Robin and I exchanged amused looks. I had known her since we were both eight years old and loved her more than my own sisters. We’d met in Dharma when my parents moved there to be with their guru, Robson Benedict. Or Guru Bob, as we kids called him.
Robin and Mom could only stay for a half hour or so, but we still managed to catch up on all the latest news. Robin and my brother Austin were making noises about a possible wedding, but hadn’t set a date, much to my mother’s distress. My sister Savannah was starting to teach classes in vegetarian cooking at her popular Dharma restaurant and there was already a long waiting list to get in. My mysterious friend Gabriel was away from Dharma at the moment and the rumor mill had him on some clandestine operation in Southeast Asia. And, in more upbeat news, according to my father, the grape harvest would begin within a few weeks.
I told them about our new kitten and about our new neighbor, Alex, and I shared a funny story about one of Derek’s recent adventures. I mentioned a few of the fabulous books I’d appraised on the show, but I didn’t say a word about the attacks on me. It didn’t matter, though, because as they stood up to leave, my mother took my chin in her hand and gazed into my eyes. With a sigh, she closed her eyes and began to mutter,
“Goddess, lend your help again,
Protect our girl from evil’s sin,
Give her strength to walk through fire,
Help her forge through muck and mire.
Many thanks and blessed be,
As I speak, so mote it be.”
She repeated the chant three times. Then she touched the middle of my forehead. “Om shanti, shanti, shanti.”
Peace, I thought. I could use some. And, seriously, no one but my mother would break into a sacred protection spell in the middle of a crowd of two hundred people.
Her eyes opened and she gazed darkly into mine. “Did you think I wouldn’t be able to tell that something was troubling you?”
“No,” I admitted, smiling ruefully.
She glanced at Robin, who nodded once. I had a feeling the two of them had been talking about me. Great. Was this the reason they had shown up today? Was my mom now able to read my thoughts from two counties away?
But when Mom looked back at me, her eyes were clear and she was smiling. “You’ll visit us soon.”
? ? ?
Once I arrived home, I jogged across the hall to Alex’s and begged for yet another rain check. I hadn’t been able to make it last night because of my swollen jaw and the trauma of the falling stage flats. Tonight, I was simply too tired from my long day at the studio to enjoy an evening of wine and cupcakes with my new neighbor. And that was just sad. Derek was shocked, too, and probably a little disappointed that I wouldn’t be bringing a cupcake home for him.
Alex was gracious and willing to postpone our get-together to the following night. I ran back to my place and fell into bed.
The next morning, after a quick phone call to my parents to invite ourselves up to Sonoma in two weeks for the annual grape harvest, Derek went off to work. As he left the apartment, he assured me that he’d meet me at the studio around noon.
I spent the next hour cleaning and organizing my workshop. I would start working on The Secret Garden once I had Vera’s payment, so for now I wrapped the book securely in a white cloth and placed it in my built-in safe in the hallway closet.
The small closet was steel lined so the contents were safe from the elements, and the locking mechanism was the strongest one on the market.
Long before my building was converted to loft apartments, it had been a corset factory in the early 1920s. Back then, this closet had operated like a dumbwaiter. It held movable metal shelves that ran on ropes and pulleys, transporting supplies up and down between the floors. The airtight space underneath the metal floor panel was large enough to hold my important papers and emergency cash. It was also where I hid the most precious and expensive books I was working on.
An hour later, I drove out of the parking garage underneath my building and headed for the Richmond District and Vera’s shop. I was excited about picking up her check and getting started on the book.
I was also anxious to commiserate with her about the horrible man who had attacked me and threatened her. Maybe the police had picked up the guy and he was already in jail. I hoped so.
I zigzagged over to Van Ness and took the busy thoroughfare up to Turk Street. As I drove west, I made a mental list of the people I would suggest Vera call to obtain bids for the book. Ian McCullough was number one on the list, of course, and I thought The Secret Garden would be an ideal addition to the new Children’s Book Museum. I owed Ian the courtesy of first refusal because he had been responsible for getting me the appraiser job on This Old Attic.