The Treasure Box (2 page)

Fortunately, Vita didn't often have to worry about parking.

Her house was only four blocks from Main, in a sedate, shaded neighborhood just off Church Street. She had purchased the home ten years ago, before real-estate prices had skyrocketed—a small two-story Victorian with a wide front porch, an Italian marble fireplace, and all its woodwork intact and unpainted. And close enough to town that she could walk most anywhere she wanted to go.

Vita was just about to cross Church Street when a pickup truck roared through the light, blaring its horn. She jumped back, her heart hammering, and realized that she had her mind not on traffic but on Mary Kate. And Gordon.

For a minute or two she stood on the corner with her eyes closed, forcing herself to take deep, cleansing breaths. She had to calm down. Obsessing about her sister didn't do her blood pressure any good, and it might kill her cold if she stepped in front of a speeding car.

She waited for the light to turn green, then looked both ways—twice—before jogging across Church Street and up the hill toward Main. She dragged her thoughts away from Mary Kate and forced herself to make a mental “to do” list—get a few groceries, stop by the drugstore, perhaps drop in at Hap Reardon's antique shop to look around. She could get her errands done and be home before the town clock chimed noon, then have a bit of lunch and get back to work.

As she passed the courthouse, a young couple came out the doors and onto the sidewalk, holding hands and smiling at one another. The man held up a marriage license and beamed in Vita's direction. “We're getting married!”

Vita thought about Gordon and raised one eyebrow. “My condolences.”

She walked on without another word, and when she turned her head, she could see out of the corner of her eye the two of them standing there, staring in her direction and whispering.

People always whispered behind their hands when Vita Kirk was around—words like “bitter” and “withdrawn” and sometimes even “crazy.” Vita knew what they said. But she had trained herself not to care. Caring just made a person vulnerable.

It all came down to practicalities, in the end. You could put your hand to the flame and get burned, or you could keep your distance and stay safe. Vita had been burned more than once, and she had learned her lesson: Wrap yourself in enough layers, and you won't freeze to death. But even if you're shivering, stay away from the fire.

True, she felt the chill sometimes, but for the most part she had trained herself to ignore it. She had her books to keep her company and a job that allowed her to explore the world without ever setting foot off her own front porch. Her systematic, orderly existence suited her quite well, thank you very much. It wasn't everything, but it was enough.

For years now Vita had written travel guides for a small publishing company in New York City. Vita wasn't oblivious to the irony—a travel writer who never went anywhere. Still, it was interesting work and it paid the bills, and she learned a lot in the process—information that convinced her, had she needed any persuasion, to stay right where she was. She knew, for example, how many tourists got mugged annually in airports and alleyways and city parks, how many wallets were lifted during tours of cathedrals and shrines and palaces. She had at her fingertips data that would make the most seasoned traveler quake with fear: the percentage of airline pilots and railroad engineers who came to work drunk or hung over; the number of burglaries per day in hotel rooms across America; the statistics on extramarital affairs aboard luxury cruise ships.

If everybody knew what Vita Kirk knew, they'd stay at home, too.

But she had plenty of other reasons to keep to herself—and not just the Gordon-Mary Kate fiasco, either. Other losses, other pains—places in her psyche she'd rather not revisit. Gone, but not forgotten, like a childhood scar that twinges when the seasons turn, like bursitis in the elbow that shoots a spark of pain to signal an approaching storm.

It was better to let the past remain buried, where it belonged.

Hanging around the cemetery only invited the ghosts to come home and take up residence.

The bell over the door jingled as Vita crossed the threshold of Pastimes, the tiny, cramped secondhand store at the south edge of Main Street. Pastimes billed itself as an “Antique Shoppe and Purveyor of Attic Treasures,” but in reality it was more of a junk store, crowded to capacity with mismatched china and crystal, tarnished silver and chipped flower vases, gaudy lamps and discarded furniture.

