“Just when I’m working.” I sighed. “It’s like my feet are molded to their shape.”
Robin snorted delicately. “Like a geisha, only not.”
“Sad but true.” I turned off the light. “But for Abraham, I’ll bite the bullet and wear heels.”
“Don’t worry; you look great,” she said over her shoulder. “He’s just going to die when he sees you.”
Chapter 2
If I hadn’t already decided by the age of eight to work with books, my first visit to the Covington Library would’ve sealed the deal.
The stately Italianate mansion with its museum and lovely gardens dominated two square blocks at the top of Pacific Heights. Walking through the immense iron doors of the Covington was like entering a Gothic cathedral. You could almost hear the secrets of the universe being whispered by the spirits that inhabited the massive, mahogany-lined room and all the books that sat within its walls.
There was magic here. Whether or not anyone walking inside would admit to a belief in the sacredness of the room, they would instinctively speak in hushed tones as they wound their way through the various rooms and exhibits.
The Covington Library collection was one of the largest and finest in the world. It boasted twelve of Shakespeare’s folios on permanent display, as well as Walt Whitman’s letters and one of the first Gutenberg Bibles. There were shimmering illuminations painted by medieval monks, sixteenth-century correspondence between Queen Elizabeth I and the third earl of Covington, and printed accounts of explorers from Christopher Columbus onward.
Those items shared space with rare first editions of works by Mary Shelley, Hans Christian Andersen, Agatha Christie and Henry David Thoreau. Faulkner, Hemingway and Kingsley Amis shared space with John Lennon’s drawings, Stephen King’s rejection letters, Kurt Cobain’s diaries and an amazing collection of vintage baseball cards. The Covington collection was diverse and often quirky to say the least. To me, that was a major part of its appeal.
After a rollicking ride through the City, Robin dropped me off out front, then drove away to find a safe parking place for her beloved Porsche Speedster. I didn’t bother to wait for her because I knew she’d take her time and make a grand entrance. I just wanted to get inside and see Abraham and the books.
I made my way through the crowd of well-dressed, chatty people gathered in the wide, marble-floored foyer, finally breaking through to the main exhibit room, where I almost slammed right into Abraham.
His eyes widened when he realized it was me. “Punkin Pie!” He grabbed me in a bear hug so tight I almost passed out, but at least he seemed happy to see me. “I’m so glad you made it.”
“Me, too,” I said, gasping for air. The man was bigger than a bull and twice as genteel. Tonight he wore a subdued dark suit that couldn’t begin to tame the wild man within-or the unruly mop of hair that grew in a thick black mass of curls. My father always said Abraham’s hair should have its own zip code.
Abraham was a force of nature, occasionally blustering, sometimes destructive, always stubborn and brilliant. He smelled of musty books and peppermint tea, and I clung to him for an extra moment just to enjoy his scent.
I’d missed him, loved him like a favorite uncle. This was the first time I’d seen him since severing our business relationship, but he was acting as if we’d never been apart. It was a little weird, but I was happy.
With his arm still around my shoulder, he waved madly to a woman standing a few feet away. My entire body shook as he cried out, “Doris, come meet Punkin-er, Brooklyn!”
A petite, frail woman in a black and gold Chanel suit waved back absently before continuing her conversation with the tall, balding man next to her.
“She can do wonders for your career, Punkin,” he whispered loudly.
As we waited for Doris, I had a few more seconds to catch my breath, look around and try to forget that he’d used that horrid childhood nickname of mine three times now. Yes, I’d once had a little obsession with pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving. Hadn’t everyone?
I guess I could forgive him as long as he was about to introduce me to someone who could help my business. That was enough to tell me he’d let go of his anger at my leaving him. Not that I expected him to actually discuss it. Abraham was a male from the old school-strong, silent, occasionally brooding. Except when he was ranting about something. Then he was anything but silent.
Smiling, I gazed up at Abraham. “How have you been?”
“Ah, life is good, Brooklyn,” he said, squeezing me again briefly. “I didn’t think it could get any better, but it can.”