“I don’t recall him being particularly scruffy,” Ian said, his eyes narrowed in thought.

“He wasn’t, but he was a big guy-remember? Whenever he came back from a camping trip, his beard was so bushy, the first thing he would do was shave it off. Otherwise, his mother wouldn’t let him in the house.” I smiled at the memory. “Anyway, he loved the book and didn’t want any changes made. Emily was so sweet and petite and proper, she was the ideal Beauty to his Beast.”

“Sounds like a man in love,” Ian said.

“He had a great laugh,” I said softly, then turned to the flyleaf and tapped the inscription. “I watched Max write this to her.”

Ian picked up the book and read the words aloud. “To my beloved Beauty from her devoted Beast.” It was signed and dated, as well.

Ian looked at me sideways. “That little scribbling probably decreased the book’s value by thirty percent.”

“Would you shut up? You’re so cynical.” I sighed. “Emily loved the book. She kept it clutched in her hands all during the party. Then a month or so later, Max was killed in a car crash.”

Ian cringed. “I remember that part. It was tragic.”

“It was,” I said. “At his funeral, I offered again to restore the book for Emily, but she wanted it to remain the way it was in memory of Max.”

“So that was it, then?”

“Sadly, no. A few weeks after Max’s death, Emily called to tell me her house had been broken into and someone had stolen the book. She could barely speak, she was so upset. And that’s the last time we ever spoke.”

“I’m really sorry, Brooklyn,” Ian said. He sat down and pulled his chair close so he could wrap his arm around my shoulders. He gave me a little squeeze and said, “I guess seeing the book again is bringing up a lot of old memories for you.”

“Yeah, it is.” I pulled a tissue from my bag and blew my nose.

He sat back and gazed at the book for another long moment, then waved his hand in frustration. “Damn it, Brooklyn, do you know how much money I paid for this book?”