Chapter 2 - THE PURSE
Nobody moved toward Camille at first.
Vincent’s two men stood near the dining room doors, waiting.
Camille held her evening bag against her body.
“This is ridiculous.”
Vincent remained beside the table.
His voice never rose.
“Bring it to me.”
One of the men took a step.
Camille immediately lifted her hand.
“No.”
The man stopped.
For the first time since I’d worked in Vincent Marino’s house, I saw someone refuse one of his instructions in front of twenty-four witnesses.
Camille looked at him.
Not frightened.
Hurt.
“You’re going to have your men take my purse from me?”
Vincent’s eyes stayed on hers.
“I asked you first.”
“You asked because the housekeeper made an accusation.”
“No.”
He glanced at the necklace still in my hand.
“I asked because you covered the purse the second Hannah looked at it.”
Camille’s jaw tightened.
That landed harder than anything I could have said.
She looked around the dining room.
People suddenly found enormous interest in their wineglasses.
Then she unclasped the pale gold bag.
“I’ll do it myself.”
She walked toward Vincent and placed the purse on the table.
I expected anger.
Instead, Vincent pulled out a chair.
“Open it.”
Camille stared at him.
Then she did.
A compact.
Lipstick.
Keys.
A folded linen handkerchief.
Nothing else.
For half a second, relief crossed her face.
I felt heat rise behind my ears.
Maybe I had been wrong.
Maybe I had humiliated a woman in front of everyone because of one white thread.
Camille turned toward me.
“Well?”
Then Vincent picked up the handkerchief.
Something inside it shifted.
A soft click.
Camille closed her eyes.
Vincent unfolded the linen.
My breath caught.
Pearls.
Not the perfect white strand in my hand.
These were slightly cream-colored.
Uneven.
Some round.
Some almost oval.
And the silk thread between them had yellowed with age.
The strand was broken near the center.
One end still held a small gold clasp shaped like a rose.
The dining room became so quiet I could hear wax crackling inside one of the candles.
Vincent touched the rose with one finger.
“My mother’s.”
Camille said nothing.
I set the fake necklace down.
Then I carefully lifted the old strand.
It had been handled recently.
The broken silk was frayed.
And one pearl was missing.
The pale line around Camille’s wrist suddenly made sense.
“You were working on it,” I said.
Camille looked at me.
“I was trying to restring it.”
That surprised me.
“You?”
“My mother taught me.”
Vincent’s expression changed.
“Your mother?”
Camille inhaled slowly.
“Elena knew basic pearl stringing.”
“How?”
“Because Teresa showed her.”
Vincent stared at Camille as though she had just started speaking another language.
“My mother showed your mother how to restring her pearls?”
“They were friends, Vincent.”
“I know they were friendly.”
“No.”
Camille’s voice softened.
“They were friends.”
Something passed across Vincent’s face.
Not anger.
The realization that there were pieces of his mother’s life he had never bothered to ask about.
He picked up the real necklace.
“When did you find this?”
“Three weeks ago.”
Camille answered too quickly.
Vincent noticed.
“So you found my mother’s necklace three weeks ago and bought a fake one.”
“I bought a reproduction.”
“You stood in my dining room and told twenty-four people you recovered something my family had been looking for for six years.”
“I was going to explain.”
“When?”
“Privately.”
“After they applauded?”
Camille looked away.
That hurt her because it was true.
Vincent touched the broken silk.
“Where did you find it?”
Camille’s silence lasted too long.
“Camille.”
“In my mother’s things.”
His hand stopped.
Elena DeSantis had died eleven months earlier.
Camille had disappeared from the townhouse for nearly two weeks after the funeral.
I remembered because she had returned quieter.
Almost kind for a while.
Then something changed.
Vincent stepped closer.
“My mother’s necklace was inside Elena’s belongings?”
“Yes.”
“Where?”
“A winter coat.”
“What winter coat?”
“My mother’s red wool coat. The one she kept even after she stopped wearing it. The necklace was wrapped inside the lining.”
Vincent looked down.
“So your mother had it.”
“I don’t know how long.”
“But you know she had it when she died.”
“Yes.”
“And instead of telling me, you manufactured a story about an estate broker.”
Camille’s eyes flashed.
“Because I knew exactly what you would think.”
“What would I think?”
“That my mother stole from yours.”
Vincent said nothing.
Camille’s voice shook for the first time.
“And then you would start asking questions about six years ago.”
“You say that like I shouldn’t.”
“Some questions destroy people long after the answers stop mattering.”
Vincent’s gaze hardened.
“They matter to me.”
“I know.”
“Then why hide them?”
Camille swallowed.
“Because this necklace proves something you have spent six years refusing to believe.”
Vincent went still.
I looked back at the strand.
The rose clasp was beautifully made.
Hand-cut petals.
Tiny scratches softened by years of wear.
My grandfather had taught me that old jewelry carried fingerprints without fingerprints.
Repairs.
Tool marks.
Little choices made by people nobody remembered.
I turned the clasp over.
There was a shallow mark near the hinge.
Two letters.
A.
B.
My heart jumped.
I brought it closer to the candlelight.
Arthur Brooks.
My grandfather.
He stamped nearly every custom repair he made with those initials.
Small enough that only another jeweler would look for them.
“My grandfather repaired this.”
Vincent’s eyes moved to me.
“You’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“When?”
“I don’t know.”
Camille looked startled.
“You recognize that?”
“That’s his mark.”
I pressed my thumbnail beside the hinge.
Something moved.
The rose wasn’t simply a clasp.
The center petal lifted slightly.
“Wait.”
I turned it carefully.
A tiny inner plate opened.
There were words engraved inside.
Old.
Faint.
But readable.
I stopped breathing.
Vincent stepped closer.
“What?”
I looked at him.
Then at Camille.
The engraving said only four words.
For Sofia. Love, Mom.
Vincent’s face lost all color.
Someone at the far end of the table whispered his name.
He didn’t hear them.
His thumb moved across the engraving.
Once.
Then again.
“Sofia,” he said.
Camille’s eyes filled.
Vincent looked at her.
“My sister’s name is inside my mother’s necklace.”
“Yes.”
His voice became almost a whisper.
“For six years, I thought Sofia took this after the funeral.”
Camille said nothing.
Vincent looked down at the real pearls in his hand.
Then he raised his eyes.
“My sister didn’t steal it.”
Camille’s answer barely carried across the table.
“No.”
She looked at the rose clasp.
May you like
“Your mother gave it away.”
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