face, and long, scraggly gray hair that tangled down her shoulders. Central casting would have been all over her for a cauldron role in Macbeth . On the other side of the bulletproof glass, she perched atop a hydraulic stool jacked up high. “Well? I ain’t got all day. Show it or step off.”
With a tug of wistful regret, Emma opened her hand, revealing the diamond-encrusted, star-shaped brooch resting in her palm.
The woman’s eyes narrowed, and they took on a shiny yellow cast like a hungry feral cat who’d spotted a baby rabbit. “Stick it through the opening.”
Reluctantly, Emma slid the brooch through the small opening cut into the barricade.
The woman pounced, snatching up the brooch, holding it up to the light. Then she opened the drawer in front of her and took out a jeweler’s loupe. She studied it for a long moment. “I’ll give you two hundred dollars.”
Shock dropped Emma’s mouth. “It's worth at least ten times that amount. It’s white gold and there’s a diamond on each point of the star.”
“They’re diamond chips of questionable quality.”
“It was appraised at twenty-five hundred dollars over ten years ago,” Emma argued past the nausea gathering in her stomach.
Two hundred dollars wouldn’t begin to cover the thousand dollars she needed for the exclusive Master X’s tutoring sessions. Master X was her last hope.
She’d tried everything she knew to make it big, and after twelve years in the trenches, she’d hardly made a dent. So far, the most successful thing she’d done was a speaking role as the big toe in an antifungal ointment commercial. The residuals helped pay the bills, but every time that commercial aired, something inside her died a little. This was not great art. This was not what she suffered for.
Master X had grudgingly agreed to accept her as a student, if she came up with a thousand bucks by the end of the week. It was almost impossible to get accepted by Master X. He didn’t advertise, didn’t even have a Web site. You had to know somebody who knew somebody to get you into one of his classes. Jill Freeman, one of her old roommates, had taken his course last year, and a week later, she was cast as second understudy to Julia Roberts—who was, at her age, now playing M’Lynn—in a stage revival of Steel Magnolias .
After that, Jill’s career had taken off. She’d moved to L.A. and snagged an ensemble role in a popular sitcom. Jill wouldn’t tell her what she learned in the class. Master X swore his pupils to secrecy with a confidentiality clause. But she did put in a good word forEmma. If Emma could just scrape up the money for his class, she believed Master X’s techniques were the missing pieces of the puzzle that could shoot her over the top.
“Hey, times are tough all over. You shoulda sold it ten years ago.” The caged woman glowered.
“I didn’t need the money ten years ago.”
“Two hundred dollars. Take it or leave it.”
Sorrow-tinged disappointment swept through her. She bit down on her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. “Please,” she whispered. “The brooch was the last thing my mother ever gave me.”
The day stood out in her memory, clear and sharp. She’d come home from first grade to find her mother sitting on the couch, her secondhand, navy blue American Tourister rolling luggage at her feet with a dog-eared copy of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road resting atop it. Her mother had been smoking, a snubbed-out Virginia Slims lay in a saucer, her eyes red-rimmed and her face blotchy as if she’d been crying. She’d smelled of wine and the Wind Song cologne Trixie Lynn and her dad had bought her for Mother’s Day.
She’d never seen her mother smoke. Instantly, the hairs on her arms had lifted. “Mama? What’s wrong?”
Mama had forced a smile, patted the sofa beside her. “Come, have a seat, Trixie Lynn.”
She’d edged over, knowing something awful was about to happen. “Mama?”
“I gotta go, Trixie
With a tug of wistful regret, Emma opened her hand, revealing the diamond-encrusted, star-shaped brooch resting in her palm.
The woman’s eyes narrowed, and they took on a shiny yellow cast like a hungry feral cat who’d spotted a baby rabbit. “Stick it through the opening.”
Reluctantly, Emma slid the brooch through the small opening cut into the barricade.
The woman pounced, snatching up the brooch, holding it up to the light. Then she opened the drawer in front of her and took out a jeweler’s loupe. She studied it for a long moment. “I’ll give you two hundred dollars.”
Shock dropped Emma’s mouth. “It's worth at least ten times that amount. It’s white gold and there’s a diamond on each point of the star.”
“They’re diamond chips of questionable quality.”
“It was appraised at twenty-five hundred dollars over ten years ago,” Emma argued past the nausea gathering in her stomach.
Two hundred dollars wouldn’t begin to cover the thousand dollars she needed for the exclusive Master X’s tutoring sessions. Master X was her last hope.
She’d tried everything she knew to make it big, and after twelve years in the trenches, she’d hardly made a dent. So far, the most successful thing she’d done was a speaking role as the big toe in an antifungal ointment commercial. The residuals helped pay the bills, but every time that commercial aired, something inside her died a little. This was not great art. This was not what she suffered for.
Master X had grudgingly agreed to accept her as a student, if she came up with a thousand bucks by the end of the week. It was almost impossible to get accepted by Master X. He didn’t advertise, didn’t even have a Web site. You had to know somebody who knew somebody to get you into one of his classes. Jill Freeman, one of her old roommates, had taken his course last year, and a week later, she was cast as second understudy to Julia Roberts—who was, at her age, now playing M’Lynn—in a stage revival of Steel Magnolias .
After that, Jill’s career had taken off. She’d moved to L.A. and snagged an ensemble role in a popular sitcom. Jill wouldn’t tell her what she learned in the class. Master X swore his pupils to secrecy with a confidentiality clause. But she did put in a good word forEmma. If Emma could just scrape up the money for his class, she believed Master X’s techniques were the missing pieces of the puzzle that could shoot her over the top.
“Hey, times are tough all over. You shoulda sold it ten years ago.” The caged woman glowered.
“I didn’t need the money ten years ago.”
“Two hundred dollars. Take it or leave it.”
Sorrow-tinged disappointment swept through her. She bit down on her bottom lip to keep it from trembling. “Please,” she whispered. “The brooch was the last thing my mother ever gave me.”
The day stood out in her memory, clear and sharp. She’d come home from first grade to find her mother sitting on the couch, her secondhand, navy blue American Tourister rolling luggage at her feet with a dog-eared copy of Jack Kerouac’s On the Road resting atop it. Her mother had been smoking, a snubbed-out Virginia Slims lay in a saucer, her eyes red-rimmed and her face blotchy as if she’d been crying. She’d smelled of wine and the Wind Song cologne Trixie Lynn and her dad had bought her for Mother’s Day.
She’d never seen her mother smoke. Instantly, the hairs on her arms had lifted. “Mama? What’s wrong?”
Mama had forced a smile, patted the sofa beside her. “Come, have a seat, Trixie Lynn.”
She’d edged over, knowing something awful was about to happen. “Mama?”
“I gotta go, Trixie
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