Ripped From the Pages (14 page)

A while later I was about to sign off but decided to throw them one more question.
It wasn’t exactly related to bookbinding, I explained to the group, but it was part
of the letter I was researching.

I typed out the first paragraph of the letter and then asked, “Does anyone recognize
this language? Our current theory is that it’s a mashup of several extinct languages,
including, possibly, medieval French. I appreciate any help you can give me.”

I received six comments, but only one of them was helpful. Claude, a genius of a librarian
from Maryland, suggested that the letter might’ve been written in Chouadit, an extinct
Jewish language once spoken in southern France.

“The word
Chouadit
means
Jewish
in the old Judeo-Provençal language of the area,” Claude wrote. “There might be some
Aramaic thrown in there, too. I won’t get your hopes up, but give me a day or two
to work on the translation itself, and I’ll let you know what I come up with.”

I thanked Claude profusely, wished everyone else a good
evening, and signed out of the group. I made a quick detour over to Google the word
Charente
. It turned out to be a region near Limoges as well as the name of the river that
ran through the area.

Charente was also the name of a small stationery shop in San Francisco. I stared at
the screen, imagining Marie Benoit traveling into the city for the day and coming
across the shop. For sentimental reasons, she would want to buy a little something
in the store, and so she chose a pretty package of stationery.

My imagination could get carried away sometimes.

“You’re smiling,” Derek said.

“Oh, I didn’t realize you were standing there.” I rubbed my eyes. I’d been staring
at the computer for the past hour.

“I snuck up on you.”

“I’m glad. It was time to quit.” I shut down the computer. “And yes, I’m happy. I
think I’ve worked out the stationery question, and the people in my chat room are
the smartest people in the world. I’m lucky they let me play with them.”

“You’re not exactly a lightweight yourself,” Derek said with a laugh. “Are you ready
for bed, love?”

I yawned. “I didn’t think I was, but all of a sudden I’m exhausted.”

He pulled me up from my chair, and I went willingly.

*   *   *

B
y Saturday morning, we had received a complete list of heirlooms from every family
involved, including those still living in France. I had cross-checked their lists
with my inventory and came across at least six discrepancies. Luckily, there were
more treasures listed on my inventory than the families had claimed. I figured that
some people had died before they’d informed their heirs that they’d given a valuable
family keepsake to
Anton for safekeeping. Each of the unclaimed items would have to be given extra attention
by Noland Garrity.

There were also a few instances where I might’ve mislabeled something. For instance,
one person had listed a set of hammered silver candelabra. I remembered seeing a set
of hammered silver candlesticks that held two candles each. Would one of those be
considered a candelabra? Technically, I didn’t think so, but maybe that was what they’d
always called it. It was a small detail, but I wanted to return to the cave to make
sure I wasn’t mistaken.

Once I’d worked out that inconsistency, I walked over to Mom’s house to see how she
was coming along with the job of tracking down everyone who’d been inside the cave
and getting their personal stories recorded for the upcoming exhibit. She was compiling
the stories at that very moment and would be printing them out on heavy card stock.
Later, the cards would be mounted on the walls of the exhibit.

She had also lined up volunteers to work in the exhibit room and outside with crowd
control. Mom had been putting together events in Dharma for years, and it was pretty
obvious from whom I’d inherited my organizational gene.

After talking to Mom, I drove over to the caves to meet Robin, who had agreed to take
photographs of some of the most interesting items I’d inventoried inside the cave.

I considered myself the art director and presented my ideas and concepts to Robin,
and I expected her to transfer my creative vision to film.

Robin laughed a lot, mostly at me as I tried to give her advice on how to take a picture.
She basically considered me a nuisance, but to my credit, I handled the lighting,
a piece of cake since Derek and Gabriel had set up the light trees. I borrowed two
clamp lights from Austin’s garage and readjusted them strategically for each shot.
It was hard work, but worth it.

As we drove to her favorite printer in Santa Rosa, I gave
Robin due credit. “Your photos are going to turn out absolutely fantastic.”

“Thanks. Wait till you see what a great job this printer does.”