A year ago, Vita had purchased five place settings of an English china pattern called “Her Majesty's Garden,” and every now and then she dropped in to see if any additional pieces of the pattern had come into the shop. Not that she needed more than that; she never had company to dinner, and she always washed and dried her single plate or bowl before she retired for the night. In truth, one place setting would have been enough for Vita. But she valued symmetry, and five dinner plates in a glass-front china cabinet made for a lopsided display.

“Well, if it isn't Miss Vita Kirk! What might I do for you today?”

Vita turned from the haphazard arrangement of china on a rickety shelf and repressed a frustrated sigh. The last thing she wanted this morning was an extended conversation with Hap Reardon about her “adorable little Victorian cottage” and how some piece of leftover memorabilia that had just come into his shop would be an “absolutely perfect accessory” to her decor.

As Reardon approached, all Vita's natural defenses slammed around her and bolted into place. The man had no boundaries, no concept of personal space. He was forever backing her into a corner, encroaching upon her territory until she would either buy what he suggested out of sheer desperation, or make a panicked exit without having the leisure to look around.

Vita didn't know why she put up with it. The china, she supposed. No place else in town carried antique china settings, and although she might be able to track down the pattern on the Internet, she had better things to do with her time than spend hours on-line in a bidding war with some anonymous competitor who used the handle “eBay Baybee.”

Besides, she occasionally did find genuine treasures in Pastimes, and at bargain prices. When she had first bought her house and was attempting to furnish it, Hap had come up with a fine old claw-foot table just perfect for her dining room. It had been stored in a chicken house and was covered with bird droppings, but a good washing revealed it to be solid oak. She had gotten it for a steal—sixty-five dollars, including Hap's time in loading it into his pickup and delivering it to her front door.

Clearly, he had hoped to be invited in. He had stood there on one foot and then the other, grinning and thrusting his hands in and out of his pockets. At last he had cleared his throat and said, “Well, I guess that'll about do it. Unless you want me to set it up in your dining room. I could do that for you. If you want.” When Vita said nothing, he blathered on, anxious as a seventh grader on his first date. “We could have coffee—or something—if you want, that is. You know, try out the new table, like a—well, like a test drive. See how it works.” Still Vita waited. “Or whatever,” he went on. “You know, if you wanted to—”

When he finally ran out of both words and nerve, Vita gave him a five-dollar tip, sent him on his way, and wrestled the heavy oak table into the house on her own. Three weeks later, when she had found six pressed-back chairs to go with the table, she had brought them home herself, two by two, in the backseat of her ten-year-old Toyota. She wasn't taking any chances that Hap might latch onto the wrong idea.

But no matter how much Vita discouraged Hap Reardon's earnest attentions, he never seemed to get the message. Apparently he did not share the rest of the town's opinion that Miss Vita Kirk was a cynical, bitter woman who had best be left alone. Even outright rudeness didn't seem to dissuade him.

“Searching for china this morning, Vita?” he asked cheerfully, bearing down on her with that infuriating effervescent grin. “Her Majesty's Garden, isn't it? I'm afraid I don't have any more pieces of that particular pattern at the moment, but I've just had a new shipment of—”

Vita whirled on him. “Listen, Hap,” she hissed. “I'm simply looking around, all right? Go on back to your cash register. I'll let you know if I find something.”

The smile never faded. He touched a fingertip to an imaginary hat brim and took a step back. “As you wish, Vita. Call me if I can be of assistance.” He retreated to the high counter to unpack a box of small figurines. But she could feel his gaze still on her, boring into her back as she turned away.

She let out a disgusted snort and moved into an alcove of the store, as far away from him as she could get. Just because they were both middle-aged and alone was no cause for him to take on like a love-struck teenager. Hap Reardon ought to know better, at his age. Or at the very least, he should have sense enough to realize that she was not now, nor ever would be interested. She had made that abundantly clear.

