West 47th Street was full of jewelry shops, but none as grand as J.P Samuels. They might as well have called it Jewelers to the Rich and Famous, she thought. For that was what it was: a place where the rich came to gorge on expensive stones. The front of the store was imposing. Between the cleanest store windows in New York, there were columns of polished black granite. The entrance was in the middle of the store, and it too was surrounded by shiny black stone. The door itself was made of bulletproof, reinforced glass. What Tyra liked best about the facade was the sign. It was made of copper and ran the length of the store. The background was dark, and the letters that had been forged onto it were polished and stood out better than any other letters on the street.
“Welcome back, Tyra. I'm so sorry to hear about your mom and dad,” Leon said.
“Thanks, Leon. It's very brave of you to say so.” She'd found that most people just turned away from her, not knowing what to say. Not Leon. It was his job to stand inside the door and keep out the undesirables. He was perfectly equipped to do so at six foot seven and two hundred and fifty pounds, but it involved hours of standing in the same place, day after day.
“Tyra, my girl,” Radley Samuels said. He'd been waiting for her. Normally he didn't stand in the shop.
He had others to do that for him. His job was managing the business his grandfather had started. “Come with me.”
Tyra followed him through the store. They walked past glass cabinets filled with beautiful necklaces, rings, bracelets, earrings, and watches. At the back of the store, they went through a door and down a corridor. The first door on the right led to a security room. Tyra had never been in the room, but she had seen inside once when the door had been open. It was full of monitors and the latest lockdown systems. It was all high tech, and she didn’t know anything about any of it.
Radley pushed open the first door on the left and showed her into his office. How can anyone spend hours in an office with no daylight? she wondered. There were pictures of his ancestors on one wall and a giant flora vase in the corner. What she liked most about his office was the carpet. It was deep red with the company crest woven into it.
“Tyra, please sit down.” He pointed to a button-backed armchair that stood in front of his mahogany desk. “I want you to tell me how you are feeling. You've been through a lot, and I want to make sure you’re feeling up to working again.” I wish I had a daughter like her, he thought. She's so graceful and kind, yet determined and motivated, he thought.
“Well, honestly speaking, I'm still feeling awful.” You can tell him everything; he cares for you, she told herself as a moment of doubt crept into her mind. “I weep a lot, especially in the evening, and I feel guilty. So guilty.” She noticed how closely he was listening to her. The furrows on his forehead were deep with concern for her, and his eyes were looking directly into hers, seeking any sign that a return to work may be too early.
“There is nothing I can say to you that will make you feel better. All I can do is tell you what happened to me when my son was killed.”
Killed? I didn't know he'd had a son, she thought. Knowing that someone close to her had also suffered such a loss and could relate made her feel better.
“My son was only nineteen. He was studying business at New York University and working here on weekends.” He stopped talking for a moment, produced a white handkerchief from his jacket pocket, and wiped his forehead. Tyra knew him to be fifty-nine. He was quite tall and very thin. It was as if he was so involved in his business that he forgot to eat.
He looked at her with a pained expression as he continued. “One morning he left home to go to college, and he never came back again. A man who had been drinking all night decided to get into his car and drive to the apartment of the girlfriend he had left for dead the previous evening. When he fell asleep at the wheel, it was my son he hit.” His voice cracked. “He was just walking down the street, minding his own business.” He took the handkerchief and blew his nose.
“Oh my god. That's awful.” Tyra put her hand to her mouth.
He nodded. Perhaps I shouldn't have burdened her with this, he thought. “At first, everything was a blur. It was only after the funeral had taken place that it really hit me. After the funeral, everyone seems to disappear. All the kind words and supporting arms are no longer there. You are suddenly alone.” He ran his hand through his thinning gray hair and looked at a photo on his desk. Tyra couldn't see who it was of. She assumed his son.
“The undertaker had warned me about it. A deep hole, he'd called it, and I fell into it.” When he paused, Tyra thought about where she was mentally and recognized what he was describing. “The undertaker also explained that there is something called the cycle of grief. You go through stages of grief, and if you are lucky, eventually you come out the other end. The last stage is called the acceptance stage. You stop all the blaming and come to terms with what's happened. Of course, you're still sad, but it gets easier.”
“It's very kind of you to tell me this. I had no idea. I was afraid I would have this level of pain for the rest of my life.” Tyra looked at her hands. Her nails used to be so manicured, she thought.
“When I employed you, Tyra, I saw something in you. You are one of life's good people. I can see you care about people. When you talk to clients, you are patient, and most importantly, you listen to them. Did you know I have no relatives?”
Tyra shook her head.