Arthur did not reach for the necklace immediately. He looked at me first, his brow furrowed, his hands resting on the edge of the counter.
“We do not see much blue sapphire in here these days,” he said. “Mostly just cheap gold bands from marriages that did not last.”
“It is real,” I said, my voice shaking slightly. “My grandmother had it appraised years ago.”
“I will be the judge of that,” Arthur said.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black jeweler’s loupe. He adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, then held the loupe to his right eye, leaning over the counter until his forehead almost touched the glass.
The silence in the room grew heavy, the hum of the fluorescent bulb filling the space between us. Arthur picked up the necklace by its silver chain. He turned it over slowly, focusing the lens on the back of the pendant where the engraving was.
I watched his hand. It was weathered, with short, thick fingers that had spent decades handling other people’s lost treasures.
