“Never know when you’ll need that.”
I read the first line and started to laugh. “Ew, I hope not. She says, ‘Collect a half dozen live mole rats; tap them with a knife in the throat until they are dead. Open and remove the entrails. Arrange these in a large flat pan and dry in the oven for three or four days until they have turned to soft stone. Place them in a cloth bag and pound them to powder. Sift through a sieve. Mix powder with ginger water and feed by droplets thrice an hour throughout the night.’”
“Sounds more likely to cause convulsions than cure them,” Derek said.
As I read a few more medicinal cures and laughed with Derek, I mentally forgave Obedience for causing me to throw out yet another dessert. And I grew more and more resistant to the thought of giving the book back to Baxter.
But it wasn’t my choice to make. My only job was to refurbish the book and build a storage box for it. That was what I did best, unlike cooking.
The next day, I began work on Obedience’s fragile cookbook. I was hoping that once I tightened the joints and resewed the pages, the book would have new life and be able to hold itself together for another few hundred years. I also wanted to regild the spine to make Obedience’s name shine. I considered it a small thank-you for giving me hours of reading enjoyment, even if some of her recipes were downright scary.
I grabbed another cup of coffee and my trusty bag of malted milk balls and headed for my studio. At my worktable, I laid the book out on the clean surface and took care of the preliminaries. I measured it, recording the figures in a notebook, and then I snapped a bunch of photographs of the book from all sorts of angles. With a book like this, it was important to make sure everything I did was cataloged. Even if Baxter shoved it into a drawer, the cookbook itself was still historically significant and deserved some attention to detail.
I brushed it clean of any dirt particles, then slowly, carefully, removed the leather cover from the text block and began the process of snipping and picking out the old threads, restacking the pages as I went before sewing them back together.
After the leather cover was reaffixed, I debated on what sort of dressing to apply to clean and revitalize the faded red leather. The one I chose was a mixture recommended by conservationists, basically a blend of neat’s-foot oil, lanolin, and odorless kerosene. The oils were animal-based natural lubricants. The kerosene helped the leather absorb the oils and would evaporate over several days. I’d created my own concoctions back in school, but nowadays I simply ordered it through an online bookbinding supply company and had it delivered in a handy jar.
Before applying the oil, I wrapped the text block in heavy butcher paper to protect it. Then I rubbed the dressing into the leather and watched the discolored surface soak it up. After waiting an hour or so, I buffed it until it was a rich dark red. I was certain Obedience would’ve been happy with the results. I certainly was. The book cover was lustrous and supple again and would hold on to its beauty, thanks to the book box I planned to design.
*
The following week, Derek and I walked into BAX for our eight o’clock reservation. As Derek gave the ma?tre d’ our names, I glanced around. Most of the tables for the second seating were filling up quickly. The spacious room pulsated with energy and laughter. And as much as I hated to admit it, Baxter Cromwell’s new restaurant was flat-out gorgeous.
His designers had brought the lush, vibrant Hispanic influence of San Francisco’s Mission District into the large, open space. The decor was wildly colorful, with massive flower arrangements and exotic, lively murals on three walls.
But it was the fourth wall that drew my gaze.
“Now that’s different,” I said, staring at the long wall, which was covered completely in rough slabs of brown and black slate. Thin streams of water trickled and bubbled from the ceiling down the jagged slate surface, finally collecting in a narrow, shiny copper pool that ran the length of the wall. It was so cool and unique, I was mesmerized. I had to force myself to look away in order to follow the hostess to our table.
Despite the many visual distractions, Baxter’s main room was elegant and sophisticated with its vaulted ceiling and soft lighting.
“Brooklyn! You made it!”
I thought it might be Savannah calling to me, but when I turned, I saw a familiar dark-haired beauty speed-walking around the tangle of tables in order to greet me.