but if you don't know the value of your own soul,
it's all foolishness.
—Rumi
I’m an antiquities dealer and collect the artifacts of ancient Egypt.
I live in a Gramercy Park penthouse and keep my most prized treasures in a priceless 19th century French vitrine.
My security measures are extraordinary but not perfect. Despite all my precautions I've had an intruder.
It seems even a state of the art alarm security system can't detect a spirit.
But, perhaps, I’m getting ahead of myself—maybe I should give an account of exactly what happened and let you be the judge.
“You have some exquisite pieces here, Marcus—I envy you.”
Jerrod Mason, the Curator of Antiquities for the Smithsonian, was admiring my collection.
“I take that as high praise coming from you, my friend.”
We were sitting in my front room sipping Shiraz and regaling each other with tales that only an archeologist and a collector of ancient treasures would enjoy.
“That wesekh would only befit a woman the status of Nefertiti.”
He was alluding to the gold collar often associated with Egyptian queens, composed of gold cylinders and precious stones strung in horizontal layers around a central choker. It would certainly grace the neck of the beautiful wife of Pharaoh Akhenaton.
It is a stunning piece of workmanship,” I agreed.
He stood up and walked over to the vitrine and gazed in awe at the contents.
“Do you have any idea concerning the provenance of these finds? They all seem to be similar as if owned by the same woman—You have necklaces, anklets, bracelets, mirrors, make-up pots—surely the accouterments of a woman of high status.”
“Undoubtedly. Whoever she was, she was a woman of means and high estate.”
Jerrod shook his head sadly, “Vanity, vanity,” he whispered, “thy name is woman.”
I smiled ruefully, “Well, being a bachelor, and a recluse, I wouldn’t know.”
He looked bemused.
“That’s a very telling statement, Marcus. I often wondered how you managed to enter your forties as a bachelor—and now, I think I have my answer.”
I smirked, “I sense a tease here.”
Jerrod, however, was not teasing—in fact, he seemed quite in earnest.
“No, really Old Man, a number of us have been concerned about you. Don’t you think it’s time you settled down?”
I dismissed the notion with a wave of my wine glass.
“You married fellows enjoy your settled life so much—it must grieve you to see one of your companions free.”
Jerrod wasn’t humoring me. “No, seriously, Marcus—maybe it’s time for you to consider taking a wife.”
“What?” I retorted, “and ruin a good thing? Not a chance.”
He gave me a wry smile. “Well, can’t blame a fellow for asking.” He reached for his coat, “and now I must wend my way home to Gloria and leave you to Nefertiti and her jewels.”
“Say hello to your lovely wife,” I said at the door, “and tell her not to worry about me. I’ll survive.”
He colored slightly, embarrassed I saw through his ruse—but then, brightened, “I told her you were fine. Now I’ve fulfilled my duty.”
“Amen,” I said sketching a mock bow.
He chuckled in grudging admiration and then was gone—off into the night, home to his winsome wife, leaving me alone to finish the Shiraz and gaze at my lovely treasures.
He had his wife—and I the freedom of my life. The cost of doing business, I sighed to myself.
Little did I know I’d soon be enthralled with a woman I had no right to know , let alone desire, and yet, she could lay claim to my treasures and my heart.