Page 93 of A Bookish Story

“Hmmm,” he says, eyes still closed.

“You said Elizabeth Brogan is a family name but you never told me who. A grandmother? Aunt? Cousin?”

“Yeah.”

I can see this is going to be another one of those one-word conversations if I don’t take the reins.

“So, which one of them is it? Do you have a daughter? Is that Elizabeth?”

He opens one eye. “You think I have a daughter?”

“The photo in your bedroom…she looks like you. Same eyes and smile.”

“Oh.” He smiles a little, eyes closed. “My sister.”

“But I thought you…you only ever mentioned you and your brother.” Once the words slide out of me, I can’t take them back and I’m afraid of what he’ll say next.

“It is,” he says, and I can’t tell if the pain crossing his features is from bruised ribs or something far deeper. “She died a long time ago. Elizabeth.”

CHAPTER 30

“She died?”

He nods. “Brogan was her middle name, which is my mother’s maiden name. Elizabeth Brogan Brady. I just dropped the Brady.”

“I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have brought it up.” My voice breaks.

My throat is closing up with thick emotion, and I can’t speak.

I shouldn’t have listened to Millie. Curiosity got the best of me tonight, but maybe she did set me up. Ryan doesn’t need to be reminded of this kind of grief and loss, especially now. Then again, isn’t he reminded of her every time he sees me? Every time he sees the book cover with her name on it? Maybe this is the real reason he never wanted to write another one again.

But he takes my hand, threads his fingers through mine, giving me a pass. “It’s okay. You saw the picture. I have it with me whenever I’m writing. She’s become sort of my muse over the years.”

It all makes sense now he’d choose a woman’s name. It wasn’t a marketing ploy. It wasn’t trickery. It was simply…love.

“The pen name means a lot more to me now. Before, it was just another pretty name.”

“I read somewhere that most authors try to honor someone they love with a pen name. Sometimes it’s a family name, a grandparent, a child. For me, it was my sister.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He shrugs, his eyes closing again. “I don’t want anyone to feel sorry for me. It’s hard to talk about it.”

“It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t try.”

“She’s the real reason I wrote the book. When they offered me all that money…it was a good chance to set up a foundation for Elizabeth. It’s a literary one that gives a scholarship every year to underprivileged kids.”

This was the literacy foundation I noticed in his paperwork when I snooped. He isn’t just a contributor. He started the whole thing.

“I kept teaching because my writing barely covered my bills. When Kate explained what kind of money she was talking about, I had to go for it. And then the morning show…well, it meant more exposure and more sales. You understand, don’t you?”

Of course I understand. Anyone would take the opportunity, and most for far less benevolent reasons.

“You might not want to talk about it. But how…” I let the sentence trail off, not even sure I want to know.

We’ve both suffered staggering losses. A sister. A father.

“Drowned. We were at the lake, I was supposed to be watching her, but…well, my new Star Wars Lego set was far more important at the time.”