Pages of Sin (7 page)

“We’re taking the class because we’re fledgling book collectors,” Rita said.

“Yeah,” Sam piped up. “We want to keep our books in good condition so we’re hoping to get some ideas here.”

“I promise you’ll get lots of great tips,” I assured them, then asked the question everyone else was probably wondering, too. “Are you two newlyweds?”

Sam grinned. “I guess it’s obvious, huh?”

“I guess.” Rita blushed as she nudged Sam with her elbow. “We were recently married after meeting up at our fiftieth high school reunion.”

“Ooh, how romantic!” Trudy cried, as everyone in the room applauded and congratulated them.

The cheers died down and I moved on to the first exciting topic of the evening: a brief primer on glue.

Holding up a small, familiar looking white plastic bottle, I said, “PVA glue, or polyvinyl acetate, is a book lover’s best friend. It’s sold almost everywhere. But beware, all white glue is not created equal. Be sure to look for the words ‘acid free’ on the label. That means it’s a certified pH-neutral adhesive.”

“Say what?” Sam said.

I smiled. “That’s a fancy way of saying that it won’t damage the paper in a book or cause it to turn yellow.”

Rather than try to describe the damage the wrong glue could cause, I passed around a book ravaged by a well-known adhesive that came in a tape dispenser. Wherever the tape had been used to repair tears, the paper underneath was stained a dirty, dark yellow. “That’s what happens if your adhesive isn’t pH neutral.”

“Gross,” said James, who’d announced earlier that he was a graduate student in engineering.

Next, I explained a few of the items I’d laid out at each of their places. “Along with PVA, these are the miracle tools of quick and dirty book repair. Most of them can probably be found in your kitchen.”

“Cool,” Trudy whispered.

I held up each one as I mentioned it. “Wax paper. You’ll need a few sheets to do most repairs. Next, a couple of thin bamboo skewers, the kind used for grilling veggies or kabobs. You can buy them at the supermarket in packets of forty or fifty.”

“We love kabobs,” Rita said brightly. “We go through those sticks like crazy.”

“Great,” I said. “And finally, you’ll need something to use as a weight. You can use a brick. Or a cast-iron frying pan. Something flat and heavy. And with these household items, you, too, can tighten a loose hinge on almost any book.”

There were some actual gasps and I laughed. “I know. It’s thrilling. Okay, here’s our first victim.” I used both hands to hold up an old cloth-covered book by its boards, causing the text block to hang down limply.

I walked along the rows of tables so everyone could get a good look at the damage.

“Are you avoiding me?” Robin whispered when I got close.

I leaned over and whispered, “Yes, you make me nervous.”

She grinned. “I feel the power.”

I rolled my eyes and kept walking.

“That’s just sad,” Ruby said, staring up at the droopy old book.

“Isn’t it?” I returned to the front of the room and glanced around, meeting all their riveted gazes—except for Robin’s, but I could hear her snickering. “Now I’m sure our librarians recognize this problem. Loose hinges. So many library books are checked out over and over again, then carelessly tossed into the return bins. Eventually, the hinges come loose, leaving the text block in danger of being torn away from the cover. So here’s how we fix it.”

I slid one of the bamboo skewers through the small opening in the glue bottle and pulled it out. “See how the glue is evenly distributed around the stick? Doing it this way allows for a perfect amount of glue, every time.”

Standing the book up in an open position, I inserted the glue-covered skewer inside the inner hinge of the front cover. I twirled the skewer a few times so that the glue was completely affixed to the inner paper, then pulled out the stick. I repeated the dipping, inserting and twirling action with the back hinge.

“Be careful not to get any glue on the spine itself,” I said, pointing to the space between the spine and text block. “Otherwise, the book won’t open and close properly.”

Then I grabbed two sheets of wax paper. “Slip one sheet inside the front cover and one inside the back. This will prevent any glue from sticking to the outside of the endpapers while the book is weighted down. Now close the book and take your bone folder . . .”

