Free Pages of Sin by Kate Carlisle Page B

him when I returned. But if he never read the letter . . .”
    She gasped and her eyes filled with fresh tears, just as our waiter hurried over with three glasses of white wine.
    “Nick of time,” I said, grabbing my glass and taking a healthy sip before having to blot my own tears with my napkin.
    Mom frowned and reached for her glass. “Right there with you, Sparky.”
     
     
    That evening, I drove to the library to teach the second part of my book-repair class. I almost hated to go because Mom and Dad were taking Byron out to dinner and I was dying to hear what he had to say for himself. But Mom promised to tell me everything, so I had to settle for that.
    Robin arrived a few minutes early so we could chat before class. I asked her to go shopping in the city with me the following weekend and she voiced an emphatic yes. Because Derek’s lifestyle demanded a higher end wardrobe than I currently owned, I was in desperate need of a few dressy outfits and some classy shoes. Robin and I both knew I was useless in a department store, so as my very own fashionista extraordinaire, she was looking forward to whipping me into shape.
    As we talked, I realized all over again how much I missed having her live near me in the city. Since Derek would still be out of town, she agreed to stay overnight at my place. We negotiated which pizza we would order.
    I felt a wave of something wash over me as Robin laughed. Call it nostalgia or sadness or longing, but I missed the good old days when we would get together every weekend to laugh and party and explore San Francisco. Not that I would trade my new life with Derek for anything, don’t get me wrong. And I was totally thrilled that Robin and my brother were so happy together. Still, I missed her.
    “Now, what’s happening with the secret letter?” she asked, her eyes twinkling with laughter. She definitely knew me too well.
    “We’re still trying to figure it out,” I said.
    “Which means you’re engulfed in another mysterious investigation,” she said, and rolled her eyes in mock disapproval. “Just don’t come crying to me when you stumble over yet another dead body.”
    “Oh, please, no more dead bodies, I beg of you.” I chuckled, but that couldn’t prevent a chilly shudder from skittering down my back.
    The room had filled up and the class was excited to get started. It wasn’t long before I became absorbed in showing them more fun techniques for repairing different types of damage to the books. To review, I had them practice twirling their skewers to dispense the proper amount of glue to fix a torn page or a loose hinge.
    I’d brought some archival tape along to show them an alternative to gluing. Before demonstrating how to use the tape, I made all the librarians raise their hands.
    “Please repeat after me,” I said, raising my own hand in the air. “I hereby pledge . . .”
    “I hereby pledge . . .” they echoed, as the rest of the class chuckled and grinned.
    “Never to use book-repair tape on any books designated for permanent retention or assigned to a special collection.”
    The women repeated the pledge, although a few got a bit tongue-tied and their words dissolved into laughter.
    “And that goes double for this item,” I said, reaching into my bag and pulling out my handy roll of blue duct tape.
    “Duct tape?” Celeste said.
    One of the librarians screamed in mock horror.
    “I know,” I said, laughing. “It’s a terrible solution and should only be used as a last ditch effort when your single remaining alternative is to throw the book away.”
    That earned me some more laughs, which I was grateful for. It seems that book people think anything to do with duct tape is hilariously funny.
    My people. I smiled fondly at them.
    “Okay, we’ll put the duct tape away and concentrate on archival tape.” I held up the box of tape. “I prefer this brand, but there are several others to choose from. It comes in a roll. Duh.” I pulled the roll of