One Book In The Grave

“Wait a minute,” Ian interjected. “Do I need to hear the entire history of the world or can you skip to the good parts?”

“I promise I’ll keep it as short as I can. So, anyway, Guru Bob did the same thing for Max, asking Abraham to mentor him.”

“I thought Max worked with paper.”

“He did.” I gave Ian the abbreviated history. Max had been helping out Abraham Karastovsky at the same time I was working as his official apprentice. My little heart would go pitter-patter whenever Max came into the studio. I would dream of him and me bookbinding our way to our very own happily-ever-after.

Sadly, though, Max didn’t care much for bookbinding; he was always more interested in the paper itself than in the binding procedures. So instead of helping with binding books, he began to experiment with all sorts of different papermaking techniques.

“It was all good, because Max’s talent with paper fit right in with Guru Bob’s master plan for Dharma,” I said. “Guru Bob wanted to revive as many of the ancient guild crafts as possible, thinking that our finely crafted products would provide income for the fellowship to stay afloat into the future.”

Ian laughed. “And planting a few thousand grapevines didn’t hurt, either.”

“No kidding.” Guru Bob had hedged his bets early on by suggesting that his followers plant grapes across the commune property, adding more acreage over the years. Our vineyards and renowned winery had made the members wealthy beyond even Guru Bob’s expectations. But it was still nice to walk into the boutique shops along Dharma’s Shakespeare Lane and see our members’ artwork and beautifully handmade crafts on display.

“Meanwhile, Guru Bob had seen the level of artistry in Max’s work and suggested that he go to art school.”

So he did. And in the small world of papermaking, Max became a rock star, complete with groupies and an entourage. It didn’t hurt that he was tall and dark and ruggedly built, or that he brought his own brash, avant-garde style to the quiet art of making paper, thus catching the attention of everyone in the book arts universe. Some compared him to his hero, Dard Hunter, the legendary papermaker and printer, though Max insisted he could never be that good.

Max ended up teaching at the prestigious Sonoma Institute of the Arts, just a few miles south of Dharma. His acolytes enrolled by the dozens to study at the feet of the master. He gave lectures all over the country and hordes of groupies followed him from city to city, from lecture to art exhibit to papermaking demonstration.

“It was unbelievable,” I said, still a bit awestruck after all these years. “I went to some of his lectures and saw the fanatical adoration for myself. The truly amazing part was that Max seemed unfazed by the attention.”

“That’s all really fascinating, Brooklyn,” Ian said dryly, “but where does this copy of Beauty and the Beast come in?”

“I’m getting there,” I groused, even though I could’ve regaled him with another hour’s worth of ancient history. “So the year before he died, Max met and fell in love with a woman, a young schoolteacher, Emily Branigan.”

“Ah, a woman,” Ian said, nodding astutely. “That always spells trouble.”

“Very funny,” I said, backhanding him in the arm.

He chuckled. “Knew you’d like that one. So, what happened?”

“Max had recently broken up with this really bizarre woman who also taught at the institute.” I had to think for a few seconds, then frowned. “Angelica-that was her name.” I’d heard Max call her Angel once, but she was the furthest thing from an angel I’d ever met.

“Max’s friends couldn’t stand Angelica, so when he finally broke up with her, then met and fell in love with Emily, we were all overjoyed. They threw a party in Dharma to announce their engagement, and I needed to bring a gift. I’d had this copy of Beauty and the Beast for years, and I thought it would make a perfect gift.”

“For an engagement party?”

“I know.” I smiled ruefully as I sat back down at the conference table. “But it was the perfect gift for Max. You remember how big and brawny he was. He reminded me of that bear in the frontispiece.”

Ian picked up the book and opened it to the engraved illustration of Beauty serving tea to the Beast. “Okay, whatever. That’s sweet, I guess. But, seriously, you gave them a fairy-tale book for their engagement?”

“Come on,” I insisted. “We’re all book people. That’s what we do.”

“I’m teasing you,” he said with a grin. “Sort of. It’s sweet, as I said.”

I sighed deeply. “I cornered Max alone and gave him the book. I told him I would be glad to rebind it as a more appropriate engagement gift for Emily, but he wanted it kept exactly as it was.”

“Why?”

“He said he was a scruffy old beast and the book would always remind Emily of him.”

“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?”

I smacked his shoulder. “You couldn’t pretend to be sensitive to my pain for another minute or so?”

“Sorry, kiddo. But what about my pain?”

I knew he was kidding, trying to coax me out of my funk, so I tried to smile. “I’m just glad the book has resurfaced.”

It was his turn to sigh. “I guess you’ll contact Emily now.”

“I will.” I folded my hands on the table. “Look, she might not even want it back. She could be married with a kid by now and not even give a hoot about the book or Max.”

“It’s possible,” he said, his tone skeptical.

“Tell you what,” I said. “Once I find her and let her know the book’s been recovered, I’ll ask her to consider donating it to the Covington.”

Buoyed by the possibility, he nodded. “I would appreciate that. Thanks.”

“I just wish I knew where to start. I must have an old phone number for her, but she might’ve moved away by now.”

“Google her,” he said. “Or check Facebook.”

“Yeah. Or maybe I’ll just call Information.”

“You’re so old school sometimes.”

I smiled as I covered the book in its tissue wrap and slid it into my bag.