Otis Whitfield came to Atlanta from Macon with a borrowed toolbox and a habit of fixing watches at the kitchen table. I was working the counter at a pharmacy on the corner. He could tell a good stone from a bad one. I could talk to people. Twenty-seven years ago we rented a small storefront in the West End and put our two names over the door.
The arrangement never changed. Otis chose every piece that went in the case, with his loupe in his hand. I kept the counter, and I kept the layaway book. Five dollars a week until the ring was yours. Every name written in a spiral notebook. It is still under the register.
This spring the building was sold. The new owner is not renewing our lease. We do not own the walls, and we are not going to carry twenty-seven years of jewelry to some other street. We own what is in the cases and what is in the warehouse. It is going back to the people who paid for it.
Shipping is calculated at checkout. When a piece is gone, it is gone, because we are not ordering another.
Thank you for twenty-seven years of trusting us with your occasions.
— Ruby Mae