The Lies That Bind (34 page)

Rounding—
The process of hammering or manipulating the textblock spine into a curved shape after gluing and before backing. Rounding diminishes the effect of swelling and helps to keep a book standing upright on a shelf.

Awl—
Used for punching sewing holes in folded paper.

Bone folder—
A tool used for making sharp creases in folded paper and smoothing out surfaces that have been glued. It is generally made of bone and is shaped like a wooden tongue depressor.

Bookbinders hammer—
Used for rounding the spine of a book, a bookbinders hammer is smaller and lighter than a carpenter’s hammer, with a large, flat, polished pounding surface.

Book press—
There are various types. One small type of wood press can be used to hold the textblock while gluing. With a newly finished book, a large brass press will help strengthen, straighten, and fuse the book together.

Punching jig or Punching cradle—
A V-shaped piece of equipment with a slim opening at the bottom for cradling signatures in order to punch holes in them.

PVA (polyvinyl acetate)—
Preferred adhesive in bookbinding, it is liquid and flexible and results in a permanent bond. It dries colorless and is pH neutral, so it is recommended for archival work.

“You’re having sex!” my best friend, Robin, cried as soon as I opened the door. “I mean, not currently, thank God, but recently. Oh, I’m so happy for you!”

“Say it a little louder, why don’t you?” I yanked her into my apartment and quickly shut the door behind her. “I don’t think they heard you in Petaluma.”

She dropped her bags on my worktable and pulled me into a hug. “Your closest neighbors are two gay guys. Do you really think they care?”

“It’s nobody’s business,” I grumbled. “I’m not even going to ask how you can tell.”

“It’s a gift.” She patted my cheek. “Besides, just look at you. You’re glowing.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, feeling my cheeks warm up. So maybe she was right—maybe I was glowing. But did she have to point it out to the world?

Robin Tully had been my BFF for years, ever since we were eight years old and our parents joined the same spiritual commune in the hills of Sonoma County. We first bonded over Barbie dolls, Johnny Depp, and a mutual disgust of dirt. Since then, all that dirt had transformed itself into the upscale town of Dharma, a wine-country destination spot for Bay Area foodies. But back in the day, it was backwoods enough to make two fastidious little girls go berserk.

Robin grinned, amused by my reaction.Then she scooped up her bags from the table. “I brought wine and presents.”

“I ordered pizza,” I said, leading the way down the short hall to my living area.

“I’d kill for pizza.”

“No need. I’ll share.” I pulled two wineglasses from the kitchen shelf and set them on the smooth wood surface of the bar that separated my kitchen from the living room. “I missed you a lot. How was India?”

“India was exotic and wonderful and smoggy, and I missed you, too.” She pulled a bottle of wine from one of her bags and handed it to me to open. “And I missed showers. And ice cream. And hamburgers.”

“The pizza’s got sausage and pepperoni.”

“Oh, God, meat.” She closed her eyes and sighed. “It sounds like heaven.”

“I have ice cream, too.”

“I love you—have I told you lately?”

With a laugh, I poured the wine and handed her the glass. “Welcome home.”

“Thanks.” We clinked glasses, and she took a good long drink. “You have no idea how happy I am to be back.”

The doorbell rang, and I ran to pay the pizza delivery-man. After piling pizza and salad onto plates and pouring more wine, we sat in the living room to eat.

Besides Robin’s work as a sculptor, she owned a small travel company that specialized in tours of sacred destinations all over the world. Stone circles, pyramids, Gothic cathedrals, harmonic power centers. Her tours catered to the adventurous seeker of esoteric knowledge who had tons of cash to throw her way. She had just returned from a three-week tour of India.

So for three long weeks I’d been gnashing my teeth, unable to share my exciting news—specifically, the news about me and my mysterious British boyfriend—with my closest friend. And Robin had guessed it the very first second she saw me. I supposed that’s what the whole BFF thing was all about.

