Returns

Mark knew about the happiest days of stranger’s lives before they did. He would find out about engagements and golden anniversaries weeks in advance, when soon-to-be husbands or wives of twenty years walked into his shop to buy rings, brackets, or the delicate dragon tail necklaces that had made his father’s shop famous. Mark only took commissions from walk-in customers. His dad had always insisted on it.

“The customer is always wrong, Marky,” he would say, after particularly difficult clients. “This way I can talk them out of their bad decisions, or at least show them how ugly it’s going to look before they drop ten thousand dollars then decide they don’t want the damn thing after all.”

When Mark took over the shop, he kept his father’s policy in place. It wasn’t because he didn’t trust the customers; aside from a gentle nudge here and there, he let his clients choose exactly they what they wanted. Instead, Mark insisted on in-person appointments because he loved hearing stories.

All of Mark’s customers loved to talk. Some launched straight into their plans to propose as soon as they entered the shop. Others started off more briskly, flipping through his look book or and the pieces displayed in the glass cases around the shop, barely mentioning the occasion. But as soon as he asked who the gift was for, their faces would crack into an enormous grin, and they would begin to tell him about the colour of their partner’s eyes, or how they’d met racing for the last packet of pretzels at Safeway. It was often the clients that started off the quietest who would talk for hours, long after the jewelry design was finalized and the shop was closed.

Mark never minded finishing late. He loved making jewelry; holding gold or silver over a flame until it glowered dark and low like snake eyes and curled around his tongs at the lightest touch. He loved the gleam of the gemstones as he tweezed them into their settings, and the little bits of Shakespeare he picked up from engraving inscriptions on the inside of rings. But most of all, he loved imagining the moment that the gift was given; the screams, tears of joys, and pictures on the mantelpiece that were, in some tiny part, because of him. So, when his customers started to talk, Mark would encourage them. He’d ask questions and pour cups of tea from the kettle he kept in the corner. They’d chat until the client noticed the dark sky and the empty street, and dashed out into the night, thanking him profusely and apologizing for taking up so much of his time. He would laugh and tell them not to apologize.

“You better not return it,’ he’d call after them with a smile.

The customers would grin back as they scurried away.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” they’d reply. “This is for life.”

…

One night, Mark was working even later than usual. He hasn’t had any appointments that day, and so had decided to make a start on the McKellan necklace. It was an unusually complicated design, and he was determined to finish the interlocking rose vine design before he headed home. He was twisting the last strands of plated gold around one another when he heard a knock on the door. Annoyed, Mark set the bracelet down. He got up and peered out the window. No one was there. He was about to head back to his workshop when he noticed a brown paper parcel lying on the front step. Mark opened the door, looking around to make sure that the street was empty, and picked up the package. It had been wrapped poorly, and the paper came off as he lifted it up. Inside was a small gold locket. Mark recognized it instantly.

The client had been one of his favorites. The moment he walked into the shop, he threw his hat and coat onto the chair by the kettle, opened his wallet and pulled out an ultrasound.

“I want a locket for my daughter,” the man said.

“Congratulations,” Mark replied. “When is she due?”

“Six months. We’re naming her Mathilda after her Mom.”

“That’s wonderful. What type of metal were you thinking?”

“Can’t you just tell she’s beautiful?” The man continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “My wife say I’m crazy, but I swear this little thing already has her nose.” He handed Mark the ultrasound and waited expectantly. Mark wasn’t sure he could see anything that resembled a baby, let alone a nose. But he smiled back at the man anyway.

“She’s gorgeous. And we’re going to make her a gorgeous necklace. Now, can I show you some metals?”

The appointment lasted until closing time. The man obsessed over the color of the gold, the shape of the pendant, and even the sizes of the links on the chain. He wondered aloud if they should avoid anything too girly in case she was a tomboy like the on his side of the family, then shook his head and declared he knew she would be just like her Mom, who loved all things pink. He worried that a cold metal would be too dull against the pale skin his parents had had, and asked many times if Mark was sure that all the metals he was suggesting were hypoallergenic. Finally, they settled on a simple heart-shaped locket, with two interlocking letter ‘M’s carved into the front. After the design was finalized, the man shook his head firmly.

“Splendid, just splendid. Thank you so much, for fitting me in. You’re the best in the city, and I didn’t want to trust anyone else with this.”

Mark suppressed a smile. It was an easy design. He had made similar pieces hundreds of time and knew there were three other jewelers on the block who could do the same. But he was touched by the man’s sincerity.

“Thank you for trusting me with it.” The man nodded. He grabbed his coat and hat, and disappeared into the night.

Mark spent twice as long as he needed on that commission. He whittled down the edges of the heart, so they’d sit comfortably against the collarbones, and polished the gold till it gleamed. As he worked, he imagined the man opening the box to show his wife. He pictured the moment they gave the locket to their daughter, maybe on her thirteenth birthday or when she got into college. He could almost see the locket in graduation and wedding pictures, passed on to grandchildren and grandchildren’s grandchildren. When he was finally finished, he wrapped the locket carefully in tissue paper and dropped it in the post box himself. He whistled all the way back to the shop.

Now, five months later, the locket had been returned. He turned it around frantically, looking for some imperfection or break that might explain its return. A flash of white paper in the brown tissue wrapping caught his eye. He picked it up and unfolded it. It was a note.

“No longer needed. Thank you anyway.”

Mark stared at the paper. He thought of the man, pictured those same hands that had grasped his so firmly shaking as he packed up cribs, toys, and baby clothes that would never be used. He imagined the man stumbling across the locket, one last painful reminder to be disposed of. Suddenly, he found himself wishing he could not see the man’s face quite so clearly.

Mark rewrapped the locket in the brown paper packing. He carried it back into his workshop, and tucked it on a high shelf, behind some old tools that had belonged to his father. Then he walked back into the salesroom, unplugged the kettle, and put it up on the shelf as well. The next day, a sign appeared in the shop window.

“Online orders only.”