We were half an hour early， which was just on time for us. We went up to the door and knocked. No response. I knocked again. This time the door opened a crack. A glum-faced woman looked out at us.“Yes？”
“Sorry， we"re early birds，”I said.“But we"re just on the way to the airport and have only a few minutes to spare.” It wasn"t true， of course， but the airport story never failed to get us first crack at the merchandise， without any competition.
“Could we just have a quick peek？”I asked her.
The woman sighed. “It"s not ready，” she said.“Our helpers haven"t turned up. Not a one.”
“We don"t mind if it"s disorganized，”John said.
Seeing we weren"t going away， the woman pulled the door open. Inside， a man in a brown coat stood looking around in despair. No wonder. The room was in shambles. Unopened cartons littered the floor， alongside piles of many books and clothing. Sculpture， paintings and furniture were pushed into corners. This wasn"t a sale， it was a disaster.
“We don"t know what to do，” said the woman. Her eyes were wet. “We"ve never done a fair before.”
The man came over and held out his hand. “My name"s Glenn，”he said.“I"m the minister here. This is my wife.”He put an arm around her shoulder.“You"re free to look around. Gwen， you"d better go make up a sign canceling the fair.”
John and I looked at each other. We couldn"t just leave. John turned to the couple. “Don"t cancel the fair，” he said.“Just do what we tell you.”
“We"ve got less than half an hour before we"re supposed to open，” said Gwen.
“Then you"d better let us get started，” I said， looking around.
There"s a science to setting up a fair， and after years in the business， John and I were experts. But this was a challenge even for us. John began slicing open cartons. Gwen walked around. “Is there anything we can do？” she asked.
“Have your morning tea，” I answered. “And leave the mess to us.” If Gwen remembered our imaginary trip to the airport， she didn"t say so.
I pulled up my sleeves and started the work. John and I barely spoke — we were so practiced we didn"t need to， especially when we came across two choice pieces. One was a folio of Chinese prints， the other a beautiful vase. John"s eyes met mine and I knew he was thinking the same thing I was： We could just set these off to the side where nobody will see them. But we just couldn"t do it. With one last longing look， I laid the folio out on a table and placed the vase with the other china.
“That"s it，” I said， washing my hands. “Everything"s OK.”
John looked at his watch. “Five minutes to spare！” he exclaimed.“How did we do all this so quickly？”I had no idea.
Glenn and Gwen stared at the displays in silence. Then they looked at us with a mixture of joy， relief and... something else I couldn"t name. Something almost like wonder.
Glenn thanked God for his goodness. Then he thanked him for sending two helpers for the fair. “We"d like you each to have something as a reward for all your hard work，” Glenn said when he was finished.“Please take whatever you"d like. On us.”
He didn"t have to ask twice. Quick as a flash John grabbed the folio of Chinese prints and I snatched up the vase. The door opened and our first customers came in.
John and I drove away with our treasures. “It"s odd，” John admitted.“That was a record breaker. But I don"t feel all that spent.”
“It felt as if time slowed down for us，” I said， trying to make sense of it.“And the way Glenn and Gwen looked at us when we were all done...”
“like we were angels，” John said.
Us？ Angels？ Angels wouldn"t have made a getaway with the little fair"s most valuable merchandise， would they？
The folio prints fetched a good price at our stall the next weekend， but I didn"t get the usual happiness from making a big sale. I looked over at John， who had just sold the vase for even more than we imagined. He didn"t look any happier than I did.
The following day John and I turned some money into an anonymous bank cheque paid to the little country church. The real angels who lived there deserved it. After all， they"d done the lion"s share of the work.
