Page 5 of Bookworm
Too damn hard, apparently.
I vaguely remembered men at the pub buying us round after round last night when they discovered we were celebrating Daphne’s residency. That was the beauty of London. When you have a local haunt—andeveryonehas a local pub—they treat you like family.
Sitting down on the loveseat that came with my furnished flat, she reached into the small shopping bag and pulled the book out with a low whistle. “I was too drunk last night to really relish in holding this beauty.”
I smiled at my best friend. She was the only person in my life who understood how sacred books were to me.
We’d met at Oxford while getting our Masters of Library Sciences… it was already a small program, made smaller by the fact that I was the only one in my program who wanted to use my degree for book conservation and restoration. Most of the other masters candidates were solely looking to run the libraries.
“Harper,” she whispered. “It’s even more beautiful than it was last night.”
I groaned and flopped onto the loveseat next to her. “What am I going to do, Daphne? I spent every last penny I had on this stupid thing.”
Daphne blinked at me. “Are you joking?”
“I mean, I haven’t checked my bank account or anything this morning, but yeah, I’m pretty sure that every penny I had from my first gig here in London is right there in your hands. How the hell am I going to make my student loan payment next month?” Let alone pay for rent, food, cat food, and just all around living expenses in one of the most expensive cities.
Granted, I was lucky that my stepdad and mom owned this building and gave me a great rate on the rent. But still, even paying cost, it wasn’t cheap by any stretch of the means.
“No,” Daphne said. “I meant are you joking that you don’t remember the plan?”
“What plan? What the hell are you talking about?”
Daphne’s face paled and she shook her head. “Holy hell, how drunk were you last night?”
“I warned you that when I have hard liquor, I black out!” I jumped off the couch and Jules darted under the couch to hide. “But nooooo,let’s do shots, you said!It’ll be fine, you said!”
“I thought you were exaggerating!” Daphne shrieked at me, jumping up, too.
“Well, I wasn’t!”
She gripped my hands, squeezing them hard. “Harper, breathe. You came up with a plan last night. A good plan.”
“A drunken plan,” I added.
She considered that a moment, then nodded. “Okay, yes. A drunken plan. But still, it’s a good business plan.” She dove into the paper bag and pulled out a napkin with scribbles all over it in my handwriting. At the top, it said:
Meyer’s Book Restoration and Conservation.
It had been my dream for the better part of four years. Starting my own business, traveling around and restoring rare and valuable books. But it was damn hard to make a name for yourself in that field. Academia was already snobbery at its finest. And even having gone to Oxford didn’t guarantee me a face to face with higher ups at libraries and universities.
I groaned. “So what? I wrote down my business plan drunkenly on a cocktail napkin?”
Daphne shook her head. “You didn’t just write it down. You started making calls last night.”
My face drained of color and for the first time all morning, I thought I might puke. “I didwhat?”
“You called several universities back where you grew up and asked if any of them wanted to add this book to their collection. You promised that it would be in near mint condition.”
I lunged for my cell phone, pulling up my call history. Sure enough, there were multiple calls made to the states. Harvard University. Columbia. Yale. Dartmouth.
I gasped, shoving the phone into Daphne’s face. “One of these phone calls lasted for 98 minutes, Daphne! Who the hell did I talk to for ninety-eight minutes?! I must have sounded like a raving lunatic!”
“Actually,” Daphne said, smiling. “You sounded confident. Professional. And you finally took those risks that Professor Locke always encouraged you to do.” She paused for effect, then added, “And one of them said yes.”
I blinked, looking up at Daphne. “One of them said yes?”
The memory was tickling something in the back of my brain. A faint wisp of the memory of the phone call.
