I, on the other hand, am serious, blond, tall, still barely out of my gangly stage and occasionally have men ask me about my revolutionary technique for stretching leather. Sounds kinky but sadly, it’s not.

I was wearing a somber yet elegant black suit while Robin looked simply smashing, all dressed up for a splashy art opening in a sassy cocktail dress and spiky black heels, her only accessory a classic strand of pearls she’d inherited from her great-grandmother.

Unfortunately, we weren’t going to a splashy art opening.

“Why are you so dressed up?” I asked, carefully removing my dust-covered lab coat. Tonight’s private showing for the Covington Library Founders’ Circle would be a quiet affair attended by the library trustees, past and present donors, the board of directors and the wealthiest members of San Francisco society.

“Hey, there may be nothing but wall-to-wall old farts tonight, but I’m still there to par-tay.”

“Ah.” I hung the lab coat up in the small closet near the front door. “I thought maybe you’d forgotten where we’re going.”

“How could I forget?” she said, steering clear of the table, which was covered with brittle hunks of leather and swollen manuscript pages. “Abraham called me again this afternoon to make sure I was coming tonight. He was almost hyperventilating, he was so excited.”

“He’s been calling you?” I felt a tug of resentment that Abraham had contacted her. But why wouldn’t he? He’d been a commune member as long as Robin and I had lived there. We were all very close, but I’d always been his favorite. Now I didn’t know what I was to him.

“He never used to call me,” Robin pointed out. “I figure it’s his way of keeping tabs on you.”

“Maybe.”

“And he never asks directly about you, but I always end up talking more about you than me. Go figure.”