On the wall just above the shelves, a round beveled mirror caught her image and reflected it back to her. Vita inspected the frame for a moment, considering whether it might fit in that empty space above the stair landing, then suddenly realized she was scrutinizing herself. As she peered into the spotted, yellowed glass, the image that stared back at her could have been the portrait of a Victorian woman. A thin, narrow face with high cheekbones and a faint frown line between the brows. Dark hair parted in the center and pulled back rather severely from the face. And a smaller figure in the distance over her shoulder—a round-faced man in a vest and white shirt, with blondish hair and blue eyes.

Hap. Looking up. Watching her from behind.

Vita immediately dropped her gaze and moved to a shelf stacked with small wood and metal boxes. She knew exactly what she wanted—something to store CD programs and computer disks. A place for her research files and software and the disks that held travel books in progress and completed manuscripts. A writer these days might need to be high-tech, but she didn't have to lose her taste in the process. Vita deplored the ugly, brightly-colored plastic things they sold at the discount stores, or the more expensive but equally vulgar cases made from fake wood. It had to be something that was durable and functional but wouldn't offend the eye, preferably an antique that would complement the decor of the house.

The shop's dust filled her nostrils and aggravated her allergies as she examined the small containers, and she silently maligned Hap for never cleaning the place. Then she forgot Hap, forgot the mold and dirt, forgot everything as her eyes lighted on the box.

Ten inches long and six inches wide, the ideal size—just high and deep enough to accommodate a CD in its plastic jewel case.

Made of heavy tin and painted a light sea blue, it was crafted like a small treasure chest, with brass fittings on the corners, brass handles on each side, even a tiny brass keyhole and lock. But the best part about it was that, across the sides and back, an antique map of the world covered the little chest. A travel writer's dream.

The artist had carefully painted in tiny mountain ranges and blue rivers and the islands of the Pacific. There was even a dragon in the waters, reminiscent of the old sailors' maps which warned
There Be Dragons Here
at the point where vast oceans dropped off the precipice of a flat, two-dimensional earth and fell in a roaring cataract into the netherworld.

The box was made to order for an office in a Victorian house.

She retrieved it, holding it gingerly by the brass handles, then stood up to make her way toward the cash register.

When she turned, however, she found herself nose to nose with a tall man, exceedingly old, whose bright brown eyes pierced into hers. He wore a high-necked collarless shirt and waistcoat, a black swallowtail coat, and a silk top hat. If Vita hadn't known for certain that it was the twenty-first century—and Vita knew everything for certain—she would have instantly assumed him to be a nineteenth-century gentleman. In one arthritic hand he carried an ebony cane with a figure of a bird worked in brass on the handle. He lifted the cane and tapped lightly on the top of the box—once, twice, three times.

“Take care,” he warned in a low, whispery voice. “You hold in your hands something more rare and valuable than you can possibly comprehend.”

Vita stared at him. “Do you care to elaborate, or do you merely intend to stand there blocking my way?”

“Elaboration,” the man said, “is unnecessary. Eventually, you will understand.” He gave a slight bow and raised the cane to the brim of his hat, then moved into a side aisle to allow Vita to pass.

Vita resisted the impulse to turn and look back at him as she headed for the counter. The old man gave her the creeps, and she simply wanted to get out of there as quickly as possible.

Hap Reardon, however, seemed determined to waylay her.

“Ah,” he sighed wistfully as she set the box down in front of him, “the Enchanted Treasure Box.”

“I beg your pardon?”

He took a stained rag and wiped off the top of the box. “See?”

Vita looked. Sure enough, across the top of the metal box was painted an embellished baroque scroll, with Gothic lettering that said,
Enchanted Treasure Box.

“It's a Victorian memorabilia box,” Hap explained. “A place to save important things like photographs and poems and”—he gave her a broad wink to go with that ubiquitous smile—“love letters.”

“It's the right size for CDs and computer disks,” she said. “How much?”

Hap thought for a minute. “For you, Vita? A dollar.”

“A dollar?” she repeated.

“Too much?” Hap grinned at her.

Vita hesitated. Rare and valuable, the fellow in the black coat had whispered. Was it possible he was some kind of expert, an antique dealer giving her a tip? “The old man back there said—”