I found out later that she was crazy in love with my boyfriend at the time. Crazy in a bad, bad way. She’d been trying to find a way to get me out of the picture. Fortunately, soon after the knife incident, she dropped out and I went on to get my Master’s degree.

Our paths crossed again the semester I taught a leaf attachment course at the University of Texas at Austin. She tried to audit my class and I was unnerved enough to think she still might be stalking me. Call me cuckoo, but after finding two flat tires on my car, then discovering a dead cat on my front porch, I went to the administrative offices and got her removed from the class. I seriously feared for my safety, and even imagined her trying to jam my head between the boards of a book press or something.

Now here she was at the Covington, clinging to Ian. Did she know I’d been engaged to him a few years back? It wasn’t a secret. What game was she playing now?

“You know her,” I said flatly.

“Not well,” he admitted. “She’s part-time staff, so I used her for some of the Winslow restoration work. She came across as charming and efficient, but problems erupted as soon as she started. Two of my best people threatened to quit, so I took her off the project.”

I could barely watch as she laughed and yakked like an intimate friend of both Ian’s and Baldacchio’s. On tonight of all nights, the opening of Abraham’s exhibition. I had to wonder, was she here because of me? Everyone in the business knew he’d been my teacher and mentor. Was I completely paranoid?

I would’ve loved to pursue the topic of Minka’s shortcomings and find out how in the world she’d finagled a job at the Covington in the first place, but Abraham’s friend Doris interrupted us just then, grabbing Abraham’s arm and giving it a vigorous shake.

“Now, what were you yelling about, old man?” she said.

I almost snorted.

“Doris Bondurant,” Abraham said formally, “I’d like to introduce my former assistant and now my greatest competition, Brooklyn Wainwright. Brooklyn, this is my old friend Doris Bondurant.”

“Watch who you’re calling old, buster,” she said, and elbowed Abraham in the stomach. She turned to me and shook my hand. “Hello, dear.”

“It’s such a pleasure to meet you,” I said. Along with being Covington Library trustees, Doris and Theodore Bondurant were on the board of at least a half dozen charitable organizations around San Francisco, and their names were synonymous with the arts and high society. On a good day they were probably worth a few billion dollars, so Doris could afford to be feisty.

Her hand was gnarled and covered in age spots, but her handshake was strong enough to make me cry uncle.

“I’ve heard a potful of good things about you from this guy, missy,” she said, pointing her thumb at Abraham. “I’d like to see some of your work around here one of these days.” Her voice had the gravelly character of a lifelong smoker’s.

“Thank you, Mrs. Bondurant. That’s very kind of you.”

She wagged a finger at me. “First of all, I’m not kind. And second, you call me Doris.”

I smiled. “All right, Doris.”

She winked. “That’s better. Now, look, people think I’m a mucky-muck around here, but mostly I just love books.”

“Me, too.”

“Glad to hear it,” she said. “Now, this big lug tells me you know your way around a bookbinding, so I’m going to send you some business.”

I sent Abraham a grateful look and he waggled his eyebrows at me. “I’d be honored.”

“Do you have a business card?”

“Um, sure.” I fumbled in my bag, found my cards and handed one to her. She peered at it for a few seconds before nodding.

“I’ll call you.” She slipped my card into her clutch purse, glanced around the room, then patted Abraham’s barrel chest. “I’m going to track down Teddy and hit the bar before it gets too crowded, but then I want that behind-the-scenes tour you promised me.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Abraham said, grinning.

She winked at me, smacked Abraham’s arm and wiggled her fingers good-bye as she walked away.

I turned to Abraham. “I love her.”

“She’s a classic, all right.” He checked his watch and swore under his breath. “I’d better run. I’ve got some business to attend to.”

“Of course. I won’t keep you.”

“Look, why don’t you mingle for an hour or so, then come downstairs to my workshop? I’ll give you a sneak preview of the Faust.” He leaned in close and wiggled his eyebrows. “Don’t tell me you’re not dying to see it.”

I grinned. “I’d love to see it.”

“It’s spectacular, trust me.”

“I do, Abraham.”

He gave me another quick squeeze. “You’re my good girl.”

Tears stung my eyes. The first time he’d ever said that to me, I was eight years old and miserable. My stupid brothers had used my favorite book, The Secret Garden, as a football and I’d found it lying in the dirt, its front cover hanging by threads and half the pages ripped or shredded. My mother suggested I go see the commune’s bookbinder to get it fixed.

Abraham took one look and ordered my brothers into the studio, where he promised them any number of chilling reprisals if they ever damaged another book again. After scaring the bejeezus out of them, he sat them down and gave them a quick lesson in book arts and history-the kid-friendly version-followed by an explanation of what family meant and why they should cherish and honor their sister by respecting what was precious to her.

I fell in love with Abraham that day.

Now I sniffed back tears and said, “Abraham, I just wish we-”

“Not another word.” He gripped my shoulders. “I admit I’ve been a stubborn old fool, but I’ve recently learned a valuable lesson.”

“You have?”

“Yes,” he said with a firm nod. “Life’s too damn short to spend time regretting or wishing for what might’ve been. From now on, I plan to live in the present and enjoy every minute.”

My throat was tight but I managed to whisper, “I’ve missed you, Abraham.”

He pulled me in for one last hug. “Ah, Punkin, that’s music to these old ears.” He let me go, but added, “We won’t be strangers anymore, agreed?”

“Absolutely.”

“Good. I’ll see you downstairs in a while.”

“I’ll be there.”

He walked away and would’ve vanished in the crowd, but his mop of hair was like a beacon. I watched him until he slipped through the doorway leading to the small West Gallery and disappeared.

I knew the West Gallery led to a series of smaller display rooms that finally ended at the stairway that led to the basement where his temporary studio was located. One of the perks of working on a Covington exhibit was the free use of their state-of-the-art on-site workshops-if you could find your way through the jumbled warren of galleries and halls and stairways. Of course, if you were going to get lost, this was a great place to do it.

My heart felt as though a weight had been lifted. Abraham and I could go forward as friends and colleagues instead of the distant rivals I was afraid we’d become.

Feeling lighter, I moved toward the exhibit of Walt Whitman letters and photographs. The main hall was now filled to capacity with the cream of San Francisco society. Wall-to-wall old farts, as promised.

Thinking of old farts made me think of Robin, which in turn reminded me that I didn’t have a drink in my hand.

As I scanned the room in search of the bar, my attention was drawn to the far side of the hall. Near a large panel of original Audubon paintings, one man stood alone, leaning against the wall, a wary stranger in this swarm of friends and fellow book lovers. He sipped a drink as he observed the crowd, the exhibits, the ambiance, yet he seemed to hold himself apart from it all.

I’d never seen him before. I would’ve remembered. He was over six feet tall and his hair was dark and closely cropped. His leanly muscled build exuded tough-guy strength, almost as if he’d just as soon use his fists as his charm to get what he wanted. I could appreciate that. There was pure male arrogance and more than a few secrets in his dark eyes as he glanced around the room.