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the next page. “This is one of her medicinal recipes. ‘A Cure for Convulsions.’”
    “Never know when you’ll need that.”
    I read the first line and started to laugh. “Ew, I hope not. She says, ‘Collect a
     half dozen live mole rats; tap them with a knife in the throat until they are dead.
     Open and remove the entrails. Arrange these in a large flat pan and dry in the oven
     for three or four days until they have turned to soft stone. Place them in a cloth
     bag and pound them to powder. Sift through a sieve. Mix powder with ginger water and
     feed by droplets thrice an hour throughout the night.’”
    “Sounds more likely to
cause
convulsions than
cure
them,” Derek said.
    As I read a few more medicinal cures and laughed with Derek, I mentally forgave Obedience
     for causing me to throw out yet another dessert. And I grew more and more resistant
     to the thought of giving the book back to Baxter.
    But it wasn’t my choice to make. My only job was to refurbish the book and build a
     storage box for it. That was what I did best, unlike cooking.
    The next day, I began work on Obedience’s fragile cookbook. I was hoping that once
     I tightened the joints and resewed the pages, the book would have new life and be
     able to hold itself together for another few hundred years. I also wanted to regild
     the spine to make Obedience’s name shine. I considered it a small thank-you for giving
     me hours of reading enjoyment, even if some of her recipes were downright scary.
    I grabbed another cup of coffee and my trusty bag of malted milk balls and headed
     for my studio. At my worktable, I laid the book out on the clean surface and took
     care of the preliminaries. I measured it, recording the figures in a notebook, and
     then I snapped a bunch of photographs of the book from all sorts of angles. With a
     book like this, it was important to make sure everything I did was cataloged. Even
     if Baxter shoved it into a drawer, the cookbook itself was still historically significant
     and deserved some attention to detail.
    I brushed it clean of any dirt particles, then slowly, carefully, removed the leather
     cover from the text block and began the process of snipping and picking out the old
     threads, restacking the pages as I went before sewing them back together.
    After the leather cover was reaffixed, I debated on what sort of dressing to apply
     to clean and revitalize the faded red leather. The one I chose was a mixture recommended
     by conservationists, basically a blend of neat’s-foot oil, lanolin, and odorless kerosene.
     The oils were animal-based natural lubricants. The kerosene helped the leather absorb
     the oils and would evaporate over several days.I’d created my own concoctions back in school, but nowadays I simply ordered it through
     an online bookbinding supply company and had it delivered in a handy jar.
    Before applying the oil, I wrapped the text block in heavy butcher paper to protect
     it. Then I rubbed the dressing into the leather and watched the discolored surface
     soak it up. After waiting an hour or so, I buffed it until it was a rich dark red.
     I was certain Obedience would’ve been happy with the results. I certainly was. The
     book cover was lustrous and supple again and would hold on to its beauty, thanks to
     the book box I planned to design.
    *   *   *
    T he following week, Derek and I walked into BAX for our eight o’clock reservation.
     As Derek gave the maître d’ our names, I glanced around. Most of the tables for the
     second seating were filling up quickly. The spacious room pulsated with energy and
     laughter. And as much as I hated to admit it, Baxter Cromwell’s new restaurant was
     flat-out gorgeous.
    His designers had brought the lush, vibrant Hispanic influence of San Francisco’s
     Mission District into the large, open space. The decor was wildly colorful, with massive
     flower arrangements and exotic, lively murals on three walls.
    But it was the fourth