“Hi,” he says, moving along the row to sit one seat away.
She smiles. “You were pretty good up there.”
“Wasn’t my first rodeo,” he says, but he looks pleased. “Did you stick around to ask more questions? I’m not sure I would’ve pegged you for a Jack London fan.”
“I’m not,” she says so quickly that he laughs.
“Not yet.”
“I think I was the only one in the whole room who hasn’t read your book.”
He waves this away with a grin. “It’s highly overrated.”
“I’m sure it’s not.”
“Well, then clearly you’re also the only person who didn’t read the Times review,” he says, his brown eyes dancing. “They called it ‘overblown and self-important.’ ”
Greta laughs. “Trust me, I’ve seen worse.”
“It’s okay—so did Jack London.”
“You must really like the guy,” she says, “to spend that much time with him.”
He nods. “I always thought I’d write a new biography, but most of that ground has been covered, and I realized I was less interested in the facts than the story. So I decided to make it a novel.” He looks around at the auditorium. “I didn’t expect any of this, though.”
“How could you?” Greta says with feeling. “You hope for it, maybe. But the odds are always so long. It’s like winning the lottery.”
“Exactly,” he says, clearly relieved to be understood. “I spent two years chipping away at the book, mainly just to amuse myself. When I was done, I showed it to a friend in the English department, and he slipped it to his agent, and everything happened pretty fast from there. All this stuff is still really weird to me. Interviews, book tours, festivals…”
“Cruise ships.”
“No, I was definitely counting on the cruise ships. I mean, why else would you write a book?” He smiles, then shakes his head. “I shouldn’t joke. I’m actually sort of embarrassingly excited to be here. I’ve never been to Alaska before.”
“Really? Not even a research trip?”
“Nope. I woke up every morning at four o’clock to write, and worked until my kids were awake. There definitely wasn’t time for a research trip. Or money. But now I’m finally on my way.” He pauses and looks at her sideways. “So what about you?”
“What about me?” she asks, peering up at the ceiling.
“What do you do when you’re not cruising?”
“I’m a musician.”
“No way,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “What do you play?”
“Guitar, mostly.”
“Right! I remember now.” He mimes carrying a case, and she realizes it was only yesterday that she’d seen him with his typewriter. “And you do it for real?”
She knows what he’s asking: whether it’s a job or a hobby. It’s what most people ask when she delivers this piece of information. It used to bother her, especially when she was younger and still grasping for a sense of legitimacy. But now there’s a kind of satisfaction to it, well-earned after so many years of working and hoping and striving, of playing in front of crowds of eleven people in basement bars and opening for bands with far less talent and far more fans. There were successes along the way, of course, and a fairly steady sense of momentum, but Greta didn’t truly break through until a few years ago, and it’s different when it happens in your thirties, when you’ve got more than a decade of effort under your belt. So to her, this is what making it feels like: it’s not the albums or the crowds or the money. It’s getting to say—clearly and straightforwardly, without asterisks or qualifications—that yes, in fact, this is what she does. She’s a musician. Simple as that.
Over the years, she’s gotten all manner of condescending responses: I’d love to get to play guitar all day and Man, wouldn’t it be nice to do something fun instead of work and Wow, you can really support yourself doing that? The fans, of course, are different, and there are more of them every day. But she’ll never fully understand why skepticism is most people’s first reaction. Maybe it’s jealousy. Or maybe it’s something deeper than that, a kind of resentment for having the audacity to be living her dream when theirs had to be left behind.
But when she answers Ben, he looks slightly awestruck.
“Wow,” he says. “That’s…possibly the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.”
Greta smiles at this. A few seconds go by before she realizes they’re both just sitting there, as if waiting for something.
Finally, he clears his throat. “So, um, were you sticking around because you had a question?”
“Yes,” Greta says, standing up. “Did you want to get that drink now?”
Chapter Eight
As they walk out of the auditorium, Ben stops to take a picture of a grand-looking staircase that winds down toward a lower level. A minute later, he pauses again, snapping a shot of a random sculpture of a sea otter.
Greta looks at him sideways. “Have you been commissioned to photograph the entire boat?”
He laughs. “They’re for my kids. I’d prefer to send postcards, but they’re way too impatient for that.” He takes one more of the view out the window, the stripe of blue water and the spruce trees behind it. Then he slips the phone back into his pocket. “Oh, and it’s a ship.”
Greta shrugs. “Same thing.”
“Not really,” he says. “Ships have at least two decks above the waterline. This has eleven. Plus it weighs a lot more than five hundred tons. And its only form of propulsion is an engine, so…”
She gives him an incredulous look.
“Sorry, I’m a nerd,” he says at the exact same time she says, “You’re such a nerd.”
They cross the lido deck, where the smell of chlorine is thick against the fogged-up windows and a water aerobics class is underway, dozens of swim caps bobbing in the turquoise water. As they walk out into the atrium—a bustling area full of shops and restaurants, as if they’re not at sea at all but rather in a suburban mall somewhere—Preeti, the girl from yesterday, comes wandering out of an art gallery. Her face lights up when she sees Greta, and she yanks out her earbuds and hurries over.
“Hi,” she says, giving Ben a cursory glance, then turning back to Greta. She holds up her phone. “I told my friend Caroline that I met you, but she doesn’t believe me. Do you think we could take a selfie so I could send it to her as proof?”