After that we had a nice time chasing bees. There was also a Cape honeysuckle scrambling over one of the garden walls, and for a while we watched with rapt attention as a pair of tiny ruby-throated hummingbirds pirouetted around its neon-orange blossoms. It was better than a movie.
I left Barney stretched out on his side, his arms and legs all akimbo in a square of sunlight by the folding glass doors in the living room. I gave him a kiss on the nose and told him what Lizette’s note had said—that she’d be back this afternoon to hang out with him. I knew he hadn’t seen it because he’s not allowed on the countertops.
In the foyer, I leaned against the wall and tried to call Mrs. Keller again, but to no avail. I figured I’d just keep trying for the rest of the day until I got her, so I grabbed my backpack and was almost out the door when I remembered: my meeting with the gallery owner was at three o’clock, and since I didn’t think I’d be back before then, I wanted to take Mrs. Keller’s package with me.
I knelt down next to the bench and pulled it out, and then when I was reaching for the doorknob I felt a tingle of excitement, like a tiny army of ants racing up the back of my neck.
“No,” I whispered out loud. “You can’t.”
I paused and looked down. It was a brown cardboard box, roughly ten inches square, sealed with clear wrapping tape and several red FRAGILE stickers. It was addressed to Paxton Fine Art & Antiques in Mrs. Keller’s curly handwriting. I weighed it in my hands and jiggled it slightly. There was something heavy inside.
Well, I thought, you’ve finally gone right off the deep end.
With one quick swipe, I ran my fingernail along the taped edge where the flaps met at the top, and it popped open like a jack-in-the-box.
21
When we were little, Michael and I would wake up around four a.m. on Christmas morning, our alarms set to “sneak mode”—a special feature of any child’s internal clock—and tiptoe downstairs to inspect all the goods our grandparents had laid out under the tree after we’d gone to bed the night before. I remembered on at least two different occasions Michael went into the kitchen and came back with a spool of wrapping tape and a sharp kitchen knife—a definite violation of my grandmother’s strict kitchen rules.
I can still feel the terrible thrill of it. He would already have selected the best present, either the biggest or the heaviest, and with the calm dexterity of a gourmet chef he’d set upon it with confident ease, skillfully carving his way in, taking extra care not to cause any irreparable damage.
I, on the other hand, followed the rules. I never said a word in protest, though, and I never ratted him out. I just sat there and watched, part appalled, part delighted, while he inspected whatever gift was inside and then expertly wrapped it back up good as new. Then he’d put it back in its place under the tree and we’d slink back upstairs to lie in our beds for a few more restless hours.
Not once did it ever occur to me that I could easily have done the same thing with one of my presents, and strangely enough, I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to spoil the surprise. When Michael and I finally did come downstairs, sleepy-eyed and innocent as can be, that look of delight on my grandparents’ faces was well worth the wait. It’s still one of my most treasured memories.
Now, sitting there on the bench just inside the Kellers’ front door with Mrs. Keller’s package sitting on my lap, I was reminded of that rush of guilty excitement. I also wondered if I might need to call Michael for a little help wrapping it back up.
The box was packed with soft, crumpled tissue paper printed with red and black block-cut shapes, sort of like stylized cave drawings. As gently as possible, I removed some of the tissue from the top and laid it on the bench next to me. Underneath was a shiny silver dome that at first appeared to be some kind of mirror, but after I removed more of the surrounding tissue I realized it was the lid to a squat, glazed clay jar about the size of a cocoa tin and held in place with a piece of thin red twine.
“Dammit,” I whispered as I pulled it out of the box and turned it on its side.
It was heavy, probably about ten pounds or so. I removed the twine and lifted the lid, and inside was nothing but sand—except it was bright yellow. The same bright yellow, in fact, as the cornmeal that Barney had found in the garden.
I whispered under my breath. “No way…”
As eccentric as Mrs. Keller was, I seriously doubted she would ever have paid, as she put it, a “small fortune” for a jar of cornmeal. It had to be something else. I don’t know what frankincense looks like, or myrrh, for that matter, but I figured it had to be something like that, or some kind of ancient incense … maybe Cleopatra’s eye shadow? Nefertiti’s talcum powder?
I shook my head as I tied the lid back down and lowered the jar into the box with a sigh. It didn’t much matter anymore, because one thing was certain—it wasn’t a stone statue. I looked up to find Barney Feldman sitting like a sphinx in the doorway to the hall and watching me with his eyes narrowed to tiny accusing slits.
I said, “It’s not what it looks like.”
I doubt he believed me, and I couldn’t blame him. It was exactly what it looked like: I had opened Mrs. Keller’s package and snooped through it. I’d been so certain there was a statue inside. For a split second, I imagined Lizette opening the front door and finding me sitting there like a common thief. I imagined her saying she’d have to report my illicit activities to the Kellers … and then I stopped myself.
At that very moment, I realized it was high time I gave myself a good talking-to.
As quickly as possible, I stuffed the tissue paper back in, muttering under my breath the whole time. “Are you out of your cotton-picking mind? This is the about the silliest thing you’ve ever done in your entire life. Seriously? You’re sneaking around in people’s houses opening up their things?”
Myself replied, “What was I supposed to do? I needed to know what was inside.”
I stood up and marched the box into the kitchen. “And now you know. Feel better?”
Myself shook her head. “Not really.”
“Well, let that be a lesson to you.”
I frowned. I had no idea what I meant by that or exactly what lesson I thought I was trying to teach myself. All I knew was that I felt like a complete fool.
I found a roll of tape in one of the kitchen drawers and sealed the box back up, and as I passed back through the living room I noticed Barney had returned to his patch of sunlight and was sound asleep. I didn’t want to wake him up with another kiss good-bye, so instead I gave Dick Cheney a contrite nod as I set the alarm.
Back in the Bronco, I put the package in the passenger seat next to me and announced out loud, “No more.”
I was done trying to figure out what had happened. If I’d found an ancient figurine inside that box, then maybe I would have had a different attitude, but failing that, there was nothing to prove I hadn’t fainted and dreamt the whole thing. I told myself I was lucky I hadn’t gotten through to Mrs. Keller, because if I’d told her my whole cockamamie story she’d think I was nuts.
At the stop sign, I turned right on Calle Florida and took it all the way to Beach Road. Then I headed north along the coast to my next client. Just as I passed the turnoff to Ocean Boulevard, my phone rang and I nearly jumped out of my seat. I didn’t even look at the caller ID before I answered it.
“Mrs. Keller?”
“No, this is Wilfred Paxton. I’m calling for Miss Hemingway.”
He sounded younger than what I would have imagined for a man named Wilfred, and there was a slight British clip to his voice.