Books of a Feather (5 page)

The wine Jared Mulrooney had doused the book with hadn't touched the leather cover, so he must have been holding the book open when the wine spilled. Frankly, I wished he'd spilled it on the cover rather than the pages, because that would be easier to repair or replace. I gave him a clenched smile. “I guess it's a good thing you were only drinking
white
wine.”

He moaned softly. “Can you fix it?”

“I'll give it my best shot.”

“She can fix it,” Ian said proudly. “She can fix anything.”

“I'll pay any amount,” Jared assured me. “It's a treasure beyond price. I found it in a used bookshop in Scotland and it's become our society's most prized possession. We've always kept it inside a clear, locked Plexiglas display case at our headquarters. But I couldn't keep my hands off it. Why did I have to . . . Oh, what is wrong with me?”

“Now, settle down, Jared,” Ian said, patting the man's shoulder. “It'll be all right. It's not like you killed anyone.”

I blinked at Ian in shock, but he just grinned.

Jared's face grew even paler and I felt a wave of pity for him. He gave a furtive peek behind him and lowered his voice. “The others can't find out about this.”

“You can trust me not to tell anyone,” I promised, patting his other shoulder. Then I slipped the book into my purse alongside the other secret book I'd been given tonight.

This evening was getting more and more interesting by the
minute.

I found Derek at the head of the bar line, and twenty minutes later, the two of us had managed to migrate through the crowd over to the dramatic octagon-shaped Shakespeare folio display, where we had a moment alone to enjoy our wine. I gave him a quick recap of my odd encounters with both Genevieve Taylor and Jared Mulrooney.

Shortly after I'd taken the book from Jared, he and Ian had slipped back into the crowd. I caught an occasional glimpse of Ian chatting and schmoozing with guests, but Jared had disappeared completely. Given the level of guilt and embarrassment he was suffering over the damaged book, I wouldn't blame him if he'd decided to skulk out before the Audubon was unveiled.

I realized I hadn't seen Genevieve, either, since our quick exchange in the foyer. But then, she was short enough to disappear from sight in a crowd this thick. I figured we'd run into each other again tonight at some point.

“Here he is,” Derek said, glancing over my shoulder. I turned and smiled as Crane approached. I couldn't help noticing a number of women's eyes following his progression across the room. He
wore another impeccably tailored suit tonight, as did Derek. Once again, I was struck by the overwhelming good looks of both men and knew I was the envy of plenty of the women in attendance.

“I'm glad you made it,” I said, giving him a brief hug.

“Thank you, Brooklyn.” He grinned as he shook hands with Derek. “I wasn't sure I would make it out of the consulate in time.”

“Are you making enemies of the Chinese consulate staff so soon?” Derek bantered.

Crane gave a worldly shrug. “As always.”

I must've looked concerned, because Crane laughed, then lowered his voice to add, “Actually, I'm about to increase the deputy consul's plenipotentiary powers to such an extent that, well, let us just say his mother back home will be very pleased.”

I'd never heard anyone use the word
plenipotentiary
in real life, so I was impressed. “I'd love to hear all about it.”

“I'm afraid it would put you to sleep,” he said, smiling so beautifully that I was momentarily captivated and willingly dropped the subject.

“Do we still have time for the tour you promised me?” he asked.

I checked my watch. “Sure. The Audubon unveiling doesn't happen until nine.”

“That gives us a good half hour,” Derek said. “Shall we start in the Children's Wing?”

Looking wistful, Crane scanned the room. “Is it too late to grab a cocktail?”

“Oh dear.” I felt like a terrible hostess. “Absolutely not.”

Derek pointed in the direction of the bar. “The lines have dwindled somewhat. Let's give it a shot.”

“Lead the way,” Crane said with a sweeping gesture.

Ten minutes later, after securing a gin and tonic for Crane, we
stood in front of one of the most popular exhibits in the recently opened Children's Wing. It was a display of a dozen ingeniously designed pop-up books from different artists around the country.

I felt a little silly showing him my book arts work instead of the more somber restoration work I'd done that was on display in the main hall. For instance, there was an extraordinary copy of Goethe's
Faust
, part of the Winslow collection that was still on exhibit in the main hall, and there were all the finely bound English women authors' books I'd restored last winter for the library's celebration of women in literature.

But this was one of Derek's favorites, so here we were.

“It's
Alice in Wonderland
,” Crane murmured, staring at the book in the middle. He glanced at me. “Are you telling me you created this?”

