She huffs and raises one eyebrow. Oh shit. “Tess, please don’t make me say all that again. Please, can you just pretend that I affixed a ‘I beg for your permission’ to everything?”
I hold my breath, expecting her to walk out. Instead, she nods and accepts my apology. “It takes a bit of practice before it becomes second nature, but don’t worry, Roscoe, you’ll get used to making decisions while taking someone else into consideration. I’ll show you.”
She slides into the pool which makes her look even more beguiling as her golden skin sinks under the water. “What are our plans for the day, Roscoe?” she asks me. I check for it being a trick question, then tentatively reply, “Er, what do you want to do, Tess?”
“I don’t know, Roscoe. What do you have in mind?” She gives me a really encouraging look after saying this and then rotates her wrist around in a circle, mouthing the words ‘come on.’
“Er…how about we go shopping for stuff and buy a ring and maybe brunch?” I’m shooting in the dark here, hoping I get it right. Her delighted smile tells me everything I need to know. She swipes a little water in my direction and splashes me. “Yes! Score one for Team Roscoe! See? It’s not that hard.”
I haven't felt this much triumph and relief at getting something right since kindergarten.
* * *
“What would you like to do first?” I’m getting the hang of this surprisingly quickly. Tess is toweling her hair and sighs. “I dunno, Roscoe. Let’s get the ring over and done with. It’s the first thing the folks on the yacht are going to ask to see.” I reassure her, “Don’t worry, it’s only going to be us and the Japanese representatives on board.” We go down the spiral stairs together, I stop off at the penthouse and she goes down one more floor. I remember to shout down to her, “Come back up here when you’re dressed!”
Five minutes later, she knocks on the patio sliding doors with an inquisitive expression. “Why aren’t we meeting down in the lobby?” I notice she’s got her mascara back on. I grin and usher her into my private elevator. “Because, Tess, we're not going onto the street.” I push one of the floor buttons and we go down three floors. “He’s taken the whole floor, so I had to ask Justin if I could have access to his apartment via the elevator. He’s the only one with the key to grant the elevator access. If I didn’t have it, the floor button wouldn't register or light up.”
The door slides open, but no one’s waiting to greet us. I crane my neck out and shout, “Justin! Are you in the workroom or the living area?”
A voice shouts back, “Workroom!”
I take Tess by the hand and lead her down the corridor to the right where Justin Di Gucci’s studio is located. He looks up from the workbench when we come in, but all he does is smile. “Hey, Roscoe.” Then he goes back to work. A magnification shield covers his face and he’s working on something small held in a vice. Tess looks intrigued, but I’m hoping Justin remembers I texted him this morning,Hey J, can I bring a girl over for a ring? Her name’s Tess and she’s a fashion designer. This one’s different + special, so please don’t mention all the other girls. R.
Justin doesn't look up, but starts speaking. “I got your text. I have a few pieces in the small safe. I’ve already opened it, so just go ahead and see which one you like.”
The safe is full of thin, brown velvet lined drawers.
I slide each drawer open until I find the one with the rings. I lift it out and place it on the table for Tess to choose. Justin’s artistry never fails to amaze me.Her finger reaches out and strokes some of them. The way she looks at me says it all. Art and beauty personified—just like Tess herself.
Justin finishes what he was doing at the workbench and comes over, wiping his hands on a clean white cloth. “Hey, I’m Justin. You must be Tess? Pleased to meet you.” When Justin hasn’t got a gemstone in the vice, he’s actually very sociable. I wander off and leave the two of them talking. When the women I date find out I have Justin di Gucci living in my building, they act more excited than if it was a rock band front man or a film star.
It’s always better to leave someone to make up their own mind about what they want. The only female I buy jewelry for without her input is my mother. She has a charm bracelet, and every year, I get another charm handcrafted for her.
