If I hadn’t already decided by the age of eight to work with books, my first visit to the Covington Library would’ve sealed the deal.

The stately Italianate mansion with its museum and lovely gardens dominated two square blocks at the top of Pacific Heights. Walking through the immense iron doors of the Covington was like entering a Gothic cathedral. You could almost hear the secrets of the universe being whispered by the spirits that inhabited the massive, mahogany-lined room and all the books that sat within its walls.

There was magic here. Whether or not anyone walking inside would admit to a belief in the sacredness of the room, they would instinctively speak in hushed tones as they wound their way through the various rooms and exhibits.

The Covington Library collection was one of the largest and finest in the world. It boasted twelve of Shakespeare’s folios on permanent display, as well as Walt Whitman’s letters and one of the first Gutenberg Bibles. There were shimmering illuminations painted by medieval monks, sixteenth-century correspondence between Queen Elizabeth I and the third earl of Covington, and printed accounts of explorers from Christopher Columbus onward.

Those items shared space with rare first editions of works by Mary Shelley, Hans Christian Andersen, Agatha Christie and Henry David Thoreau. Faulkner, Hemingway and Kingsley Amis shared space with John Lennon’s drawings, Stephen King’s rejection letters, Kurt Cobain’s diaries and an amazing collection of vintage baseball cards. The Covington collection was diverse and often quirky to say the least. To me, that was a major part of its appeal.

After a rollicking ride through the City, Robin dropped me off out front, then drove away to find a safe parking place for her beloved Porsche Speedster. I didn’t bother to wait for her because I knew she’d take her time and make a grand entrance. I just wanted to get inside and see Abraham and the books.

I made my way through the crowd of well-dressed, chatty people gathered in the wide, marble-floored foyer, finally breaking through to the main exhibit room, where I almost slammed right into Abraham.

His eyes widened when he realized it was me. “Punkin Pie!” He grabbed me in a bear hug so tight I almost passed out, but at least he seemed happy to see me. “I’m so glad you made it.”

“Me, too,” I said, gasping for air. The man was bigger than a bull and twice as genteel. Tonight he wore a subdued dark suit that couldn’t begin to tame the wild man within-or the unruly mop of hair that grew in a thick black mass of curls. My father always said Abraham’s hair should have its own zip code.

Abraham was a force of nature, occasionally blustering, sometimes destructive, always stubborn and brilliant. He smelled of musty books and peppermint tea, and I clung to him for an extra moment just to enjoy his scent.

I’d missed him, loved him like a favorite uncle. This was the first time I’d seen him since severing our business relationship, but he was acting as if we’d never been apart. It was a little weird, but I was happy.

With his arm still around my shoulder, he waved madly to a woman standing a few feet away. My entire body shook as he cried out, “Doris, come meet Punkin-er, Brooklyn!”

A petite, frail woman in a black and gold Chanel suit waved back absently before continuing her conversation with the tall, balding man next to her.

“She can do wonders for your career, Punkin,” he whispered loudly.

As we waited for Doris, I had a few more seconds to catch my breath, look around and try to forget that he’d used that horrid childhood nickname of mine three times now. Yes, I’d once had a little obsession with pumpkin pie at Thanksgiving. Hadn’t everyone?

I guess I could forgive him as long as he was about to introduce me to someone who could help my business. That was enough to tell me he’d let go of his anger at my leaving him. Not that I expected him to actually discuss it. Abraham was a male from the old school-strong, silent, occasionally brooding. Except when he was ranting about something. Then he was anything but silent.

Smiling, I gazed up at Abraham. “How have you been?”

“Ah, life is good, Brooklyn,” he said, squeezing me again briefly. “I didn’t think it could get any better, but it can.”

“Really?” I’d never heard my grumpy mentor sound so upbeat. “I’m thrilled for you.”

From somewhere above us, a string quartet began to play a Haydn serenade. I gazed up at the three-story-high coffered ceiling and the delicate wrought-iron balconies of the second and third floors. The musicians were seated on the third floor, overlooking the main hall, with acres of bookshelves providing the backdrop. On both of the higher floors, tall shelves of books circumnavigated the main hall, broken up by narrow aisles of more books leading back into cozy reading rooms and study corners. There were more nooks and crannies than a hobbit hole and I could still picture myself as an eight-year-old book lover, visiting for the first time and wandering the elaborate mazes. No wonder I fell for the place.

More guests were moving into the main hall and filling the space with lively conversation and elegant evening wear. Laughter competed with the music as tuxedoed waiters emerged with trays of champagne-filled flutes and delicate hors d’oeuvres. I rubbed Abraham’s arm affectionately. “Everything looks fabulous. It’s so exciting.”

“Thanks, sweetheart,” he said. “You’re looking especially nifty tonight.”

I sighed. Nifty? Who said that anymore? I liked it.

His arm muscles tightened and he swore under his breath. I glanced up and saw that his face had turned ashen.

“What is it, Abraham? What’s wrong?”

“Baldacchio!” he whispered angrily. “I can’t believe that two-faced crook had the balls to show up here tonight.”

“You’re kidding.” I started to turn but he grabbed me.

“Don’t look!” he cried. “I don’t want him to see we’re wasting breath talking about him.”

“Tell me when.”

He gripped my arm. “Okay. Over your left shoulder. Wait. Okay, now.”

I tried to be casual as I turned to stare across the crowded space. At first I barely recognized the greasy-haired, shrunken man in the corner, but then he grinned slyly and there was no doubt it was Enrico Baldacchio, Abraham’s most detested archrival in the small world that was bookbinding. Over the years, they had undermined each other’s reputations by spreading gossip and stealing lucrative commissions out from under each other.

“I’d heard you were working together again on some project for the Book Guild,” I said. “Was that just a vicious rumor?”

“No.” Abraham looked ready to spit nails. “The Book Guild begged me to do it and I tried, but had to cut him loose again. The man can’t be trusted. He’s a liar and a thief.”

I snuck another peek across the room. Baldacchio was talking animatedly to Ian McCullough, the Covington ’s head curator and an old college friend of my brother Austin-and my ex-fiancé. A woman stood at Ian’s side with her arm tucked into his. When she turned her head, I gasped and looked away.

“What is it, Punk?” Abraham asked.

“Minka LaBoeuf.”

I appreciated Abraham’s quick frown. “I’m surprised she’s here tonight.”

Abraham knew Minka LaBoeuf?

Oh yes, bookbinding was a small world. She had a lot of nerve showing up anywhere within two city blocks of me. I silently fumed. Of all the bitches in all the world…

Years ago, Minka and I had been grad school class-mates in the art and architecture department at Harvard. I didn’t know her well, but whenever our paths crossed, I would catch a weird vibe of anger or contempt-for me. It was disconcerting but I did my best to ignore her.

One day, after I was singled out for my superior gold-finishing work by a professor in a papermaking class, Minka walked over to my worktable to see my work, or so I thought. Instead, she’d concealed a skiving knife, a very sharp tool used for paring leather, with which she tried to spear my hand. She barely missed my radial artery as well as several vital nerves and muscles, and swore it was an accident, but I’d seen the calculation and derision in her shifty eyes.