“Oh, no!” I closed the book reluctantly. “This is amazing.” Skimming my hand across the aged leather cover, I felt a sense of the author’s trepidation. She didn’t know how to cook! I could relate to that, but not to the fear and awe she must have experienced traveling across the ocean to live and work in a strange land in the middle of a revolution. I couldn’t wait to read more.
And I wondered again how Savannah had come into possession of this odd, intriguing cookbook. On the spot, I decided I would swing by the Covington Library tomorrow and show the book to Ian McCullough, my old friend and the Covington’s chief curator. I so enjoyed making him drool with envy.
“Earth to Brooklyn.”
“What? Oh, sorry.” I set the book on top of the Pucci scarf. “Okay, look, I’ll clean and repair it and I’ll tighten these joints and hinges that have come loose, but I won’t give it a pretty new cover.” I held up my hand to stop her from saying something more snotty than she already had. “It wouldn’t be ethical. This book is bound to be historically significant, which makes it extremely valuable in its present state.”
She made a pouty face, but it was mostly for my benefit. “I suppose you’re right.”
I patted my heart. “Hearing those words? It never gets old.”
“Nobody likes a smart-ass.”
“Look, why don’t I make a pretty leather storage box for it? I can design a matching suede or leather pouch, too, for extra protection. It’ll be cool.”
“Really?” The storm clouds disappeared from her eyes and she relaxed a little. “Okay. Good. But can you make it sort of manly-looking? Nothing frilly.”
“Sure. I’ve got a fabulous piece of dark red leather I can use, and Derek brought me back some amazing endpapers from Brussels. They’re beautiful.”
“How romantic of him.”
“Hey, he knows me.”
She gave me a warm smile. “That’s nice. Really it is.”
“So when do you need it done?” I asked.
“Two weeks from tomorrow.”
I wrapped the book in the scarf and tied the ends protectively. “Who are you giving it to?”
“Do you remember Baxter Cromwell?”
“Of course.” I frowned. “Wait. There’s no way you’re giving this book to Baxter. Why in the world would you do that?”
“Why not?”
It was my turn to roll my eyes. “Because he’s a scumbag jerk?”
Baxter Cromwell was an old friend of Savannah’s from her time in Paris. They had attended Le Cordon Bleu together and they’d dated for a few months. I knew that because I had visited Savannah while she was living in Paris, in a flat with three other students, one of whom was Baxter.
I had begged for a place to stay for two weeks and Savannah had offered to let me sleep on her floor. I had seized the opportunity because even though I would be sleeping on the floor, at least I would be sleeping on the floor in Paris. With the money I saved on a hotel room, I could buy more baguettes, croissants, cheese, wine, and chocolate. It was a no-brainer.
But one night while there, I awoke to find someone crawling into my sleeping bag. He already had his hands on me by the time I started screaming. It was my sister’s so-called boyfriend, Baxter Cromwell. What a pig!
Despite my outrage, Savannah didn’t take Baxter’s betrayal very hard. Oh, there were a few rough days, but she finally brushed it off, admitting that she should’ve expected it. “That’s what I get for hooking up with a charming scoundrel,” she’d said. And yet she had remained a loyal friend to him? It was a mystery to me.
After graduating, Baxter had taken his Le Cordon Bleu education and charmed a few money people into backing him so he could open a small café in London. He parlayed that into a chain of upscale restaurants around the city, quickly gaining a reputation as a raging jackass. No big surprise. But instead of ruining his career, his outlandish personality helped turn him into a reality show star. A female producer for one of the food networks met him and declared his food better than Gordon Ramsay’s—and Baxter was so much cuter! Not a particularly high bar to surpass, according to my best friend, Robin, who was an unabashed reality show junkie.
Over the next few years, in addition to the television shows, Baxter worked relentlessly to expand his restaurant empire, opening new bistros and grand food palaces all over the world. Now the aforementioned scumbag was a household name. It wasn’t fair.
I looked at Savannah curiously. “Are you traveling to London to see him?”
“No, he’s coming here. He’s opening up a place in the Mission District.”