The Necklace: Thirteen Women and the Experiment That Transformed Their Lives Read online

  Something more important was happening here than making money, something so important that it gave him an idea.

  Tom Van Gundy rarely acted without his wife’s consent, and he knew if he continued to debate her, he’d lose. Following the dictum that it’s better to plead forgiveness afterward than ask permission before, he decided to deal with the repercussions later. He walked out of the back room to hand the number he’d scribbled to Jonell. “I’ll give it to you for this price,” he said, “but with one condition. I want you to let my wife be in your group.” He had no idea how Priscilla would feel about it, if she’d even participate. He just knew he wanted these women in her life.

  Jonell looked at the attractive, soft-spoken man in front of her. She couldn’t know why he wanted his wife in the group, nor did she know who his wife was or if she’d like her or if any of the women she’d recruited would like her. But the whole idea was about inclusion and sharing, so she didn’t hesitate.

  “It’s a deal,” she said.

  Jonell wasn’t worried about Tom’s wife. She was worried that the women she’d worked so doggedly to recruit would balk at paying an extra two hundred dollars. Then what was she going to do? She hid her concern behind her most radiant smile of the day.

  Tom returned to the back room.

  “I gave it to them for fifteen thousand,” he said, again to her bowed head, “but you get to be in the group.”

  Priscilla looked up at him.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The group of women. You get to be part of it.”

  She knew that he felt bad about the price, so crabby retorts stayed in her head. Had he lost his mind? Had he forgotten that the mall takes 7 percent and the salesman a 3 percent commission? They wouldn’t even get their cost out of it. She was always the bulldog, he the golden retriever. Nothing ever changed. What was the point of arguing? It was a done deal.

  “Whatever,” she said. And that was all she said.

  Priscilla stayed in the back room. She had no curiosity about the women. She had no interest in being part of the group. She had no interest in owning a necklace she could have borrowed any time she wanted. All she could think was that if her husband kept making deals like this they’d be out of business. She went back to the books to try to figure out a way to make up for the day’s losses.

  But Tom Van Gundy saw something his wife didn’t. He saw a group of women unlike any others he’d seen in his twenty-seven years of selling to women, talking to women, understanding women. He saw a collective vitality, an unexpected opportunity. He saw possibility.

  Possibility was what Jonell’s vision was all about. It wasn’t about a necklace as accessory or art. It wasn’t about diamonds as status or investment. It was about a necklace as cultural experiment. A way to bring thirteen venturesome women together to see what would happen. Could the necklace become greater than the sum of its links, thirteen voices stronger than one?

  Jonell’s confidence wasn’t misplaced. By the time her Visa bill arrived three weeks later, she’d lured the final four. Besides a jeweler’s disgruntled wife, there were longtime friends, new friends, friends of friends. Their ages ranging between fifty and sixty-two, all but one qualify as baby boomers, that eclectic generation. As a group, they’ve been married and faithful to one man for thirty-plus years, and they’ve had three husbands and dozens of lovers. They’re childless and mothers of four, with empty nests or kids in Little League. They’re dating singles and doting grandmothers, card-carrying conservatives and lifelong liberals. Some have advanced degrees, others high school diplomas. They’ve had three careers, checkered careers, one career—in finance and farming, medicine and teaching, business and real estate, media and law. They come from wealth and they’re completely self-made. They’re Catholic and Jewish, feminist and traditionalist, blond and gray.

  No woman said yes to Jonell’s proposition because she was interested in jewelry or diamonds. No woman said yes to the necklace because she lusted to wear it. Some wrote a check without even seeing it. Each bought a share because, as Tom intuited, it represented possibility.

  What the women didn’t know was that over the next three years the necklace would animate their lives in ways they could never have imagined. More important, it would start a conversation. About materialism and conspicuous consumption, ownership and nonattachment. About what it means today to be a woman in her fifties, looking potentially at another thirty to forty years of life. About the connections we make and the legacies we leave, about how to make the most of the long stretch of years.

