The Sale Catalog Finally Named The Man Who Repaired The Books

The library's question went to the auctioneer, not straight to a private deal.

He obtained an appraisal and studied recent sales. The forty-eight books made a useful group: travel accounts, local histories, canal reports, and natural history volumes that had been bought together long before Bernadette found them.

“Offered together first,” he recommended. “With enough notice for other bidders to inspect them.”

Vivian reviewed the plan. Required notices went out. The sale was advertised, the catalog was available in advance, and inspection days were set at Quinn's archive.

Bernadette received a written statement of what she could pay to redeem the collection before sale. She did not pay it.

The court approved $6,000 in enforcement expenses after reviewing the supporting bills. Storage and insured handling would total $1,920 by the sale date. The auctioneer's seller fee was eight percent.

I wrote those numbers on a clean sheet.

“Don't count your repayment yet,” Vivian said.

“I'm counting what has to be explained afterward.”

She nodded. “That's fair.”

The catalog arrived in May.

I read every condition note. One said a foldout map had a repaired split. Another described a replaced spine label. I corrected a sentence that called a modern endpaper original.

“That might lower the bid,” the auctioneer said.

“It might keep the next binder from making a mistake.”

He changed it.

Below the description of the group was a short credit: Conservation And Binding Repairs By Nabil Haddad, Buffalo, New York.

I had not asked for a grand title. Those ten words were enough.

Quinn studied the page.

“Look,” they said. “The hired book mender has a surname.”

I laughed for the first time that week.

Bernadette objected through Vale. She said the credit made the dispute obvious to people who knew us.

The auctioneer explained that the work was part of the books' history. The credit stayed.

I had not become an owner of forty-eight rare books by being insulted. I held a loan secured by them. That gave me a lawful way to get paid after default. It also required me to account for the sale and return any surplus.

The difference was printed in the notice Bernadette received. She could read it as often as she liked.

On sale day, I sat at Quinn's desk with Leila. We watched the auction through a live video feed. Neither of us held a bidding number.

The opening bid was $90,000.

My hands went cold.

A dealer offered $96,000. The library's agent went to $102,000. Then another bidder joined.

Quinn put a cup of tea beside me. I left it untouched.

At $120,000, the dealer dropped out. There was a pause. I watched the auctioneer look from one side of the room to the other.

The library's agent raised the bid to $126,000.

Nobody answered.

The hammer fell.

Leila gripped my hand. I could feel her wedding ring against the scar on my thumb.

“Paid?” she whispered.

“When the funds clear,” I said.

Quinn pushed the tea closer.

“You must be great fun on vacation.”

Two weeks later, the buyer's funds had cleared. The settlement statement arrived with a copy for Bernadette.

Sale price: $126,000.

Auction fee: $10,080.

Storage and insured handling: $1,920.

Allowed enforcement expenses: $6,000.

Principal paid to Nabil Haddad: $84,000.

Surplus due Bernadette Karam: $24,000.

I checked it with a calculator, then checked it again by hand.

My loan money went back into my account. The expense payment covered the bills I had paid or still owed. It was not a prize.

Bernadette's surplus went to her lawyer's trust account for her benefit. I did not hold it until she apologized. I did not subtract four years of free evenings.

Leila read the statement across from me.

“You could have asked for the labor.”

“Not as a bill we never agreed on.”

“She would have.”

I folded my copy along its existing crease.

“That's her work. This is mine.”

The library collected the books in padded crates. Its curator signed for all forty-eight, using the same item numbers Quinn had witnessed four years earlier.

A student worker slipped both hands beneath the botanical volume. He waited for me to check the space around its boards before lowering it into the padding. Nobody told me to hurry. I showed him where the hinge needed support, and he listened.

When the last crate left, I stood beside the empty shelf.

I had thought I would feel robbed again. Instead, I felt the strange ease of seeing a repaired hinge open without strain.

The books were going somewhere people would use them. I had been paid. My father's daybook was home.

That evening, a letter from Bernadette arrived.

For once, it did not tell me what I owed her.

It asked whether I would meet her for coffee.