BOOKS make good gifts, and Connie made hers by hand. I’d wander over—next door to next door—to admire the stacks of deckle-edged paper she stitched into pages, the blocks of cardboard she sliced into spines, the bolts of linen she stretched into covers. I liked the sturdy stance and sharp scent of the finished books. If no one was looking, I’d tip one off the shelf, crack it open, and stare at the marbled endpaper.
Blues and greens and pinks swirled, a current caught mid-ripple. Connie coaxed the eddies and curls from a tray of water. She’d spatter on oily ink, then pull a stick across the surface, stretching splotches into strands, strands into plumes, plumes into fans that drifted and shifted until she smoothed on a sheet of paper, then peeled it away, fixing the moment fast.
Drying paper hung across the room like fresh laundry. She’d glue the prettiest patterns to the inner covers, then close the books, slide them into the press, and turn the crank. They came out stiff and somber. But I knew each kept a secret, a tangle of oil and water, motion and stillness, waiting to be unwrapped.
Connie flickers back into focus while I try the edible version of her drop-and-drag, winding pale lemon into deep cranberry. I smile at the broad face of the winter tart, the memory its own gift.
