Page 17 of Diamond In The Rough

“Hmm.” He releases my hand, dropping his into his pocket, and nods toward his potential purchase. “Well… tell me its history, then. Wow me, if you will. The price tag is quite commanding. Certainly, it must come with a rich past?”

“And so it does.” I step forward and run the tips of my fingers over the wood’s smooth finish. “This desk was built in London in eighteen eighty-three, and comes with the builder’s seal in the top, left drawer, proving authenticity. Which,” I add with a playful smile, “is a detail important to the story. Documents we possess, and will provide to the buyer, states this piece was a gift from Queen Victoria herself to the president at the time, Chester A. Arthur, as a peace offering between their countries during times of tension. Arthur, as we know, was America’s twenty-first president and wanted nothing but peace. Unfortunately, the desk never made it to the White House, because on its long journey across the Atlantic Ocean, pirates intercepted the vessel carrying it, and hid its contents for the next thirty years. This created a divide between the countries, as the queen declared she had, indeed, sent it, and President Arthur, of course, denied ever receiving her grand gesture. The desk simply…” I shrug, “vanished into obscurity for the next few decades. Later, in nineteen thirteen, on the eve of a great wedding, the desk resurfaced with a hefty price tag and a promise to hand it over in one piece, should America’s current sitting president pay the price.”

“Blackmail?”

I snicker. “Encouragement, perhaps, from scoundrels. By the nineteen hundreds, though, this desk had achieved notoriety because of its previous vanishing act. So an American businessman—not the president—paid the ransom, swooping in before anyone else could make the purchase, and accepted delivery of the desk that would, eventually, be home to one of our country’s most cherished novels.”

He glances across, quirking a brow. “Dare I ask which one?”

“Well, the greatest of all time,” I tease. “Documented in the files, alongside one of the just half a dozen bound and autographed copies of the book in existence. This very special edition also becomes the property of whoever buys this piece. The desk spans six feet long, and three feet deep, with leather-set drawers, four on each side, and bronze hardware, original and certified for proof. A central drawer,” I step forward and gently pull it out, “is lined in original leather, and contains the etched spacing for what was a silver and iron quill.”

“And the quill?” He looks to me, sharp, blue eyes boring into the side of my face. “Does it come with the desk?”

“Unfortunately not.” Bested, I drop my gaze and wish, for my own sense of satisfaction, the quill did remain. “Tragically, it never made it to the mainland, and to this day, has yet to be recovered. Though, according to our files, it surely exists. The central drawer is flanked by four graduated drawers, each with leather interiors and original hardware. The top left drawer comes complete with a vertical panel inside, which is the craftsman’s seal. Each drawer is key-lockable?—”

“And the keys?”

I bring my eyes up and grin, feeling an odd fluttering in my stomach when his stare drops to my lips.

“They do come with the desk. Original and stamped. This piece is timeless, and too intricate for fraudsters to even attempt. And with a walnut outer, burl inners, and leather inlays, this desk is simply too unique to be sold to just anyone.”

“And its value?” He takes a step back, allowing himself space to look me up and down.

I do the same. He wears jeans and a shirt; nothing particularly fancy. No brands stand out. If I were to see him in the street, I doubt I’d look a second time or assume wealth. But, I’ve discovered that’s what people with old money do.

“How much is this desk worth, Ms. Hale?”

“Well, we’re asking?—”

“No,” he cuts me off, smiling when our eyes meet. “I’m not asking for the tag price. I’m asking your opinion. What is this desk worth, to you?”

“Uh…” Swallowing, I bring my focus back around to the piece in question. It is seemingly plain, amongst other seemingly plain things. But the history it comes with, the journey it took across the ocean, and its time lived amongst pirates; that’s what makes it so beautiful.

The journey is what makes it special.

“I don’t know.” I fold my arms, hunching in on myself as I wish for the ability to someday buy my very own slice of history.

Or at the very least, be a part of history.

“I consider it priceless,” I finally admit. “There’s no dollar amount that I, personally, would consider fair to assign to this desk. But if we’re talking craftsmanship…” I chew on my bottom lip, thinking and grieving what I know will soon be the loss of a piece of history, once this man buys it and takes it away forever. “I think the tag Ms. Colby has attached is reasonable. For that same amount, you could buy other, historically rich pieces. Wardrobes. Beds. Desks. Cars. Everything comes with a story, no? Even the stick of gum I placed in my purse a week ago, where it has since journeyed from my home, to work, to a local club, into a cab, and then all through Central Park. And back to work. I still, at this moment, have not unwrapped or chewed it. And so, until I do, it remains something valuable to whoever wants it most. Me,” I add, laughing when he smiles. “It’s valuable only to me. But if I was Queen Victoria, or Cher, or someone a wealthy man loved… then I guess my stick of gum could be a coveted item. This desk, too, might merely be a worthless pile of wood, if not for where it’s been and who has touched it. Its value, as with all things, lies within whoever wishes to own it.”

“And do you wish to own it?” He reads me all too well. “Do you wish it could be yours?”

“So much. But since it can’t, I wish for you to appreciate it as much as I would. If you have the means and the desire to own this piece of history, then,” I gesture in the desk’s direction, “buy it. The price tag is irrelevant.”

“‘The price tag is irrelevant’?” Jakeline stalks up on my right, her eyes on the back of our latest client as he strolls outside with a little less money in his pocket, but with the promise of a very sexy, very regal desk making its way toward his home in the next couple of days.

Jakeline’s perfume is far sharper than Jazzy’s. Harsher, and with no hint of floral tone, no matter how hard I search for other scents amongst the pepper and wood. “The price tag is irrelevant?” she repeats, circling on me as the door closes and we’re the only two souls left inside her store. “Are you crazy!?”

“It sold.” I turn, and head toward my desk. “He asked my opinion. I made the sale.”

“You fawned over the product you were attempting to sell?—”

“Did sell.” I drag my chair out from behind my desk and step to the front, plopping down with an undignified huff of exhaustion. “I don’t understand why you’re mad, Jakeline. We have his money.”

“You told him the price tag doesn’t matter!” She whirls in place, her dress flaring, and her hair following just a beat later. “He’ll probably never come back, since the prices don’t matter.”

“You’re being theatrical.”

---