Thick lines of electric cables went everywhere. It looked like one crew member was assigned to each camera and each boom, simply to adjust the wires and cables as the machinery was moved from here to there.
I found a break in the curtain and slipped through to the backstage area. I passed the green room—the walls of which were actually painted a pleasant light taupe—and the makeup room, then turned the corner and stared down a hallway that ran the entire length of the studio building. There had to be twenty doors on either side of the long, wide corridor and I was happy I’d memorized my dressing room number.
As I approached the room, I felt that odd buzzing sensation I always got whenever I was about to start work on a new book. I didn’t know what else to call it but sheer exhilaration. I was itching to explore the old edition of the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám I’d been given to study, especially since it featured a unique wooden cover with art deco–style illustrations carved into it.
How cool was that?
And how geeky was I for getting so excited? I chuckled at myself as I started to turn the key in the lock.
“Yoo-hoo, Brooklyn!”
I glanced down the hall and saw Vera Stoddard teetering toward me in her death-defying heels. I grimaced, knowing that if she slipped and fell off those stilettos, she could break her neck.
“I’m probably not supposed to be back here,” she said, giggling in that high-pitched tone I’d grown used to so quickly.
Probably not, I thought, but didn’t say it aloud. She looked nervous enough already as she clutched The Secret Garden to her pillowy chest. I had to resist grabbing the book right out of her hands. The tiniest bit of perspiration could ruin that beautiful leather cover within seconds. But I held back. It wasn’t easy, but it also wasn’t my book.
“I wanted to ask you,” she said, then paused, out of breath from her exertion. “I . . . I wanted to ask you about all that book stuff you said when we were on camera.”
“Let’s go in here.” I opened the door to the dressing room and ushered her inside.
She stopped just beyond the threshold. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but I’m anxious to—”
“It’s fine, Vera. I’m happy to talk for a few minutes. Have a seat.” I gestured toward the hideously ugly orange cloth chair that was a perfect complement to the ugly turquoise Naugahyde sofa shoved up against the wall. An imitation wood coffee table completed the ensemble.
Once she was seated, I held out my hand. “May I see the book again?”
“Oh, you bet.” She handed it to me.
“Thanks.” I sat in the swivel chair at the counter in front of the wide makeup mirror. I had turned it into a desk and set up my computer and a few reference books here. I took a moment to admire The Secret Garden cover again before looking up at my guest. “What can I do for you?”
With a nervous laugh, she played with the loose threads of the armchair. “I want to sell the book and I want to make as much money as possible. And I want to do it right away. The sooner the better. So, I want to hire you to do . . . you know, whatever it is you can do to make it perfect.”
“So you definitely plan to sell it?”
“You bet I do,” she said eagerly, then pressed her lips together as if she’d said something rude. “That is, I would love to keep it, believe me. It’s a work of art, like you said. A real beauty. But when you told me how much it was worth . . .” She shook her head, giving up any pretenses. “I mean, wow. I could really use the money.”
“I understand.” I leaned forward in my chair. “But, Vera, I should warn you. I had only a limited time to research your book, so I’m not exactly sure how much work I might have to do. My guess is that my time would only cost you a few hundred dollars, but it could go as high as five hundred. I won’t know for sure until I get a better look at the book.”
“I hear you.” She nodded slowly. “Five hundred would be okay, as long as it’s not much more than that.”
“No, I can promise it won’t be any more than that.” I turned the book over in my hand and carefully stroked the back cover. “Probably less.”
“And then I could get a few thousand dollars more for it, right?”
“Yes.” I wasn’t going to tell Vera, but I believed a real collector would pay many thousands more than I had quoted her on camera. “And when you’re ready to sell, I can help you. I’ll give you a few names of people to call.” If she was going to sell the book, anyway, why not point her toward someone who would appreciate the book for the treasure it was?
“That would be great,” she said with a sigh of relief. “I have no idea who to talk to about this kind of stuff.”
“I’ll be happy to help.”
“Okay, let’s do it,” she said.