约翰和我看上去似乎就像一对寻常夫妇，在旧货摊上转悠着，但我们其实可是淘宝的专业人士哦——我们知道买到划算东西的所有窍门。所以当我们看到一个乡村小教堂外挂着牌子，写着“卖场！便宜货！今天上午9点开卖！”时，约翰就把车开到了路边。
我们早到了半小时，但对于我们来说却恰是时候。我们走到门前，敲了敲门，没人回答。我又敲了敲门。这一次门开了一个缝。一个愁眉不展的女人从里面看着我们。“有事吗？”
“抱歉，我们来早了，”我说，“但我们正要去机场，只剩下几分钟了。”当然这不是真的，但这个机场的故事向来都能让我们最先看到货物，还不用跟人竞争。
“能让我们扫上一眼吗？”我问她。
那个女人叹了口气。“还没准备好呢，”她说，“给我们帮忙的人还没来，一个都没来。”
“我们不在意会场乱点。”约翰说。
看我们没有离开的意思，女人拉开了门。里面有一个穿着棕色外套的男人，他站在那儿，绝望地环顾四周。怪不得呢，房间里一片混乱。还没打开的纸板箱在地板上乱放着，旁边是成堆的书和衣服。雕塑、油画和家具都被推到了墙角。这哪里是义卖，简直是一场灾难。
“我们不知道该怎么办，”女人说。她的眼里噙着泪花。“我们以前从没卖过东西。”
那个男人走过来伸出手。“我叫格伦，”他说，“我是这里的牧师。这位是我太太。”他用一只胳膊搂住女人的肩膀。“你们可以随便看看。格温，你最好写个通告，就说今天的卖场取消了。”
约翰和我你看着我，我看着你。我们不能就这么走了。约翰转向这对夫妇。“别取消它，”他说。“照我们说的做就可以了。”
“可现在离我们定的开场时间连半小时都没有。”格温说。
“那么你们最好让我们现在就开始。”我说着，四处打量。
开卖场是一门学问，多年的买卖经验让约翰和我都成了专家。但这次对我们来说也是一次挑战。约翰开始切开纸板箱。格温在旁边走来走去。“我们能帮上什么忙吗？”她问。
“喝点早茶，”我回答道，“把这烂摊子交给我们就行了。”不知道格温还记不记得我们虚构的机场之行，就算记得，她也没说什么。
我卷起袖子，开始干活。约翰和我几乎不说话——我们太训练有素了，根本就不需要交流，尤其当我们偶然发现两件精美的物件时。一件是对开本的汉语书，另一件是个漂亮的花瓶。我们对视一眼，我知道他此时的想法和我的一样：我们完全可以把这两件东西放到一边去，让其他人都看不到。但是我们却不能这么做。我渴望地看了它们最后一眼，就把对开本放在桌上，把花瓶与其他瓷器放到了一起。
“就这样了，”我边洗手边说，“一切搞定。”
约翰看了看表。“还有5分钟呢！”他喊着。“我们怎么这么快就干完了？”我也不知道。
格伦和格温默不作声地凝视着摆放好的物品。然后他们看着我们，眼神里透着欣喜和如释重负，还有……一些我说不上来的感觉，一种类似敬畏、惊异的感觉。
格伦感谢了上帝的仁慈，接着他感谢上帝为卖场派来了两个帮手。“我们希望你们每人都拿一件东西，作为对你们辛勤劳动的回报，”格伦做完祷告后说道。“你们喜欢什么就尽管拿吧。算我们的。”
他根本用不着说第二遍。约翰动作快得就像一道闪电，一把抓起对开本的汉语书，而我则一把把那个花瓶抢了过来。门打开了，我们的第一批顾客走了进来。
约翰和我带着我们的宝物驾车离开了。“真奇怪，”约翰承认，“这次真是破纪录了。可我没觉得那么累。”
“我的感觉就好像时间专为我们走慢了，”我说，想理清其中道理。“当我们把东西收拾好的时候，格伦和格温看我们的眼神……”
“就好像我们是天使，”约翰说。
我们？天使？天使是不会在一个小义卖会上拿了最值钱的东西就跑掉，不是吗？
在接下来的周末，在我们的货摊上，对开本的书卖了个好价钱，可我却没从这单大买卖中感觉到以往的快乐。我朝约翰望去，他刚刚卖掉了那个花瓶，而且价钱比我们想象的还要高许多。他看上去也不比我高兴。
第二天，约翰和我把钱换成一张匿名的银行支票汇给了那个小乡村教堂。在那住的真正的天使应该得到这些钱。毕竟，是他们完成了绝大部分的工作。
Mystery of the White Gardenia
神秘的白色栀子花
Every year on my birthday from the time I turned 12， a white gardenia was delivered to my house in Bethesda， MD. No card or note came with it. Calls to the florist were always in vain， it was a cash purchase. After a while I stopped trying to discover the sender"s identity and just delighted in the beauty and heady perfume of that one magical， perfect white flower nestled in soft pink tissue paper.
But I never stopped imagining who the anonymous giver might be. Some of my happiest moments were spent daydreaming about someone wonderful and exciting but too shy or eccentric to make known his or her identity.
