A Steal of a Deal Read online

  A Steal of a Deal

  A NOVEL

  Ginny Aiken

  © 2008 by Ginny Aiken

  Published by Revell

  a division of Baker Publishing Group

  P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287

  www.revellbooks.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Aiken, Ginny

  A steal of a deal / Ginny Aiken

  p. cm. — (The shop-til-u-drop collection ; bk. 2)

  ISBN 978-0-8007-3228-8 (pbk.)

  1. Home shopping television programs—Fiction. 2. Television personalities— Fiction. 3. Gemologists—Fiction. I. Title.

  PS3551.I339S74 2008

  813'.54—dc22 2007047491

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

  Scripture is taken from the New King James Version. Copyright © 1982 by Thomas Nelson, Inc. Used by permission. All rights reserved.

  Published in association with the literary agency of Alive Communications, Inc., 7680 Goddard St., Suite 200, Colorado Springs, CO 80920.

  “They shall be Mine,”

  says the Lord of hosts,

  “On the day that I make them My jewels.

  And I will spare them

  As a man spares his own son who serves him.”

  Malachi 3:17

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  LO UISVILLE, KENTUCKY

  I’m not feeling the love here. Of all the potential cohosts a girl can get stuck with, why did I wind up with a California surfer-boy gem-dunce? What’s a California surfer-boy gem-dunce, you ask? Well, he’s blond, blue-eyed, and gorgeous, but he knows nothing about . . . well, what really matters here—gems!

  My boss, Miss Mona Latimer, who’s known me since I was a tiny bulge in my mama’s belly, should’ve known better. She should’ve known a co-anchoring gig would never work between a gemological dud and me in front of millions of money-waving, bling-bling crazed women wanting to know about the gemstones they buy.

  The by-women, for-women, all-women Shop-Til-U-Drop television shopping channel was doing just fine without the issues testosterone poisoning brings. If Miss Mona, owner and genius extraordinaire behind the S.T.U.D.—what most people call our shopping channel—really felt we needed a male to spice things up, don’t you think she should’ve gone to the GIA (that’s the Gemological Institute of America) to find herself said male? We’re talking a gem and jewelry show here.

  Fine, fine, fine! Max did ask me to share my knowledge. And I have been trying my best to work with him, but it’s slow going. You’d think Miss Mona would be at least a little concerned about the situation.

  What situation? Oh, the one where Max and I have . . . umm . . . disagreements while the cameras roll. Miss Mona calls it “Chemistry!” “Electricity!” She should be horrified to have that happening on her channel. Then again, I suppose I shouldn’t expect her to be logical or reasonable. She is, after all, the queen of the “Huh?” factor.

  What is the “Huh?” factor, you ask? That’s when someone comes up with something so out of whack that your only possible response is, well, “Huh?”

  My response exactly.

  All right, I admit Max does have the rare redeeming quality. Like his killer great looks don’t hurt the feminine eye. And he does think the world of Miss Mona and her best friend, my own great-aunt Weeby. But then again, everyone does, so that’s no big deal.

  Oh. You want to know who I am? Well. I really should introduce myself. I do it every single day at the start of my show. I’m Andrea Autumn Adams, master gemologist and host of the S.T.U.D.’s gem and jewelry shows.

  My uninformed cohost is Max Matthews, a former Ohio State Buckeye football player. You know, he majored in football and minored in whatever. In Max’s case, the whatever was meteorology. So after a stint as a weatherman at a Middle America TV station, he’s supposedly a pro at the on-camera thing. Which is how he wound up here.

  And yeah, he knows nothing about gemstones.

  Oh, okay. There was that moment when he did bring the cavalry to help me out of a tight spot a couple of months ago. And I am truly grateful. But, c’mon! That’s as far as I’m going to let it go. After all, a fly knows as much as he does about gemstones and jewelry.

