Ripped From the Pages by Kate Carlisle
For cheering me on like no one else can, this one’s for you, Pam.
Chapter One
“Won’t this be fun?” My mother squeezed me with painful enthusiasm. “Two whole months living right next door to each other. You and me. We’ll be like best girlfriends.”
“Or double homicide victims,” my friend Robin muttered in my ear.
Naturally, my mother, who had the ultrasonic hearing ability of a fruit bat, overheard her. “Homicide? No, no. None of that talk.” Leaning away from me, she whispered, “Robin, sweetie, we mustn’t mock Brooklyn. She can’t help finding, you know, dead people.”
“Mom, I don’t think Robin meant it that way.”
“Of course she didn’t,” Mom said, and winked at Robin.
Robin grinned at me. “I love your mom.”
“I do, too,” I said, holding back a sigh. Mom had a point, since I did have a disturbing tendency to stumble over dead bodies. She was also right to say that I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t like I went out in search of them, for Pete’s sake. That would be a sickness requiring immediate intervention and possibly a twelve-step program.
Hello, my name is Brooklyn, and I’m a dead-body magnet.
Robin’s point was equally valid, too, though. My mother and I could come very close to destroying each other if Mom insisted on being my BFF for the next two months.
Even though she’d raised her children in an atmosphere of peace and love and kindness, there was a limit to how much of her craziness I could take. On the other hand, Mom was an excellent cook and I could barely boil water, so I could definitely see some benefit to hanging around her house. Still, good food couldn’t make up for the horror of living in close proximity to a woman whose latest idea of a good time was a therapeutic purging and bloodletting at the new panchakarma clinic over in Glen Ellen.
I focused on that as I poured myself another cup of coffee and added a generous dollop of half-and-half.
A few months ago, my hunky British ex–MI6 security agent boyfriend, Derek Stone, had purchased the loft apartment next door to mine in San Francisco. We decided to blow out the walls and turn the two lofts into one big home with a spacious office for Derek and a separate living area for visiting relatives and friends. Our reliable builder had promised it would only take two months to get through the worst of the noise and mess, so Derek and I began to plan where we would stay during the renovation. I liked the idea of spending time in Dharma, where I’d grown up, but live in my parents’ house? For two months? Even though there was plenty of room for us? Never!
“It would be disastrous,” I’d concluded.
Derek’s look of relief had been profound. “We’re in complete agreement as usual, darling.”
“Am I being awful? My parents are wonderful people.”
“Your parents are delightful,” he assured me, “but we need our own space.”
“Right. Space.” I knew Derek was mainly concerned about me. He’d be spending most weeks in the city and commuting to Sonoma on the weekends. His Pacific Heights office building had two luxury guest apartments on the top floor, one of which would suit him just fine.
I could’ve stayed there with him, of course, but that would’ve meant renting studio space at the Covington Library up the hill for my work. This would entail packing up all my bookbinding equipment and supplies, including my various book presses and a few hundred other items of importance to my job. Those small studio spaces in the Covington Library basement, while cheap, were equipped with nothing but a drafting table and two chairs, plus some empty cupboards and counters.
I’m a bookbinder specializing in rare-book restoration, and I was currently working on several important projects that had to be delivered during the time we would be away from home. The original plan of staying with my parents, while less than ideal, would’ve allowed me access to my former mentor’s fully stocked bookbinding studio just down the hill from my parents. Abraham Karastovsky had died more than a year ago, but his daughter, Annie, who lived in his house now, had kept his workshop intact. She’d also given me carte blanche to use it whenever I wanted to.