The Treasure Box Read Free

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.
    â€œSearching 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