As I picked up the next tool, I paused and waited for the titters and giggles to subside.

“It’s made of bone,” I explained, holding it up for everyone to see. “It’s a great tool for smoothing cloth and pressing down paper folds. That’s why we call it a . . . bone . . . folder. See how much sense that makes? After you’ve said it a few times out loud, it won’t sound as funny. I hope.”

“Nope, still sounds funny,” Sam said, and everyone laughed.

I held up a popsicle stick and a tongue depressor. “If you don’t have a bone folder around the house, you could use one of these items.”

“Oh, that’s smart,” Celeste said.

“Or you can always use your finger,” I said, smiling.

“I have one of those,” Sam said.

We all laughed again. There was a comedian in every class.

I showed them how to run the edge of the bone folder in the hinges of our newly glued library book so that the hinge wouldn’t lose its crease as the glue dried. Finally, I laid another skewer into the creased hinge of both front and back covers so each would retain its groove, then weighted the book down. “In ten minutes, this book will be as good as new.”

The class applauded and I smiled. Book lovers are my favorite people.

“Okay, let’s move on.” I grabbed a random book from Wanda’s collection and held it up. “We’ll be repairing torn pages and ripped spines next. If you’ll look at the book you picked out from the box, you’ll find something about it that needs repairing. Whatever you find, I’ll show you how to do a quick fix.”

“But you gave me a perfect book,” Robin said, then frowned. “Oh wait. This page is ripped almost in half. Darn, I was hoping a perfect book would make me teacher’s pet.”

Some people nearby chuckled. I pinned her with a look as I walked over to see her book. “Oh, that’s a nasty tear.”

“The nastier the better, I guess.”

“Definitely.” I glanced around at the class. “I tried to pick out books that had something wrong with them. So some of you will have torn pages, some ripped spines, a couple with loose hinges. Go through them carefully and then we’ll do some quickie fixes on the spot.”

There was general chatter as everyone began to thumb through their books.

A guy named Rob sounded horrified. “This page is completely falling out.”

“Excellent,” I said.

“I’ve got a bad thingie-ma-jig,” Celeste said, holding her book out for me to see.

Trudy chuckled. “That’s gotta hurt.”

There were a few more laughs as I took the book and examined it. “Oh, you’re right, that’s really bad. You’ve got a flapping spine.”

Celeste gave Trudy a pointed look. “See? I told you there was something wrong.”

Trudy snorted. “You’ve got something wrong, all right.”

“This is easily fixed,” I said, overlooking their friendly banter as I walked up and down the rows of tables showing everyone Celeste’s flapping spine, flicking the loose material back and forth so they could all see the problem. “Now remember, we’re talking quick and dirty repairs here. If this were a rare antiquarian book, I would cut off my arm before I’d use any of these tips. Is everyone clear on that?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Sam said.

I grinned. “Good. Now you all can practice sliding your skewers into the bottle of glue. You can see how uniformly the glue is applied.”

“Excuse me, Brooklyn,” someone at the next table said. “There’s something inside this book. It looks personal.”

I turned. A woman named Meredith held a folded square of paper in her hand. I took it from her, unfolded it, and found an old letter on a piece of lined school notebook paper. Every line of both sides of the paper was covered in writing.

My darling Byron,
it began. I frowned and almost folded it closed. This was none of my business.

“Oh, hell,” I muttered. Who was I kidding? I continued reading. The handwriting was curvy and loopy and feminine. Wanda must have written this love letter to her husband-to-be many years ago.

It was so sweet. Of course, now that Wanda was gone, this would be a bittersweet memento for Byron. Still, I knew he would want to keep it. I could give it to him at the memorial service Thursday night, unless I saw him sooner.

The letter started out flowery with lots of gushing promises of a timeless love that she knew would last forever.

