The building rose above the avenue in a graceful column of limestone, steel, and glass. Williams Heritage Group had purchased it during a difficult downturn when several investors were selling properties at prices they later regretted, and David still remembered standing in the unfinished lobby with Richard Ellison, his longtime operations director, trying to imagine what the empty spaces might become. Years of careful repairs and sensible tenants had turned it into one of the company's most reliable properties. The ground-floor jewelry boutique was a separate retail division operated under the Williams umbrella, a business David visited so rarely that most of its current staff had never seen him in person.
Above the revolving entrance, polished letters spelled the name of the building, a name familiar to finance executives and property managers but meaningless to most shoppers. David passed beneath those letters without looking up. He was not thinking about the real estate, its estimated value, or the offices above him. He was thinking about a blue stone at Evelyn's throat and wondering whether the new necklace would be too elaborate for a woman who preferred gardening gloves to evening gowns.
A brass-framed storefront drew him toward a window filled with carefully arranged necklaces, earrings, and antique-inspired watches. The boutique was called Bellweather Fine Jewelry, a name chosen by a merchandising team long after David had stopped attending retail branding meetings. A dark velvet display held several diamonds beneath warm lights that made each stone appear to contain its own star. A discreet sign promised private consultations, custom commissions, and exceptional service.
David paused outside long enough to smooth the old photograph with his thumb. In the window he could see his reflection, a man whose hair had thinned and whose shoulders were more rounded than in the photograph. Evelyn was young in that picture, laughing with her whole face, and he wished for one irrational instant that he could go back and tell the man standing beside her that everything would eventually be all right. Instead, he put the photograph back in his pocket, opened the heavy glass door, and stepped inside.
The room smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive perfume. Cream stone floors reflected light from a ceiling of small brass fixtures, and glass counters followed a gentle curve toward a private viewing area at the rear. Classical music played softly from concealed speakers, interrupted now and then by the crisp click of jewelry cases being opened and closed. Two couples were examining watches with attentive sales associates, while a woman in a tailored coat looked at diamond earrings near the entrance.
Behind the central counter stood Victor Sloan, the boutique's senior floor manager, who was thirty-nine and wore a black suit tailored closely enough to advertise the effort. His hair was combed back with meticulous precision, and a gold tie bar caught the light every time he moved. Victor prided himself on knowing what luxury customers wanted before they asked, but his idea of knowing had gradually hardened into a series of judgments about shoes, accents, handbags, and the confidence with which someone entered the room. He had learned to call those judgments discernment.