The Book Stops Here (2 page)

“I’ve never seen anything like that before,” Vera said, her spacey moment apparently past.

“It’s really quite rare,” I agreed. “The bookbinder was clearly an artist, too, in the way he chose a rich forest green leather to blend with the painter’s softer green frame. And the intricate floral gilding on the leather is patterned after the vines and roses on the painting.” I glanced at Vera. “Do you have any idea what the book might be worth?”

“I don’t have a clue,” she said, shaking her head. “It cost three dollars at a garage sale last Saturday.”

I choked out a laugh. “Wow. I don’t think I’m giving too much away if I tell you it’s worth a little more than that.”

“Oh, good.” She pressed her hands to her remarkable chest, obviously relieved by the news. Maybe now she would be able to
carry on a normal conversation. Her voice was high yet sultry, but it seemed to suit her personality. I wasn’t sure why I thought that. I’d never met her before this moment.

I opened the book and showed the frontispiece illustration to the camera. “There are eight color plates throughout the book, all in excellent condition and each with tissue guards intact.”

I angled the book toward Vera. “They’re charming illustrations, aren’t they?”

She nodded politely. “They’re very nice.”

Nice?
I thought. Was she kidding? They were
spectacular
. The entire book was fantastic. I couldn’t believe it had been allowed to molder away in someone’s garage. But I wasn’t about to criticize Vera’s lackluster response aloud.

I should’ve been used to that sort of attitude by now. Nobody gushed about books as much as bookbinders did. I would’ve loved to have mentioned how rare it was that a children’s book printed in 1911 was this beautifully preserved. Children were not generally known for their ability to treat books gently.

I sighed inwardly and changed the subject. “Now, obviously not every copy of this book could be printed with original artwork attached to its cover. So let me explain briefly about this particular edition. Back in nineteen eleven, when this book was printed, a publisher would occasionally release two versions of the same book. A regular edition and a limited, more expensive edition. This version is obviously one of the limited-edition copies.”

“How limited?” Vera asked, her gaze focusing in on the book.

“Very.” I turned to the next page. It was almost blank except for two lines of print in the middle. “This is called the limitation page. It states here that only fifty copies of this numbered edition were printed. And the number six is handwritten on the next line. So this particular book is number six out of fifty copies made. It’s beyond rare.”

Vera gulped. “And . . . and that’s good, right?”

“Yes, that’s very good. And, of course, you will have noticed that on the same page we see that it’s been authenticated with the date and original signature of the author, Frances Hodgson Burnett.”

“I did notice that.” She bit her lip, still nervous, though this time I figured it was from excitement, not fear.

Now that she was finally showing some emotion, it was time to bum her out. Earlier at rehearsal, Jane Dorsey, the show’s director, had advised us to balance things out by mentioning a few negatives. So I flipped to a page in the middle. “I should point out a few flaws.”

Vera’s expression darkened. “No, you shouldn’t.”

I chuckled. “I’m sorry, but the book isn’t without its imperfections.” I faced the page toward the camera and pointed at some little brown spots. “There’s foxing on a number of pages. These patches of brownish discoloration are fairly common in old books.”

“Eww.” She drew the word out as she leaned in to get a good look. “Are those bugs?”

“No. They’re clumps of microscopic spores, but that’s not important. Sometimes foxing can be lightened or bleached, but you should always hire a professional bookbinder to do the work.”

Turning to the inside front cover, I said, “There’s also an additional signature on the endpaper, right here.” I made sure the camera could see what I was referring to, and then I took a closer look at it myself. “It doesn’t look like a child’s handwriting. It was probably a parent signing for the child. I can’t quite make out the name, but I assume it’s the signature of one of the book’s first owners. They used a fountain pen, and it’s faded a bit.”

“And that’s a bad thing?”

“Writing one’s name in a book can diminish its value, but that’s another topic altogether.”

“But—”

“Let’s not dwell on the negatives,” I hurried to add, “because
other than those items and a few faded spots on the leather, it’s in excellent condition and—”

“And what?” Vera demanded, interrupting what was about to be my rapturous summary of the book’s qualities.

