Kate Carlisle - The Lies That Bind

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.”

“Thanks.”

There was a low-level buzz and Cynthia Hardesty grabbed her cell phone. “I’ve got to take a quick break,” she said, staring at her smart phone as she pushed her fingers across the screen. “I need to take care of some personal business.”

Except she called it bidness . I wasn’t sure why. Maybe she thought it sounded cool, but it really didn’t. One thing that bothered me was that she didn’t seem to take the class seriously. She was much too busy with her bidness .

“Would you mind if I ran out for a minute, too?” Alice said. “I’ve finished my sewing and I’m afraid Stuart might be asleep if I wait much longer.”

“No problem,” I said, taking a quick look at her stitching job. “You’re doing really well.”

“Thanks,” she said, with a note of pride. “Be right back.”

“Oh, can I be excused, too?” Whitney asked, her arm bobbing up like an overeager student’s. She nudged Gina. “I need to make those reservations, remember?”

“Oh, right,” Gina said, and winked at me. “She’s got a hot date Friday night.”

“Shh, don’t jinx it,” Whitney said.

“Go ahead,” I said, checking my watch. “I need to talk to someone down the hall. But I should be right back.”

“Are we taking a break?” Marianne asked, looking up for the first time.

“We’ll be taking an official thirty-minute dinner break in a while, but if anyone needs a minute right now, go ahead. For those staying, please continue to work on sewing your signature pages.”

“Before you go,” Jennifer said, “can you show me how that loopy knot thing works again? I’m all thumbs.”

“Yes.” I stopped at her station and demonstrated the weaver’s knot again, pointing out the importance of kinking the linen thread. Then I went around the room and showed each student the kink in the thread, just to be sure everyone was on base.

After Jennifer assured me she could do it on her own, I left the room and headed for Layla’s office. For the last hour, my mind had been fretting about our argument over the Oliver Twist . I’d appreciated her making nice when she brought Alice into the class, but I was still anxious.

I’d formed a plan. I would ask her if I could buy back the book. Or, if that didn’t appeal to her, I could call Ian McCullough, the Covington Library’s head curator and an old college friend of my brother Austin-and my ex-fiancé. And when I say fiancé , I mean we liked each other a lot and tried to pretend it was love, but we both knew it wasn’t. We’re still great friends. Ian might have had a way of tracking down an actual true first edition of Oliver Twist . If he was successful, the Covington might consider it good publicity to donate the book to the Twisted festival auction. It went against the grain to help Layla Fontaine, but the last thing I needed was to have her blackball me in the book arts community because, God forbid, I had too many scruples.

Scruples. How boring!

I skirted the gallery, dark now except for the few pin spots illuminating the wood-block prints and a faint stream of moonlight seeping through the skylight.