The Treasure Box Read Free Page A

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.
    â€œTake 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?”
    â€œElaboration,” 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.
    â€œAh,” he sighed wistfully as she set the box down in front of him, “the Enchanted Treasure Box.”
    â€œI 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.
    â€œIt’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.”
    â€œIt’s the right size for CDs and computer disks,” she said. “How much?”
    Hap thought for a minute. “For you, Vita? A dollar.”
    â€œA dollar?” she repeated.
    â€œToo 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—”
    She turned and looked over her shoulder.
    â€œOld man?” Hap peered toward the back of the shop. “I didn’t see anybody come in. I was in the back for a few minutes, but I would have heard the bell—”
    â€œNever mind.” Vita shook her head. “It doesn’t matter.”
    â€œA box like this has held generations of memories, a hundred years of love,” Hap went on. He raised his eyebrows, and his face took on a faraway expression. “Don’t you find it a little mysterious and compelling? Who knows what stories this box holds?
    Who knows—”
    â€œWho cares?” Vita thrust a crumpled one-dollar bill in his direction. “Are you going to sell it to me, or aren’t you?”
    â€œOh, I’ll sell it to you, all right,” he said softly. “In fact, I’m delighted to sell it to you. I think you’re just the right person to have it.” He took her dollar, carefully wrapped