  This is the story of a necklace but it isn’t the story of a string of stones. It’s the story of thirteen women who transformed a symbol of exclusivity into a symbol of inclusivity and, in the process, remapped the journey through the second half of their lives.

  This is a story of transcendence.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Patti Channer, the shopper

  . . .

  Rethinking consuming passions

  . . .

  JONELL SAILED OUT OF VAN GUNDY ’S WITH THE DIAMOND necklace and a quick prayer that the other women would come through with their checks. But she didn’t have time to worry about that now. She was throwing a party that evening, and being the last-minute hostess that she was, she still needed to clean the house and sweep the patio and pick up the food. But nothing could dull the excitement she felt at the thought of wearing the diamond necklace. At six o’clock, she slipped into her black yoga pants and a silk shell the color of eggplant. Her philosophy of clothes: simple styles, best of fabrics. She ringed her neck with the diamonds and stared at the necklace lying against the aubergine shell.

  As she continued looking in the mirror, she realized, almost with a start, that the necklace was perfect for her. Her short blond hair, her rimless glasses, her minimalist makeup—the necklace looked good with all of it, including her one concession to glamour, her acrylic nails lacquered deep red, OPI’s Smokin’ Havana. She adjusted the arc of the diamonds to the scoop of her neckline.

  No question, she thought, this necklace is amazing. I think I’ll keep it.

  The feeling of possessiveness vanished as quickly as it arose, but Jonell was astonished to discover that she had it at all.

  The next week, Jonell composed her first e-mail to the women:

  “It’s about time we got this fabulous group together. We’ll meet Thursday, November 11, at four P.M. Please come prepared to talk about the following: the necklace’s name, how to divide up the time, insurance, considerations (how we’ll refer to rules) and anything else that seems fun, relevant or not. . . . You realize we have created the possibility of being in each other’s lives for the rest of the ride. I can’t wait to see what happens next.”

  Priscilla Van Gundy read the e-mail. She’d forgotten all about the necklace and the deal her husband had negotiated, probably repressed it since it was a monetary loss. Jeez, she thought, who’s got time for a meeting with a bunch of women? Her reply was terse: “I won’t be able to make it. I have to work.”

  Four miles away, Patti Channer read the same e-mail, relieved to see an agenda. Patti liked structure. She responded immediately: “I’ll be there.” She laughed out loud. Of course she’d be there. The meeting was at her house.

  Well, she pulled it off, Patti thought to herself, remembering their conversation four weeks ago when Jonell had first approached her.

  Patti had been driving around downtown Ventura, running errands and listening to NPR’s Talk of the Nation when her cell phone rang.

  “I want to run something by you,” Jonell said in her typically excited way.

  Jonell was talking faster than the speed limit on Poli Street. Nothing unusual there. What Patti hadn’t heard before was Jonell speed-talking about—could it be jewelry? A diamond necklace? Patti pulled over to the curb so she could focus.

  “If you and I could do this together and get ten others . . .”

  The more Jonell talked, the more
confused Patti became. How could Jonell want to spend money on something she’d always considered frivolous? Jonell hadn’t even replaced jewelry stolen from her house. She’d met the loss with dismissal: “They were just things.” When the two of them went shopping on Montana Avenue in Santa Monica last year, Patti bought a shoulder bag of crochet-wrapped burgundy leather. Jonell was aghast. “How can you spend five hundred dollars on a purse?” she asked.

  Patti defended the purchase as a piece of art. Jonell parried that with five hundred dollars she could feed six people for a month. It was easy to understand how the two women had arrived at their different philosophies of spending. Jonell’s income from real estate commissions fluctuated, so she had to be careful to plan for the valleys with the money from the peaks. Patti’s income from managing her husband’s dental practice was steady. Jonell had two children she helped financially. Patti didn’t have children, so she didn’t have to deny herself. It’d been a running argument between them for the twenty-five years they’d been friends.