We opened another bottle of wine as she regaled me with the highlights of her India trip and I filled her in on all the news about me and Derek Stone, the hunky British security expert I’d met a few months back during a murder investigation. Yes, we’d done the deed, as she’d shouted to the world earlier. And yes, he was opening a San Francisco branch of Stone Security. So yes, he was currently staying with me, but no, he wasn’t home just now. He was currently flying back from Kuala Lumpur where he’d provided security for an installation of priceless artwork from the Louvre.

And yes, I’d been threatened by another vicious killer. Robin had been packing to leave for India at the time and wasn’t around to hear the entire story, so I filled her in on all the gory details. The killer was safely tucked away in jail now. And that was my last three weeks in a nutshell.

As we cleared the dishes, I figured it was time to ask Robin the burning question I’d avoided long enough.

“So, did you see your mother?” I asked cautiously.

Robin scowled. “Yes, and she’s as annoying as ever.”

That was no big surprise. She and her mother, Shiva Quinn, had always had issues.

Shiva’s real name was Myra Tully, and she had been raised by missionaries. Suffice to say, Myra had a real savior complex from the get-go. In the 1970s, Myra had accompanied the Beatles to India to see Maharishi Mahesh Yogi. While there, she changed her name to Shiva Quinn. No one was sure where
Quinn
came from. As for
Shiva
, Robin always thought it was telling that her mother had named herself after the supreme god of Hinduism.

When Robin was really irritated with Shiva, she’d call her Myra.

It didn’t help that her mother was tall, glamorous, and model thin. She was sophisticated and interesting, and everyone loved to be around her. Her missionary upbringing had given her a sense of awareness of the world and its problems, which led her to become the spokesperson for a humanitarian organization called Feed the World.

By the time Robin was ten years old, her mother was traveling constantly, returning home every few months for only a day or so. But that was okay with me, because when Shiva left the commune, Robin would stay at my house. We had a slumber party every night. I would’ve been happy if Shiva stayed away permanently, but I could never have said that to Robin.

“How long did you visit with her?” I asked as I started the dishwasher.

“Three excruciating days.” Robin laughed dryly. “She’s such a drama queen. She couldn’t settle in London or Paris. No, she had to go live in Varanasi. I swear she thinks she’s Mother Teresa in Prada. Never mind. I promised myself I wouldn’t bitch about her, but it’s always so tempting. Anyway, Varanasi itself was awesome. I’ll probably return with a tour group sometime. I saw the Monkey Temple and walked for hours along the ghats overlooking the Ganges. It was amazing. I have pictures. I’ll send you the link.”

“Great. It sounds fascinating.”

“It was, and my mother sent you something.”

“Me?”

“Yes.” She held up one of the bags she’d brought with her. “Do you want to see it?”

“Of course I do.”

“Let’s go to your workroom.”

My curiosity piqued, I followed her to the front room of my loft where I did my bookbinding work. I pulled two tall chairs close together, and we sat at my worktable. Robin turned the bag on its side and slid the contents out onto the surface. It was a worn leather satchel.

“It’s . . . a bag,” I said. “How thoughtful.”

Robin chuckled. “Wait for it. You know my mother. We must build the suspense.”

She unbuckled the satchel and pulled out a wadded old swath of Indian-print material.

“Um, is it a scarf?” I said, touching the faded, scratchy woven fabric. Once, it might’ve been dark green with burgundy and orange swirls of paisley, but it was so old and thin now, I could almost see through it. Colorful beads, tiny brass animal shapes, and bits of mirrored glass were woven into the fabric. “Is this really for me?”

“Hell, no.” Robin wrinkled her nose at the matted material. “That’s just to protect what’s inside. It’s my mother’s idea of wrapping paper, I guess.”

“Ah.”

“But do you know, she actually thought I would love to wear it? She just doesn’t get me. Never did.” Resigned, she flicked one of the silvery beads.

“No, she never did.” The threadbare fabric had an ethnic style that was intriguing, but I knew Robin wouldn’t be caught dead wearing it. I fingered the cloth again, then said carefully, “Maybe your mom’s been in India a little too long.”

“You think?” She shook her head as she gingerly unwrapped the cloth. “Okay, get ready.” She pulled the last of the fabric away. “This is for you.”

