Page 6 of A Bookish Story

After organizing his notes, I fall down several rabbit holes on the internet. Two days ago, I wound up on a gardening site, which had nothing to do with the Richmond Shipyard except that a rare wildflower had once been spotted nearby. Right now, I’m going back to the site to identify which flowers are natural to the area.

“What the hell is this?” Ryan spies over my shoulder. “Did I ask you to research flowers? What does gardening have to do with my book?”

I guiltily shut the lid of the laptop. “You know what? Setting is awfully important to a story!”

“Please, just follow directions.”

But I’ve learned far more about ships and factories than I ever thought I would. I wonder how much of this information will actually make it into the book. I have read my share of historical fiction. Those authors are talented, weaving a world based on the research they’ve done, grounding but never boring the reader.

Privately, because he’s supposed to be kind of a big deal in so-called “highbrow” literary circles, I’m reading his first book. And while the prose is fine, it meanders on and on. One entire scene on a blue jay the main character observes taking flight while stationed at Pearl Harbor. Really. Probably some foreshadowing of how he, too, would soon take flight. Maybe a metaphor. But I almost fell asleep while reading.

“Um, I want to make a suggestion?” I say now, accidentally phrasing this as a question. That makes me sound insecure, as if I need permission.

Anyway, he knows I’m a ghostwriter so I hope he realizes I know story.

“About?”

As a native, I know quite a lot about our area, and I’ve remembered something about the beach town of Santa Cruz south of us.

“About your book.”

He narrows his eyes. “You have a suggestion about my book?”

He says this as if I’ve just suggested he should strip naked and run around the block a few times to get the blood pumping. The tone almost makes me back down, but something about Ryan’s quiet nature is pushing me to be challenging. Bolder. It’s like nature, seeking balance.

“Yes, if…if that’s all right.” I thrum the pads of my fingers on the table.

He studies me several seconds, like I’m a student he can’t decide he should let pass his course on a technicality.

Finally, he nods. “Sure.”

“Well, did you know that the Cocoanut Grove in Santa Cruz was quite the attraction during World War II? All the big bands came through to play.”

“Is it still there?” He squints. “If so, we should take a field trip.”

This is where I swallow hard, knowing what Mr. History might say about what I have to say next.

“Well, part of it’s been converted into an arcade, but⁠—”

“An arcade. They couldn’t find any other place to put that?”

“You didn’t let me finish. The ballroom can still be rented for events. Anyway, there’s mention of the history of Santa Cruz during the war. All very interesting. At least, I remember being interested at the time.”

Mr. Brady rubs both temples like he has a headache coming on thanks to me. “This is going to help me…how? My book is set in Richmond.”

“Pacing. I thought maybe your main characters could have a diversion there for a day. Maybe there’s a big military ball and something pertinent to the plot happens there. You do have a love story in your book, right?”

He gives me a look as if he can’t believe I’ve asked him that question. Like the very idea is ludicrous.

When he doesn’t speak, I keep talking. “Seriously, a love story is a great way to up the stakes and give your character something to fight for. Something he or she can’t stand the thought of losing.”

He seems greatly offended by this idea, given his furrowed brow and the set of his jaw.

“My characters are already dealing with a war. Separation and isolation from family. Danger to life and limb. Look, I know you’re trying to help. But…don’t.” He puts up a hand. “My brain doesn’t work that way. Don’t you have some research to do?”

Well, fine. If he doesn’t want my help he won’t get it. But I’ve certainly read enough plots to know a character needs to risk personal loss, or the reader won’t care about the story. I go back to my research on surnames, determined to push my agenda on him at some point.

Bent over a book, deep in reading, Mr. Brady doesn’t seem to notice when his cell buzzes. He doesn’t even move. If only he could bottle and sell his powers of concentration. They are enviable.