The Obsidian Book of Delacroix

“She shouldn’t have something like that! She’s only 15,” Uncle Roland objected. He stood beside his wife and two children who all remained seated. It appeared as if they didn’t share his feelings of disapproval. None of the Delacroix family who was present did either. Today was the distribution of my grandfather’s assets to all of the beneficiaries.

“Please remain seated, Mr. Roland,” the estate’s attorney, John Peterson, requested. Uncle Roland was probably the most hot-headed of the Delacroix family. As he sat back down in his seat, he looked over at my parents and me.

“Listen, Carolee’s inheritance of Dad’s obsidian book must have been a mistake. It should go to someone who understands its worth. You agree with me, don’t you, Cara?” My mom’s face didn’t change. On the ride over to my grandfather’s estate, she made Dad and me promise to not get involved. I didn’t like the way he was talking about my little sister, but I did understand where he was coming from. It wasn’t just any book. Christopher Delacroix, my late grandfather, was a bookbinder who would become a household name by the early-70s. Coming from a long line of papermakers and bookbinders, he would learn how to both make paper and craftily bind books. He’d sell custom paper and books upon request, most of which were inquired by rich families. Wove paper, vellum paper, pinstripe paper, parchment paper, you name it. Whatever was requested, he’d make it. By the early 2000s, he’d be set for life and only taking a select number of clients to do orders for.

“If Dad wants my daughter to have it, then that’s what will happen, Roland,” Mom proclaimed. “Honestly, out of all of us, she’s probably the only one who understood Dad’s infatuation with bookbinding more than anyone in this family.” Even though Carolee was 6 years younger than me, her mind felt older. On most weekends, she would ask one of us to drive her to our grandfather’s home so she could finish her book. He had taught her how to completely make a book from scratch. The first one Carolee made was a small sketchbook that she’d completely used up in just a week. The next one was a diary that she would successfully complete with no supervision or guidance from Grandad. She would finish that only weeks before his death.

With mom’s unwillingness to further discuss the reassessment of Grandad’s will, we were then given his obsidian book, which was locked inside of a wooden keepsake box. However, it did not come with the key to unlock it. Mom had asked the attorney how exactly Carolee was to open the box without being given a key, but he was unable to provide an answer due to him not being given further direction from Grandad. Once we made it home, Dad called Carolee downstairs to the living room so we could give her the box with the obsidian book locked inside.

“We have something for you, sweetheart,” Mom said warmly as Carolee entered the living room. Her eyes had widened once she saw the box.

“What’s this?” She asked as she ran her fingers over it.

“Your grandad left this for you,” Mom said. Carolee then ran her finger over the keyhole. “Sorry, honey, the box is locked, and apparently it didn’t come with a key, so—”

“So that’s what it goes to,” Carolee muttered to herself as she hurried back upstairs and into her room. A couple of seconds later, she returned with a small key.

“When did you get that?” I asked. Mom and Dad looked just as curious as I did. She put the key into the keyhole and turned it clockwise until we heard a click.

“Grandad gave it to me after I showed him the diary I had made all by myself. He told me to hold onto it and not to lose it. This is the first time I’ve seen what it goes to, though.” Carolee slowly opened the box and almost immediately her eyes began to water, and a big smile spread across her face. She began to laugh as if she had just randomly remembered a funny joke. “So, I was the buyer, huh?” Mom looked at Dad with confusion.

“What do you mean, sweetie?” Carolee caught her breath before proceeding.

“This is what Grandad was working on while I was making my diary. We finished around the same time and he showed me this exact little black book. It was so pretty. A matte black book with matching black pages that had a glossy trim along each page. He even added a bound bookmark made of silver to it. It complements the black so nicely. I was so jealous that I ended up telling him that the next time I came over, he would teach me how to make one so I could have one that looked just like his.” Carolee began to tear up again. She then took an uneven breath and continued.

“Later that day, a client of his came by to speak with him. I ended up going into the other room, so I didn’t interrupt anything. During his visit, he saw Grandad’s obsidian book and asked him how much he wanted for it. Grandad told him that it was not for sale, but the man kept insisting, telling Grandad to name his price. Five hundred… two thousand… six thousand…” It was at this moment that I think we all learned that Carolee knew the price of the obsidian book before any of us did. “All the way to twenty thousand dollars.” I swallowed hard. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

“So much money for something so little. Even then, Grandad tells the guy that he can’t accept his offer because he already had a committed buyer, and I guess that was me.” So, all this time it was never his intention to sell the obsidian book. It was always meant for Carolee. The 20,000-dollar Obsidian Book of Christopher Delacroix now belonged to her.

“Now that you have it, what do you plan on doing with it?” Dad asked. She took the book from the box and slowly flipped through the blank, black pages.

“Add it to my collection, of course! Now, I have my handmade sketchbook, my handmade diary, and the newest addition, Grandad’s handmade obsidian book. All that’s left is for me to make my own."