“Really?” I’d never heard my grumpy mentor sound so upbeat. “I’m thrilled for you.”
From somewhere above us, a string quartet began to play a Haydn serenade. I gazed up at the three-story-high coffered ceiling and the delicate wrought-iron balconies of the second and third floors. The musicians were seated on the third floor, overlooking the main hall, with acres of bookshelves providing the backdrop. On both of the higher floors, tall shelves of books circumnavigated the main hall, broken up by narrow aisles of more books leading back into cozy reading rooms and study corners. There were more nooks and crannies than a hobbit hole and I could still picture myself as an eight-year-old book lover, visiting for the first time and wandering the elaborate mazes. No wonder I fell for the place.
More guests were moving into the main hall and filling the space with lively conversation and elegant evening wear. Laughter competed with the music as tuxedoed waiters emerged with trays of champagne-filled flutes and delicate hors d’oeuvres. I rubbed Abraham’s arm affectionately. “Everything looks fabulous. It’s so exciting.”
“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said. “You’re looking especially nifty tonight.”
I sighed. Nifty? Who said that anymore? I liked it.
His arm muscles tightened and he swore under his breath. I glanced up and saw that his face had turned ashen.
“What is it, Abraham? What’s wrong?”
“Baldacchio!” he whispered angrily. “I can’t believe that two-faced crook had the balls to show up here tonight.”
“You’re kidding.” I started to turn but he grabbed me.
“Don’t look!” he cried. “I don’t want him to see we’re wasting breath talking about him.”
“Tell me when.”
He gripped my arm. “Okay. Over your left shoulder. Wait. Okay, now.”
I tried to be casual as I turned to stare across the crowded space. At first I barely recognized the greasy-haired, shrunken man in the corner, but then he grinned slyly and there was no doubt it was Enrico Baldacchio, Abraham’s most detested archrival in the small world that was bookbinding. Over the years, they had undermined each other’s reputations by spreading gossip and stealing lucrative commissions out from under each other.
“I’d heard you were working together again on some project for the Book Guild,” I said. “Was that just a vicious rumor?”
“No.” Abraham looked ready to spit nails. “The Book Guild begged me to do it and I tried, but had to cut him loose again. The man can’t be trusted. He’s a liar and a thief.”
I snuck another peek across the room. Baldacchio was talking animatedly to Ian McCullough, the Covington ’s head curator and an old college friend of my brother Austin-and my ex-fiancé. A woman stood at Ian’s side with her arm tucked into his. When she turned her head, I gasped and looked away.
“What is it, Punk?” Abraham asked.
“Minka LaBoeuf.”
I appreciated Abraham’s quick frown. “I’m surprised she’s here tonight.”
Abraham knew Minka LaBoeuf?
Oh yes, bookbinding was a small world. She had a lot of nerve showing up anywhere within two city blocks of me. I silently fumed. Of all the bitches in all the world…
Years ago, Minka and I had been grad school class-mates in the art and architecture department at Harvard. I didn’t know her well, but whenever our paths crossed, I would catch a weird vibe of anger or contempt-for me. It was disconcerting but I did my best to ignore her.
One day, after I was singled out for my superior gold-finishing work by a professor in a papermaking class, Minka walked over to my worktable to see my work, or so I thought. Instead, she’d concealed a skiving knife, a very sharp tool used for paring leather, with which she tried to spear my hand. She barely missed my radial artery as well as several vital nerves and muscles, and swore it was an accident, but I’d seen the calculation and derision in her shifty eyes.
I found out later that she was crazy in love with my boyfriend at the time. Crazy in a bad, bad way. She’d been trying to find a way to get me out of the picture. Fortunately, soon after the knife incident, she dropped out and I went on to get my Master’s degree.
Our paths crossed again the semester I taught a leaf attachment course at the University of Texas at Austin. She tried to audit my class and I was unnerved enough to think she still might be stalking me. Call me cuckoo, but after finding two flat tires on my car, then discovering a dead cat on my front porch, I went to the administrative offices and got her removed from the class. I seriously feared for my safety, and even imagined her trying to jam my head between the boards of a book press or something.
Now here she was at the Covington, clinging to Ian. Did she know I’d been engaged to him a few years back? It wasn’t a secret. What game was she playing now?