Chapter 14
No doubt about it. It’s Ryan. And he is not alone. He’s sitting at a booth with a brunette who looks like she just stepped out of the pages of Glamour magazine. I’m shocked enough to nearly bump into the person in front of me as I strain to get a better look.
Ryan and the woman appear to be deep in conversation, and she’s stroking his hand.
He doesn’t pull away even though if I’m being honest, I recognize the appearance of a man completely uninterested.
The rigid posture, the body turned away.
All things I saw in Chris in the last few weeks before he left, and which I only now recognize as the kiss-off.
I’m not surprised someone of this caliber is interested in Ryan, because he’s objectively good-looking by almost anyone’s standards.
Once I receive my order, one for Ryan as I’ve been doing since he hired me, it takes everything in me not to stop by their table and offer a quick hello.
Not surprisingly, I’m the curious type, but interrupting feels like a violation of privacy and I talk myself out it.
I appreciate having the separation of both worlds more than most.
Ryan once gave me a key to the house so I could come in if he’s too preoccupied to get up and open the door for me. I’ve learned such things are extremely bothersome if he’s in the flow. His powers of concentration are a thing of wonder. The house could be on fire and he might miss it.
Usually I knock first, but now I let myself in, knowing for the first time with certainty that he’s not here.
Longingly, I look at the closed bedroom door where I might do some of my best snooping.
If he brought a photo of anyone with him it would be in there.
But no. If Ryan wants to tell me who that woman is, he will.
Setting his coffee down on the dining table where he usually works, I open my laptop on the kitchen counter. I go to my new Facebook page and log in with the email and password Pepper sent. Her email says:
Add some photos in everyday situations so you appear to be a genuine person.
Please be careful not to give too much information.
When it comes to sales numbers and the like, no statements are preferred to going on and on about your enormous success.
Readers like a down-to-earth person. People who are far more grounded and self-deprecating are preferred.
In other words, no bragging, though I’m sure I don’t have to tell you that.
Simply thank readers at every opportunity.
Everyone is a fan. Respond to every comment.
The part about appearing to be “a genuine person” makes me chuckle. Yeah, I get it. But Elizabeth Brogan isn’t real and I’m not likely to brag about something I haven’t earned.
My new profile page includes a header graphic, a cover of Soulmates with some of the rave reviews.
I upload some of my personal photos, including older ones like that time I tried making homemade tortillas.
A mini-disaster and I burned most of them.
Very “real” and authentic. No bragging merits here.
There are already comments and I do my best to respond to everyone.
Then I see that Holly has left a comment that makes me cringe:
I know the author personally! I’m super jazzed at this kind of sudden and meteoric success!
I’m not sure how to handle this latest wrinkle. I’ve composed three different responses to Holly’s casual comment, deleting each one by the time Ryan arrives alone. He quirks a brow as if surprised to see me but I’ve become accustomed to this by now and don’t let it phase me.
“Got you a coffee.” I nudge my chin toward the desk.
I say nothing about the fact I spotted him in the coffee shop, not alone, and know he’s already had coffee.
“Thanks,” he says.
“Did you already have some this morning? Since you were out, I wondered,” I press, hoping he’ll volunteer information without me having to yank it out of him.
“Can never have too much coffee,” he says, not actually answering the question. “I’ve been thinking. How about the field trip to Santa Cruz today?”
“Yeah?” I perk up. It’s a weekday so it won’t be quite as crowded as the weekend. “The Cocoanut Grove?”
“Sure, or whatever else you want to show me.” He’s digging through his messenger bag. “Maybe what I need is to walk away from all this paper and see some of the real world for a change.”
“I couldn’t agree more, professor.”
I have no idea what’s brought about his change of attitude, but I like it.
Within a few minutes, after we’ve argued over who will drive and I win, because it’s still difficult to get in a car with someone else driving, we’re on 101 on the way to the Highway 17 interchange.
Once I get to 17, I slow my roll. I’m particular about driving the curvy mountain twists and turns and I prefer to be in the driver’s seat.
I have my reasons for this and they go way back and are extremely valid.
Yes, my hands are shaking a little on the steering wheel but it isn’t like I haven’t driven this treacherous road before.
It isn’t long before Ryan has to pipe in, “Hey, Dale Earhart, Jr. Slow down.”
The sarcasm runs deep in his comment, since going any slower might get me a ticket from the CHP.
“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.