She didn't stop there, either. Once she was finished shopping, she moved on to giving large donations, first to the Walsh foundation, then a succession of city shelters, the SPCA, and various medical research organizations. Frankly, I wouldn’t be surprised if she started a whole new charity called Fuck My Husband, funneling money directly to things I hate, like overcooked steak and slow sidewalk walkers.
I shake my head. I can tell immediately what she's doing. She's angry after what I said last night, and this is, for lack of a better word, a rage-spend. A tantrum designed to provoke a reaction from me.
Apparently, I was wrong, assuming that she'd forget about it. I wounded her pride, and it turns out, she’s just as proud as I am.
Her tactics are childish, but they're also…amusing. She could have maxed out my cards at Dior or Chanel, but as hard as she tried, she couldn't even manage to spend more than a few thousand dollars on art supplies for herself. Instead, shechanneled the real money into gifts for our future child and into charity.
There are a few purchases from stores with names I don’t recognize. I search for a few of them, finding specialty rock dealers. It only takes me a few calls to find out exactly what she ordered.
Leaning back in my chair, I dial my wife’s number and put her on speakerphone. After two rings, she picks up and I hear her take a breath.
“James,” she says in greeting. I expected her to snap at me, but instead, her voice is cautious, tentative, like she expects me to tear into her about her purchases.
“I’m curious,” I say lightly. “What’s red beryl?”
A silent beat. “It’s a stone.”
“I gathered that. I just thought there must be something special about it, or you wouldn’t have ordered $50,000 worth of it.”
She scoffs. “That’s Monopoly money to you. Your Sequel stock alone earns that in minutes. You can’t be angry at me for that.”
“Do I sound angry?”
“Now that you mention it, your natural speaking voice does sound a little irritated,” she says, but there’s not much heat in it.
“Good. Then it matches my Resting Annoyed Face, as Ryan calls it.”
I hear a muffled noise that might be Maura stifling a laugh.
“So, tell me,” I say. “What’s so special about red beryl?”
“You really want to know?”
“I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t.”
She pauses. “Some people call it red emerald. It’s brilliantly colored and quite rare. In fact, it’s only found naturally in one place in the world. Somewhere in Utah.”
My mouth quirks up. “I’m surprised it didn’t cost you more, then.”
I can envision her wary expression. Maybe she’s twisting a piece of hair in her fingers, waiting for me to berate her for it.
“I bought small, flawed stones. Not jewelry-quality. It doesn’t matter, since I’m only going to crush them to mix into my paint.” When I don’t answer, she adds, “Maybe I’ll crush a few grams of pure diamonds for my next piece. I can buy those next.”
She’s joking, but I can’t resist. I open my laptop, my fingers moving over the keyboard as I tell her, “You really shouldn’t do that.”
“Why not?”
“You don’t need to buy diamonds.”
“You said your money is my money, remember?” she snaps. “You practically gave me a card and drove me down to the mall, so I don’t recall needing your approval to spendourmoney on however many diamonds I want.”
“There’s just no need.” I pressorderand grin. “There’s already a pound of raw diamonds on the way to the penthouse.”
Silence. “You’re kidding.”
“It arrives in two days.”
“But—you can’t—how much?” she sputters.