The next day, we dashed back to Santa Rosa to pick up the poster-sized prints. Robin
was right about the printer. The simple posters had been transformed into artwork.
Now I was getting excited.

*   *   *

W
hile Mom was herding the volunteers and Robin and I were racing back and forth from
Santa Rosa, Derek led the group from Frenchman’s Hill into the caves. That night as
we ate dinner, I tried to get Derek to share some crazy stories with me, but he insisted
there was nothing to tell.

“They were on their best behavior,” he said, sounding almost disappointed. “Maybe
Felix had a long talk with everyone, and they realized that Robson is not their enemy.
They were all gracious and thankful and thrilled to see everything. I felt like a
tour guide with a bunch of happy people.”

“I’m shocked. Even Henri was well behaved?”

“Perfectly,” he admitted after taking a sip of wine. “The most traumatic thing that
happened was that some of them broke down in tears. I can’t blame them, since there
is so much family history and pain involved in all of this.”

“And it’s all mixed up with the war.”

“Exactly. It was quite dramatic, but all good.”

“I’m especially glad Henri didn’t give you any trouble.”

“Not a bit,” Derek said. “In fact, they’ve all promised to come to the winery for
the Pre-Harvest celebration next week.”

I had to laugh. Basically, wine-country people would dream up almost any excuse to
get together and taste wines. The annual Pre-Harvest celebration was Dharma’s official
kickoff to harvest
season, and it was always a fun-filled day of wine tasting, along with loads of great
appetizers and munchies brought in by the local chefs, including my sister Savannah.

“That should be interesting,” I said. “I wonder if Madame Cloutier could be talked
into bringing some of those amazing beignets with her.”

“Let me just make a phone call,” Derek said with a determined grin.

I beamed at him. “That’s my hero.”

*   *   *

M
onday morning, I arrived at the town hall to find a squadron of volunteers standing
by to hang the posters and mount the quote cards that Mom had already designed. The
day before, Robin had laid out a structure for the room itself that would give each
photograph its own space and lighting. As a professional sculptor, she was used to
mounting art exhibits, so within hours, she had all the posters hanging on the walls
and on columns around the room.

Another volunteer with some creative ability had designed a program to hand out to
visitors. A different group of commune volunteers agreed to work outside with the
crowds, giving directions to visitors and handing out the programs. Mom and Robin
and Trudy would act as docents, answering questions and telling their own stories
of their brief adventures inside the caves.

And I tried really hard, but Derek still refused to play the docent.

I wondered a few times if we were crazy to devote this much time and energy to the
town hall exhibit. But the result would show the Frenchmen that Guru Bob was being
completely aboveboard, and it would give the visiting reporters something to look
at instead of the actual treasures inside the cave. Those were our
two main purposes, and I prayed we would be successful. But beyond that, the exhibit
would be a wonderful new activity for visitors and locals to experience.

I glanced around and found Robin deeply involved with a few of the more artistic types
as they put the final touches to the overall layout and positioning of the posters.
I knew I wasn’t needed, so I let her know I was going and then rushed off to join
Derek at the storage cave, where he was scheduled to meet Guru Bob and Noland Garrity,
the appraiser.

While parking the car, I noticed a handsome older man talking to Guru Bob by the rounded
doors leading to the storage cave. Derek was there, too, but he was more involved
with studying the security box than with the conversation going on next to him. The
stranger—I assumed it was Noland Garrity—was tall, just a few inches shorter than
Derek and Guru Bob, who were both more than six feet tall. As I approached, I thought
it was pretty great to see three tall, handsome men gathered together in one spot.

“Here is Brooklyn,” Guru Bob said, sounding relieved to see me. As soon as I was close
enough, he introduced me to the appraiser. “Brooklyn Wainwright, this is Noland Garrity.
I’ve hired him to assess the items we found in the cave.”

“Hello, Mr. Garrity.” The man didn’t smile as I shook his hand. In his white polo
shirt, khaki trousers, and highly polished brown penny loafers, he was dressed for
going to the country club rather than skulking through caves.

