Love Is Pink!

“Then I can’t do anything. I’m not about to burn my fingers on hot merchandise.”


I didn’t deign to respond; I just picked up my Cartier and headed for the door.

“That lady is mean,” Emma said to me. “I don’t like her.”

Just as we were about to step outside, the lady cleared her throat. “There is one possibility,” the pawn dealer said.

I turned.

“I could give you a little money for the watch . . . unofficially. Privately. But it’ll have nothing to do with the shop. And if someone asks about it later, I’ll categorically deny that it ever happened.”

I went back to the counter, set down the Cartier, and waited.

“Four hundred euros,” she said.

I shook my head. “Five hundred. Not a penny less.”

She was poised to answer, but then she looked me in the eyes and just shrugged. She went to the cash register and counted out five hundred euros. I grasped the money, and without looking back once, we left the shop.

“Don’t be sad,” Emma said as we left. “The watch wasn’t even pretty.”

“No?”

“Nope. It looked kind of clunky, didn’t it?”

Outside, it was just beginning to get dark. Baby’s barking echoed above the traffic noise. Loud and piercing. He seemed terribly upset about something. Once we got back to the Citro?n, I realized what was wrong. The trunk was wide open. My two suitcases were gone. Stolen. Only David and Emma’s duffel bag was still there.

I pictured a glamorous young woman in a brand-new Mercedes SLK opening the bags and appraising the stylish, designer clothing.

Oh, well. Merry Christmas, I thought.





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We got in the car and tried to calm Baby down. He was still completely agitated. He kept sniffing the window, snarling, and acting like he wanted to jump out.

“What’s wrong with him?” Emma asked.

I stroked his neck. “Baby is a really cool dog. He immediately knew that the couple with the fancy Mercedes were worthless. As soon as he saw them, he started barking. He tried to warn us. We just didn’t understand him.”

Emma, who was now sitting in the front passenger seat, turned her back to me, lowered her head, and began to tremble. I could hear her soft sobs.

I gently placed my hand on her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

Her crying got louder.

“I’m not angry at Baby,” I said, “if that’s what you’re worried about. He did his job really well.”

“That’s not it,” Emma sputtered in between her sobs.

“What is it, then?”

“Your watch is gone, and now your two suitcases are gone, too, with all your beautiful clothes.”

I laughed. “You shouldn’t worry about that. Those are just things. They can be replaced. I’ve got a ton of clothes at home. Believe me.”

Emma looked at me incredulously. “Really?”

“Really.”

“I thought you were sad.”

I considered this briefly, then shook my head. “No, I’m not. And you know what we’re going to do now?”

“What?” Emma’s eyes looked a bit dull, but she seemed to be regaining her cheerfulness.

I pointed to the intersection. “I saw a square up there, with shops and no cars. What do you say we take Baby? I can’t promise you anything, but maybe we can find a few Christmas stands and buy something nice for you and the dog?” After a second I added, “Maybe we’ll even find something for your papa.”

It was a short walk to the traffic-free area. Baby proved himself to be a proper city dog. He didn’t pull, and he walked obediently. As soon as Emma saw the stands decorated with lights, she was the one doing the pulling, hurrying to get there. They had herbal candies, handmade leather goods, hand-carved figurines, Christmas stuff—everything that was necessary at this time of year.

We found a simple but well-made collar and leash for Baby. Emma got a gigantic cotton candy, and since I couldn’t find the gingerbread cookies I love so much, I bought three oversized Christmas cookies in the shape of a funny man with a smile. They looked like they might also be ginger. I didn’t see anything that seemed quite right for David.

“What could we get for your papa?” I asked Emma.

“Butter cookies,” she said promptly.

We went back to the bake stand. There was a whole section of cookies that looked as though they’d been baked with a lot of butter. The sign next to them included the word beurre.

“Which of the cookies should we buy?” I pointed to the vast assortment.

Emma did not need time to answer. “Those little hearts with pink on top.”

“Pink?” I said. “Wouldn’t streusel or icing be better? Your papa isn’t a girl.”

“But Papa loves pink.”

“Really?”

“Papa always says love is pink.” Emma stressed the last word.

I had to laugh. “No, I’m sure your papa means love is blind.”

Emma stood with both hands on her hips. “Is it your papa or mine? My papa always says love is pink. And since he loves butter cookies, he should get the ones with the pink on them.”





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