The Book Stops Here by Kate Carlisle
This book is dedicated to Mary Lou and Michael Debergalis, for the good times, good food, laughs, and love.
Chapter One
My mother always warned me to be careful what I wished for, but did I listen to her? Of course not. I love my mom, but this was the same woman who swore by espresso enemas to perk up your spirits. The same woman who performed magic spells and exorcisms on a regular basis and astral traveled around the universe with her trusted spirit guide, Ramlar X.
Believe me, I’m very careful about taking advice from my mother.
Besides, the thing I was wishing for was more work. Why would that be a problem?
I’d been in between bookbinding jobs last month and was telling my friend Ian McCullough, chief curator of the Covington Library, that I wished I could find some new and interesting bookbinding work. That’s when Ian revealed that he had submitted my name to the television show This Old Attic to be their expert book appraiser. I was beside myself with excitement and immediately contacted the show’s producer for an interview. And I got it! I got what I wished for. A job. A great job. With books.
That was a good thing, right?
Of course, I didn’t dare tell my mother that I considered her advice a bunch of malarkey. After all, some of those magic spells she’d spun had turned out to be alarmingly effective. I would hate to incur her wrath and wake up wearing a donkey’s head—or worse.
“Yo, Brooklyn,” Angie, the show’s stage manager said. “You look right into this camera and start talking. Got it?”
“Got it,” I lied, pressing my hands against my knees to keep them from shaking uncontrollably. “Absolutely.”
“Good,” the stage manager said. “No dead air. Got it?”
“Dead air. Right. Got it.”
She nodded once, then shouted to the studio in general, “Five minutes, everyone!”
I felt my stomach drop, but it didn’t matter. I was in show business!
This Old Attic traveled around the country and featured regular people who wanted their precious family treasures and heirlooms appraised by various local experts. The production was taping in San Francisco for three whole weeks, and I was giggly with pleasure to be a part of it.
And terrified, too. But the nerves were sure to pass as soon as I started talking about my favorite topic: books. I hoped so, anyway.
Today was the initial day of taping and my segment was up first. My little staging area was decorated to look like a cozy antiques-strewn hideaway in the corner of a charming, dust-free attic. There were Oriental carpets on the floor. A Tiffany lamp hung from the light grid, which was suspended high above the set. Old-fashioned wooden dressers, curio cabinets, and armoires stood side by side, creating the three walls of my area. I sat in the middle of it all in a comfy blue tufted chair at a round table covered with a cloth of rich burgundy velvet.
Seated across from me was the owner of the book we would be discussing. She was a pretty, middle-aged woman with an impressive bosom and thick black hair styled in the biggest bouffant hairdo I’d ever seen. She wore a clingy zebra-print dress with a shiny black belt that cinched in her waist and emphasized her shapely hourglass figure.
She had excellent posture, though. I’d give her that much. My mother would be impressed.
Between us on the table was a wooden bookstand with her book in place, ready to be appraised.
“Are you Vera?” I whispered. I’d already seen her name on the segment rundown but wanted to be friendly.
She smiled weakly. “Yes. I’m Vera Stoddard.”
I smiled at the sound of her high-pitched little-girl voice. “I’m Brooklyn. It’s good to—”
“Settle down, people!” Angie shouted, and everyone in the television studio instantly stopped talking. Angie listened to something being said over her headset and then added loudly, “First on camera today is the book expert. It’s segment eight-six-nineteen on the rundown, people! Stand by!”
“I’m so nervous,” Vera whispered.
“Don’t worry. We’ll have a good time.” I could hear my voice shaking but I smiled cheerfully, hoping she wouldn’t notice. It wasn’t like me to be this anxious. All I had to do was talk about books, something I was born to do. It was a piece of cake. Unless I thought about the millions of people who would be watching. It didn’t help that several zillion watts of lighting were aimed down at me, and the stage makeup I wore, while it made me look glamorous, was beginning to feel like an iron mask.