“Yes.”

He stooped down and leaned in, getting as close to the glass as he could get in order to study my interpretation of the climactic scene in the book. An entire deck of cards swirled up and out of the book, flying two feet off the page and then plunging down as if to attack poor Alice, who valiantly fought them off.

A calligraphed banner lay at the base of the book that read
YOU'RE NOTHING BUT A PACK OF CARDS!

“The cards look alive, don't they?” Derek said.

“And somewhat diabolical,” Crane said. “I wouldn't want them coming after me.”

I beamed. I couldn't have asked for a better review. “Thank you.”

“That is spectacular,” Crane said, straightening. “You are a remarkable artist.”

“Thank you so much,” I said, delighted by his compliments. “I love creating book art. Of course, I also love restoring old books, but that's an entirely different aspect of my work.”

“Restoration, the way you do it, still requires an artistic temperament,” Derek said. “It's much more exacting, though, with more rules to follow.”

“I approve of that description,” I said, then felt my shoulders droop. “I suppose that means I'm good at following rules. Not exactly what you'd call an artistic temperament.”

“Do you think following rules makes you less of an artist?” Crane asked. “I certainly don't. I believe it makes you more considerate and wise.”

I blinked. For some reason, his words made me choke up a little. “Thank you, Crane.”

He continued. “When it's your free choice to follow the rules, it means you are being true to yourself. And that truth will naturally make you a better artist.”

I thought about it for a moment. “I suppose you're right.”

He gestured toward the display. “When I look at this marvelous book, my first thought isn't, I wonder if she's following some rule. No, I'm thinking, How fun. How joyous. How fascinating. How did she do that? And yet it's clear that you were required to follow the most basic rules of mathematics, geometry, architecture, engineering, spatial order, harmony. An artist can try and pretend he is not following rules, but let's remember that nature itself provides rules. Gravity, for instance.”

I laughed. “I'm grateful to hear you say that.”

He bowed slightly. “And I am grateful to have been allowed to see this fine work of yours. It reminds me of
zhezhi
, the Chinese art of paper folding.”

“I'm not familiar with
zhezhi
,” I said. “Is it similar to origami?”

“Yes.” He smiled benevolently. “You could call it the Chinese
version of origami, although I prefer to call origami the Japanese version of
zhezhi
.”

I smiled. “Good point.”

He shrugged. “Ours is a much older art, naturally. The general way to tell the difference between a work of origami and one of
zhezhi
is that we Chinese tend to favor inanimate objects such as paper hats, boats, and the like, instead of the paper animals that are so popular in origami.”

“I didn't realize China had its own history of paper folding.”

He sighed dramatically. “We Chinese come up with all the great ideas and generously hand them off to others to claim as their own.”

I laughed again, as he clearly meant me to do.

“You'll find this is a common theme with Crane,” Derek warned.

Crane waved his hand philosophically. “It's not easy being so superior.”

“And with that,” Derek said, chuckling as he pointedly checked his watch, “we should be heading back to the main hall. It's almost nine o'clock.”

Crane grinned and tucked my arm through his. Derek took my other arm and the three of us chatted as we walked, making it back to the main hall with two minutes to spare.

Ian had wisely arranged tonight's reveal to take place on a raised platform so the assembled audience would be able to see the book when it was unveiled. Derek, Crane, and I stood at the back of the crowd as Ian began his short speech. I was so proud of him and could tell how much he'd matured with his new position.

He called this Audubon exhibit the Covington's most important exhibit since the Winslow collection opened here almost two years ago. That brought back a flurry of memories for me, of finding my
mentor dying, of rescuing the
Faust
from his hands, of meeting Derek for the first time, of blood, of betrayal, of being accused of murder.

I had to force myself to shake away those memories and pay attention to Ian's words.

“
Birds of America
,” he said. “This immense masterpiece, Audubon's legacy, is on long-term loan to the Covington Library from the Sheikh of Qatar, and we thank him and his country for their generosity.” He was interrupted by polite applause and then Ian concluded, “Without further ado, I present to you James Audubon's magnum opus, the superbly illustrated
Birds of America
, for your enjoyment.”

With that, he whipped the black velvet shroud away from the massive display case and the crowd erupted in loud applause and gasps of awe.

The book was enormous. From where I stood in line, it looked several feet wide and at least three feet tall. It was probably four or five inches thick as well.

