Paul Emerson stepped under the warm light of a chandelier hanging in Emerson & Farrar, his jewelry shop in downtown Redlands. His tie was dimpled, his linen shirt smartly starched. "I just got this in last week," he said.
He held out a pair of forceps; between its prongs was a 4-carat diamond. He's asking a quarter of a million dollars, and figures it'll move in a couple of weeks. This is his stock in trade -- jewelry known in the industry as "one of ones," meaning they can never be replicated. Life, he offered, "is grand."
Yes, gross sales are down a bit. There are fewer customers buying $300 earrings, he said, "but the same number spending $20,000 or $30,000 on a ring."
"I just don't think the economy in Redlands is as bad as it is in the rest of the world," he said.
Indeed, much of the money here is the old kind, dating back to the rails and oil, to the citrus groves, to families from Chicago and New York who turned Redlands into their playground 125 years ago, who used "winter" as a verb.
But behind a veneer of diamonds and impeccably preserved mansions with French mansard-roofed towers, Redlands is suffering a crisis of confidence and identity.
Redlands, 65 miles east of Los Angeles, has long served as home to the Inland Empire's aristocracy -- "Beverly Hills before there was Beverly Hills," said Rosemary Herendeen, 70, a retired educator, relaxing outside her 108-year old Victorian home.
The result is a dynamic hive of culture, particularly for a town of just 71,000 people. Redlands has its own symphony, the 101-year-old University of Redlands and the 85-year-old Redlands Bowl, where free performances often begin with a "community sing." Theater and philanthropy thrive.
"So many treasures," said Herendeen, whose home is known to Redlands' architecture buffs as the "Cinderella House" because of its vivid colors.
But by the time City Manager N. Enrique Martinez took office in the spring of 2007, the city's sheen seemed to be fading.
Redlands had operated in the red for five years. Streets weren't getting repaved. Palm trees lining proud boulevards needed a haircut.
"It was the equivalent of leaving out the Christmas lights all year long," Martinez said. "The city didn't have the curb appeal that it once did."
