The Lies That Bind Read online

  I just hoped it wouldn’t be me.

  Chapter 2

  Avoiding Minka’s gaze, I turned to Layla and tried to smile. “I’ll have to take a rain check on that tour. Right now, I need to set up my classroom. See you all later.”

  I walked with purpose across the gallery and down the south hall to my classroom. I hoped I’d be able to avoid Minka for the next three weeks but she was like a noxious cloud. Really. If I got within a few hundred feet of her, I tended to suffer flulike symptoms. I supposed I’d be forced to hide out in my classroom from now on, like a sniveling coward.

  I stopped at the glass display case outside my room and found the posted schedule of classes for the month. Sure enough, Karalee Pines’s name was crossed out and Minka’s name was written in. She would be teaching a three-hour limp-binding class two nights a week for the next month. My own comprehensive bookbinding class was four nights a week for three weeks. The possibility of seeing her six times in the next month made my head hurt.

  Safe in my classroom, I unpacked my tools, then placed the stacks of decorative cloth I’d brought on the side table. I’d found some beautiful printed paper at the Edinburgh Book Fair, from a vendor who specialized in handmade Japanese prints. These would be used by my students for book covers and endpapers.

  Looking around, I took a quick inventory of the book presses and punching jigs. The jigs were clever, handmade contraptions made with two pieces of wood screwed together to form a V-shaped cradle. A thin space at the apex of the vee allowed for the pointed end of a sharp punching awl to make sewing holes in folded signatures.

  There were six standard cast-iron table presses, plus stacks of twenty or thirty iron weights of different sizes and shapes. The students would have to share the equipment, but that was rarely a problem since everyone worked at their own pace.

  The door opened and Karalee walked in and closed the door. She was BABA’s book arts manager and, along with Mark Mayberry, aka Marky May, the print arts manager, was part of the small permanent staff at BABA. They designed and ran the two main curriculums offered here.

  “Hi, Karalee,” I said with a tight smile. I didn’t know her all that well, but we’d always had a good business friendship. Until tonight, anyway.

  “Brooklyn, I’m so sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know Layla hired Minka until this morning. I was supposed to teach that limp-binding class, but Layla said she promised it to Minka. I swear, if I had any real authority, I would tell her to take this job and shove it.”

  “You can’t do that, Karalee,” I said. “It’s okay.”

  “Well, if I’d known sooner, I would’ve tried to change her mind.” She shrugged helplessly. “I’ve worked with Minka before and she’s a mess.”

  “That’s putting it mildly.” But I was grateful to know I wasn’t the only one who thought so. I cleaned a bunch of glue brushes in the sink and organized them in glass jars as we talked.

  She tapped her nails on the worktable, plainly uncomfortable. “I’m just worried we’ll lose students because of her.”

  I choked out a laugh. “You’d lose me if I had to take a class from her.”

  “You and me both,” she admitted. “Damn it. Well, I don’t want to lose you, so let me know if I can do anything to make things easier for you.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “I’ll just stay close to my classroom and try to avoid her.”

  “That’s so unfair,” she said, nervously straightening the pile of colorful papers I’d fanned out across the side table a minute ago. “But look, I mean it. I want you to be happy. So just come running if you need anything.”

  I smiled at her. “Thanks, Karalee.”

  She walked out and I continued to clean up, then checked the room’s supply of polyvinyl acetate, or PVA glue. This was the glue of choice for most bookbinders because it was water soluble and strong, while it allowed for flexibility and adjustments until it was left to dry completely.

  “Meow.”

  I looked down, surprised to see a big yellow cat staring up at me. “Hey, Baba, how’d you get in here?”

  “Meow.”

  I knelt down to stroke his lovely thick coat as he rubbed himself against my ankles. Baba Ram Dass was his full name and he was BABA’s official mascot. The cat had been in residence for as long as I’d been coming here.

  “You’re welcome to stay until someone starts sneezing,” I said.

  “Meow.” But his look said, I’ll stay as long as I feel like it.

