Books of a Feather (3 page)

“Oh dear.” That didn't sound good. “I'm sorry.”

“I appreciate your concern,” he said. “But do most families not have what they call the black lamb?”

“Sheep,” Derek corrected, smiling.

“Ah. Black sheep. Of course. I confess, my brother, Bai, is one of the reasons I'm here this week.”

Crane pronounced his brother's name like the word
buy
, but I doubted it was spelled that way.

“He lives here?” I asked. “In San Francisco?”

Disappointment and sorrow shadowed his expression. “He is currently residing in the city.”

I shot Derek a desperate look. Leave it to me to ruin this happy reunion with his old friend. “I shouldn't keep asking questions. I'm sorry.”

Crane waved away my distress. “Don't feel badly. It's probably good for me to talk about it.”

“Yes, it's therapeutic,” Derek said with a grin, and Crane chuckled. This seemed to be a topic they'd discussed before.

I looked at Derek. “So you've met Bai?”

Derek took up the story. “When Crane was sent to Eton, his brother demanded that he be allowed to go, too.”

“I'm afraid Derek was a convenient target for Bai's bad behavior. My brother was insistent on proving to Derek what a tough guy he could be.”

“For some reason,” Derek said with a shrug, “his brother didn't like the fact that Crane had so many friends at school. Bai blamed me for that.”

“As a young man, my brother had what you'd call jealousy and rage issues.”

“Give her some background, Crane,” Derek suggested, and turned to me. “It really is an intriguing story, darling.”

“I'm dying to hear it, as long as you don't mind talking about it.”

“No. Not at all.” Once again, Crane sat back in the red chair and told his story. “My mother is half English, the daughter of a prominent Hong Kong businessman. Like the father of my ancestor the painter, my mother wanted me to receive a Western education.”

“Didn't she want the same thing for your brother?”

“No. Again, like my ancestor Sheng, my brother has a gift for painting. My parents wanted him to study at the Central Academy of Fine Arts in Beijing. It is quite possibly the finest and most selective art school in the world. My brother was quite proud to be accepted to the academy, but at the same time, he wanted to get out of China. He insisted he wanted to see the world. My being sent to Eton intensified his demands. He was very spoiled and reacted badly when he didn't get his way.”

“So Crane's parents relented and sent him to Eton,” Derek explained.

I frowned. “And something tells me it didn't go well.”

Crane made a face. “You guessed correctly. Besides harassing Derek, Bai was in constant trouble and was finally kicked out. It was a source of great embarrassment for my family.”

“I'm sorry.”

“It upset all of us much more than it ever bothered Bai. And now he bounces around the world, enjoying himself. He still has a tendency to get into trouble, but he's a wealthy man and trouble never seems to cling to him for long. He's also a talented artist and has many connections in the art world, which makes my mother proud. Her family trust allows Bai a generous allowance every year, so he's free to do as he wishes. But now my mother is ill and wants me to bring him home.”

“I'm so sorry,” I murmured again.

“So that's the family business you were referring to,” Derek said.

“Yes.” Crane took a sip of wine. “It seems I am still my brother's keeper, as they say. But along with my mission to convince Bai to come home, I am also conducting company business while I'm here. I'll be meeting with the Chinese consul general this week to discuss opening up markets to bring new business to my country. And of course I wanted to see you, my friend, and meet the woman who captured your heart.”

I couldn't help smiling. “Why does Derek call you Crane? Is that your real name?”

“In a manner of speaking.”

I shot a quick glance at Derek, who was watching his friend expectantly. I had a feeling Crane had been asked this question before.

“My actual name is Sheng Li,” he explained, “named after my honorable ancestor. But from the time I was born my mother called
me Hè.” He pronounced it
hua
with a raspy whisper, almost as if he were growling the name.

“Okay,” I said slowly.

“Chinese mothers are very fond of nicknames,” Crane said. “
Hè
is the Chinese word for a type of bird, which in English is called a crane.”

“Your mother's nickname for you was a bird?”

“Oh, not just any bird,” he insisted, grinning, “but the most revered of all birds. In Chinese mythology, the crane is thought to be immortal. There is often some magic connected to any story involving cranes. My mother can be fanciful at times.”

Understanding dawned. “She sounds like my mother. I have a sister whose middle name is Dragonfly.”

He held out his hands. “Ah, then you can relate. I believe my mother was a free spirit in her younger days.”

“A hippie,” I said with a laugh.

“Exactly.”

“So, did you always call yourself Crane?”