I pursed my lips, thinking quickly. I had been given six minutes to talk about the book, but the director had warned me that as soon as I revealed my appraisal amount, my segment would be over, even if I had minutes to spare.

I wasn’t ready to stop talking about the book—big surprise. But Vera was finished listening and it was time to put her out of her misery. More important, I noticed Angie hovering. And Randolph Rayburn, the handsome host of the show, stood next to her, looking ready to pounce into the camera shot and cut me off.

“And for a book of this rarity,” I continued hastily, “in such fine condition and with the author’s original signature included, it’s my expert opinion that an antiquarian book dealer would pay anywhere from twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars for this book.”

“Wha—?” Vera’s eyes bugged out of their sockets. “Twenty . . . Say that again?”

“Twenty to twenty-five thousand dollars,” I repeated, happy I’d finally gotten a reaction out of her. The producers were going to love that look on her face.

I turned the book over again to examine the rubbed spots on the back cover. “Frankly, Vera, it would take only a few hundred dollars to have the book fully restored to its original luster. Once you did that, you could probably add another three to five thousand dollars onto the value.”

“Another five thou— Holy mother-of-pearl!” Vera slapped her bountiful chest a few times as if to jump-start her heart. “Oh, my God. Are you serious?”

“Yes.”

“But that’s freaking—”

Angie must have thought Vera was about to scream out some expletive because she shoved Randolph forward, and he rushed to stand in front of our table.

“Indeed, it is!” he said nonsensically to camera, grinning as he blathered cheerfully about some of the items coming up later in the show. He finished with, “We’ll be right back.”

“And . . . we’re clear!” Angie shouted.

Vera looked shell-shocked. Everyone in the studio started talking again, moving here and there between the sets, carrying on normal conversations.

I had watched the program a bunch of times, so I knew that when they went in to edit the shows, they would plaster across the TV screen a green graphic banner announcing the amount of money I had quoted, accompanied by the sound of a cash register making a sale.
Cha-ching!

Angie approached me, but suddenly stopped and cupped her hand over her ear to hear what was being said over the headset. Her arm shot up in the air. “Quiet, people!”

Everyone in the vicinity froze.
What awesome power she has,
I thought. It was all in the headset. I wanted one.

“Randolph, don’t move,” she warned, as though she suspected he would disappear if given half a chance. Then she announced to the group in general, “Okay, we’re gonna need camera one to remain here. Jane wants to tape a short chat between Randolph and the book expert. For everyone else, we’re moving on to the Civil War segment.”

Most of the crew stirred themselves into action at the mention of Jane, the director. They pushed the cameras and the heavy microphone boom to the opposite side of the large studio where another cozy antiques-furnished set similar to mine had been designated the war room.

I had met Jane Dorsey earlier that day, during my orientation with the two executive producers, Tom Darby and Walter
Williams. Jane was almost six feet tall and very attractive, but stick thin, with white blond hair pulled back in a severe ponytail. Today she wore knee-high black boots over her jeans and a black sweater. A long white scarf was tied around her neck and fluttered in her wake as she walked.

Apparently the long scarf was something she wore every day. Tom explained that they kept the air really cold in the director’s booth so the equipment wouldn’t overheat, but I figured she also enjoyed the dramatic effect. Not that she needed it. People paid instant attention to her when she walked into a room.

Camera one remained in place, still pointed in my direction, along with its operator and a couple of crew members who assisted with microphones and cables.

Angie looked around anxiously. “Where did Randolph wander off to?”

“I’m here,” he said from halfway across the stage floor. “I’m here. I’m here. Don’t pay the ransom.”

A few of the crew guys chuckled and Angie’s lips twisted sarcastically. “Can we get this show on the road?”

I wondered how he had escaped all the way across the room in mere seconds. The guy was speedy, for sure.

“Okay, let’s do this,” Randolph said, and flashed me a rakish grin. “Hello, beautiful.”

“You are so full of it,” Angie muttered.

“But you love me, anyway,” he said, bumping his shoulder into her arm.

“Yeah, in the worst way,” Angie said. She paused to listen to a voice in her ear, then said to us, “They’re not quite ready upstairs, but don’t anyone go anywhere.”

