Sleight of Hand by Robin Hathaway Read Free Book Online Page B

auditorium in November—just a few weeks from now,” Becca said haughtily. (No barns for her.) “But you better get your ticket soon. They’re selling fast,” she warned.
    â€œWow! Am I impressed. When did you guys learn all this?”
    â€œWe’ve been practicing for weeks,” Bobby said proudly. “Ever since Becca found this book. She’s the magician; I’m just her helper.”
    â€œThe helper’s very important,” Becca said kindly. “I couldn’t do it without you.”
    Bobby shuffled his feet. But, recovering quickly, he announced, “We’re doing card tricks and juggling, and even pulling a rabbit out of a hat!”
    The headlights of a passing car illuminated their faces and I caught a glimpse of their excited expressions. “Well, I’ll be in the front row. You can count on that,” I said.
    They both grinned broadly. Even Becca forgot her cool.
    I throttled down and took off with a wave. A brief encounter with people outside my glass box—normal people, with simple pleasures—did wonders for me. I slept like a rock.

CHAPTER 14
    It was a perfect fall day. The blue sky curved smoothly overhead like the inside of a china cup, the soybean plants were the color of melted cheddar, and a brisk breeze blew wood smoke from a neighboring farm. It’s rare when the weather fits your mood, but this day it was in perfect sync. It was a good kite-flying day—and I felt as high as a kite.
    Why did I feel so good? I tried to analyze it. First off, I hadn’t received any calls from my patient during the night, so I assumed he was okay. And, to my surprise, I realized I was looking forward to running this print job. I hadn’t run a press for years, but I wasn’t worried. Some things, like riding a bicycle or ice skating, you never forget. If the job went okay, I’d call Dad and brag a bit.
    I decided to take a peek in the barn before I went to see my patient. When I stepped into the old building, the aroma of wood smoke was replaced by the more pungent smell of ink, ink solvent, and oily machinery. Beneath all that lay the more delicate scent of newly cut paper. Funny how scents evoke memories more strongly than even sights and sounds. There was a neurological reason for this, but it escaped me. I closed my eyes, inhaled deeply, and could
see my dad’s print shop down to the smallest detail: the battered presses, folding machine, and paper cutter, the tall type cabinet with its small square drawers full of lead type and old cuts, harking back to his letterpress days. My favorites were a little girl in a Queen Anne dress, a horse and carriage, and a soldier in an old-fashioned uniform.
    Dad’s shop was also a museum—full of memorabilia that he had collected over the years, some of it dating back to the days of Benjamin Franklin. A Chandler Price platen press gathered dust in one corner. Other corners hid cartons of wood type for posters, discarded rollers, composing sticks, chases, and piles of furniture—those bits of wood you put around the type to make it fit snugly in the chase before printing.
    Max’s equipment was a little more up-to-date. He must have entered the trade when photo offset was in full swing. But even he was behind the times. I didn’t see any computers or a camera. Maybe they were in the house. He could set his text by computer, and if he had an offset camera, he could make negatives of the pages, burn them onto the plates, and print them on the Multi. Even now, it wasn’t cost-efficient to print long runs on a computer printer. For runs of over a hundred, the printing press was still the way to go.
    Time to stop reminiscing and check on my patient. As I approached the house, Lolly came out to greet me. She was wearing a different housedress. This one bore pink primroses instead of blue butterflies. I wondered where she found such large sizes in Bayfield. There was no Wal-Mart