Kate Carlisle - The Lies That Bind
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- Название:The Lies That Bind
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“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.
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