The book was opened to a page that showed a large white bird with delicate white feathers cascading down his neck. On a wide screen above the display, the library had arranged slides of other illustrations from the book. One showed a tree branch with five songbirds perched in various poses. The colors of their wings vibrated bright blue, red, yellow, and green. Other slides showed snowy white owls quietly resting in their natural habitat; a family of ducks by a pond; a bright pink flamingo staring intently across the water; and a long-legged white bird standing at the edge of a pond, surrounded by tall grasses. The creature was bent over, his neck almost contorted, as he contemplated something on the muddy ground. A lizard or some kind of bug—I couldn't tell from here.

As I followed the crowd streaming closer, the colors on the page itself grew more dramatic and I could start to see the brushstroke details in the white feathers and the bright eyes of the creature. It looked impossibly real and I began to understand, among other reasons, why this was such an important work of art.

When I finally stood directly in front of the display, it was daunting to see how large a book it really was. I knew enough about bookbinding history to know that the paper stock Audubon had used for his illustrations was called “double-elephant” paper and it was several inches wider and taller than the two-by-three-foot estimate I'd made while standing at the back of the room. In 1838, when Audubon published his illustrations, that was the largest-sized paper available.

The book was said to contain hundreds of stunning hand-colored illustrations of over seven hundred bird species. I stared at one of them now, a snowy heron or white egret. The delicate feathering detail was amazing. The bird seemed to be staring directly at the observer. In the background, a small placid lake appeared near a farmhouse surrounded by trees.

“Magnificent,” Crane whispered behind me.

I nodded. Several minutes later, we moved away from the grand display and found a spot to carry on a conversation.

“I'm going to have to come back when it's not so crowded and take my time with it,” I said. “Even the paper is beautiful. I'm hoping Ian will let me examine the bindings up close.”

Crane glanced from Derek to me. “What a tremendous honor to be here. Thank you so much for inviting me.”

“We're glad you could make it,” Derek said.

“And we're still on for dinner Saturday night?” Crane said.

“Absolutely,” I said with a smile.
Food? Yeah!

He grinned. “Good. I'm going to take off now, but I'll see you both Saturday.”

We watched him disappear through the double doors of the foyer and I turned to Derek. “I know you probably want to leave soon, but I'd like to try and find Genevieve before we go.”

“Fine, love. I want to track down Ian and have a word with him. Shall I meet you back here in ten minutes?”

“Perfect.”

Derek strolled away and I glanced around the room. The crowd had thinned out, but I still couldn't spot Genevieve anywhere. We'd talked about our favorite Covington displays in the past, so I wondered if maybe she had snuck off to see her father's beloved baseball cards display in the West Gallery.

Of course, she might've ducked outside to get some air and stroll through the gorgeous Covington Gardens. The thought of meandering around outside on such a cold winter night caused me to shiver, though, so I decided to try the Sports Gallery first.

I walked back to the hall we'd used earlier to get to the Children's Wing and turned in the opposite direction toward the West Gallery. There was plenty to see along the way, since the wide hall featured paintings from the modern era, including contemporary works by Richard Diebenkorn, Jasper Johns, Robert Rauschenberg, Ed Ruscha, and others.

One of the things I liked best about the Covington was the eclectic blend of items they chose to display. Besides all the historically significant ephemera and the many beautiful and rare volumes from great writers and historical figures across the ages, Ian also enjoyed juxtaposing the old with the new and the priceless with the prosaic.

For instance, along with the journals of William Faulkner and Ernest Hemingway, the Covington had included the diaries of
John Lennon and Kurt Cobain. Ian and his subcurators had once filled a gallery with examples of advertising campaigns spanning the centuries from ancient Egypt, through the British Regency, and into the 1950s. They'd included a historical timeline of the quirky Sears catalogue, following it from its earliest pages in the 1880s up to modern times.

And there were the baseball cards. Joe Taylor, Genevieve's dad, had loved perusing all the players from the old days of the game to the present. I'd brought my own dad here to see them, too. They were displayed with other sports memorabilia in one of the smaller galleries off the West Gallery, so that was where I was headed.

The West Gallery was almost as large as the main exhibit hall. It had six doorways that led to other smaller galleries, and each of those usually contained a single-themed exhibit. Sports was one of them; the History of Cookbooks was another. Last year there'd been a gardening exhibit that featured gorgeous botanical prints. And the American West display was still going strong. Occasionally, a larger exhibit would be downsized and moved to a smaller space.