“Not until I went to school in England. When I started at Eton, I was a sad, scrawny thing. And Chinese, of course. The other boys were relentless in their ridicule of me for so many reasons. My name, my ethnicity, my physique. Derek was already on his way to becoming the titan he is today, and as my roommate, he took it upon himself to threaten the others with fates worse than death if they continued to bully me. When he found out what my nickname meant in English, he started calling me Crane. It sounded so cool. The rest of the boys seemed to agree and the harassment was quelled.”

“My hero,” I said, patting Derek's knee. Turning to Crane, I said, “You seem to have, um, outgrown your scrawny phase.”

One of his eyebrows shot up in a rakish glint. “Thank you for noticing, my dear.”

Derek rolled his eyes and I couldn't help laughing.

Crane continued. “That, too, is due to Derek's influence. He insisted that we begin daily workouts in the school gym.”

“So you could fight back if necessary,” I said.

“Exactly.”

In my mind Derek really was a hero, but I wasn't going to embarrass him by repeating it.

“But let's change the subject,” Crane said. “I'm tired of talking about myself. Tell me more about the Covington collection. I've read about it for years, but I've never had the opportunity to see it.”

“I think you'll be impressed,” I said. “It's much more than just a library, although there are many exquisite books and so much history. But there's artwork, too, and beautiful gardens. And the building itself is impressive. I think you'll enjoy it.”

“I'm sure I will.”

Derek put his arm around my shoulder. “You should be aware that the place also has a sentimental meaning for Brooklyn and me. It's where we first met.”

“Now I'm truly intrigued,” Crane said.

I almost laughed at the way Derek made it sound so romantic. True, we'd met at the Covington Library, but it was only because my mentor was killed that night and I found the body. Derek, in his role of security expert for the priceless antiquarian book collection on display, had found me with blood on my hands and had immediately accused me of murder. Not the most starry-eyed way to start a relationship, but we'd managed to overcome those first few bumps in the road.

“And just think,” I said, gazing up at Derek, “this time there won't be any dead bodies to worry about.”

Crane seemed amused, but Derek was no longer smiling. In fact, he was staring at me as though he might've wanted to check me into the nearest loony bin. That was when I realized I had just tempted fate in the worst possible way. Right then and there, I began to pray that my words wouldn't come back to haunt me.

I woke up the next morning tempted by the alluring scents of bacon and syrup along with the seductive aroma of strong coffee brewing. The delicious smells could mean one of two things: either I was dreaming, or Derek Stone, international man of mystery and all-around awesome hunk, was making breakfast. Was it any wonder I was crazy about the man?

I breathed in more of the fragrance wafting through the house and knew I wasn't dreaming. Talk about seductive; I was the luckiest girl in the world.

I jumped out of bed and rushed to wash my face, then threw on jeans, a sweater, and socks. Minutes later, I ran out to the kitchen and wrapped my arms around Derek. “Thank you, thank you. I love you, love you,” I murmured, ridiculously grateful that his mother had taught him the basics of cooking. Unlike mine.

“You only love me for my ability to cook bacon.” But he hugged me back and planted a warm kiss on the top of my head. “Pour yourself a cup of coffee.”

I did as he suggested and added a generous dollop of half-and-half to my cup. “Can I help with anything?”

He took a quick sip of his own coffee. “No, everything's ready.” He piled bacon slices onto two plates that already held a thick waffle and chunks of apple, banana, and strawberries, and set them down on opposite sides of the kitchen bar.

I leaned in close and kissed him. “You are the best thing in the world.”

“And so are you.” He kissed me back, then circled around to the dining room side of the kitchen bar and sat.

I sat down on the one kitchen stool, facing him. After a long moment of silence during which we spread butter and poured syrup on our waffles, I said, “I had a dream about you and Crane tormenting your teachers at Eton.”

He chuckled. “I still have those dreams myself. Nightmares, actually.”

“You seemed really happy to see him.” I studied him, watching as his gaze shifted. I could tell his thoughts were a thousand miles away and I really wanted to know where those memories had taken him. And why they weren't making him smile.

We hadn't talked much last night, since I'd fallen asleep the minute my head hit the pillow. So now I asked, “Why have you never mentioned Crane to me before?”

He paused to chew a piece of bacon. “To tell the truth, Crane was a part of my past that I never thought I'd visit again.”

“You make it sound sad. What happened?”

“We were chums, best pals for years. Then we parted ways and I didn't see him again for a long while.”

“Did you have a fight?”

“No, no. We were in the final weeks of school when Crane
received word that his father had died. The family expected him to come home at once and take over the family business. He was packed and gone almost before I could absorb the news.”

I leaned an elbow on the table and gazed at him. “That's really sad.”

“It was a bit of a shock, but he would've left a few weeks later anyway, when school ended.” He sipped his coffee. “Don't feel badly, love. I've seen Crane off and on since then. But it's been a while since the last time we got together. Almost six years now. And that was under rather shady circumstances, I might add.”

