Diamonds From The Rough

Alan blotted his upper lip with a pressed monogrammed handkerchief. His Gucci logo cufflink clicked on the wristband of his Bvlgari Steel Crono.

"May I offer you an evian, Mr. Mills?"

Before Alan could respond, the not-unattractive woman with the slick hair bun and gap-toothed smile was pressing on the teal "ICM" button.

"Yes, Ms. Guzman?" broadcasted over the speaker phone.

"Victor, two evians, please." Her gray flannel suit was tasteful in its classic lines but Alan considered the hemline a touch short for her age. She sat down opposite him at the glass desk. It reminded Alan of the transparent counter on Entertainment Tonight, except Ms. Guzman's desk was equipped with a functioning glass drawer. Neatly organized within transparent compartments were its contents: a leather portfolio with Memento Mortuary embossed in silver on the cover, a perfectly unused eraser, Waterford fountain pen and pencil, a silver-handled letter opener, and white vinyl-coated paper clips in three different sizes. Ms. Guzman crossed her legs under the desk. Her gray opaque tights with sheer pin-striping detail flattered her legs.

Alan tucked his handkerchief back in his inside jacket pocket and returned Ms. Guzman's smile as the lanky college student - who'd greeted him at the vestibule wearing a three-piece suit that was patently prêt à porter - entered the glass enclosed office with two bottles of evian on a serving tray.

The young man placed two silver plated coasters with the Memento Mortuary logo atop the desk. He uncapped the bottled waters and placed them on the coasters. Finally, a short stack of cocktail napkins, also with the Memento Mortuary logo. He left the room carrying the tray as if there were still items on it.

Alan reached for his water. Ms. Guzman placed a tri-fold glossy brochure in his outstretched palm. He held the brochure for a stunned moment, looked at Ms. Guzman who was leaning towards him - arms crossed but friendly on the desk - and brought the brochure in to read.

"As you know, Mr. Mills," nary a whistle from her gap, "cremation has been traditionally accepted in many cultures for millennia."

Alan looked at the colored photographs - gold and platinum accented against Caesar's Purple velvet. "Just not in our culture," he replied as he scanned the images of bejeweled plates, vases, lockets and other jewelry until he found the design he'd inquired about.

"There are no hard rules when it comes to celebrating the lives of those we love. The carbon pressing technology of today produces brilliant results that could not have been imagined before the 21st century," Ms. Guzman explained in a chest voice that amplified through the glass desk. "Ashes to ashes; dust to dust? Bethany, Conner, and Donny..." she paused.

Alan swallowed the tumbling knot climbing his throat as the three names lingered.

"What culture can prepare you for that?" Ms. Guzman suggested as she leaned closer. She pointed to a paragraph in the middle of the brochure. The paragraph title read Color - The Auras. "Mrs. Mills will never have to visit a grave site once, much less for three different birthdays, on Mother's Day, Fa-- I'm sorry, Mr. Mills," her neck reddening. "I don't know what came over me."

Alan grinned politely. Eerie, that a woman he met ten minutes ago would say the same thing his wife of ten years had said.

*

"Alan, my babies," she cried from the hospital bed where she lay in traction for six weeks after the Expedition had rolled over on the I-5 between picking up the twins from soccer practice and dropping off Bethany at her 4-H meeting. The coma had spared her sanity at the cost of her memories. When she had regained consciousness, Alan had to tell her that their 9-year old angel and 7-year old twin stars had gone to Heaven. "Three graves to dig, three birthdays to grieve, three lives to miss... Alan, I miss them already. They call this surviving? They say I am lucky to be alive? Tell them to leave at once! Tell them all to fucking leave me alone!"

*

"Where do you need me to sign?" Alan asked.

Ms. Guzman smiled again and wiped an evian bottle down with a napkin and handed it to Alan. "Please, refresh yourself while I complete the contract."

As Alan sipped, Ms. Guzman filled out one of the forms that was in the leather portfolio. She referred to his Lifestyle Editor, Vogue Magazine business card presented during introductions to complete his contact information. She made five X strokes where he needed to sign. Ms. Guzman flipped it around so the contract was rightside-up for Alan and said, "For this design, it will be $89,000 plus 8.5% sales tax for a total of $96,565. How would you like to settle the account, Mr. Mills?"

Alan thought about the life insurance money sitting in the checking account. "AmEx," he replied.

*

Zita woke to her husband's minty-fresh breath on her neck and tapwater-chilled lips on her shouder as Alan kissed her softly. She opened her eyes and stared blankly at red numbers on her alarm clock. 11:34 AM. He didn't even let her sleep in on their anniversary. "What's wrong?" Zita asked without turning to look at her husband of ten years. "Is company coming over?"

"No, honey," Alan said with a strange lift to his tone, just like the time he convinced her into cremating her children in an oven. "Happy Anniversary," he said in between soft kisses on her shoulder.

Zita recoiled from his lips, scrunching her face.

Alan put an arm around her shoulders and the other under her knees. He lifted her off the bed and carried her naked body to the living room where he had lit candles around the polar bear skin rug. He placed her gently on the floor, slightly concerned that his wife was so light.

For the first time since she broke her back, Zita allowed herself to feel the moment - she was blissfully alive. The thick, long fur pampered her skin. Goosebumps.

Alan knelt on one knee and held up a tiny leather box with "MM" embossed in silver on the flip top.

Zita's fashion model eyes widened on cue as she opened the box. Inside, the platinum ring with the three clear and different colored stones twinkled against Caesar's Purple velvet.

"Do you see their auras, Zita?" Alan asked, his tone lifting.

Zita did see. Bethany's yellow. Conner's indigo. And Donald's green - her little leprechaun.

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