

  She turned to Jessie with eyes so devoid of feeling that Jessie felt a chill sweep through her. “No.”

  Jessie cleared her throat, surprised that such a harmless suggestion had caused such animosity. “Isn’t there anyone you can write?”

  Syrah continued to stare at her, daring her to show any amount of pity. “No.”

  Jessie began to sit down on the bed, but stopped, remembering how Syrah had smoothed out the wrinkles. She decided to sit at the writing desk near the far wall. “You know, I have a sister who loves to get letters. She’ll even write you back. Have you ever gotten a letter before?”

  Syrah adjusted her cap. “No.”

  “Not even birthday or Christmas cards?”

  “No. Besides, cards are no big deal unless they have money in them.”

  “Oh.” Jessie had no response. Syrah’s eyes were too much like her uncle’s: fierce and penetrating. She needed to find a way to soften that expression. “It’s nice to get letters.” She opened a desk drawer and took out paper and a pencil.

  Syrah shoved her hands in her pockets. “That stuff isn’t mine.”

  “I’m sure that your uncle made sure it was there for you to use. He put you in this room for a reason. It has a great view and a lovely writing desk for you to write letters.”

  Syrah still looked unconvinced.

  Jessie stood and held out the pencil and paper. “I have to go shower and change. When I get back, please have a letter ready so that I can give it to my sister. She’s even better with secrets than I am.”

  Syrah stared at the items, the cold in her eyes turning to worry. “Are you sure she’ll write back?”

  “Yes.” Even if I have to force her.

  She slowly took the items. “Is she as nice as you?”

  Jessie hesitated. “Most times.”

  Syrah sat at her desk, smoothed out the paper and lifted the pencil to write. “Okay. What’s her name?”

  Jessie meant to say Teresa, but instead said, “Michelle.”

  Half an hour later, Jessie stared at herself in the mirror. The water cooled on her back as the steam from the shower dissipated. “I’m doing it wrong,” she muttered to her reflection. “I’m supposed to be focusing on the man, not the child. But Syrah worried her. There was a deeper need to please Kenneth that went beyond wanting to make him proud. Had Kenneth gotten angry before about a messy room? Had Syrah accidentally unleashed the tiger Jessie had always suspected was there? She knew he could be heartless. The question was: how heartless?

  She turned off the light and left the bathroom. Syrah would eventually go back to her father. She had to stop imagining herself in the middle of some family drama that probably didn’t exist. She had to focus on Kenneth. She had to charm him. A snake charmer didn’t think about the creature, just the dance. And she would make him dance to the tune of the Sapphire Pendant.

  She remembered her father telling them the story of the pendant and the other antiques he worked on at Fedor Malenkov Jewelers, filling their minds with tales of murder and undying love. To him and his ancestors, jewelry had a special magic—objects swelling with secrets and stories. They had loved curling up on the couch, resting their heads against his cotton shirt, his deep vo
ice drawing them to faraway lands as his large, scarred hands painted pictures in the air.

  There had been many trips to the county’s crown jewel: the Historical Society’s museum. It boasted an assortment of artwork, jewelry, and writings that reflected the cultural diversity of the county. In August, Mrs. Donovan would be donating the Arand necklace, a piece of jewelry rooted in the history of Randall, which would soon be visible for all to see and admire. It was an event her father would have loved to see, illustrating how history speaks through our adornments. The event would celebrate the diversity of the county, giving residents of all walks of life a sense of community.

  She wrapped her hand over the gold chain on her neck. Her fingers pulsated with the memory of her first piece of jewelry and the story it held.

  Very soon she would create a new history for the pendant that generations would hear. The story would begin tonight, on a summer evening, when she tangled with a kitten and charmed a serpent.

  When Jessie returned to Syrah’s room, she saw the girl sitting on the bed, staring down at her completed letter. In the room that held so much material wealth hung a sadness Jessie couldn’t understand.

  “I’m back!” she announced, trying to evoke enthusiasm.

  Syrah looked up, her voice solemn. “I wrote the letter.” She handed it to her.

  “Great. Michelle’s going to love it.”

  She glanced at Jessie’s sweater and handbag. “Are you going somewhere?”

  Jessie pushed the letter into her bag. “I’m going to my house. I eat dinner with my sisters. Teresa’s a better cook than I am.”

  Syrah looked stricken. “But why can’t you eat here?”

  “Oh, I’m sure that your uncle wants to spend time alone with you, since he’s been gone all day.”

  Syrah’s hands trembled as she searched for words. “But—but I want you to stay.”

  Jessie squeezed her chin. “I’m coming back, love. You’re acting as if I’m abandoning you. Tomorrow we’ll have a wonderful time.”

  She shifted from one foot to the other, then back again. “Can I come with you?”

  “But you haven’t seen your uncle all day.”

  “That’s okay.”