He had a point. On the other hand, if there weren’t “civilians” out there wanting me to make their old books look pretty, I’d be out of work.

“You’ll be paid well,” he said.

“You know I don’t care about that.”

Then he quoted the salary he was willing to pay me and I knew I’d be a complete idiot not to take it. Yes, the timing was unfortunate. And yes, I was about to sacrifice my principles for money. So sue me, but the job needed to be done and I wasn’t about to let it go to somebody else.

I smiled tightly. “Of course I’ll do it.”

He let out a relieved breath. “Thank you. I knew I could count on you.”

“Always.”

He grinned and gave me a chuck on the chin. “Good stuff, you.”

It was a classic Ian thing to do and say, and it brought home the fact that Ian wasn’t a laid-back Californian but an upper-crust, old-school Bostonian, out of his element in the land of fruits and nuts. I imagined he grew up in a stately home where his parents and siblings greeted one another with cries of “hail, fellow” and “pip-pip” and “cheerio, old bean.”

“Do you mind if we discuss the details tomorrow?” I asked. “I’m really beat.”

He gave in with a nod. “Sure. Why don’t you come by my office around ten tomorrow morning and we’ll talk?” Then he surprised me by pulling me close for a hug. My eyes began tearing up again, so I took a deep breath and stepped back.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

He slugged my arm gently. “Thanks, kiddo.”

While Robin took a shower in my guest bathroom, I did what I always did when I was completely at my wits’ end and unsure what to do next.

I worked.

Robin had kindly insisted on spending the night and I was frankly grateful for the company. So now I focused my camera lens on the medical treatise I’d been working on this afternoon, trying to get a good shot of the book’s tattered foredge.