Page 1 of A Bookish Story

CHAPTER 1

Nobody plans to live in a converted garden shed when they’re on the cusp of turning thirty. But that’s exactly where I live, in the backyard of my abuelita’s home, since rent in my small town in the Bay Area is such that most people my age can’t afford to live alone. The threat of months in my she-shed has brought me to this moment. Something has to change.

And behind the door of the charming bungalow residential house standing before me, there is possibility. This leafy tree-lined area is commonly referred to as Professorville, one of the oldest neighborhoods in Seven Trees, closest to the university.

I need this second job as a research assistant to a visiting history professor. It pays well, and once your fiancé dumps you weeks before the wedding, a girl needs a second job. This position would be perfect, with the flexible hours I can use to work around my main job as a ghostwriter.

I walk up the short flight of steps to the porch of the home with a pitch-style roof, a stone chimney, and a large picture window facing the front. The door is painted a forest green, giving the cottage a secret-garden quality.

Fist raised to the door, I’m ready to state my case as to why I should be hired.

But before I knock, the door swings open, and a middle-aged man who looks like the professor of my former MFA program in creative writing greets me. My shoulders unstiffen and I relax. This is perfect. He resembles every other professor I’ve ever met, and I’ve met a lot of them. Portly, barrel-chested, wearing tweed, beard. Check, check, check, check.

“Well, hello! You must be here for the research position,” he says and waves me inside. “Please do come in.”

“Thank you! I’m so glad to meet you. My name is Lucia Milagros Santana but please call me Luci. Let me just say first off, I’m anxious to start working, and I can start today. The salary posted is more than adequate.”

“Um…” he says, probably not accustomed to someone as energetic.

If there’s anything I hear quite often, it’s “care to tone it down a bit?” It’s as if I have two dials: high and off. But certainly, this is not the time to find that middle ground.

“A little about me! I have my MFA in creative writing and I’m also a writer. I ghostwrite mostly but I also have my own novel, which I’m querying. Also, I’m a huge fan of history so this is perfect. I understand you’re a history professor and an author. This is a good fit, believe me. I love historical fiction, the older the better!”

Older the better? I internally roll my eyes. I’m constantly self-editing but life is not a book.

I must keep going.

He smiles. “Well, my dear, you are quite enthusiastic, aren’t you?”

“Yes! And I will work hard, I promise you. I’ve lived in Seven Trees for most of my life,” I say, because he should know everything about me, or everything that’s legally required. “My family lives here, my grandmother and uncle. My grandfather actually built the house they lived in, back in the nineteen sixties.”

He quirks a brow. “My, how grand. So, your family was here before the tech revolution.”

I’m excited because I think he likes me, and I’ve succeeded in making the good first impression one must make within the first few minutes of an introduction. It’s only then I notice the large suitcase sitting beside the professor. This is confusing for a moment, as the agency said the professor would be renting this house for at least a month and I’m told he’s been here only a week. The professor glances behind him, where a younger man entered the room at some point in my monologue. I look from the professor to the other man, waiting for someone to speak. I’ve been commanding the floor, which may have been a mistake, but did I mention how much I need this job?

“Ryan,” the professor says, turning to the younger man. “I believe your candidate has arrived.”

“I believe you’re right, Henry.”

My heart flutters in my chest. I’ve been selling myself to the wrong person. While they speak as if we’re all in a Jane Austen novel, my brain catches up with my mouth. The younger man is the antithesis of the older one. He’s wearing slacks and a Dodgers T-shirt, which might get him killed in these parts, and he looks more like a TA than an actual professor.

“Oh,” I say, and add an impromptu curtsy as I recover. “Mayhap I have made an error.”

The older professor bursts into laughter while the younger one continues to stare like he can’t believe they let people like me wander around town unattended. His head is cocked to the side, his black-rimmed Superman-style glasses sit slightly askew on his face. The urge to reach out and straighten them is distracting me.

“Yes, you have erred, my dear,” he says and chuckles, waving to Ryan. “But that’s completely understandable. This is Professor Brady, who will be staying in my home while I’m off for my six-month sabbatical in Egypt! I leave you in good hands.”

A wave of discomfort hits me, because this other man is not at all what I expected. For one thing, he’s young. For another, he’s got that Clark Kent, geeky, studious appearance only handsome men like him can pull off and still be cool. His hair is so dark it’s almost black, eyes a deep indigo blue. They droop slightly at the corners, giving him a sad puppy dog look.

“Let me help you out,” Ryan says, and bends to pick up another one of Professor Henry’s suitcases.

“Goodbye, my dear, and good luck! I’m off to see the pyramids!” Henry says.

“Bye, sir.”

Safe to say I will think of him often, every time I blow a job interview.

I walk a bit further into the home. Since I’m a writer, by nature I’m a snoop, but I dial it down with strangers. I’ve never been in one of these craftsman-style bungalows and I’m curious. There’s a fireplace to the left in the family room, dark gold paisley drapes, bookcases, and plants, with the kitchen straight ahead. Down the hallway must be the bedrooms. To the right is presumably the dining room and taking a few steps in, I find a farmhouse table filled with papers and books. Here, through the wide picture window, I have a clear view to the sidewalk where the two professors are engaged in an animated conversation.