Page 39 of A Bookish Story

“This road is dangerous.” He doesn’t know the half of it. I usually drive to the beach completely out of my way avoiding 17 and instead taking the much longer Highway 1. “I prefer to take it slow.”

“Any slower and we’ll be going backward.”

“No more comments from you, Mr. Backseat Driver.”

“I’m sure we’ll get there eventually.”

“Yes, we will. And you can count on me to get us there safely.” I clear my throat. “So, have you met anyone since you arrived in Seven Trees?”

“Besides you? When would I have the time to meet anyone?”

A blatant lie. Maybe the woman from this morning is an escort and he isn’t proud of the situation. But an escort at the coffee shop? Not likely. Perhaps an escort he couldn’t shake from the previous night? I’m dying to know about this woman but I’ll have to admit I saw them together. My mind is spinning with possible scenarios.

I try again, because maybe it was a professional meeting. Maybe it was Kate? However, stroking the hand? I don’t think that’s something an agent would do, no matter how much she likes Ryan.

“Have you, um, heard from Kate? I mean, about the sales numbers.”

“No.”

“Okay, so are you going to call her for the sales numbers?”

“Eventually.”

A zippy BMW illegally passes me even though there’s a double solid yellow line. Someone is in a hurry to get in an accident.

“If it were me, I’d be dying to know.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll get paid.”

“That’s not why I’m asking. Aren’t you at all curious?”

“Maybe I don’t want to know.”

Ah, suddenly I understand the need to be away from his desk. He’s worried, or concerned, or maybe just…out of sorts. A feeling of protectiveness washes over me, because I’m truly my abuelita’s granddaughter. I can’t help but feel compassion where it is clearly needed. Ryan is the most unlikely of love story writers. He’s got to feel as if he’s wearing his skin inside out. Now, tens of thousands will read his words and while he might be used to great reviews and awards, someone will hate his book. That tends to be the way of extreme popularity. You either love a book or passionately hate it. There are some books that stir up powerful emotions and I think this might be one of them.

Finally, we secure a parking space and begin our stroll to the boardwalk. The roller-coaster rumbling sounds and screams of riders greet us as we approach the entrance. It’s free to get inside but the rides and food will cost you. The first thing is to lead Ryan away from all the noise of families enjoying the day, and toward the Cocoanut Grove to paint a picture of what life might have been like for a couple in the 1940s during war time. It isn’t going to be easy but I expect he has a good imagination.

“You see how it isn’t too long of a drive over the mountains to the ocean and why Bay Area residents wouldn’t have thought of it as too far for a little nightlife. Especially back when there was less traffic.”

My imagination fills with thoughts of couples on their way to the dance, the women wearing tea dresses with puffed cap sleeves. The men in slacks or suits with ties, dressed for a night on the town. They’d be worried about so many things. The war overseas, the economy, their jobs.

I can almost see the big band thrumming from the stage as everyone gives in to the music. I wonder if Ryan can see it, too.

The entire time we walk I recite facts about the boardwalk I’ve carefully researched. When an investor’s casino burned down in 1904, he rebuilt it in 1906, and that casino is now the present-day Santa Cruz Beach Boardwalk. Both the Looff Carousel and Giant Dipper are national historic landmarks. Families come out in droves all year but tourists are more frequent in the summer.

Ryan walks beside me, an unreadable expression on his face, that deep divet in between his eyes. I can’t decide if he’s irritated, worried, or distracted. Perhaps he’s thinking of the beautiful lady from this morning. When his phone buzzes and he glances at it, I can’t help but wonder who’s texting him. Ryan is vulnerable even if he fails to show that side of himself. I catch it in his guarded and hooded eyes. I feel it when I get closer to him to show him something I’ve found in my research and he makes an almost exaggerated attempt to put distance between us.

I lead him to the framed historical photo, hanging in the raucous area of the Cocoanut Grove. This is now an arcade and it turns out the most historically accurate part of the Grove is closed for an event. We both stare at a photo of the present Grove superimposed over a historical photo. The main difference is that in the older photo, the white-clothed circle tables are closer to the wall, each table surrounded by a short rail. There once was a second level, and tall palm trees were part of the décor.

I can picture it now. Me, wearing a long glittery gold gown, my hair in an updo as I dance with gentleman after gentleman. Ryan, standing against the wall, dressed in a suit, his dark wavy hair slicked back. He’s staring at me but not making a move to interrupt and take his turn on my dance card. I wonder who the gentleman is and why he won’t make a move.

“Sometimes, I think I was born in the wrong time,” Ryan says, startling me out of my daydream.

I can’t exactly agree, because I’m a woman. But it might be nice to be at an event without the distractions of a phone that could buzz or ring at any time. Nice to know if you slip and fall no one is going to make a reel or boomerang of it and plaster it on social media for all eternity. How amazing, too, for a chance to get to know someone without the constant chatter. I can barely picture such a silent world.

“I’m getting a feel for the place,” Ryan says. “After all, geography doesn’t change much. All it takes is a little imagination.”

“True, the ocean has always been right there.” I point.