  So now that you know all the details, please tell me why I’m such a patsy. Why, after everything I’ve just told you, am I sitting in my kitchen, the table spread far and wide with my treasured collection of rocks—some precious, some semi, and some plain old rocks—trying to get Max to understand and appreciate the beauty of God’s genius?

  Maybe it’s got more to do with those killer blue eyes than with the show. How could I say no?

  Yeah, I’m in trouble.

  But he did ask for my help. Who am I to turn down someone in need? Plus Miss Mona, our boss, told me to play nice.

  I’m sure you’ve figured out that playing nice with Max scares me. He has that oozing masculine appeal you can’t ignore. At least I can’t, no matter how hard I try.

  And then he pulls out that endearing gentleness toward the Daunting Duo—Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona. Plus he hasn’t been snarky about my faith—a major positive for any guy I meet. If I have to be squeaky-clean honest, Max has expressed interest in Aunt Weeby’s and my approach to living out our love for Christ. Oh, he hasn’t come out and said much of anything about it, but I can feel these things. I think he’s told me he’s a churchgoer, so maybe he’s got that Christ-shaped hole in his heart ready for filling.

  But I digress. We’re in the Adams family home kitchen, engaged in one of my fave pastimes: playing with gems.

  Max loops a magnificent three-carat kunzite. “It’s very clean,” he says, his voice rich and intent. “And the cut seems excellent. At least, it is according to the pictures you had me study.” Then he looks up. “But give me a break, Andie. Who’s going to know the difference between one of these and a super-washed-out orchid amethyst?”

  See what I’m dealing with here?

  I blow out a frustrated breath. “A gemologist is going to know. And care. A gem collector’s going to care too.” I raise a hand to stop his objection. “And any potential customer on our program is really going to care, especially since the price of gemmy kunzite is so many times higher than that of any amethyst.”

  He drops his tweezers on the Selvyt cloth I’d spread on the well-used pine farm table, kunzite still clamped between the steel prongs, then leans back in his Windsor chair. “So tell me, oh ye of massive gemological wisdom. Is there a lot of this kind of fraud going on?”

  I’m not taking the bait, folks! “Amethyst for kunzite?”

  He nods.

  “Not much. How many gem geeks are out there who know kunzite exists? How many gem geeks d’you think would buy some from someone who’s not up to speed on her gems?”

  His iced tea must be warm by now, but he takes anothe
r swig. “I guess that’s a good thing. But if no one really knows what this stuff is”—he gestures toward the gem still jailed by the tweezers—“then why is it so expensive? You know, the if-the-tree-falls-in-the-deserted-woods deal.”

  I sigh—again. I find myself sighing a lot around Max. Hmm . . . same thing as around Aunt Weeby and Miss Mona, my two most favorite people in the whole world. I’m not ready to nose around that random connection between the three most challenging humans I know.

  “Because,” I say, instead, “those who know their gems know how incredibly rare good spodumene really is. Let’s face it, when anyone can get a top-quality amethyst for no more than fifty-sixty dollars per carat, you know you can find those anywhere. Well, sort of. But, to get a decent kunzite, you’re going to have to pop about three hundred dollars a carat.”

  He scratches his blond head. “I’ll stick to Titleist and cheap little wooden tees.”

  “How ’bout them pigskins?”

  “A good football won’t set you back a small fortune.”

  “It won’t last practically forever, either.”

  “Nothing does.”

  I run my index finger over the garnet cross pendant I recently bought and haven’t taken off yet. “That’s where you’re wrong. God lasts forever, and his creation does as long as he wills it to.”

  Max turns serious. “I’ve never known anyone who can flip the switch from dirt-covered rocks to heavenly heights so fast.”

  That catches me. I think about what he’s said. “Maybe it’s because I don’t separate God or my faith from everything else. Or at least, I try not to.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Are you sure you’re not just saying that? You know, à la Andie the Super-Duper Christian Girl who wears her faith on her sleeve.”

