Eaves of Destruction
Page 25
I headed toward the south end of the convention center, asking myself all the way: Did I really need a book bag?
More importantly, did I really need to be here at all?
It had been months since I’d first agreed to give the bookbinding workshop. Then somewhere along the way they had also roped me into giving a speech on book conservation. And if that wasn’t enough, I had also said yes when they asked if I’d like to donate a raffle prize. I was all for fund-raising for librarians, but I couldn’t just give a basket of books or a gift card. No, I had offered to take twenty lucky librarians on a three-hour “Booklover’s Tour” of San Francisco. We were renting a bus and everything. Good grief. What had I been thinking?
Of course, all those months ago, I had never dreamed that I would be getting married to Derek Stone this weekend.
My gaze softened and I sighed happily at the thought of marriage to Derek—and almost crashed into a gray-haired man minding his own business, reading the program booklet.
“Sorry,” I muttered, and kept walking. It wasn’t the first time I’d spaced out and almost injured someone lately. Whenever I thought of Derek and our imminent wedding, I sort of lost consciousness for a few seconds.
I had considered canceling my conference events this week, but after talking it over with Derek, we decided that it would be a good idea for me to keep to my original conference schedule. Because amazingly, every last detail of the wedding was taken care of. And Derek had pointed out that attending the conference would—hopefully—distract me from any prewedding jitters I might have been susceptible to. He had a good argument there, seeing as how I was more than a little overwhelmed by the fact that his entire family—including his parents, four brothers and their spouses and children, and various aunts and uncles—would be arriving from England any minute now.
My entire family and my friends would be arriving as well, but I wasn’t worried about them. We had all grown up in Sonoma and knew San Francisco intimately. And my parents and brothers and sisters had been more than willing to show Derek’s family around town while I was busy at the conference. Derek insisted that his family would take my occasional absences in stride. They were all looking forward to exploring the best parts of San Francisco and the wine country. They didn’t need me to play tour guide.
It had all sounded good in theory. But now that I was here, I began to wonder if there wasn’t something I should’ve been doing to prepare for the wedding. I checked my watch. Would it be wrong to leave after I’d just arrived?
Not just wrong but stupid, I silently lectured myself as I made my way through the crowd toward the book bag counter. Attending this conference would be great for my business and my career, I reminded myself. I would make new contacts, possibly acquire some new clients, and reacquaint myself with old friends.
So I was here to stay. At least for a few hours. As I wound my way through the crowd, I grinned as I looked around and realized that despite my neurotic compulsion to check all of my wedding lists on an hourly basis, I was happy to be here. I always enjoyed this conference, and I was grateful to the organization for all the good things I’d received by being a part of it. Besides, being among all these librarians always made me feel nostalgic for my postgraduate years. Those were good times.
Even though I’d never planned to work as a librarian, I knew that starting out with a degree in Library Science was one of the best routes to a career as a bookbinder. Consequently, everyone I’d known in school had been working feverishly toward their Master of Library Science degrees back then. I had to admit it was daunting to be surrounded by all of those highly intelligent, compulsively organized, overwhelmingly detail-oriented people. I coped by wearing T-shirts that said things like: Did you wash your hands today? and Do you spell anal retentive with a hyphen?
Instead of the quick laugh I always expected when I showed up wearing one of my dumb T-shirts, my gifted friends would actually spend an hour or two discussing whatever statements I was displaying.
God, I missed them!
I finally snagged my book bag and was headed for the coffee kiosk when I heard someone call my name.
“Brooklyn?”
I whirled around and stared at the red-haired woman standing a few feet away. “Yes?”
She laughed and ruffled her short hair self-consciously. “I know it’s been years and I’ve changed a few things, but I don’t look that different, do I?”
I blinked. “Oh my God. Heather? Heather Babcock?”
“Yes!” She squealed and grabbed me in a crushing hug. “I was so afraid I wouldn’t find you!”
“I was just thinking about you,” I said. Absolute truth. She had been one of my favorite people back in the day. “I didn’t realize you were coming. Why didn’t you call me?”
“I didn’t know I was coming until two days ago, and then it was like a whirlwind, trying to get ready for the trip.”
“Wow. What a stunner. A good one,” I added quickly, grinning to hide the fact that I was in complete shock. Heather had been one of my college roommates and a best pal from the good old days. She was always so beautiful, but today she looked . . . haggard. “Gosh, it’s been . . . how many years?”
“Ten, maybe? You look fantastic.”
“So do you.”
“Yeah, right.” She chuckled ruefully. “I do own mirrors. Let’s not get carried away.”
“Don’t be silly. You’re beautiful,” I insisted but quickly changed the subject. “Do you have time for a cup of coffee?”
“Of course.”
I bought two caffe lattes and two biscotti, and we found a small table in the far corner. Within seconds we were talking and laughing like the old friends we were, as if ten long years hadn’t passed since we’d last seen each other.
Heather and I, along with our best friend, Sara Martin, had been roommates back in Library School. We had clicked from the get-go and become so inseparable that our classmates took to calling us the Three Musketeers. Sadly, though, one week before graduation, Sara and Heather had a major falling-out when Heather found out that her boyfriend, Roderick, had been cheating on her—with Sara.
Heather was inconsolable, especially when Sara and Rod ran off and got married. About a year later, I heard through the grapevine that Sara had caught Rod cheating on her. This was not a big surprise to anyone since Rod was adorable, but very shallow and prone to believing his own hyped-up PR. But in the end, Sara forgave him, and they were still together, as far as I knew.
Heather and I avoided the dreaded subject of Sara and Roderick. Instead, Heather talked about her fulfilling job at the local library in her small town, and I told her all about my adventures in bookbinding and my upcoming wedding to Derek. After thirty minutes of chatting and catching up, we both sat back and smiled.
“It’s really good to see you,” I said wistfully.
“You, too.” Heather’s smile turned enigmatic. “So, are we ever going to mention the big fat bitchy elephant in the room?”
I reached over and grabbed her hand. “I didn’t want to ask.”
She raised an eyebrow. “But you’re dying to know.”
“Sorry,” I said, wincing. “But yeah, I would love to know if you’ve had any news or run-ins with . . .”
Heather inhaled quickly, as if she were about to take some horrible-tasting medicine. “No. I haven’t seen Sara in ten years. But I have a friend who has a friend who knows her, so I hear things.”
I frowned. “Do you think she’ll be coming to the conference?”
“I sure hope not,” Heather said. Her jaw tightened, and her eyes narrowed in unrepressed fury. “Because I swear, if I ever see Sara Martin again, I’ll kill her.”
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