  “I think we have a deal,” I said, standing up. I grabbed a sponge and wiped down the sink counter in the corner as my first students began to file in. They greeted me, then chose seats around the high, wide worktable that dominated the center of the room.

  Within ten minutes, the table was filled with twelve chattering students who talked among themselves and fiddled with the tools I’d laid out for them.

  I introduced myself and gave a brief background of my bona fides. “Okay, that’s me. Let’s go around the room and have you give your names and backgrounds. And tell us all what you hope to get out of the class.”

  Five of the students were graphic artists: Sylvia, Tessa, Kylie, Bobby, and Dale. I recognized Tessa and Kylie from previous classes they’d taken with me.

  There were three librarians: Marianne and Jennifer, who worked together at the main library in Daly City, and Mitchell, a muscular, tattooed Desert Storm veteran who had returned home from the war and decided to become a librarian because, as he said with a shrug, “I like books.”

  “You’ve come to the right place,” I said, chuckling.

  Mitchell added that his sister was a librarian and she thought books and binding would be good therapy for him after the war. “She was right. I’ve got the books part down. Now I’d like to try my hand at binding.”

  The next person was Cynthia Hardesty, a tall, buxom brunette who introduced both herself and her husband, Tom.

  “We’ve been on the board of directors here for three years,” she said. “Layla finally insisted we take your class. She holds you in such high regard.”

  “Yes, my dear, she thinks you’re a pip,” Tom said. He was tall and lean, though not quite as tall as his wife, with thinning hair and a bit of an old-world aristocracy vibe about him. I pictured him in an ascot and smoking jacket, drinking cognac with Lord Peter Wimsey or Jay Gatsby.

  “Isn’t that nice to hear?” I said, even though my internal BS meter was ticking loudly, indicating an overload of crap, for sure. Especially coming from Layla. And why hadn’t I been alerted that I would have two board members in my class? It meant I would have to be on my best behavior and that was never fun.

  The last two to speak were best friends, Whitney and Gina, who talked over each other as they explained that they were always looking for interesting things to do together.

  “We’re newbies but we’ll try to keep up,” Gina said.

  “I think it’ll be fun,” Whitney added brightly.

  “I hope we’ll all have a lot of fun,” I said, then began to explain how the class would proceed each week.

  On Mondays, we would start with a very brief explanation of the type of binding we’d be constructing. Each student would create a miniature version of the real thing. I held up some samples of the tiny three-inch books we’d make, and got “oohs” and “ahhs” from the women. The little books were always a big hit. By Thursday night, they would each have a larger finished journal in the same style. At the end of the three-week course, they all would’ve made six handmade books.

  “How exciting,” Whitney said.

  Gina nodded vigorously. “I’m totally psyched.”

  “Good.” I smiled at them, appreciating their fresh view of things. It would be a good motivator for everyone else, including me.

  “This week, we’ll construct a textblock of ten sections of sheets sewn through the fold onto three linen tapes and cased in cloth-covered binder’s board. Any questions?”

  “Uh, yeah,�
� Whitney said. “Will you be speaking English anytime soon?”

  We all laughed. I did tend to get caught up in the jargon sometimes. “I’ll try to remember to explain things, but just in case, I’ve included a glossary of terms in each of your packets. You’ll probably want to keep it close by for easy reference. Especially when I blather on about the lapped-component case binding, or when we discuss double-folio colored endsheets and half-cloth bindings. All that fun stuff.”

  Amid more scattered laughter (for which I was pathetically grateful), I began to go over the tools I’d given them, explaining how each one fit in the process of creating a book. Grabbing an essential tool, I held it up to show them. It was lightweight, about eight inches long, flat and white, and looked like a fancy tongue depressor.

  “Okay, I’ll just say this right out,” I said. “This is called a bone folder.”

  There were the predictable giggles and snickers.

