Chapter 2
In the first week of work, five more people come by to interview for the position of research assistant. Mr. Brady now makes me answer the door and tell them the position is filled. I admit I don’t mind doing this as I’m much nicer about it than he is.
“So sorry, the job is filled. But good luck in your future endeavors!”
Once, a university student looking for work was so upset she cried.
“If I’d gotten here sooner I could have had this job.”
I hugged her. “Oh hey, hey. Did you know they’re looking for baristas at The Drip? Tell them I sent you; I used to work there.”
“Thanks,” she said, wiping away a tear. “You’re so nice.”
That time, Mr. Brady looked up from his work, his mouth once again refusing to give in to another smile.
“Maybe you’re a little too nice.”
“There’s no such thing!”
“Whatever,” he said. “Kids need to get used to disappointment.”
I work for him in the mornings and depending on the day, I have my afternoons free.
I’m also able to work from home but Mr. Brady would rather I work in close proximity.
He claims it keeps him on track because he wouldn’t feel comfortable taking a nap while I’m here.
Apparently, he’s prone to those when on deadline.
He’s not horrible to work for. I mean, I’ve had a lot worse. He does answer the phone in an interesting way.
“What?” is his preferred way of greeting people who deign to interrupt him with a call.
It’s the reason I didn’t argue about answering the door to inform interviewees the position is taken.
And happily, the block is working. I can appreciate his male hotness in theory.
Like the way I stare at a rainbow or a glorious sunset and appreciate the vibrant colors.
I don’t want to make out with the rainbow or the sunset.
It’s just very beautiful. Ryan has fallen into this “hot block” area in which I appreciate his objectively good looks while, in fact, they are not even slightly affecting me.
The day he hired me I searched online for Ryan Brady books.
He’s written four World War II historical fiction novels for a major publishing house.
There have been awards and distinctions but no bestseller status.
The point is, he’s reviewed without fail in the major places and they’re always positive, raving about his prose and suspenseful plots.
“Professor.” I interrupt him now.
“What?” He sounds annoyed, then shoves a hand through his hair and turns to me. The ends stick up, glasses slightly askew.
Click.
He blinks, then scowls. “Did you just take my picture?”
“Why yes, I did. And you look great. Adorable and more importantly approachable.”
“What are you doing with that?” He points to my phone.
“I’m posting it on your socials with some pithy and cute comment about how hard at work you are on your new book.”
“Why?”
“Before the end of the month, I bet we double your followers.”
“But I didn’t hire you to up my social media game.”
“You don’t have a social media game. Look at this as an extra service I provide.” While I have his attention I reach for several notes gleaned from the City of Richmond’s website. “You aren’t giving me enough work. Should I pick up where I left off yesterday, or do you have something I could read?”
“What I need now is a list of California area surnames from the nineteen forties. Focus on the Bay Area, people with Spanish heritage.”
“Yes, I’ll get to that.”
Rather than working in separate rooms, he decided we should work together on the dining room table, where our books and papers mingle.
I sit several seats away from him to give him plenty of elbow room.
Mr. Brady is a messy writer. He tends to stare off into space a great deal, which I recognize as the mark of a writer, but occasionally he tightly grips a worn baseball while he does, which makes him… confusing.
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.
“Mr. Brady?” I prompt and he looks up at me. “Your phone? Should I? Should I get it?”
He hasn’t assigned me telephone duties and we let the house phone go to voicemail whenever it rings.
It’s never anyone important on the landline since this is his mentor’s house and everyone knows he’s on sabbatical.
A few days ago, he called Ryan on his cell and I could hear him laughing and then more quietly, “Yeah. Working out fine.” And then also, “No, I don’t think that’s a good idea. ”
Now Ryan picks up his cell, gives it a glance, and stands. “Great. It’s my agent. I have to take this.”
Okay, okay. I get it, Mr. Big Shot. You have an agent.
He leaves the room but you’d think he wouldn’t be so loud if he wants privacy. I hear every word he’s saying.
A few minutes later he’s increasingly frustrated. “Are you kidding me? I thought we had more time. But…what are we going to do about this? Look, I don’t need this. Honestly, the advance was more than enough. It was all I wanted. Yes, yes, it’s good but also very very bad.”
Seriously, there’s no point to leaving the room if I can still hear him.
He isn’t exactly disguising his frustration, but that’s Mr. Brady for you.
He can be grumpy and not just when he’s interrupted.
On the first day of work, I’d gotten his coffee order wrong, and he sulked all morning.
I proudly stood my ground and refused to offer to go back and get the right drink because the coffee delivery was a perk and my way of being nice.
Did he still drink it? Why, yes, he did, a scowl on his face the entire time.
“I understand, but…you said I could…then why did you say that? Damn it, this is getting out of control. Remember, none of this was my idea!” This he pretty much shouts, which is unusual enough that I startle.
“I’m beginning to wonder if it’s worth this!”
He has my curiosity more than piqued. Something wrong with the book? The contract? I don’t know much about the inside of the published author world but have heard a few things here and there through the querying author grapevine. I know all too well deals can fall apart.
“Not sure why you’re asking me, then, if you’re not going to listen. Do what you have to do!” He storms back into the room and has apparently forgotten I’m here given by the way he does a double take when he sees me. “Sorry, bad day. You can go home early.”
It’s Friday, so I’m not going to argue. My cousin Sofia is coming over later for girl talk and mostly to make her infamous mojitos. She’s been trying for months to get me to go out but I can’t afford fun right now.
“Bad news?” I ask while gathering my laptop and papers, slipping them inside the satchel.
He’s obviously already checked out, staring out the window as if it’s an abyss, his hands steepled. I think he likes to see himself as this tragic creature, forced to live in this modern age where people like to talk to each other and share information via the black magic of technology.
I cough, so he remembers I’m standing here.
“Good and bad,” he says, stands and walks me to the door. “But mostly bad.”
It’s a good thing he doesn’t write the way he talks.
“Well, I’m sorry for the bad but happy about the good.”
Two can play this game.
I leave wondering if there’s anyone he can call later for moral support.
There’s no ring on his finger and no photos he brought with him.
I’ve snooped a little, so I’ve seen some of the mail he brought.
Stuff like bills and such. He charges way too much coffee to his Amex card and apparently gives generously to a literary foundation.
The truth is I know very little about the man and beyond the work I do for him, he’s none of my concern.
All in all, the block is working.