In her studio, Gemma had a workbench, torches, metal shears, pickle pots, jewelry wire, and every imaginable sort of hammer and pliers. It also served as a showroom/pop-up store since she couldn’t afford a storefront. But she had to be careful not to use her apartment for selling jewelry too often since it violated the terms of her lease.

Sure, she could probably sell all her merchandise online. But in-person contact with customers was valuable. By talking to them about her pieces she made personal connections that created brand loyalty. And seeing their reactions gave her feedback that she used to improve every new collection. As much as she recognized social media as a valuable tool, she knew she couldn’t rely solely on it. If the best jewelry really was personal, she had to be personal.

After setting out the rings in clear plastic trays, she placed pieces from her Old New York collection on tables the way they had been displayed at the showcase. In addition to her Casterbridge letters, she had charms made from vintage subway tokens she’d found at a flea market on Elizabeth Street.

A buzz from the street-level intercom came ten minutes before the official eight p.m. start time, and she decided to let them wait. She needed to keep things somewhat organized.

Someone knocked on her door. She jumped up from her workbench and looked out the peephole.

Oh, no.

“Open this door right now!” It was her upstairs neighbor, an older woman named Evelyn Woods, who wore floral housedresses from the 1950s and whose sparse, bleached blond hair had lately taken on an unintended lavender hue. “I know you’re in there and I’ll call the landlord.”

It wasn’t an empty threat. Evelyn had already called the management company on her several times. Gemma had the strongly worded letters from her landlord to prove it.

Gemma opened the door. “Hi, Mrs. Woods. There’s no one in here . . . see?”

“No one’s in here because they’re all outside blocking the entrance! I just came back from Gristedes and there’s a line down the block. You’re a security hazard to this building. Letting all sorts of riffraff in here day and night . . .”

Gemma wanted to tell her that the “riffraff” were people simply buying jewelry—it wasn’t as if she was hosting a rave.

“It’s my college graduation, Mrs. Woods. I’m just getting together with a few friends.”

The woman narrowed her eyes. “If you let all those people into this building, you’re going to have a big problem. Am I making myself clear?”

“Very clear,” Gemma said, just wanting her to leave so she could start letting people in. It was eight and the clock was ticking.