I was here to attend the annual Edinburgh Book Fair and was looking forward to visiting with friends and colleagues I hadn’t seen in a while. I would be giving a few workshops, and there would be thousands of beautiful books and fine bindings to study and drool over. With any luck, I’d find one or two bargains to snag for my very own. I expected lots of good conversation and much pub crawling in one of the most delightful cities on the planet.
I should’ve been elated. Instead, I was sad and feeling a little overwhelmed, knowing that Abraham Karastovsky, the man who first taught me bookbinding years ago, the man I’d worked with most of my life and always considered a mix of beloved uncle and benevolent dictator, wouldn’t be in Edinburgh with me.
I’d known him since I was eight years old, when he’d repaired a favorite book my brothers had ruined. Fascinated with what he’d done, I’d gone back every day to watch him work in his small bindery, pestering him so much that he’d finally brought me on as his apprentice.
Now Abraham was gone, senselessly murdered last month, and I felt an emptiness I’d never experienced before. It didn’t help that the man had left me the lion’s share of his estate, some six million dollars, give or take a million. And while it gave me a secret thrill to know that in his will, he’d called me the daughter of his heart, I hated that I’d benefited so greatly from his death. After all, I was now rich beyond my wildest dreams and all it had cost was Abraham’s life.
“ Brooklyn?”
I whipped around, then jumped up when I spied an old friend walking briskly toward me. “Helen!”
Helen Chin grinned as she glided confidently through the bar, her glossy black hair cut in a short, sassy bob. She’d always been demure and soft-spoken, a brilliant, petite Asian woman with lustrous long hair and a shy smile. The haircut and the confidence were major changes since the last time I saw her. That had to have been over two years ago, when we’d both taught spring classes in Lyon, France, at the Institut d’Histoire du Livre. But we’d first met and bonded while teaching summer courses at the University of Texas at Austin. A hurricane had come through, blowing the roof off the dormitory we were staying in. Nothing forges a friendship better than sharing trail mix and toothpaste while sleeping on cots in a crowded, smelly gymnasium for a week.
I gave her a tight hug. She felt thinner than I remembered.
“I saw your name in the program,” she said, and clasped my arms with both hands. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
“I wouldn’t miss it.” I took a closer look at her, checking out the new hairstyle, her pretty red jacket, black pants and shiny black shoes. “You look amazing, and you’ve lost weight. Are you moonlighting as a supermodel?”
“Oh, right,” she said with a laugh.
“Seriously, you look great.”
“Well, you don’t have to sound so surprised,” she said lightly, but I could sense the defensiveness underneath.
“Silly,” I said, avoiding the bait as I hugged her again. I casually looked around. “So where’s Martin?”
She waved her hand dismissively. “He’s here somewhere, but it doesn’t matter. I might as well tell you I’ve filed for divorce.”
I hoped my eyes weren’t bugging out of my head as I said, “No way! I’m so sorry.”
She gave me a pointed look. “Oh, please.” Then she slipped her arm through mine and we walked through the lobby. “You’re not sorry and neither am I.”
“How’s Martin taking it?”
“Not well, as you might expect.” She shook her head in disgust. “He was as big a jerk as everyone said, and I’m thrilled to be rid of him.”
I squeezed her arm. “Okay. Then I’m doubly happy for you and not sorry at all.”
Helen was right. I’d never liked Martin Warrington, and I wasn’t the only one. When she’d announced her engagement in Lyon, I hadn’t understood how such a smart woman could marry such an annoying man. Then I figured, with my own stellar record of bad choices and broken engagements, I was hardly one to criticize.
At the time, I was more sorry for myself than for her, because I knew we wouldn’t be able to be friends once she married Martin. He didn’t like me any more than I liked him, probably because I’d tried to talk Helen out of marrying him and he’d caught wind of it.
“So where have you been hiding?” I asked. “I didn’t see you in Lisbon.”
“Martin didn’t like me attending the book fairs.” She shook her head in irritation. “He said I flirted too much.”
Translation: Helen was a nice person; Martin was a toad.
“Did you happen to mention that attending book fairs is part of your job?”
“Don’t get me started,” she said, puffing out a breath. “I lost ten pounds worrying about it but came to realize there’s no making sense of it. Let’s just say I was a moron to put up with it as long as I did. And now I’m determined to have a fabulous time while I’m here.”
“Good.” I hugged her again. “I’ve missed you.”
“I’ve missed you, too.” She giggled. “And I have so much to tell you.”
“Really? Let’s hear it. What’s going on with you?”
“You won’t believe it,” she said, moving closer to whisper in my ear. “I’m in love.”
“What?”