“Shady?” I stared at him. “What happened?”

His lips twisted into a rueful smile. “I can't go into too much detail, darling, but Crane was instrumental in helping us bring an elusive Middle Eastern prince to justice.”

My mind reeled at the possibilities, but I knew Derek wouldn't spill any government secrets, so I moved on. “So you were just kidding when you said you thought Crane would end up in prison.”

His lips curled in humor. “We always used to wager which one of us would end up on the wrong side of the law.”

“It looks like you've both managed to avoid it.”

“So far.”

I had to laugh. Derek was practically the poster boy for honorable behavior.

After leaving school, Derek had joined the Royal Navy. From there he was recruited to work for MI6, the British equivalent of our CIA, and stayed for ten years before leaving to start his own security firm. Talk about avoiding the wrong side of the law. Derek was so lawful it was scary sometimes.

I broke off a piece of bacon and popped it into my mouth. “Well, I really like Crane. He seems . . . centered.” I frowned and batted the
word away. “Sorry. I sound like my mother. What I mean is, he seems to have a healthy attitude about the world. He didn't spend a lot of time complaining about anything or competing with you.”

“No, he never did much of that.” Derek paused to sip his coffee. “He's always been a stand-up sort of friend. Always there in a pinch if I needed him.”

I gazed at him for a long moment. They hadn't seen each other in almost six years and suddenly Crane showed up? Was there something I should know? “Do you need him now, Derek? Is that why he's here? Is something wrong?”

Derek reached over and squeezed my hand. “Nothing's wrong, love. You heard Crane say he's in town on family business.”

“Do you believe him?”

It was his turn to frown. “I'll have to wait and see. I admit I'm concerned about him confronting Bai.”

“Me, too.” I thought about my own family and was thankful we all got along. Derek's family was the same way. “Will he let us know if he needs our help?”

One eyebrow shot up. “
Our
help?”

“We're a team, right?”

He grinned and gave my hand another squeeze. “Yes, we are. But I doubt we'll be called upon to help Crane out of a jam. I just think it might be unpleasant for him to deal with his brother.”

We talked and ate for another fifteen minutes. Derek told me about the new security agent he'd hired for his San Francisco office. We agreed that we'd order Thai food for an early dinner before heading over to the Covington Library tonight.

He was finishing his coffee when he suddenly remembered something. “I'm sorry, love. I forgot to ask you how your day went yesterday. Did you bring home any books?”

“I did. Eight beautiful books to be repaired. I'm so happy.”

He grinned. “I trust the books are happy, too.”

“I felt awkward when I came home last night, though. I heard you talking to someone, so I hid the books in my desk, just to be safe. And then later, after I'd spent some time with Crane, I was a little embarrassed for being so suspicious.”

“You shouldn't feel guilty about taking precautions.” He sighed. “We haven't had to concern ourselves with security issues since we've been away.”

“True. I guess we're a little rusty.”

“Not to worry,” he said. “We'll be back to our usual paranoid selves soon enough.”

Sad but true. No matter how much I loved our building and how much I trusted our neighbors, being back in the city after spending so much time in Dharma was a culture shock. In my hometown, doors weren't just left unlocked; they were left wide-open. Of course, bad things happened everywhere, including Dharma. Usually, though, it was an idyllic spot to unwind and de-stress.

As we cleared our dishes, I gave him a brief rundown of the books I'd brought home from Genevieve's shop. “I'll show them to you tonight.”

“I look forward to it.”

A few minutes later, I walked with Derek to the door. As I kissed him good-bye, I ran my hand down the sleeve of his impeccable navy suit, just to feel his sinewy muscles through the richness of the fabric. “Have a good day at work, making the world more secure.”

“You, too, love.” He touched my cheek as he kissed me back. Then he left, and I sighed as I closed the door behind him. Like everyone, the man had his faults, but sometimes I just couldn't remember what they were.

I washed the dishes and cleaned up the kitchen, then grabbed a colorful chunky-weave scarf and headed back to my workshop. It was January, and even though we'd had very little rain this season, the air was chilly. My workshop was in the front of the house, closest to the street, so it was always a little colder than the rest of the rooms.

Unlocking my desk drawer, I removed the books I'd hidden there the night before and placed them side by side across my worktable. Then I sat down with my most powerful magnifying glass and a notepad and examined each book, making notes as I went. When I was finished, I lined them up again in order from least damaged to most.

