One Book in the Grave

“Yes, the goats,” Derek said dryly. “You see, we’re not leaving here without you.”

Max bared his teeth and puffed out his chest. He was a few inches taller than Derek and probably outweighed him by forty pounds. But Max had the soul of an artist, not a fighter, and after a few long moments of posturing, he seemed to recognize who the true alpha dog in this pack was.

“Fine,” Max said, throwing in the towel. “I’ll call my neighbor, Sam. I pay his sons to help me with the goats, and Sam has a key to the house. He’ll take care of Bucky.”

“That about covers it,” Derek said. “What about the cat?”

Max picked up the furry beast. “Clyde’s coming with me.”

Chapter 11

Once Max resolved to leave, the first thing he did was call his nearest neighbors, who sent their teenage son, Nick, over to pick up Bucky. Since Nick also helped Max with the goats, he went to the barn and fed them while Max got his things together. Max was packed and ready by the time Nick came back inside. Nick promised Max he would come by every day to feed and check on the goats and pick any figs that ripened while Max was gone.

I saw Max slip Nick a hundred-dollar bill and watched the kid’s eyes light up. Then Nick gathered up Bucky’s doggy stuff and took off.

“Brooklyn, can you get Clyde into his carrier?” Max called from down the hall.

Derek laughed at the look of panic on my face. “You can do it, darling.”

“Easy for you to say,” I muttered, then dutifully searched the living room for Clyde’s carrier. I found the small, sturdy, duffel-type pet carrier in the front closet, then looked around for Clyde. “Here, kitty, kitty.”

This was not going to be pretty. Clyde seemed to like me and I wanted to keep it that way, because it was such a rare experience. Cats didn’t generally take to me, even though I really liked them. For example, my neighbors’ cats, Pookie and Splinters, showed me nothing but contempt no matter how much I showered them with love, attention, and food. At best, they ignored me, and at worst, well, it hurt to think about it. Let’s just say that their pictures could be found on Wikipedia under the category Cats Who Hate Me

“Meow.”

“Huh?” Hey, what’s this? Clyde was rubbing his face against my ankle, purring loudly.

“Hello there, cutie,” I whispered, then stooped down to stroke his furry coat. Would he scratch my eyes out if I picked him up? But he just looked up at me with something like adoration, and I wondered if maybe he’d been isolated on this farm too long. He really seemed to love me a lot. Was I delusional? But he bopped my ankle again and I wasn’t going to argue with the facts. This cat was into me.

“Here goes nothing.” I picked him up and carried him over to the small carrier. He didn’t protest or drive his claws into me, just jumped inside, all on his own. I snapped the top shut.

“Best cat ever,” I said proudly.

“Excellent job, darling,” Derek said. I could tell he was trying not to laugh.

“Clyde digs me.”

He chuckled. “So do we all.”

Max carried his own large duffel bag into the living room and left it by the front door. Walking into the kitchen, he opened another door and said, “Brooklyn, come with me for a minute.”

I flashed a puzzled look at Derek, but followed Max through a door I hadn’t noticed before. It led to a basement via a precariously steep stairway, so I took my time going down. Max stood in the center of the brightly lit but windowless room with his arms spread out. “What do you think?”

I glanced around. It took me a few long seconds to figure out what I was doing down here, but I finally recognized that this was his papermaking studio. Dozens of samples of his work were pi

“Oh, my God, Max,” I said, my voice hushed in awe. “These are incredible. I can’t believe all this is hidden down here.”

“I didn’t want to take the chance of working upstairs. Sometimes the neighbors come over for di

I turned slowly in a circle, taking it all in. “And you’ve never sent anything out? To anyone?”

He sighed. “I couldn’t.”

“Now, that’s a crime. What’s this?” I approached a small, ancient letterpress machine in the corner. “No way. You’re doing your own typesetting now?”

He shrugged. “I thought I might try to write a book.”

“And using a computer is so passé.”

Laughing, he said, “That’s right. You might have noticed I’ve got some extra time on my hands. I thought I would teach myself letterpress.”

I picked up the setting stick and studied the neatly set metal block letters. “So essentially you can now craft a book from start to finish.”

“Gives me something to do,” he said modestly.

I laughed and shook my head in wonder. Turning, I stared at one wall covered in different sheets of beautifully raw, rough paper strewn with plant material, tiny flowers, twigs, leaves. There was paper in shades of green more vivid than anything I’d ever seen in nature, shades of crimson so vibrant I had to wonder if he hadn’t drawn his own blood to stain it red. But no. Not even blood could achieve such a startling hue.

“How did you get this color?” I asked, touching the fibers to make sure they were real.

“Beets,” he said. “I grow them myself. Saves time and money and trips to the store.”

I turned and looked at him. “You’ve gotten better. I didn’t think it was possible, but all this is just more proof that you’re a freaking genius.”

“And you’re still crazy,” he said, chuckling. “Why don’t you grab a few sheets and take them with us? Maybe you can bind them into an album or something.”

My eyes goggled. “You mean it? Seriously? I would love to.” Instantly, I reached for the pins in the walls and began to gather up all the sheets I could handle. “I probably shouldn’t take too many.”

He laughed. “Too late. You’re a paper pig.”

“Fine,” I said, laughing with him. “As long as I get all this paper, I can live with that.”

“Take all you want, Brooklyn. I know you’ll treat my work with love.”

“I will.” My eyes burned and I walked over and hugged him. “It’s so amazing to see you alive and…Oh. I need a minute.”

He held me for a moment, rubbing my back. “I’m glad you came. And I’m sorry for hurting everyone, but I’m glad we’re going to end this thing.”

“Me, too.”

“Thanks, Brooklyn,” he whispered.

I sniffled. “We should get going.”

“Yeah.” He let me go. “Take some more paper. It’s better off going with you than sitting here in this basement.”

“Okay.” I headed for another wall. “This is like Christmas. I feel like I’m taking Rembrandt paintings off the walls of the Louvre.”

“Now you’re being ridiculous,” he said, then added, “They’re more like Van Goghs.”

“Oh, shut up, Vincent,” I said, laughing. “I think I’ve taken more than enough.”

“Not yet.” He waved toward another wall. “Come on, they’re all just going to rot down here.”

To prove he was serious, he walked over to a table in the corner where more sheets of pale golden handmade paper, thick and rough with deckled edges, were stacked. “Let’s take these, too.” He held them up for me to see. “They would make some cool journals, wouldn’t they?”

“God, yes.” I could already picture the bindings I would make for them. “Do you want to pack up any of your equipment?”

“I don’t think much of it’ll fit in the Bentley,” he said wryly.

“Well, not the big stuff,” I said, glancing at an industrial-sized sink in the corner. “But you could take some screens and tools with you.”

“I was pla

“And maybe you’d like to pack up some of your goat cheese to take along,” I said, trying to be subtle.