She laughed. “We’re going to the library, not sneaking down a dark alley.”
“I know it.” I scowled. Tonight was a private showing of the most important book collection to open at the Covington Library in years. And the man being honored tonight, the man responsible for the restoration of the rare antiquarian books on exhibit, was Abraham Karastovsky, my lifelong teacher and mentor.
And nemesis?
I didn’t know. We hadn’t spoken in six months and I was frankly nervous about seeing him after being estranged for so long.
Six months ago, after years of indecision, I’d finally given Abraham notice that I’d be moving out from under his shadow to start my own business. He hadn’t taken the news well. He’d never been good at accepting change. He was old school, settled in his ways, determined to fight the modern trends in both book restoration and life in general. When I went off to college to study book restoration and conservation, he declared it was a useless waste of time and I’d learn more on the job, working with him.
Despite his gruff ways it had been a difficult decision to leave him, even though I’d essentially been working independently for years. Abraham had been furious and had said some things I hoped he might regret now.
What would happen when we met face-to-face again? Would he treat me like an enemy? Cut me off without a word? Ridicule me in front of friends and colleagues? I was beyond worried. Could anyone blame me for procrastinating?
“He sent you an invitation,” Robin said. “That proves he wants to see you. He’s not the best communicator, but he loves you, Brooklyn. You know that.”
I felt tears spring up and I prayed she was right. It was both comforting and annoying to know she usually was.
We’d been best friends since the age of seven, when my parents joined a spiritual commune up in the wine country north of San Francisco. My mom and dad had dragged me and my five young siblings off to experience the excitement of growing our own vegetables, wearing clothing made of hemp and sharing in the harmony and oneness of nature. I did not go quietly.
When we arrived at the commune, the first person I noticed among the crowd of strangers was a dark-haired girl about my age, defiantly clutching a bald-headed Barbie doll clad in a red satin dress and black stiletto heels. That was Robin. We bonded immediately, despite the fact that we were opposites in so many ways.
These days Robin comes across as a glamorous, carefree society girl. You’d never guess she runs her own tour and travel business and is also a brilliant sculptor. She is a curvy brunette with almond eyes and an uncanny ability to cause men to wander off side-walks into oncoming traffic.
I, on the other hand, am serious, blond, tall, still barely out of my gangly stage and occasionally have men ask me about my revolutionary technique for stretching leather. Sounds kinky but sadly, it’s not.
I was wearing a somber yet elegant black suit while Robin looked simply smashing, all dressed up for a splashy art opening in a sassy cocktail dress and spiky black heels, her only accessory a classic strand of pearls she’d inherited from her great-grandmother.
Unfortunately, we weren’t going to a splashy art opening.
“Why are you so dressed up?” I asked, carefully removing my dust-covered lab coat. Tonight’s private showing for the Covington Library Founders’ Circle would be a quiet affair attended by the library trustees, past and present donors, the board of directors and the wealthiest members of San Francisco society.
“Hey, there may be nothing but wall-to-wall old farts tonight, but I’m still there to par-tay.”
“Ah.” I hung the lab coat up in the small closet near the front door. “I thought maybe you’d forgotten where we’re going.”
“How could I forget?” she said, steering clear of the table, which was covered with brittle hunks of leather and swollen manuscript pages. “Abraham called me again this afternoon to make sure I was coming tonight. He was almost hyperventilating, he was so excited.”
“He’s been calling you?” I felt a tug of resentment that Abraham had contacted her. But why wouldn’t he? He’d been a commune member as long as Robin and I had lived there. We were all very close, but I’d always been his favorite. Now I didn’t know what I was to him.
“He never used to call me,” Robin pointed out. “I figure it’s his way of keeping tabs on you.”
“Maybe.”
“And he never asks directly about you, but I always end up talking more about you than me. Go figure.”
I refused to get my hopes up. “So, he’s anxious about tonight?”
“Frantic would be a more accurate word,” she said, as she sat down at my desk. “I guess one of the most important books in the show isn’t finished yet.”
“The Faust,” I murmured. It was all I could do to keep the woefully bitter jealousy that was yapping inside me from creeping into my voice. “I hear it’s really something.”