Books of a Feather by Kate Carlisle Read Free Book Online

next week.”
    â€œI wanted to introduce you to someone, but I can’t see where he disappeared to.”
    â€œIs it work-related?”
    â€œYes, he’s got a book for you to repair.” He craned his neck to search farther, then relaxed. “Guess he’ll find us eventually. So, how’s your mom?”
    â€œCrazy as ever,” I said, and launched into a funny story about my wonderful New Age Wiccan mother and her latest adventures. We were both laughing as a tall man wearing khakis, a denim shirt, and a sweater vest approached.
    â€œHey, Ian.” He almost sagged with relief. “I thought I’d lost you.”
    â€œNot a chance,” Ian said jovially. “Jared Mulrooney, I’d like you to meet Brooklyn Wainwright, the bookbinder I was telling you about.”
    We shook hands and I said, “Nice to meet you, Mr. Mulrooney.”
    â€œBelieve me, Ms. Wainwright,” he said, pumping my hand enthusiastically, “the pleasure is all mine.”
    â€œPlease call me Brooklyn.”
    â€œOkay. Thanks, Brooklyn. I’m Jared.” He glanced at Ian nervously as if waiting for permission to do something. To be honest, the man seemed like one big nerve ending. He was tall and very thin and a little gawky. He had big eyes, big teeth, and a large beak of a nose. I smiled, thinking how nice it was that book collectors came in every size and style.
    â€œJared is president of the National Bird-watchers Society, which has its headquarters in the Bay Area,” Ian explained.
    â€œBird-watchers? Oh my goodness, how interesting,” I said. Because truthfully, the man looked like a bird! A tall, skinny one, like a stork or a heron. Or a certain big yellow one on a popular kids’ TV show. Except his eyes were more owl-like than anything else. I found him fascinating to observe. “You must be looking forward to seeing the Audubon exhibit.”
    â€œThat’s putting it mildly,” he gushed. “I’m over-the-moon. Most of our members are here tonight, and Ian has promised all of us a private showing later this week.”
    â€œThat should be exciting,” I said.
    â€œGo on, Jared,” Ian said, hurrying the man along. “Show her the book.”
    â€œOh. Right. The book.” His mood shifted and he turned to face us head-on, as though he was shielding his actions from the crowd behind him. Flipping open the man purse he wore strapped across his chest, he handed me a book. “I sure hope you can fix it.”
    I took it from him and held it, weighing it in my hand for a moment. It was heavy for such a small volume, maybe four by seven inches, an inch thick, and leather bound. Even at first glance, I could tell it was an exquisitely crafted work. On the cover was a lovely illustration of—what else?—a bird. I didn’t know a lot about birds, but I would guess it was some sort of bluebird. Because, duh, it was blue.
    â€œThis is charming,” I said, looking more closely at the artwork. The detail was extraordinary, with every feather visible. The color of the wings was almost iridescent and I had to marvel at the ability of the artist to capture the bird’s bright-eyed curiosity. It was perched on a slim tree branch dotted with delicate purple and pink blossoms. “It’s a glorious painting. Is this Audubon’s work?”
    â€œYes, of course,” Jared said, frowning.
    I turned it on its side to examine the ribbed spine.
Songbirds in Trees
. “What a sweet title. And the gilding is still bright and unmarred. It’s lovely.”
    â€œOpen it,” he said flatly.
    I did as he instructed and felt my spirit deflate. “Oh my.”
    â€œIt’s my fault,” he lamented. “I never should’ve taken it out of its display case. But I couldn’t resist. It’s just so spectacular, I wantedto get another look at it. I shouldn’t have been drinking wine at the same