Priced to Move

his humor.

“Everyone knows garnets are red,” he says. “Come on, tell us. What is it? For real.”

A gemstone host who doesn’t know garnets? I’m so in trouble.

“You’re such a kidder,” I say through gritted teeth.

“I’m not kidding. You are. Garnets are red.”

“Not just red.”

“Red.”

“And green and orange and yellow and purple—even color-change, like alexandrite. They come in every color but blue.”

“No, they don’t.”

“Yes, they do.”

“Red.”

What am I doing? My job’s to sell gems, not to argue with a dud. A hunk of a dud, but a dud to the—oh yeah —max.

Get with the program, Andie. “Max’s response shows the common misconception about garnets. I can guarantee that this gorgeous jewel is a garnet, a spessartite garnet. The difference between this one and an almondine—that’s the red kind—is the absence of iron and presence of manganese in the chemical composition. Iron turns the material red, or worse, brown.”

“Huh?”

Did I say we’re doomed? No? Well, I’ll say it now: We’re doomed.

I turn my face so the viewers don’t think I’m totally rude, but I stare at the way-less-distracting stone. “That small difference, Max, makes the manganese-colored stones rare— and pricey.” Back to the camera. “But our wonderful vendors have negotiated for us an incredible price. And when we get a good deal, we give you a great deal. This internally clean, two-carat stone is priced at only four hundred and seventy-five—”

“That little thing?” Max roars. “Four hundred bucks?”

If I had a weapon, and if I was the violent kind, and if I wasn’t a Christian . . . well, you get the idea. I consider ducking under the desk. But I’m not that big a coward.

Yet.

“I think we can safely assume that Max has no experience with gems. A fine spessartite garnet like this”—I turn the tweezers to better show off the stone—“internally clean and beautifully cut, can go for up to twelve hundred dollars per carat. And this one is two full carats. Quite a bargain—for a mandarin orange garnet.”

“That’s insane!”

“That’s an investment.”

He snorts. “An investment’s stock in that . . . that Jimmy Buffet—no, not Jimmy, Warren—that Warren Buffet guy’s investment company.”

I ignore his blather. “Ladies and gentlemen, I can report that statistics show gemstone collecting as the fastest growing hobby in our country, and as an up-and-coming favorite investment too. So at only four hundred seventy- five dollars? How can you pass up such a great deal?”

Max wriggles in his chair. Out the corner of my eye, I see a flash of silver. Good. He’s picked up the tweezers that hold the gemstone I’m scheduled to feature after the garnets on this nightmare of a launch show. Maybe he’ll learn to use them and do something constructive.

“Here.” I angle my hand in front of the white velvet drape, then hold the tweezers so the garnet lines up with my ring finger. “See how fabulous the mandarin orange garnet looks on the hand? It’s so gorgeous that many women are choosing colored stones like this one for engagement and wedding rings. Now what girl wouldn’t want to wear a beautiful bit of captured, fiery sunshine on her finger?”

“Diamonds are a girl’s best friend . . .” Max’s baritone does a decent job on Marilyn’s trademark song. Not that I need it.

Time for damage control.

“Max has a point. But let me tell you, diamonds have gone up 30 percent in recent years. Know what a so-so two-carat diamond sells for? Way more than four hundred and seventy-five dollars. You can take that to the bank.”

“You think you can talk women into going cold turkey on diamonds?”

He’s so incredulous, it sounds as though he’s mocking me. Not cool. Maybe I can talk Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona into going cold turkey on him. “I find colored stones just as exciting as diamonds.”

His muttered response isn’t—thankfully—clear. I try to ignore him and get on with my job. “So how many of you lovely ladies out there are going to be so lucky as to own one of these gorgeous stones? I see on my monitor that a bunch of you have already taken advantage of this great offer. You’re smart shoppers. And we still have some quantity left for the next few callers—but not a lot. I don’t even have enough for two per state, so hurry, grab yours before they’re all gone.”

Five feet behind the camera, Carla, Miss Mona’s assistant, mimics a phone with her hand. Relief is good.

“Let’s go to the phones.” I squint against the studio lights to read the monitor screen on the desk. “Hello? Is this Sissy from Alaska?”

Giggles titter over the air. “Yes! I can’t believe I got through!”