When Claire was called in to tea, she was surprised to find such a large piece of cake set onto her plate. Her grandmother knew she wasn’t a fan of sweets. “I’m really not hungry,” she insisted. She was wearing the torn jeans and gray sweatshirt she’d had as a teenager. THE GRAVES ACADEMY was printed in faded maroon letters. She hadn’t kept in contact with any of her schoolmates. Her English teacher, Miss Jarrett, had written to her once, suggesting she reconsider college, but Claire never applied. The only one she ever communicated with was Pete Smith, who phoned on a regular basis.
“You’ll be surprised what you’ll wind up liking,” Madame Cohen told her. “Try a bite.”
They sat at the table and ate in silence. The older women took note of how quickly Claire devoured the cake, as though she were starving.
“What recipe was that?” Claire asked when she was done. “I’ve never tasted anything like it.” She was licking the back of her fork, proof that she still had human desires.
“Madame Cohen is here to offer you a job. Would you like that?”
Claire was indeed honest. “Not really.”
“But would you show up and be responsible?” Madame Cohen prodded.
“I’m always responsible.” Claire said. Everything about herself made her sad, including that. “Even when I don’t want to be.”
“Why don’t you prepare the tea for us,” Madame Cohen suggested. This was a part of the interview. People did background checks and extensive questionnaires, but you could tell a great deal more about someone from the way they readied a pot of tea. Madame Cohen had brought along her own tin filled with a green leafy mixture to which she’d added dried violets, sage, licorice root, ginger. The water was already boiling in the kettle. Claire went to pour. As the steam rose she started to cry. That wasn’t at all like her. She wasn’t a crier; she was empty inside. “I must have gotten a speck of dirt in my eye,” she guessed.
After they had their tea, Claire went off to her room.
“What do you think?” Natalia asked her old friend.
A good deed was never as simple as it looked; Madame Cohen knew that. There were ripples, effects no one expected. Still, after one cup of tea she had made up her mind.
“I’ll hire her,” she agreed.
BEHIND CLAIRE’S BACK the other employees called her la fille au chien—the dog girl. She was never without the wolfish creature, who followed at her heels. Claire didn’t mind the shop because she was allowed to bring Shiloh along. As for Madame Cohen, she considered a big dog a good deterrent against robbers and thieves. She had reason to fear intruders. There was the bin of diamonds in the back room kitchenette, right next to the potatoes and onions, and gems scattered about, hidden in drawers, stuffed into pairs of boots, stored in cabinets and closets.
The other employees thought Madame Cohen should be the one to be paid for having agreed to hire such a strange girl. They were kind to Claire nonetheless. The salesgirls, Lucie and Jeanne, befriended her, suggesting style changes that might improve her appearance. Claire seemed wounded, lost, someone to take care of, and she brought out the best in Lucie and Jeanne. They gave her their castoffs, scarves, cashmere sweaters, wool skirts, and dresses. They treated her delicately, explaining the workings of the shop as they would to a child who had never before had a job. Here is the cash register. Here is the broom. Here is the brass polish and the rags with which to clean the hardware on cabinets and doors.
It wasn’t hard to clean up after misfortune. It was, however, extremely difficult to chase it away for good. Something tapped on the glass windows of the jewelry shop once Claire came to work there. Something was trying to get in. Anyone else would have thought it was a blackbird and ignored it. Perhaps a child throwing stones. Madame Cohen knew better. She set out fly paper and salt.
Soon enough, she found a huge moth attached to the flypaper. It had managed to get in through the door with the deliveryman. Evil always did that, appeared when you least expected it. That was why a person had to remain alert at all times. Madame Cohen phoned her dear friend Natalia, who already had reasons enough to be grateful. I think I have caught the problem afflicting your granddaughter. She had crushed the demon between her fingers and tossed it into the bin with the apple cores and onion skins.
MADAME COHEN HAD taken a special liking to Claire and doled out brusque, worthwhile advice every day. Don’t slump over. Look people in the eye when they speak to you. Brush your hair a hundred times a night. Bathe your face in milk. Sleep with the windows closed. Madame Cohen had three grown sons and six grandsons. One of them had been so wild as a boy that he’d been banned from the store for his antics after inventing a crude flyswatter using a rubber band and marbles, nothing you’d want tested in a shop filled with glass cases and mirrors. Claire, on the other hand, was a pleasure to have around.
Madame Cohen taught her how to look through a loupe to gauge the clarity and depth of a stone. The best gems had a light inside, as if they were alive. Claire had found several old books on the subject of gemology in the bookstalls along the river. Some of the volumes had jewelers’ wax dripped onto the pages. Others were one-of-a-kind editions, handwritten in black ink. When Jeanne and Lucie closed the shop and went home, Claire stayed on, studying. She trained herself to tell the difference between gems with her eyes closed, aware of that inner light of which Madame Cohen had spoken. A ruby gave off heat. An aqua marine was like water in the palm of her hand. Only a few lucky people had such an extraordinary feel for gemstones, Madame Cohen was proud to say. Her mitzvah had paid off, as good deeds often do. Customers listened to Claire’s opinion. Her small sulky voice forced them to lean close in order to catch her advice. In the end they all understood what she was telling them: Stones were the one thing that lasted.