  “Go ahead and laugh, get it out of your systems,” I said, waiting for the reactions to die down. “It’s a stupid name, but it makes sense. The tool is often made of bone, which makes it lightweight and durable. And it’s used to crease a fold. Bone. Folder. Get it? If you all say it a few times, it won’t sound funny anymore.”

  After the laughter faded, I went on to discuss the advantage of metal-edge rulers over wooden ones, and then I began my riveting discussion of the hazards of glue and the importance of recognizing paper fibers and grain direction. The grain should always run parallel to the spine of the book, I explained. Otherwise, the folds would appear ragged and uneven instead of smooth and rounded.

  “Seriously,” I said. “Fiber alignment can be very sexy. The whole subject gives me happy chills.”

  There were more chuckles and everyone seemed to relax a little more. I noticed that Baba the cat had taken up residence on the front counter and was curled up next to my soft leather tool bag.

  Since the room had its own cast-iron paper cutter in the back corner, I gathered everyone around the machine for a demonstration. Depending on the way the paper was cut, a bookbinder could produce either a smooth edge to the paper or a ragged, uneven edge, based on the style of book one wanted to create.

  As everyone took their seats back at the worktable, there was a knock at the classroom door.

  “Knock, knock,” Layla called out, then walked into the room. She was followed by a petite blond woman I’d never seen before.

  “I hate to interrupt the class,” Layla said, “but I’ve brought you another student.”

  I secured the heavy, razor-sharp handle of the paper cutter and made my way to the front of the room. I didn’t know anyone else had signed up for the class, but the more, the merrier.

  “Brooklyn Wainwright,” Layla said formally, “this is my dear friend and associate, Alice Fairchild.”

  A dear friend of Layla’s? That was worrisome. But I smiled and shook hands with her anyway.

  Her hand was small and smooth, and I felt like a clumsy giant next to her. “Nice to meet you, Alice.”

  “Alice has been with us over a month now,” Layla said, her tone hushed and reverential. “She’s our assistant director in charge of fund-raising and I don’t know how we ever got along without her. She’s doing a fabulous job.”

  “Congratulations,” I said.

  “Thank you.”Alice’s face was significantly more pale than it had been a few seconds ago. She continued to shake my hand vigorously, then realized what she was doing and pulled away. “It’s great to meet you. Sorry for shaking your hand off. My stomach nerves are bouncing off the walls.”

  “Oh, don’t worry about the class,” I assured her. “We all go at our own pace.”

  “Oh, no, I’m excited about the class. I’ve never made a book before. No, I’m actually nervous about a new account I’m pitching tomorrow for the center. They could be a great asset. Matching funds, the whole deal.” She whipped around and looked at Layla, then back at me. “Why am I going on and on? I warned Layla I’d start blathering.”

  Layla smiled. “You’re not blathering.”

  Alice shook her head. “You’re very kind, but Stuart says I talk too much when I’m nervous and he’s right, of course. Stuart’s my fiancé.” She held up her hand and wiggled her finger, where a large and absolutely stunning diamond ring twinkled and dazzled.

  “Wow, that’s a beautiful ring,” I said.

  “Thanks,” Alice said, gazing fondly at her ring. “Stuart is still back in Atlanta, closing up his office. He’ll move out here next month. He’s great. And he’s so smart. And when he says I talk too much, he’s right. I, well… I’m doing it again.” She laughed.

  Layla smiled indulgently. “You’re doing fine.”

  I wondered if my eyes were as big and round as they felt. I’d never seen Layla actually dote on anyone before. But I couldn’t blame her. Alice was adorable, despite being friends with Layla.

  “No worries,” I said, and meant it. “We’re glad to have you.”

  “I’ll try not to talk everyone’s ears off,” Alice said earnestly. “But my nerves. Oy.”

  I laughed. I couldn’t help it. She was sweet. I wanted to take her shopping and buy her a cup of hot cocoa. And it was weird, but I had an urge to rescue her from Layla’s influence, just as I’d wanted to rescue the Oliver Twist from Layla’s greedy paws earlier.

