For David, I purchased an eighteenth-century map of ancient Egypt with minutely detailed drawings of temples and palaces along the Nile. I smiled fondly at the depiction of the great Temple of Karnak next to the Winter Palace (our favorite hotel in all of Egypt), where Emerson and I had enjoyed a suite with a balcony overlooking the corniche, and watched the sun set over the Nile. Farther down, the colossal statues of Ramses II, wearing the double crown of Upper and Lower Egypt, guarded the entrance of the complex at Abu Simbel in Nubia. We had regarded it in the golden hues of moonlight.

Shopping for Emerson presented a challenge. He abhorred what he considered to be clutter, which included almost everything that was not of utility at an excavation. I finally chanced upon a compass with a silver case inlaid with mother-of-pearl from the mollusks found in the Blue Nile. The iridescent hues reminded me of his eyes.

I selected a variety of scarves, jewelry, tobacco, and sweets for our staff, who do not celebrate Christian holidays but always enjoy receiving gifts, and was pleased with the delightfully glazed ceramic serving bowl that I found for our dear friends Cyrus and Katherine Vandergelt, who would join us on Christmas Day. This season Cyrus was excavating on the west bank at Luxor, not far from the Valley of the Kings. Katherine was my closest confidante; she had watched over Ramses since his birth and was as bemused as I by his eccentric nature.

I was examining a set of pearl earrings when a British female voice caught my attention. “Are you quite sure this scarab ring is genuine?” she was asking a clerk.

“Very sure, madam.”

“Which is what you would say, even if it had been carved in your back room yesterday,” she replied with a sniff. When she turned away, she saw me and let out a genteel gasp. “Mrs. Emerson, oh dear, please allow me to present myself.” She fumbled through her handbag. “Here is my card.”

“Ermintrude de Vere Smith,” I read aloud, and then frowned. “The name is familiar . . .”

Miss Smith was a lady of middle age; her attempts to conceal this with a profusion of cosmetics gave her a somewhat clownish appearance. The lip rouge extended beyond the natural shape of her mouth, and the red on her cheeks formed perfect circles. Under a bright pink dress, her body was pear-shaped and substantial.

“I am a novelist,” she admitted humbly.

“Yes, I remember now. The Tent of the Sheikh, The Courage of the Sheikh, The Revenge of the Sheikh, and others.” These were among the books Emerson held in contempt, but I found them to be charming (and mindless) escapes into romance, although riddled with misinformation.