“Oh,” Ben says mildly. He adjusts his glasses, then gives her a smile. “Well, I suppose you could say it took most of my life, since I’ve been thinking about Jack London since I was a kid. But as for the actual writing, maybe a couple years. I had done a lot of the research already, just from a lifetime of interest.”
“But it’s fiction,” says a man sitting a few rows down. “So that’s got to be harder. You had to make the story exciting too.”
Greta finds it amusing that so many of the questions about his process are similar to the ones she’s asked again and again in interviews, and she can tell that his answers—like hers—are somewhat canned at this point. But still, everyone is leaning forward with genuine interest, waiting to hear what he has to say, and it occurs to her that they must have read the book. All of them. For some reason, this comes as a surprise.
When the talk is over, her dad starts to head out along with the Fosters and the Blooms. “Don’t want to be late for bingo,” Mary says as she scoots past Greta’s knees. “You coming?”
Greta glances at her dad, trying to gauge whether he’d like her to, but to her relief, he’s already walked off with Davis and Todd.
“Don’t worry,” Mary says. “We’ll keep an eye on him.”
She’s about to get up and follow them out, already wondering how she’s going to fill the rest of the day, when she sees Ben still standing in the front, talking to a small crowd that’s gathered to ask him more questions. His jacket is off and his sleeves are rolled up, and he looks utterly delighted to be discussing his favorite subject. It occurs to Greta that he might be the only other person on this entire ship that isn’t on their way to either bingo or the kiddie pool right now, and so she stays behind, propping her feet up on the back of the seat in front of her.
When the last person finally leaves, he gathers his papers and swings a messenger bag over his head. He’s halfway up the aisle when he notices Greta still there in the back, and his face brightens.
“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.