
Judy sat back and scanned her office in the back room of the bookstore. The desk
lamp alone didn’t do the job. Far too many shadows hovered just outside the lighted
area to fit into her comfort zone.
“I’ve got to put a real light back here,” she said to the empty room, happy for even
the sound of her own voice.
She stole a glance at the dark window with its artificial holly wreath. Locked.
Of course it was locked. She’d double-checked the locks on the front door and all the
windows as soon as she had closed the bookstore. That was an hour ago. She’d checked
twice more since.
The robbery had taught her to do that. Three weeks later and she still jerked at the
slightest sound. Some way to get into the Christmas spirit!
Sweaty from unpacking used paperbacks, she pushed clingy tendrils of damp hair
away from her forehead. December or not, this was San Diego, and her little shop didn’t
have air conditioning. Time to knock off work for the night and retreat to her apartment
on the second floor. Her sister was supposed to come over in the morning and help her
with the latest batch of estate-sale boxes anyway.
She stretched her T-shirt away from her damp breasts and wished she had the nerve
to open the window beside her for a breeze. The outside temperature dropped to
refreshing coolness after dark. But the thug who had threatened her with a knife and
cleaned her out of a full day’s cash remained on the loose. Thank goodness for the
bounty of holiday shoppers.
She stifled the impulse to make another circuit of the doors and downstairs
windows. Instead, she picked up a small rectangular box from today’s mail, bearing her
mother’s return address in Denver. Business stuff got opened immediately; personal
stuff waited ‘til the store closed. Now that the store was closed, she was entitled to a
break from bills and insurance forms. Too many bills. After all her work, the danger of
losing the shop still hadn’t passed. This latest blow just piled the burden higher.
She shook the box. No rattle. “What’s this? Early Christmas present?”
She cut the tape, turned back the lid flaps, and unwrapped the bubble paper,
accidentally pinching one of the bubbles. Its sharp pop made her jump. Trembling, she
breathed slowly until her heartbeat steadied. Peeking into the box, she found an
old-fashioned oil lamp, its glass discolored from apparent decades of use. Tucked next
to it was a folded piece of paper. The note read, “Dear Judy: This belonged to Aunt
Marta. Before she died, she said you should have it. Something about how you needed
it, because you’re the only single woman left in the family. Who knows what she meant
by that (ha, ha)? She always was a character. So—Merry Christmas. See you soon. Love,
Mom.”
Judy lifted the lamp out of its box. The base felt too heavy for brass—bronze,
maybe?
She ran her fingertips over the smooth curve of the chimney. It looked like an
antique, probably brought from the old country. Old enough to be worth money? Could
she sell it for enough to cover one of those pesky bills?
Marta, her mother’s aunt who’d died recently at the age of ninety-nine, had
emigrated from Eastern Europe as a girl. Judy remembered her only as a tall, slim