It was frustrating. Spores, fibers, paper thickness, age of the paper, amount of iron—each of these factors could cause a completely unique reaction. So a bookbinder was taking a chance with every book. I never knew which formula of bleach or cleaner to use when trying to get rid of foxing. I could make an educated guess because I’d done it thousands of times, but I still couldn’t say for sure what would happen in any given situation.
And even when the results looked good, the fact was that I would have broken down the microscopic cellulose fibers and this would eventually lead to the disintegration of the paper. And if there was one thing I didn’t care to do, it was destroy the paper itself.
I’d had moderate success with a weak mixture of water and hydrogen peroxide, but I didn’t dare use a chemical bleaching agent on a book as valuable as this one. I went ahead and added two hours of time to Vera’s estimate, just in case I decided to try some of the nontoxic plant extracts I’d used in the past. The good news was that they wouldn’t destroy the paper, but the bad news was that they also wouldn’t entirely eliminate the spots.
I thought about the time I’d experimented by using a loaf of white bread as a bleaching tool. It hadn’t been very effective, but it also hadn’t damaged the paper. And it was fun to squish the pieces of bread into a ball, rub it against the brown spots, and watch the ball turn darker as it pulled bits of the stain away from the page.
I had a few minutes left so I picked up my magnifying glass again and studied the extra signature inside the front cover. I assumed the book’s owner had written her own name in the book, because it was clearly not the author’s signature. It also didn’t look like a child’s scrawl, although it did appear a bit immature and shaky, almost as if some young person had been practicing a more grown-up or flamboyant way to sign his or her name.
The first name began with a big, sweeping loop, followed by letters crammed up against one another. I started with the loops, determined to unravel the mystery of the bad handwriting.
The first name began with what looked like an M.
“Mary?” I whispered. “Martha? Marilyn?” I moved on to the second name and realized it wasn’t a middle name so much as an adjunct to the first name. So . . . Mary Jo? Mary Sue? Martha Lou? Mary Tom?
Mary Tom? Probably not.
After a few minutes, I had to blink and look away to ease the tension in my eyes. It wasn’t easy, staring at the crammed letters through the magnifying glass.
I stood and stretched. I didn’t want to get a headache before I had to go off to work, so I gave up for the day. And, frankly, it didn’t really matter if I couldn’t figure out the name since I wasn’t going to delete it or rebind the book because of it.
Leaving my tools where they were, I covered the book with a clean cloth.
I finished Vera’s estimate and printed it. Before I jumped into the shower, I called the number on her business card. She answered on the first ring and we exchanged brief pleasantries. I quoted her my price and she was agreeable, thank goodness.
“Would you mind terribly bringing the invoice to me at the flower shop?” she asked. “I work every day except Sunday, from early morning until six each evening.”
“I’ll be happy to.” We agreed to meet at her shop Thursday morning on my way to the studio. Her shop was far away from my usual route, but she was so excited that I didn’t mind. She promised to have the check ready so I could get started on the work.
I grabbed my computer and shoved a few more reference books into my bag, then left my apartment, checking that the locks were secure before heading for the elevator. Even though I could do most of my research on the computer, I still liked to refer to the books written by the experts I most admired. Their unique views and experience couldn’t always be found online.
The Peapod Studio complex was located at the base of Potrero Hill, just a few miles from my place. It was almost one o’clock and the sun was high as I drove into the studio parking lot. I stopped at the small booth and greeted Benny the security guard. He was a sweet, older man, and calling him a guard was probably a stretch since he was portly and a bit timid. But he took pride in his work and was friendly and attentive. And he already knew my name after only one day.
“Good morning, Miss Wainwright,” Benny said, checking my name off his clipboard list.
“Hi, Benny. I have a guest coming to see me today.” I watched him reach for a pen and added, “I’m not sure when he’ll be here, but can you put his name on your visitors list?”
“For you, absolutely,” he said.
He wrote down Derek’s name and waved me through the gate.
I drove in and parked in my designated spot. As I walked toward Studio 6, I thought about Derek’s prediction the night before and wondered if more people would show up today with their rare books. I hoped so. I was always happy to talk about books. The more, the merrier.
I smiled inwardly at the possibility of Tom and Walter agreeing to devote the entire show to just books. Why not? I chuckled and figured I would have to be satisfied with my two measly book segments each day. Ah, well.