Page 12 of Reeve
“They have a ton of different rings in there, and since it’s the off-season and we’re locals, Rufus is going to give you a fair price.”
“Right. Good point.”
“And if he doesn’t, we can go to one of the other places open in December, but no matter what, youmustchill, okay?”
“Yes.” He nods. “Good advice. Okay. Yes. Okay.”
“Let’s go, soldier.”
We enter Highland Treasures, where Rufus MacAvoy opens his shop twice a week from Thanksgiving to Christmas, on Monday and Thursday nights, from six until ten p.m. He only started doing this when two of the other jewelers in town did the same—opened for eight hours a week to service the good folks of Skagway and help them with their Christmas shopping.
“The littlest Stewarts!” booms Rufus. The way he says “Stewarts” in his Scottish brogue is dreamy, and that’s a fact. “How can I help ye?”
“I’m looking for a ring,” says Sawyer, stepping up to the counter.
“For Ivy, of Clan Caswell?” asks Rufus, a sparkle in his eye.
“Yessir.”
“Bonny lass,” says Rufus, laying it on a little thick.
“We’re looking for something in the middle of the road,” I say, adopting a businesslike tone. “Not too big. Not too small.”
“An engagement ring?” Rufus asks my brother. “Oh my, oh my!”
Sawyer stares at Rufus, then blinks thrice in quick succession, gulping audibly.
“He’s nervous,” I say. “Show us solitaires set in white and yellow gold. Traditional. Classy.”
“Do we have a budget?”
“If we do,” I say, feeling cagey and knowing that half the battle of getting a good price on Alaskan jewelry is keeping your hand close, “it’s our business, not yours.”
“Understood. But…yer still working the local tourist outfit? For yer father?”
“That’s right,” I say. “Family business. We all have a stake.”
“Right-o. So! I have this lovely diamond-chip number, set in rose—”
“Rufus,” I say curtly, waiting to continue until he meets my eyes. “We’re locals, not paupers. White or yellow gold. Diamond solitaire. Traditional. No bullshit, yeah?”
“Yer sister’s a right ballbuster,” Rufus mutters, walking to another area of the store and turning on the under-the-counter lights. A collection of diamond jewelry beneath glitters like stars. “Here we are.” He takes out a nice-looking ring and places it on a bed of white velvet. “This is a one-carat, lab-grown diamond set in ten karat white gold, flanked with diamond chips.”
“How much?” asks Sawyer.
“I could give it to you for eight-ninety-nine.”
“Under a thousand dollars?” I ask, my forehead wrinkling in confusion. “That seems cheap.”
“Well…that particular diamond was grown, not mined,” Rufus explains.
“I have no idea what that means.”
“Grown diamonds are cheaper and more sustainable,” he explains.
“So, it’s not…real?” asks Sawyer.
“Real as you or me!” thunders Rufus. I give him a look, and he adds, somewhat sheepishly, “But itissynthetic, not natural.”