That winter, after Betse and I discovered we were infertile, I became fascinated by pearls. My passion for them resembled an addiction, though I hesitate to call it that. There was a ritual aspect to it, a heady anticipation, an urgency I didn’t always understand.
Once, when we were driving in another city, I shouted for Betse to stop the car, then hopped out and told her that I would rejoin her in an hour. Like a junkie on his way to meet his connection, I didn’t tell her where I was going: to a jewelry store I’d just spotted.
