When news surfaced that the man with the golden voice had whispered his last words, the local media contacted my parents. Vince Esposito, my father, had been Frank Sinatra’s sound consultant. I can still hear my mother’s voice quivering that mid-May 1998 when she called: “Frank is gone. Daddy is beside himself. The TV stations are calling us. You need to come home. And be sure to wear your engagement ring. I already told them the story.”
What came to be called “the story” was played out in New York where I had been living. My father was there for a rehearsal with Ol’ Blue Eyes. I stopped by to say hello to them on the way to meet my fiancé to pick out an engagement ring.
At the studio I gave the guard my name and explained why I was there unexpectedly. He motioned to a member of Frank’s team who stage-whispered: “Hey Vince, some doll claiming to be your daughter is here.”
Within minutes Jilly Rizzo appeared and, in his familiar body-guard monotone voice said, “She is his kid. Now show some manners.”
It was a brief visit with my dad, Frank and Jilly. But when I said I was off to Tiffany’s, Jilly and Frank exchanged a glance. Then Jilly handed me an address and said, “Go upstairs. Knock twice. Wait. Knock twice again. He’ll be expecting you.”
I called my beau who grumbled that Harvard MBAs do not shop in the jewelry district. But he relented. Once inside the man said nothing. He simply opened a black velvet pouch of rock garden-size diamonds and poured them onto a velvet tray. I shook my head, “Too big.” The jeweler turned and went to a black wall phone. We heard him say, “Jilly, she doesn’t want them.”
He returned to the counter and took out a pouch of smaller diamonds. Again I shook my head, but this time I asked to see rubies. He brought us to another room and rested a tray of red gems on the case. “That’s the one, the ruby set in platinum circled by diamond chips,” I gushed.
Anxious to leave, my beau took out his checkbook. The jeweler went to another wall phone and raising his voice said, “Get, Jilly. What she wants is a kids’ ring.” After a few minutes he turned to us saying, “OK, it’s yours. And as for your check, no money changes hands here.”
My beau in his three piece pin-stripped suit stiffened. “The Watsons always pay; this is a purchase.”
I pleaded, “Please, a price.”
“Sure. Six-five-zero.” The check was written. The ring was placed on my finger. The two men nodded. We turned to leave.
With the jeweler behind us, we walked toward the door. I glanced back for a split second and saw the expressionless man tearing up the check. Then raising his right arm above his head, he flicked his wrist, opened his hand, and confetti floated all around me. Suddenly, I felt like a bride.
Rita Watson is an All About You relationship columnist.
Providence Journal link: Rita Watson: A sentimental wedding present …
Copyright 2014 Rita Watson