“It was. And I have a surprise for you from my mother.”

“For me?”

“Yes.” She held up one of the bags she’d brought with her. “Do you want to see it?”

“Of course I do.”

“Let’s go to your workroom.”

My curiosity piqued, I picked up our wineglasses and followed her to the front room of my loft, where I did my bookbinding work. We pulled two tall chairs close together and sat at my worktable. Robin turned the shopping bag on its side and slid the contents out onto the surface. It was a worn leather satchel made in the style of a courier bag, with a long, wide shoulder strap, but it had to be decades old.

“It’s… a bag,” I said. “How thoughtful.”

Robin chuckled. “Wait for it. You know my mother. We must build the suspense.”

She unbuckled the satchel and pulled out something wrapped in a wadded old swathe of Indian print material.

“Um, is it a scarf?” I said, touching the pale, woven fabric. Once, it might’ve been dark green with burgundy and orange swirls of paisley, but it was faded now. Colorful beads, tiny brass animals, and chunks of mirrored glass were woven into the fabric and tied into the braided fringe at each end. “Is this really for me?”

“Hell, no.” Robin wrinkled her nose at the matted material. “That’s my mother’s idea of wrapping paper, I guess.”

“Ah.”

“She told me I could keep it and wear it. She just doesn’t get me. Never did.” Resigned, she flicked one of the silvery beads.

“No, she never did.” The threadbare fabric had an ethnic style that was intriguing, but I knew Robin wouldn’t be caught dead in it. I stroked the worn leather of the satchel. “This bag is nice.”

“I suppose it is, if you’re a camel driver.”

I laughed, then fingered the old scarf again. “Maybe Shiva’s been in India a little too long.”

“You think?” She shook her head as she gingerly unwrapped the cloth. “Okay, get ready.” She pulled the last of the fabric away. “This is for you.”