  Layla, all cheery and upbeat now, said, “I can’t tell you how thrilled we are to have Alice working at BABA. She’s already highly respected in the arts fund-raising world, so now I want her to learn every aspect of the book world and BABA’s place in it. She’s met a few of the teachers, but this will be her first classroom experience. I thought I’d start her off at the top with your excellent master class.”

  “Thank you, Layla,” I said, my BS meter still ticking at full capacity. “That’s very kind of you to say.”

  Layla beamed at my humble appreciation of her words. I supposed, or hoped, that this was her way of extending a peace offering. I had no choice but to play her game, seeing as how she signed my checks.

  “I’ll leave Alice in your good hands, then,” Layla said, and gave the class a queenly wave before whisking herself away.

  As the door closed, I happened to notice Tom Hardesty staring at Layla’s backside. Were those stars in his eyes? He looked like a teenager about to swoon over a rock star.

  I stole a glance at Cynthia, whose look of sheer contempt was quickly replaced by mild interest.

  Well, that was intriguing. Cynthia didn’t seem to like Layla at all. It was no wonder, given the way her husband practically drooled over the woman. Very interesting, I thought. No, wait, it wasn’t interesting at all. The last thing I wanted was to get involved in boardroom theatrics or BABA politics. And it could be job suicide if Tom or Cynthia knew I’d even noticed their reactions to Layla.

  Alice looked up at me. “Thank you so much for letting me take your class.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Always room for one more.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, but I appreciate it. Layla can be a bit of a bulldozer, but I promise I won’t slow the class down. I studied art and I love books, so I’m fascinated to learn more.”

  “Great,” I said with a nod. “This is the perfect place to learn more. I’m sure you’ll do fine.”

  “Thanks,” she said, and leaned close to speak quietly. “But in the interest of full disclosure, I should warn you that ever since I moved here, my stomach has been going bonkers. I’ve been getting tested for everything but the doctors don’t know what’s going on.” She rubbed her belly for emphasis. “I’m just telling you because I tend to run off to the ladies’ room with alarming regularity. I’ll try not to be too disruptive about all the comings and goings.”

  “Good to know,” I said, biting back a smile. At least she was honest, and I appreciated her self-deprecating wit. And now that I’d had a moment to study her more closely, the name Alice suited her perfectly, from her demure white blouse to her straight
blond hair and velvet headband.

  Her cell phone beeped and she jumped, then checked the screen. She shook her head and shot me a beleaguered look. “Sorry. Stuart and I text incessantly. We’re having wedding issues.”

  “You have my complete sympathy,” I said, patting her shoulder. I handed her a set of tools and pointed to an empty chair. “Why don’t you sit over there next to Tom, and we’ll get started with sewing signatures?”

  One hour later, I walked the periphery of the classroom, helping those who were struggling with the kettle stitch, the intricate nineteenth-century thread pattern used to sew linen tapes to signature pages. For some, the tricky part was drawing the thread through the paper without actually piercing the linen strips that would hold everything together. For others, it was keeping the thread tension even, as they added a new set of signatures to the previous one.

  “Ack!” Gina cried. “I’m never going to get this.”

  “Yes, you are,” I said, trying not to cringe at her wobbly stitches. “It’s just a little tricky because the book we’re making is so small. When we start on the journals, you’ll have an easier time.”

  “I hope so,” she said, unconvinced.

  “Don’t forget, you need to link each new stitch to the previous section’s stitches.”

  “Oh, God, whatever that means,” she moaned.

  I went over to my bag and pulled out a thick manila file folder of reference material. After a quick riffling, I found what I was looking for: a close-up photograph of someone’s hand, sewing the stitch.

  “Oh,” she said when I showed her the photo. “That’s what it’s supposed to look like?”

  “Yes.” Exactly as I’d showed everyone twenty minutes ago, but I didn’t say that. For a lot of people, this was complicated stuff. I handed her the photo to use as a guide.

  “It’s pretty.” She stared at the picture. “This helps a lot.”

  “Good. Hold on to that for as long as you need it.”