I go through to the living section, page through about three financial magazines, and then decide they’ve been in there long enough. I find Justin and Tess sitting on stools next to the ring tray, chatting away like old friends. “Yes,” Justin agrees, “you're quite right. It is a symphony of color, form, and technique, but not a lot of people understand that.” Tess looks over at me and reads my mood. “Sorry, Roscoe. We’ve been talking and I haven’t even looked yet.” She pushes the tray over to Justin, saying, “You choose.”
Justin looks at Tess from head to toe and then back at the rings on the tray. “I would say blackened white gold with a…blue diamond, but no. It’s too exotic for your coloring. I know!” His hand darts to a massive asscher cut pink diamond set in rose gold and surrounded with round white diamonds. “This is perfect for your coloring, Tess. The metal brings out the rose tones in your skin and the vibe is fun and sophisticated. It’s tasteful, classy, and hella pretty.”
I tell Justin we need to keep the ring on the down-low until my parents know about my new relationship, so he hangs the ring from a thin chain crafted out of rose gold filament before handing it to Tess. I can see she loves it. “Thanks, Justin,” I say. “Karl is expecting your text, so just let him know, okay?”
Nothing makes Justin happier than fixing a woman up with her perfect piece of jewelry. He’s like the Jewish mother of jewelers. He waves us goodbye and goes back to his workbench. The elevator doors slide shut and we continue down to the lobby. Tess looks at me with stars in her eyes. “I know it’s only for a little while, but…wow! It’s such a privilege to wear his art close to my heart.”
Suddenly, I am envious of Justin di Gucci.
CHAPTER12
TESS
I try not to feel a certain amount of trepidation when I wake up on Monday. George is waiting at the curb downstairs to take us to the One Fifteen Brooklyn Marina, and I hear Roscoe coming down the spiral stairs outside the patio garden. We hardly use the elevators at all anymore when we want to access each other’s apartments. We’ve fallen into a routine of sorts over these couple of days. Roscoe texts to see if I’m awake. We meet up at the pool and I watch as he does his laps. I’ve worked out how to get the complicated machine in the kitchen to brew and I sip coffee and flick through my phone on the sun lounger. When he’s finished his laps—I learned that he also visits the onsite gym beforehand, where there’s another pool for residents that Roscoe uses during winter—we chat about random things. This is the first time Roscoe has ever lived with anyone outside of his family in a communal way, and I can see he’s finding the experience an interesting one.
Despite my distaste for turning into one of those Manhattanites who use their refrigerators to house their skin toner and ice packs in, we go out for breakfast or brunch most times. I like to walk as far as possible when we do. Not only do I prefer normal forms of exercise like walking and jogging along the beach, but it’s a great way to get to know the neighborhood and walk off a large breakfast at the same time.
Yesterday, on our way back from the diner, Roscoe held my hand. I was deeply touched and bowled over by how natural the action came to us. There was no awkward reaching or withdrawing. It just happened. Now we walk everywhere hand in hand. Does it bother me that he thinks being seen like that might read better for a couple in a fake relationship? A little bit, yes. But it still feels nice.
George smiles at me as he closes the car door and it’s the last chance I get to greet him good morning because the window is up inside. Roscoe and I don’t converse much; I guess he can sense my nerves. All he says is, “I don’t have to tell you how good you look, do I?”
I smile and shake my head. I’m wearing what I call the ultimate summer dress. The skirt is a whirling whorl of transparent floral muslin material; the top part is boned and lined like a corset and the décolletage is off the shoulder. The secret is that when the sun gets really hot, I can remove the floor length skirt and voilà, the reveal is that under is actually a mid-thigh layered section that turns the ensemble into a dress, it’s not just a petticoat. It took me days to finish, but the hard labor is worth it every time I wear the dress.
I see the yacht before anything else. Its satellite communication equipment towers over the other yacht masts. It must be over one hundred and twenty yards in length. The hull is a deep shining dark blue color and the cabins and deck are pure white. This floating palace is a marine dream.