  “Gross! Is that how you see me?” Boy, do I have a lot of work to do if that’s the case.

  As the minutes tick by without an answer on his part, I begin to squirm. Then I itch. “Aw, c’mon, Max! You can’t see me like that. Not really. I’m just me. I mess up just like everyone else.”

  “Yeah, but there’s something different about you.”

  “Gee, that sounds almost as nice as ‘Oh, look! There’s black gunk growing in your grout. Isn’t that different?’”

  He laughs, chokes, then clunks his not-so-iced-tea glass down on the tabletop, and that finally dislodges the kunzite from the clamp that held it in the tweezer’s prongs. He ignores the bouncing gem as he recovers from my semi-lame crack.

  I don’t ignore it. I pick it up and place it back in its own little plastic gem jar.

  Max says, “If that doesn’t prove you’re not like any other woman out there, then I don’t know what does.” He stands. “Anyway, I spent the afternoon working on my new old car. You’ve got to admit, Andie—that vintage Triumph is sweet.”

  “Dunno, Max. Ancient English sports car wrecks aren’t my thing.”

  “Unenlightened!” He winks. “Anyway, I’m kind of tired, and I have an early tee time tomorrow morning. I need to catch some z’s if I’m going to meet Tanya on time. She’s the most punctuality-obsessed person I know.”

  I hoot as I stand. “You’re playing Tanya?” I click the gem jar lid on the kunzite and follow him out of the kitchen. “As in our sports catalog host? As in our former college B-ball star and to-the-bitter-end competitor?”

  A ruddy glow enhances Max’s chiseled cheekbones. “Yes, well. I’m pretty new to town. She’s the only other golfer I know.”

  For a moment, as I follow Max to the foyer, I feel a twinge. Don’t ask me what kind of twinge it is, but I fight an irrational urge to say, “I’ll play with you.”

  One problem: I don’t know a thing about golf. I can just see me on the golf course, a death-grip on one of those lethal-weapon metal sticks. Then I’d have to figure out how to hit the hard, dimply ball with the metal stick, and get it to boing right into the little hole in the ground way out there somewhere. Right. Uh-huh.

  “. . . Earth to Andie!”

  Screech, screech! The shriek punctuates Max’s summons.

  “Oh, hush up, Rio,” I yell above the parrot’s ruckus. The bird was a gift from a ruby vendor, and Aunt Weeby has taken to him as though they’d been born attached at the hip . . . or wing. Figures.

  What had Max and I been talking about? “Oh! Well, I can just imagine the rout tomorrow.”

  He blows on his neat, blunt nails and then buffs them on his cream-colored polo shirt. “I do know my way around a golf course, you know.”

  “I kinda wish I could hitch a ride on that zippy golf cart you guys’ll be riding. Then we’ll see who routs who.”

  “Whom.”

  “Whatever.”

  Max opens the door and winks. “Good night, Andie.”

  I follow him to the porch and grin. “Good night, Max.”

  As he heads down the front walk, I shiver. It’s scary. We’ve gotten into this routine, almost from the start. We could almost pass for George and Gracie—Burns, that is. Only about a century younger. You know.

  Shiver number two . . . or twenty. He has that effect on me.

  Even though I fight it with everything I have.

  I shake off the spell he casts on me, spin on my heel, and head back indoors. Once the deadbolt’s clicked into place, I lean back against the door. “What are you trying to tell me, Lord?”

  I mean, I don’t think Max’s presence at the S.T.U.D. or in my life is a simple coincidence. I’m not so sure God does coincidence. Coward that I am, I don’t let myself dig too deeply into that subject. I skim it and pray for God to keep me safe from the effects of good-looking, well-intentioned—I think—but ill-informed males.

  Why couldn’t Miss Mona just have let things go on the way they’d been? You know, the Shop-Til-U-Drop TV shopping channel, by women, for women, all women.

  We didn’t really need Max.

  Really. We didn’t.

