Ring of Fire

Chapter 3

Being in the fine jewelry business in a college town was like trying to sell sushi at the county fair. Plenty of lookers, few takers.

George Scoma had run a successful store on Pinehaven's Cameron Street for nearly thirty years despite this incongruity. A steady stream of retirees had fueled the retail side of his business, while the students kept him busy with repairs and watch battery replacements. God knows how many earring backs he'd sold to mascara-streaked party girls. He rarely sold anything to the male student population; his jewelry was out of their price range and their relationships didn't seem to last long enough to warrant a purchase signifying any kind of deep commitment. Lately, however, he'd seen more young men come in, attracted to his affordable but limited line of facial jewelry: nose rings, lip rings, eyebrow rings and even tongue studs. Watching the kids insert them turned his stomach, but business was business. At moments like those, George was glad he had no children.

George had opened Scoma's Fine Jewelry in an era when people still dressed up to go to the movies. He became known for his friendly demeanor and impeccable service, often performing repair jobs at no charge on the spot for regular customers.

He had been planning to retire when he lost his wife Connie to ovarian cancer. After that, the less time spent in an empty house the better, so at age 70, he kept working. And as the recession turned his investments and IRA into so much pocket change, he was more or less forced to stay in business. Sales weren't what they used to be, but even a diminished income was better than none.

The store had been in the same location since it opened, sandwiched between The Waffle Shoppe and the coin-op laundromat. Every morning George arranged the rings, bracelets, earrings, watches and necklaces carefully on the worn black velvet in the plate glass window, and every night gathered them all up again and locked them in the safe. Inside, the store was beginning to get a little dog-eared; Connie's faded silk orchids now exhibited three years' worth of dust. The jewelry showcases were also not up to her standards, and the industrial carpeting was peppered with dropped staples that George's asthma and ample belly prevented him from extracting.

It was now four o'clock on Thursday afternoon, and George hadn't had a customer since lunch. With Valentine's Day approaching, he could at least count on a few of the retired husbands in town-though there were fewer every year-to wander in perplexed and in need of a gift. Their wives were usually waiting behind the wheel of the car just outside. And he was sure to have the romantic-yet-broke frat boy show up with a pair of moist, crumpled twenties in his palm, asking, "what can I buy with this?" He sat on a stool behind one of the showcases, supporting himself with his calloused elbows. His nebulizer lay within reach, although at the moment he was breathing fairly easily. Cupped in his hands was a typical afternoon snack: a mug of strong coffee, a generous splash of milk and about a quarter cup of corn flakes. He sampled a spoonful-nearly soggy enough.

The bell over the door gave him a start. A middle-aged man was struggling in with a pair of suitcases. The bags propelled the man across the room as he swung them back and forth. He dropped them loudly as he reached George, stood up straight and tugged on the hem of his corduroy sportcoat to smooth out the wrinkles. An unlit cigarette was perched on his lip; he produced a lighter and flicked it with concentration. George interrupted him.

"Do you mind? I don't breathe so good," he said, tapping his nebulizer. "Asthma."

The man appeared annoyed, but dropped the cigarette in his breast pocket. "Sorry. I usually ask."

George shrugged. The lenses of the man's glasses were gradually lightening, adjusting to the indoors. His face was creased and leathery, evidence of a life spent at sea, perhaps. He squinted around the room, eyeing the displays.