I liked to work on the easiest fixes first because a quick, successful repair job always put me in a good mood. So first up was a loose front and back hinge on the extremely expensive copy of
The Maltese Falcon
. Carefully gripping the front and back covers, I splayed the book and held it up off the table. The text block drooped precariously, indicating that both the front and back boards had separated from the spine. Luckily, the endpapers were still intact with no ripping along the joints, so despite the sagging boards, this would be a wonderfully simple fix. I set the book down, pushed my chair away from the table, and smiled as I strolled around my studio, gathering various repair supplies and tools from the cupboards and drawers and counters built along three walls.

I had missed this room while we were living in Dharma. Oh, I'd had full use of my old mentor Abraham's workshop nearby and I'd done a small amount of book repair work while I was there, but it wasn't the same. It wasn't mine. I wondered now if some of my recent angst had been brought on by the need to get back to full-time bookbinding work. I did love my job.

After laying out my tools on the table, I walked over to the small sink in the corner and began to mix up my first batch of glue. Not that I was obsessive or anything, but it was vitally important to have the right glue for the right job. For this one, I preferred a mixture of sixty percent polyvinyl acetate to forty percent methyl cellulose. Others recommended a fifty/fifty ratio, but I liked the consistency of my sixty/forty blend better. I knew some book artists who favored PVA on its own, but I contended that adding methyl cellulose gave the glue more flexibility and allowed a bookbinder more time to alter and fine-tune her work. And once it dried completely, the combo was an even stronger adhesive than just the PVA on its own.

Clearly, I could be a real nerd on the subject of glue. I'd watched students nod off in the middle of my impromptu glue seminars. But this stuff was important. I liked to say that my reputation as a bookbinder was only as strong as the glue I used to bind my books together.

I said clever things like that all the time but rarely found an appreciative audience.

These days anyone could purchase PVA already mixed in gallon containers. It was cheap and easy, so it just made sense. But when it came to methyl cellulose, I preferred to concoct my own. I could have bought it premixed as well, but where was the fun in that?

I found a clean pint container and poured in a few tablespoons of methyl cellulose powder. To this I added hot water and whisked it steadily for about five minutes. Once it was smooth and lump free, I added one cup of cold water and whisked again until the substance was clear and viscous. I wanted the consistency to be goopy but still pourable and easy to spread with a brush.

I left the concoction sitting on the sink counter to congeal
further while I surveyed the books again. As I'd already determined, the most badly damaged was
The Grapes of Wrath
. Half of the text block had broken away from the spine, so the pages would have to be taken apart and resewn. The front cover was almost completely severed from the spine except for a few strands of linen cloth holding it together. All of the gilding on the spine had been rubbed off and the cloth here was tattered and split at every corner. One spot on the back cover had been worn down so badly that I could see the aged, heavy board beneath the cloth.

Genevieve had found comparable copies of this edition of
The Grapes of Wrath
selling online for forty-five thousand dollars. It would take a lot of work to bring this version up to that level, but I relished the challenge. For now I set the book aside and moved on to the next one.

Removing the dust jacket from the copy of
One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest
, I took a closer look at the rip along the fold. It was a little worse than I'd first thought when I found it on the shelf. Both sides of the tear had curled and darkened to a brownish yellow. I spread the dust jacket facedown on the table and studied it some more.

If I were a librarian simply trying to keep this book in circulation, I would follow the age-old bookbinder's maxim that a repair should simply keep the damage from spreading. If that was all I cared about, I would slap on a piece of acid-free document repair tape, slip the book into a clear plastic archival book cover, and call it a done deal.

But because this book was so valuable—a first edition signed by the author, after all—I approached it from a book conservationist's angle. I wanted to not only restore the book's health, but also make sure it would last another century or two. It would be a nice bonus if I could make it pretty, too.

Collectors were willing to pay a lot of money for Pretty.

I checked my decorative paper drawer to make sure I had enough Japanese rice paper to repair the tear and also plug up some of the small nicks along the edge of the jacket. For this job I would have to whip up a small batch of wheat paste, the type of glue that worked best with the fragile Japanese tissue paper. Wheat paste was persnickety and had to be mixed, then cooked, then diluted. And it only lasted a few days when stored in the refrigerator.

I told you I could be a real dork when it came to homing in on the finer points of glue.

I found several sheets of rice paper in three different thicknesses, so I pulled out one of each and tucked them under the
Cuckoo's Nest
to work on later. For now I wanted to concentrate on the easier jobs and take advantage of my fresh batch of PVA and methyl cellulose.

I picked up the copy of
Dracula
and inspected it closely. Genevieve's description was right on: it had been printed in 1897, the pages were roughly cut, or deckled; the boards were soiled, but the hinges were indeed still intact; the gilding and lettering on the spine were faded. She'd mentioned slight foxing, but she'd underestimated the problem. Those nasty little brown smudges thrived on a number of pages throughout the book.