“Oh, my God,” I whispered.

It was a book. The most exquisite jeweled book I’d ever seen. And possibly the oldest. It was large, about twelve inches tall by nine inches wide, and maybe an inch and a half thick. I suppressed the urge to whip out my metal ruler.

The solid red leather binding was decorated with heavy gilding and precious gems. Chunky red teardrop-shaped rubies were affixed to each corner. Small round sapphires lined the circular center where a gilded peacock spread its tail feathers. Tiny diamonds, emeralds and rubies were encrusted into the feathers. The borders of the book were thickly gilded, but some of the gold had flaked off, and the red leather was rubbed and faded in spots.

“Peacocks are the national bird of India,” Robin said. “Did you know that?”

“I had no idea.” I picked up the book and studied the fore-edge. With the book closed, the pages were deckled, or uneven. I could tell without opening the book that the paper itself was thick vellum.

I checked the spine. It read
Vatsyayana
. I looked up at Robin. “What is this?”

“Open it and find out.”

“I’m almost afraid.” But I opened the front cover and turned to the title page. “You’re kidding.”

“Nope.”

“The Kama Sutra?”

“Yes.” Robin grinned. “Mommy dearest wants it refurbished and evaluated.”

My eyes widened. “I can take it apart?”

She laughed. “I guess, but you don’t have to sound so excited about it.”

“Are you serious? I live for that.”

“Good times.” She sipped her wine.

“It is for me.” I stroked the spine, counting the ribs. “But I wonder why she wants me to do the work.”

“Apparently, Abraham visited her a few years ago and talked you up.”

“Really?” I smiled. Abraham had been my bookbinding teacher for years. I turned another page slowly, unwilling to disturb the binding too much. The book was at least three hundred years old, and I was shocked to see that it was written in English. But then, the English had ruled India for centuries, so I supposed that made sense.

I turned to a page near the middle of the book and saw an illustration of a couple having sex in a most fascinating style. I closed it quickly. Then I couldn’t help but sneak another peek.

“Wow, it’s all hand painted,” I said after clearing my throat. “Isn’t that interesting?”

“Yeah, it’s all about the strokes. Paint strokes, I mean. Beautiful.”

We both began to giggle. It must’ve been the wine.

Robin let out a deep breath. “Well, hey, speaking of sex . . .”

“Were we?”

She laughed. “Well, sort of.” She waved her hands as if to get rid of that thought. “And I’m not talking about the sex you’re having. It’s about me. I met a man.”

“Oh.” That got my attention. “In India?”

“No, here in San Francisco, on the way home from the airport. I was starving, so I stopped at Kasa to get some food to go. He was waiting for his order, and we struck up a conversation.”

“You went to Kasa after coming back from India?”

She laughed again. Kasa was part of a small local chain of good Indian restaurants. “I still had a taste for the food. But that’s not important just now.”

“You’re right. So who’s this guy?”

“He’s . . .” She looked baffled. “He’s . . . wonderful.”

“Okay,” I said slowly. “What’s his name?”

“Michael.” She smiled softly. “He’s an engineer—can you believe it? He was born in Ukraine, but he’s lived here forever. His family calls him Mischa. Isn’t that cute? He’s great. Really handsome and funny. And smart.”

“You found all that out while waiting for to-go food?”

“We ended up grabbing a table and eating there together. It was a great conversation, and we found out we actually have a lot of stuff in common. He’s wonderful, you’ll see. We’re going out tomorrow night.”

I stared at her in surprise. “Oh, no, you’re blushing. You never blush. You really like him.”

“Give me a break.” She rolled her eyes. “I blush sometimes. But yeah, I like him.”

Disconcerted, I glanced down at the Kama Sutra and decided that further inspection could wait. I closed the book and looked up at Robin. “Okay, he sounds great, but I have to ask why you’re seeing Mr. Wonderful when you’re in love with my brother.”

Her lips twisted into a frown. “Austin hasn’t made any moves in my direction lately.”

I frowned, too. “Well, it’s not like you live in the same neighborhood anymore. He’s going to have to make an effort to come after you.”