  That shopping excursion had ended with division: Jonell holed up in a bookstore while Patti dashed off to contemplate the purchase of a chiffon poncho that looked like a butterfly.

  Patti’s thoughts were yanked back to the conversation by Jonell’s command: “You have to go try it on.”

  “I don’t need to. I’m in.”

  “This could be a really great possibility.”

  “Fine, I’m in.”

  “You have to go see it.”

  “Fine, fine, I’m in,” she said for the third time.

  Patti didn’t need convincing. The idea was so out of character for Jonell that Patti knew it’d be about something else and she knew it’d be interesting. Jonell was the only woman in Ventura who could have tempted her to say, “I’m in.” She didn’t need to see it.

  THE NEXT DAY, Patti stood in front of the window at Van Gundy’s. Yes, it’s a gorgeous necklace, I’ll give Jonell that, she thought as she leaned into the display window. But it’s not something I’d buy for myself. At dinner that evening she talked to Gary about the necklace. Gary was the dashing dentist she’d been married to for thirty-five years. When he sauntered his six-foot-one-inch lanky self into his fortieth high school reunion, the women dubbed him both “best looking” and “best preserved.” His brown hair hadn’t gained more than a few flecks of gray, and his curls were still thick. After more than three decades together, she knew how Gary, a child of scarcity, would respond:

  “How much is it gonna cost?”

  “A thousand dollars.”

  “You’re going to share it? That’s gonna work?”

  “Of course it’s gonna work. Women make things work.”

  “Well, maybe I’ll get the guys together and buy a Ferrari.”

  “You think that’s gonna work?”

  Gary laughed, and Patti volleyed with her deep raucous laugh.

  Gary was skeptical that the “time-share” would work and imagined some kind of Desperate Housewives scenario. But he’d found that married life went more smoothly if he didn’t interfere with Patti’s spending. She earned it, she could do what she wanted with it. Gary chose to look on the bright side: At least now he’d never have to buy her a diamond necklace, thank god.

  FOR THE FIRST GATHERING Patti readied her beach house, a cozy, earth-toned duplex decorated with seascapes and shells, with a bedroom loft upstairs and a redwood deck outside. She set out cheeses, French Brie and Irish Dubliner, red and white wines and San Pellegrinos. She chilled a bottle of champagne in her silver wine bucket. She lit the gas fireplace, the white pillar candles on the mantel, and the white votive candles on the coffee table. Patti had a flair for entertaining. This was a meeting, however, not a dinner party, so she’d decided on casual hospitality. She had no idea what was going to happen in her living room. She hoped it wouldn’t turn into a free-for-all.

  At four o’clock, Jonell strode in with Cokes, and the others clinked in with wine and champagne. Soon the scene replayed the one in Van Gundy’s—only with three times as many women, all talking at once. Each took a turn trying on the necklace in front of the mirror, immediately becoming the center of attention as the others crowded around and Patti photographed each woman with her Sony Cyber-shot. Some patted the diamonds like society women in an Edith Wharton novel. Some effervesced like teenagers. Those who’d already tried it on in the store tried it on again, but they did so hurriedly because that wasn’t what this meeting was about.

  After the ceremonial Trying On of the Necklace, the women squeezed together on the taupe leather sectional and on ottomans and chairs scattered around the small living room. Jonell began the storytelling as if they were gathered around a fire at the beach. She talked about herself, her idea, her excitement, this great group of women. After her narrative, she asked each woman to tell something about herself. She couldn’t have known what the other women were thinking as they half-listened, half-analyzed what they were doing in this living room, with these women, and that necklace.

  Eleven women—two couldn’t make it—all white. Eight blond, two brunette, one gray. Nine with wedding rings, one in heels.

  Roz McGrath had been running stats as she looked around the room. Where are the women of color? she wondered. Am I the only brunette here? She was skeptical of blondes—in her experience she’d found most “blond jokes” too close to the truth. She didn’t know most of these women but she wanted them to know who she was. “I’m a feminist” were the first words out of her mouth.