Randolph snorted. “Famous last words. I’ll be right over here.” And with that, he wandered a few feet away to kibitz with one of the crew.

“You move and I’ll kill you,” she said.

He grinned and winked at me behind Angie’s back. He was the worst kind of flirt, completely adorable and charming. I could tell Angie liked him. What woman wouldn’t? Maybe she didn’t want to like him, but she couldn’t help herself. All of that was probably clear to Randolph, as well. Angie seemed pretty transparent with her feelings.

She was beautiful, with pale skin and a halo of thick, dark curly hair. They would make an adorable couple if hard-as-nails Angie could ever learn to deal with Randolph, the charming jokester.

The stage manager ignored the star as she rested her elbows on my table. “You did a good job, Brooklyn. Once we’re finished with the chitchat, you’ve got at least two hours to kick back before we tape another book segment.” She turned to Vera. “You okay, hon?”

Vera blinked a few times. “Oh. I’m . . . I’m a little shaken up, but very happy.”

Angie pulled two pieces of paper from the clipboard she carried. “Almost forgot. You both need to sign these releases.”

“Another one?” I’d already signed my life away that morning, indemnifying everyone in the universe in case of any possible occurrence of anything, including acts of God. “What are these for?”

“One of our local news stations is here, taping some footage for their nightly segment. It’s sort of a Look What’s Going On in San Francisco kind of thing.”

“So we could be on the news?” Vera said.

“They’re taping a bunch of short segments, so it’s not a guarantee,” Angie said. “But either way, they need your approval, just in case.”

“Okay,” I said, taking the one-page document from her and scrawling my name on the bottom line. “No problem.”

“This is so exciting,” Vera gushed, and signed her copy with a flourish. She handed it back to Angie, who slid both pages back onto her clipboard.

A young production assistant jogged across the set and slowed down as she approached the host. With a nervous gulp, she said, “Randolph, you have a flower delivery. They put it in your dressing room.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” he said, flashing her a million-dollar grin. “Hey, Angie, be back in two minutes.”

He strolled away before Angie could protest. Exasperated, she turned to me. “Stand by, will you, Brooklyn?”

“No problem,” I said, not minding the wait. I was having too much fun to complain about anything.

Vera flashed me a wide-eyed look. “Can I ask you a few more questions about the book?”

Before I could answer, Angie shook her head. “Sorry to interrupt, kids, but the second Randy returns, I’ve got to get that damn chat done and then clear this area. They’ll start taping the next segment right after that, so maybe you two can set up a meeting later.”

“Oh, sure.” Vera stood and I got a look at her shoes for the first time. Patent-leather leopard-skin stiletto heels. Wow. They had to be six inches tall and the pattern should’ve clashed with her zebra-print dress, but somehow it all worked for her.

“Hey, dig those shoes,” Angie said.

“Don’t you love them?” Vera said, beaming. “They’re my Christian Louboutin knockoffs.”

Angie nodded. “They’re freaking awesome.”

Vera turned and bent her knee, lifting her foot behind her. “They’ve even got the signature red sole. See?”

Angie and I stared at the shiny red bottom.

“They rock,” Angie said.

Vera gazed down at her sexy stilettos. “They were the first thing I bought myself after I left my no-good boyfriend.”

“Best revenge, sister,” Angie said stoutly.

“You know it,” Vera said, and giggled.

I handed Vera the business card I’d pulled out of my pocket. “I’ll be happy to talk with you about the book anytime you want. Or you can call me whenever you decide what to do.”

She looked at the card. “Okay, good. The sooner, the better.”

“Anytime,” I said.

Looking relieved, she said, “Thanks, Brooklyn.”

“And don’t forget your book, hon,” Angie said, extending
The Secret Garden
to her.

Vera stared blankly at Angie until she saw the book in her hand. “Oh, wow. I guess I’m still a little discombobulated. Thank you.”

Angie pointed out the exit to Vera, and we watched her walk away, a bit wobbly in her sky-high heels.

I sniffed, feeling sentimental. Vera was, after all, a first for me.

“She’s adorable.” Angie grinned. “And you made her day.”