Adrienne Rubin - Diamonds and Scoundrels: My Life in the Jewelry Business

DIAMONDS AND
SCOUNDRELS

Copyright 2019 by Adrienne Rubin

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

Published September 2019
Print ISBN: 978-1-63152-513-1
E-ISBN: 978-1-63152-514-8
Library of Congress Control Number: 2019940716

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She Writes Press
1569 Solano Ave #546
Berkeley, CA 94707

Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

Credit: 2019 Estate of Pablo Picasso / Artists Rights Society (ARS), New York
Weeping Woman
Crying Woman
Portrait of Dora Maar
Portrait of Dora Maar
Dora Maar Seated in a Wicker Chair, 1938
The Yellow Sweater
Portrait of Dora Maar

Names and identifying characteristics have been changed to protect the privacy of certain individuals.

For my father, a man of integrity, who always had my back. For Stan, my staunch supporter and the love of my life.
For Pam and Randall, my pride and joy.
For Galit and Loren, with great appreciation. For Adam, Oren, and Ryanmy legacy.

By Edgar Albert Guest

Somebody said that it couldnt be done

But he with a chuckle replied

That maybe it couldnt, but he would be one

Who wouldnt say so till hed tried.

So he buckled right in with the trace of a grin

On his face. If he worried he hit it.

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

That couldnt be done, and he did it!

Somebody scoffed: Oh, youll never do that;

At least no one ever has done it;

But he took off his coat and he took off his hat

And the first thing we knew hed begun it.

With a lift of his chin and a bit of a grin,

Without any doubting or quiddit,

He started to sing as he tackled the thing

That couldnt be done, and he did it.

There are thousands to tell you it cannot be done,

There are thousands to prophesy failure,

There are thousands to point out to you one by one,

The dangers that wait to assail you.

But just buckle in with a bit of a grin,

Just take off your coat and go to it;

Just start in to sing as you tackle the thing

That cannot be done, and youll do it.

T hirty-four years old, and what am I doing with my life? Eight-year-old Pamela and five-year-old Randall were in school most of the day, and we were living the privileged life in a lovely home with a full-time, Spanish-speaking housekeeper. Stan made good money, allowing me the freedom to play cards and tennis, study piano, learn to cook well, and have lunch with friends, so what could possibly have been missing? I needed more. More meaning, I suppose. (My carefree life was becoming dull? How dare I say that?) I had too much energy. What about my expensive college education? What use could I make of that now? Did I have a purpose here on earth? How could I make my mark in this world?

I was, quite frankly, just a lucky chief cook and bottle washer, chauffeur, social planner, wife, and mother with a loving husband who paid the bills for our happy family of four in west LA. My diploma from UCLA had been filed away long ago, along with my old teaching credential from the 1970s, when women went to college to find a husband and become a teacher or social worker or some such thing. A homemaker now, I was way too busy for a full-time job teaching or doing anything else. I did miss teaching though, having enjoyed it until our second child was born, so when Pam and Randy started school, I began substituting a couple days a week and actually looked forward to those morning phone calls when a French or English teacher was sick, and they needed me to replace her at a nearby high school.

Then one day everything was different.

I answered the phone at 7:00 a.m. and was told the science teacher was ill. It wasnt at one of the LA Unified City Schools, but at a private school for girls in the wealthy area of Holmby Hills.

We know its not your subject, but could you please substitute for the botany teacher today?

Botany, not French?

Reluctantly, I agreed. The students were all teenagers, college bound and conscientious. I arrived that morning to learn the lesson at hand concerned the anatomy of flowers. The problem was I couldnt tell a pistil from a stamen, let alone what they were for, and the girls knew it. They were eager to learn from me, and I wasnt up to the job. She doesnt know the answers, they said. Frustrated, I couldnt wait to get home at 3:00 p.m. Did I really miss teaching that much to continue like this? My husband Stan was a well-paid lawyer in a great law firm in Century City. As I was pulling in my driveway, I tried to justify my earnings: $46 in for the day, $6 out for the run in my stockings, $5 for lunch, something for gas, and taxes to pay. I could hear the country western music that wafted through the window from the radio of the young man painting our house inside. He earned $12 an hour, and I was the one with the college education. How did this make any sense?

Longing to make my days useful, I tried charity work. My friend Joan had just lost her baby girl to cancer, so a group of us formed a new cancer fund for children. We became a strong organization, bringing in large donations every year at our charity ball. We also opened a childrens store when a benefactor offered us free rent. We published cookbooks to raise additional funds, and as chair of the Cookbook Committee, I held a place on the board of directors. My committee and I tested recipes, created two cookbooks, and sold a lot of them. It felt good, very good in fact, until the day we lost the support of a major family foundation when Julie, our board treasurer, resigned. Her family was famous for their cosmetics, which were sold in every drug store throughout the world. They were big donors. I called Julie to ask what happened.

Julie, youve been so dedicated, and your family is so important to us. What will we do without you? Why are you leaving us?

I got the Cancer Fund bank statement. Julies voice was trembling with emotion. And I was shocked to see that more than $50,000 had been withdrawn. No one told me. I thought it was a mistake. I was pretty upset and called Joan, since her husband and I are the only signers on the account. You cant just take that kind of money without a reason, and certainly not without a meeting and a vote from the board. It was a simple question. Joan started yelling at me because she thought I was accusing her husband of stealing it. We got into a huge fight. Im treasurer. Im responsible. I was concerned, not accusing. She took it the wrong way. It turns out her husband used the money for the Cancer Fund gift shop for fixtures or something.

He took Cancer Fund money and spent it on the store?

Yes, but you cant do that. He cant do that. Not without board approval. I got so mad, and the more Joan said he was authorized to take money for the store, the angrier I got. I couldnt get through to her, so I resigned. I know the next board meeting is at your house next Tuesday, but I wont be there. I quit.