  Nancy Huff winced. The seventies are over, she thought. If this is going to turn into some consciousness-raising group I’m outta here. But she kept quiet. When the last woman finished, Jonell started talking again, about her work, her husband, her kids, what this group was all about. She spoke so rapidly that some of the women had trouble keeping up with her. But her message was clear. “We are not what we wear or what we own,” she said. In case they missed the point, Jonell took off her yellow cotton T-shirt, revealing a sheer camisole and an impish smile. Jonell’s longtime friends in the group, like Patti, had seen it all before. But what looked to them like an old hippie comfortable in her skin looked different to the newer acquaintances. Some frankly noted Jonell’s great body—lean rib cage, firm arms, large breasts—but Roz McGrath was no longer the only one who wondered what she’d gotten herself into.

  Next on the agenda: Name the Necklace. Jonell wanted to name the necklace after Julia Child, who’d died two months earlier, on August 13, 2004. The culinary idol had lived her later years in nearby Montecito, where Jonell’s husband had built the maple island in her kitchen. Naming the necklace for Child would be a fitting homage to one of the most admirable women of the twentieth century. To Jonell, as well as to the women in the group who’d used her cookbooks and watched her PBS show in the seventies, Julia Child introduced French cooking to Americans with an unpretentious style, an adventuresome spirit, and abundant humor. They appreciated that she didn’t come into her own until she was in her fifties, but what they really applauded was her appetite for life. These women saw the spirit of Jonell’s homage. Several suggested spelling the name Jewelia.

  Meanwhile, the rest remained quiet. They thought the idea was ludicrous—the idea of naming a necklace at all, let alone naming it for a cook.

  Next on the agenda: the time-share. Each woman would have the necklace for twenty-eight days, during her birthday month. Only two women’s birthdates overlapped. Patti’s was nine days away, so she was first. Jonell ended the meeting by ceremoniously clasping the diamonds around Patti’s neck.

  “Don’t lose it because it’s not insured yet,” she said. “And have fun with it.”

  Patti wore the fifteen-thousand-dollar necklace to bed that night. But she didn’t sleep well. She woke up twice feeling panicky. Each time, she touched the necklace to make sure it still circled her neck, that it was in one piece, that nothing was broken. This was the first time since she was thirteen and filched her older sister’s gold char
m bracelet that she’d worn something that didn’t belong just to her. The next morning she felt better, no longer afraid for the safety of the necklace. Still, she fretted over how to put into words what this experience was about. Even if she didn’t know exactly what to say, she figured she could look good saying it. She’d select her clothes carefully, choose colors and styles that would complement the diamonds. That’d be the easy part.

  PATTI CHANNER GREW UP the youngest of six in Malverne, New York, a small bedroom community on Long Island. Her mother was a fashion aficionado who each season took her daughters on daylong shopping expeditions to the Garment District in Manhattan. First stop: a toss-up between Saks and Bergdorf’s. At those tony stores Patti’s mother studied the high-end styles. Then she’d take her caravan to Klein’s on Fourteenth Street, the Loehmann’s of that era. She knew just what to buy. She’d rummage through the piles of discounted designer threads, zip, zip, zip, and head back home with the right stuff. Whether by osmosis, training, or something in her DNA, Patti developed an eye for fashion and an instinct for the deal.

  By accounts of all four daughters, their mother was a stunner, a stately woman who could wear those designer clothes with élan. She pulled her golden red hair back in a French twist, kept her beautiful nails manicured, and always bejeweled her ears and hands. She was known for her distinctive taste and for dressing her girls in style. She taught Patti and her sisters to take pride in their appearance, and she believed that clothes reveal personality. When Patti started dating, her mother instructed her: “Always look at a man’s shoes.” When the family moved to the West Coast, Ventura was the thrift capital of Southern California and Patti’s mother was Queen of the Thrift Shop. Patti never forgot finding a chandelier for four hundred dollars exactly like one her mother had bought for five dollars.