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Santiago Sol

By Niki Turner

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Tansy Chastain cradled the elderly woman’s frail hand in her own and waited for the raspy cough to subside. The skin under Tansy’s fingertips was as thin and fragile as the pages of a well-loved Bible, a painful reminder that her friend’s body was wearing out cell by cell. When the woman’s breathing eased again, Tansy reached for the button to call a hospice volunteer, but the sudden strength in Eva’s grasp stopped her.
“What is it, Eva?” Tansy met the woman’s eyes, faded to the color of dust.
“There’s a trunk in the attic. The key is taped to the inside of my jewelry box, under the lining.”
Tansy pursed her lips, more concerned about Eva than the long-forgotten object the woman had rambled about all morning. It wasn’t like Eva to be distracted during their interviews. She would talk, tell stories, and point out details she wanted to make sure Tansy included in her memoir, but she never rambled.
Tansy's assignment—writing former missionary Eva St. John’s life story—had become a labor of love, and she cherished the hours they’d spent together. That the woman who had become both friend and spiritual mentor was now declining in health with such speed brought the sting of tears to Tansy’s eyes. She blinked them back. “I can pack it up and ship it for you.”
“No. It has to be delivered—” Eva started to cough again.
Tansy reached for a tumbler of water on the bedside table and held the straw to Eva’s lips until she was able to take a sip.
“It must be delivered to the patriarch of the Sandoval family.” The old woman squinted at Tansy. “No one else can know you have it. No one.”
“But Miss Eva, if it’s a family heirloom, surely anyone in the family would be happy to receive it back into their care.”
“It’s more than an heirloom.” Breath rattled out of the woman’s lungs. “It’s stolen property. I wouldn’t ask this of you, dear Tansy, and I understand if you feel you have to refuse, but I’m hoping you won’t. There is no one else to whom I can turn.”
Tansy inhaled. Underlying the sweet scent of the potpourri placed in every room at the hospice was the sharp antiseptic tang of professional medical care, a reminder that Eva’s time on earth was coming to a close.
The recent transfer to the hospice was surely to blame for the old woman’s anxiety. She had never seemed so insistent. Tansy stroked the old woman’s arm until Eva relaxed again.
Eva’s withered eyelids flickered shut, then opened again. “If it ends up in the wrong hands my family’s sacrifices will have been in vain, and you and those who should rightfully have it will be in terrible danger.”
Tansy grimaced. Traveling halfway around the world to return stolen property to a complete stranger was several thousand degrees outside her comfort zone. She rarely left town, much less hopped flights to the southern hemisphere to plunge headlong into a decades-old family battleground.

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