Guru Bob added, “Noland, I trust you will benefit from Brooklyn’s insight and positive
energy.”

With that odd statement, Guru Bob bid us good-bye. That was when I noticed Mr. Garrity
surreptitiously wiping his hand on his trousers—the hand he’d just used to shake mine.

I won’t take it personally,
I thought, and turned to watch Guru Bob walking briskly across the parking lot. Where
was he off to
in such a hurry? On the other hand, it was a good sign that he trusted us with his
appraiser, and I smiled at Noland Garrity. “Did Robson describe some of the treasures
we found? You won’t believe how amazing it is.”

“Yeah, that’s great. Look, I don’t have all day,” he said, squinting up at the bright
blue sky. “And why is it so damn hot up here?”

I exchanged a puzzled look with Derek. His eyebrow shot up in response. It couldn’t
be more than seventy degrees outside on this gorgeous fall day. What was Garrity complaining
about? Maybe he was just one of those people who always complained and were never
really happy. If so, I really hoped his visit would be a short one.

And what was with his brusque attitude? Was he angry about something? Could he be
angry at Guru Bob for leaving him here with us? I hoped he would mellow out once he
was able to get a look at all the treasures.

Derek turned away from us to lift the cover of the security box and tap a series of
numbers on the keypad. When a buzzer sounded, he used his key to unlock the dead bolt
on the doors. “Right this way.”

Once inside the cool storage cave, Garrity grunted in dismay. “Where are you taking
me? It’s filthy dirty in here.”

Maybe I’d been working too hard lately, because I had little patience for this man.
Guru Bob had to have told him that he was going to be inside a wine cave. And, as
caves went, this one was pretty much pristine. And well ventilated. I glanced around.
Yes, the cement floor was swept clean, and the wine barrels were in a perfectly straight
line against the walls. The cavernous space was well lighted. What was he complaining
about?

“And what’s that awful smell?” he asked, sniffing and looking around.

“That’s the smell of expensive red wine,” I said, biting my
tongue not to add,
And you’ll never taste a drop of it, as God is my witness.

“Good thing I don’t drink.”

Aha! There was one more reason to hate him. And it was probably the reason why he
was so unlikable. After spending less than five minutes with the appraiser, I was
pretty sure I knew why Guru Bob had rushed off. What I wanted to know was, why did
he hire him in the first place?
Curmudgeonly
didn’t begin to describe Noland Garrity.

Derek continued walking to the end of the big room where the excavated hole had been
enlarged. I noticed a step stool leading up to the opening and realized that sometime
during the last few days, Derek had placed it there to help the people from Frenchman’s
Hill climb over the eighteen-inch ledge and step down into the chamber.

At the opening, Derek stopped and turned to Garrity. “I hope you’re not claustrophobic,
because this space we’re about to enter is small and the air is a bit stale. I assure
you the air is clean, but the space has been sealed up for about seventy years.”

Garrity pressed his white handkerchief to his mouth and nose. “I can barely breathe
already, and you’re saying it’ll be worse?”

“Yes, because it’s a smaller enclosure. But there’s plenty of air. You won’t suffocate,”
he added dryly.

“Is that supposed to be some kind of a joke?”

“Not really,” Derek said. “On the positive side, the artwork and furnishings have
been sealed up as well, so their condition hasn’t deteriorated.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.”

“Indeed,” Derek said affably. I didn’t know how he managed to stay so upbeat. I was
ready to strangle the jerk.

“Here we go,” Derek said, and easily stepped over the wall.

“Wait a minute,” Garrity said, stopping at the wall. He bent over the low ledge, trying
to get a look at where he was about to
venture. All of a sudden he began to wobble and couldn’t quite right himself. “Whoa.”

“Mr. Garrity, are you all right?”

“Uhh . . .”

Was he having a heart attack? I grabbed him by his belt and yanked him back from the
cave opening.

He stumbled, then righted himself. It took him a few long seconds to recover his dignity,
and, once he did, he gave me a look of pure contempt. “How dare you grab me like that?”