In addition, she also purchased business cards. “And don’t even think of using one of those services where they give you free business cards in exchange for putting the maker’s name on the back. You need a thick stock, the kind that rests heavy in someone’s hand.”
Gabby had urged Alice to putAlice Meadows,Writeron her business cards. Alice did not feel like a writer, not in the conventional sense. She wasn’t published. Wasn’t writing stories or articles for mass consumption. Translator was more akin to what she did, but Gabby said thatLove Translatorwas too confusing and Alice was inclined to agree. They settled onAlice Meadows,Love Scribe, which seemed apt to them both, someone the words poured through rather than someone who owned them.
Yes, with the aid of her best friend, Alice was learning to exude an air of professionalism she did not feel, no matter how committed she grew to the craft. The clients never seemed to notice how she tugged at those perfectly fitting silk blouses, how her back stiffened as she walked into the café or bar in a floral dress for their first meeting. When she stuttered, “I charge fifteen hundred dollars plus additional binding fees,” they immediately agreed, even when she suspected they could not afford it.
“Plenty of people drive BMWs when they shouldn’t,” Gabby reasoned, plowing ahead of Alice on their now daily morning hike. Her legs were shorter than Alice’s, but they moved with a deftness Alice had not yet developed. Each morning she struggled to keep up. “They make it work because they want to project a certain quality of life. And that’s just about perception. For love, they’ll find ways to pay.”
Gabby stopped to let Alice catch up. They were on a trail that followed the hills above town, Gabby in matching geometrically patterned leggings and sports bra, Alice in an oversized T-shirt and jean shorts.
“Shouldn’t you be making Oliver do this with you?” Alice said through labored breaths.
“He says that hiking is masochistic and he gets enough self-flagellation on stage.” It was another point for Oliver that he did not like hiking and would not submit to Gabby’s pressure, except for the fact that Alice was now expected to get up early and lug herself up a mountain so Gabby didn’t have to go alone.
“Besides,” Gabby continued, waiting for Alice to arrive at the top of the pitch, whereupon she started walking again. It was unfair how the slower hiker never got a break. The moment Alice caught up, Gabby would set off once more. It destined Alice to remain behind.
“He’s in full prep mode. He has this big showcase at the end of the year where there’ll be agents and everything. He’s so determined. He even gets up before me, can you imagine? By the time I’m out of bed at the oh-so-late hour of six thirty, he’s already sitting at kitchen table with his notepad, scribbling jokes.”
“How’s his routine?”
“I haven’t seen it yet. I mean, I’m sure it’s amazing. He’s just really private about it. I guess he’s one of those artists who doesn’t want anyone to see it until it’s done. Eventually he’ll have to test out his jokes to see what lands, but he made me promise not to go to any of his shows before the showcase. He wants it to be perfect for me. It’s actually really nice. We both have our own stuff. And every morning there’s coffee already made by the time I get up. Plus, cleaning is his form of procrastination. When I get home from work, the house is spotless and the bed is actually made.”
Something about the way she saidhomestruck Alice. “Is he living with you?”
Gabby turned, glowing, and nodded. “He moved in last week.”
“Isn’t it a little soon?” Alice said before she could censor herself. They’d only been dating three and a half months.
Gabby stopped, seeming to consider the question.
“Normally I’d say yes, but it’s different with Oliver. I would have moved in with him after our first date. When you know, you know.” Alice resisted the urge to argue that Gabby hadknownwith her last two boyfriends too. “I realize I’ve said that before. It really is different this time. Oliver is my person. He likes me for me. And I like him for him. We aren’t trying to change each other.”
Gabby stared out at the vista. Even Alice had to admit that there was something powerful about gazing down upon the city where you lived, about rising so far above it.
When Gabby looked back at Alice her face was resolute. “I have both eyes open, okay? It’s fast, but I’m not rushing anything.”
To her surprise, Alice believed her best friend. Besides she wasn’t asking Alice for approval. Instead she chose to trust how she felt, chose to trust love. At its essence, this was what Alice had taught her.
As with the haircut and wardrobe change, Gabby was right about the presentation of Alice’s stories. The report covers were juvenile, and the logo for Oh, Alice Productions that Alice had designed on her word processor was a little too DIY. Gabby connected Alice to one of her clients at a graphic design firm who created a sleek colophon of Oh, Alice in thick black lettering fashioned into the shape of a heart. It would look perfect debossed into the spine of a book.
Alice found a binder the way most people find a service these days, with the assistance of a little thing called Yelp. Not Alice’s service, though. Her contracts stipulated that clients could not review or in any other way post about Oh, Alice Productions online. It surprised her that an artisan committed to an Old World art would not have the same policy, but that was the thing about Old World arts: they were dying and in need of customers. Still, Alice was not expecting a banner ad for Willow Bindery & Paper Goods at the top of her Google search.
She liked the name and the logo of—maybe it went without saying—a willow tree. It was one of two binders in Santa Barbara, and the only one with a website that looked like it had been designed in the last five years. Perhaps there was something to a good online presence, even if the internet was not the right venue for her gift.
Willow Bindery & Paper Goods was tucked on a residential street near the courthouse, a short bike ride from Alice’s apartment. A bell rang as Alice pushed the door open and a rush of air-conditioning hit her face. She fluffed her new cut trying to combat the inevitable helmet hair that came from using her bike as a primary form of transportation. Inside, it looked like a stationery shop. One wall was covered with sheets of wrapping paper listed for staggering prices. Another wall offered more types of pens than Alice knew existed: felt tip, calligraphy, roller, ballpoint, fountain with vials of ink like colorful blood.
“Just a minute,” a gruff voice called from the back.
Alice plucked a leather journal from the table at the center of the store. It was an achingly bright red, so much so that Alice was surprised it didn’t stain her fingertips. All the journals were equally saturated, in every imaginable hue, the leather a natural grain that looked to be of high quality. The pages inside were off-white and blank. On the back, Alice traced a small etching of a weeping willow. This was the perfect journal. Whoever made it would bind her the perfect book.
“Those are all handmade by yours truly.”
Alice looked up to see a husky man with a wide, whiskered face, its oval shape accentuated by his dark hair, the bulk of which was collected in a ponytail at the nape of his neck. From across the room, she could tell he was a few inches shorter than she. He was around her age, younger than she would have anticipated for a bookbinder. In the era of the artisanal, she wasn’t sure why she’d expected the bookbinder to be geriatric, but the man before her defied her expectations. She studied him, trying to decide if that was a good or bad thing. There was something undeniably sexy about him, even though Alice was not normally attracted to men with long hair, men that were not as tall as she was. And she preferred a lithe, lanky body to one that was compact. Gabby often told her, “All the men you date look like birds.”When Alice sniped back that she didn’t date, Gabby amended her statement, “All the men you fuck, then,” trying to be as vulgar as possible. That the binder was both good-looking and not Alice’s type enabled her to marvel at his looks, appreciating his attractiveness without desiring it. She decided she liked the idea of someone sexy binding her projects. Maybe his mystique would rub off on the books, informing her love stories with a little extra spark.
“If you don’t see a color or pattern you want,” he said looking up at her, “I can make one however you like. It just will take about a week.”
He had cloudy green eyes that made him seem far away even as he stared right at her with an intensity that caused her chest to tighten. Through her stories, she’d grown accustomed to categorizing people quickly. There was something guarded about this man, some distance he created between himself and the outside world.
“I wanted to see about some custom jobs. You do that, right?”