Before continuing on, I glanced around the room and found Robin staring at me with a suspicious gleam in her eye. I gave her a brief nod as if to convey the message that I would share this information with her later. She nodded back. Message received.

Everyone else was practicing with their skewers and bottles of glue, so I kept reading.

With the next paragraph, Wanda abruptly changed the subject. She had to leave town and she knew he would be upset about it. It was a last minute decision, but it was important to her, some sort of religious mission she had signed up for and pledged to carry out several years before she’d met him.

I should have felt guilty, reading her private words to her lover. It was almost like I was eavesdropping on the two of them. On the other hand, I’ve never had a problem with eavesdropping, so I continued reading.

There was a short paragraph extolling the virtues of performing good works and dreaming of the wonderful things she would teach the village children. Then she veered off again, explaining how her church group would be installing a new irrigation system for the poor community that would allow their crops and animals to flourish.

She followed that up with more flowery words of love. I had to assume that everything worked out for the two of them and Byron forgave her for going away, because they got married, right?

I turned the page over and read more of her meandering words of devotion. The letter ended with,
I pray you will always love me as much as I love you.

I blinked and read it again.

Yes, it was written by Elaine. To Byron. Who was married to Wanda. Who was dead.

I turned it over and checked the date on the top. The letter had been written almost sixteen years ago. By
Elaine
!

My hand trembled as I folded the pages and slipped the letter into my pocket. I glanced around and noticed everyone staring at me with concern. “Sorry. This belongs to an old friend of mine. I’d better return it to her.”

I asked Meredith for the book in which she’d found the letter. It was Jane Austen’s
Pride and Prejudice,
nicely bound in dark green leather. I wondered how that book had ended up in the box of damaged books, but figured my mother must have added it. I gave Meredith another book from the box, then had to struggle to focus on the class.

“Okay, grab your skewers and let’s get back on track,” I said lightly. “Who has a torn page we can fix?”

I managed to make it through the rest of the hour despite being completely distracted by the unsettling letter and its unexpected author.

After class, Robin and I walked to our cars together. I told her all about Elaine’s letter and how suspicious it was that we’d found it inside a book belonging to Wanda.

“You might be making too much out of this,” Robin said, then grinned. “Of course, after all the craziness with me and the wild Ukrainians, I can’t blame you for suspecting foul play wherever you go.”

She was referring to an unpleasant time when she’d been involved in the murder of an international spy.

“You have to admit it’s a little odd,” I said.

“I guess it is.” She pulled her keys out of her purse. “Are you going to give the letter to Byron?”

“I don’t know. Maybe I should give it back to Elaine.”

“Ask your mom,” Robin said, grabbing me in a quick hug good-bye. “She’ll know what to do.”

On the drive home, I took Robin’s advice and called my mother to check to make sure she and Dad would still be awake when I got there.

“We just put our pajamas on, but we’ll wait up for you,” she said. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing’s wrong, Mom.”

“Of course there’s something wrong. I can hear it in your voice.”

I rolled my eyes. Would I ever get a damn thing past her? “Fine. Something’s very wrong and you’re going to want to see it.”

The following day was glorious. It was summer in wine country, and the air was clear and mild with just a touch of a breeze, so Mom, Elaine, and I decided to sit outside for lunch. The back terrace of Ristorante Umbria offered a lovely view of the grapevine-dotted hills that rose up from the gully nearby. At the bottom of the gully flowed a bubbly, fast-moving stream that coursed down from nearby Red Mountain and meandered through Dharma. I wasn’t sure of its real name, but we locals liked to call it Moon River because our rugged, hilly region of Sonoma County was known as the Valley of the Moon.

Olive trees in large wooden crates were strategically arranged on the terrace to give the illusion of intimate dining spaces. We relaxed under a colorful umbrella and gave the waiter our orders: Hanger steak and frites for Mom, seared scallops in butter and garlic with a side of bowtie pasta for me, and a Margherita pizza for Elaine. Evidently, we were all hungry.