  As the final credits scroll up the movie screen in the Eastside Christian Fellowship’s basement media room, I wipe the tears from my cheeks. I turn to Peggy Ross, my closest friend from childhood, and see the matching tears in her brown eyes.

  The speaker’s voice draws our attention back to the lectern. “Can you believe so little’s been done to help those poor Kash-miri people?” she said. “True, after the earthquake, ministries sent a variety of forms of help and even missionaries. The problem is with Kashmir itself. Too many wars have been fought by China, India, and Pakistan over that small bit of land, and they’ve all played the battles to their individual advantages. That doesn’t leave much to work with on the ground.”

  Our speaker slips a new transparency in place on the projector. “When I see pictures of children without even the basics . . . it’s my kids’ faces I see on those little bodies. And, after more than a couple of years’ time, the destruction is still . . . well, there. No homes, no protection or heat for the winter. They also have very little food . . .”

  The intense stare of the missionary passes from listener to listener. “Allow me to challenge you. What can you do?”

  The gerbil on the exercise wheel of my brain starts on its daily workout. She has me. Even after she’s done with her presentation. I don’t know what I can do, but there has to be something . . .

  I reach for Peggy’s hand, and we bow down in private, silent prayer.

  “Ahem . . .”

  We turn to the owner of the cleared throat. At our side, the missionary—a tall, middle-aged woman, her clothes sensibly plain, her brown hair cut in practical, no-nonsense layers, her eyes bright with intelligence and determination— waits for our attention.

  “I couldn’t help but notice you were both still here, praying,” she says.

  I’ll bet. “The movie hits harder than I imagined.”

  She nods. “That was my intention.”

  Hmm . . . “Are you the film’s director?”

  She laughs. “Thanks for the compliment, but I’m nowhere near that talented. May I j
oin you?”

  The chair at Peggy’s side had sat empty through the presentation. “Sure,” my pal says. “I’m sorry, though. I don’t know you.”

  “Of course not,” our new companion replies. “And at the beginning of tonight’s program, your pastor ran through all the speakers’ names so fast, I don’t expect anyone to remember mine. I’m Laura Seward. My husband and I have served on the mission fields of India, Pakistan, and Kashmir for the last thirty-seven years. We’re home on furlough now and have been using the time to reach out to others who might be willing and able to help us.”

  Peggy and I swap looks.

  I square my shoulders. “Look. I won’t act dumb here and pretend I don’t know what you’re up to—and I won’t insult you and pretend you came to hit us up out of the blue. I suspect someone fingered us—me—as an easy mark. It won’t take long for me to head down your road. What can we do to help?”

  A grin brightens her plain features. “I have to admit, I didn’t expect such directness.”

  “Ha!” Peggy elbows my ribs. “That’s because you don’t know our Andie here. She’s got the subtlety and meandering talents of a heat-seeking missile.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Peg,” I object. “I’m not that bad. I just don’t like to waste time.”

  Laura laughs. “I like your style, Andie.” She holds out her hand. “I think you can do a world of good.”

  Her hand is warm, dry, and muscular, clear evidence of years of doing the Lord’s work under tough circumstances. I feel a twinge of nostalgia. “Thanks. You remind me of my mother, who can’t figure out how the missionary zeal skipped me. It didn’t really, but I haven’t felt the Lord’s call to the field.”

  She nods.

  I go on. “I grew up in Africa. My parents have been missionaries for years.”

  Her smile says she knows she’s got a live one on the hook. And she does. What can I say? It’s bred in me. I kind of drank it in with Mom and Dad’s hugs and kisses growing up. I’m just not full-time like them.

  “Tell me more,” she says.

  “There’s not much more. I grew up, went to college, graduated, got a Master Gemologist certificate from the Gemological Institute of America, and I now work for Mona Latimer, the owner of the Shop-Til-U-Drop network. How can I help you and your husband? Or maybe what I should ask is how I can help the Kashmiri.”