“You know her,” I said flatly.
“Not well,” he admitted. “She’s part-time staff, so I used her for some of the Winslow restoration work. She came across as charming and efficient, but problems erupted as soon as she started. Two of my best people threatened to quit, so I took her off the project.”
I could barely watch as she laughed and yakked like an intimate friend of both Ian’s and Baldacchio’s. On tonight of all nights, the opening of Abraham’s exhibition. I had to wonder, was she here because of me? Everyone in the business knew he’d been my teacher and mentor. Was I completely paranoid?
I would’ve loved to pursue the topic of Minka’s shortcomings and find out how in the world she’d finagled a job at the Covington in the first place, but Abraham’s friend Doris interrupted us just then, grabbing Abraham’s arm and giving it a vigorous shake.
“Now, what were you yelling about, old man?” she said.
I almost snorted.
“Doris Bondurant,” Abraham said formally, “I’d like to introduce my former assistant and now my greatest competition, Brooklyn Wainwright. Brooklyn, this is my old friend Doris Bondurant.”
“Watch who you’re calling old, buster,” she said, and elbowed Abraham in the stomach. She turned to me and shook my hand. “Hello, dear.”
“It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” I said. Along with being Covington Library trustees, Doris and Theodore Bondurant were on the board of at least a half dozen charitable organizations around San Francisco, and their names were synonymous with the arts and high society. On a good day they were probably worth a few billion dollars, so Doris could afford to be feisty.
Her hand was gnarled and covered in age spots, but her handshake was strong enough to make me cry uncle.
“I’ve heard a potful of good things about you from this guy, missy,” she said, pointing her thumb at Abraham. “I’d like to see some of your work around here one of these days.” Her voice had the gravelly character of a lifelong smoker’s.
“Thank you, Mrs. Bondurant. That’s very kind of you.”
She wagged a finger at me. “First of all, I’m not kind. And second, you call me Doris.”
I smiled. “All right, Doris.”
She winked. “That’s better. Now, look, people think I’m a mucky-muck around here, but mostly I just love books.”
“Me, too.”
“Glad to hear it,” she said. “Now, this big lug tells me you know your way around a bookbinding, so I’m going to send you some business.”
I sent Abraham a grateful look and he waggled his eyebrows at me. “I’d be honored.”
“Do you have a business card?”
“Um, sure.” I fumbled in my bag, found my cards and handed one to her. She peered at it for a few seconds before nodding.
“I’ll call you.” She slipped my card into her clutch purse, glanced around the room, then patted Abraham’s barrel chest. “I’m going to track down Teddy and hit the bar before it gets too crowded, but then I want that behind-the-scenes tour you promised me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Abraham said, grinning.
She winked at me, smacked Abraham’s arm and wiggled her fingers good-bye as she walked away.
I turned to Abraham. “I love her.”
“She’s a classic, all right.” He checked his watch and swore under his breath. “I’d better run. I’ve got some business to attend to.”
“Of course. I won’t keep you.”
“Look, why don’t you mingle for an hour or so, then come downstairs to my workshop? I’ll give you a sneak preview of the Faust.” He leaned in close and wiggled his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’re not dying to see it.”
I grinned. “I’d love to see it.”
“It’s spectacular, trust me.”
“I do, Abraham.”
He gave me another quick squeeze. “You’re my good girl.”
Tears stung my eyes. The first time he’d ever said that to me, I was eight years old and miserable. My stupid brothers had used my favorite book, The Secret Garden, as a football and I’d found it lying in the dirt, its front cover hanging by threads and half the pages ripped or shredded. My mother suggested I go see the commune’s bookbinder to get it fixed.
Abraham took one look and ordered my brothers into the studio, where he promised them any number of chilling reprisals if they ever damaged another book again. After scaring the bejeezus out of them, he sat them down and gave them a quick lesson in book arts and history-the kid-friendly version-followed by an explanation of what family meant and why they should cherish and honor their sister by respecting what was precious to her.
I fell in love with Abraham that day.
Now I sniffed back tears and said, “Abraham, I just wish we-”
“Not another word.” He gripped my shoulders. “I admit I’ve been a stubborn old fool, but I’ve recently learned a valuable lesson.”