"Jesus," Eva said.
"It works that way sometimes," Joe said. "I've seen it in paintings. Beautiful people can do beautiful work; they aren't afraid of it; they're used to it." Eva looked at him. She was good-looking herself, although not in Cleo's league.
Joe's head was spinning from two weeks of conversation at breakfast, lunch, dinner, and points in between. It was a relief to be in the plane, seated next to an elderly woman who had no interest in writing. He had scheduled a stopover in San Francisco, but, when he arrived, he couldn't bring himself to call Brendan. He was too tired to socialize. He spent a day walking about the city and was able to buy almost all of the books on his reading list. He wouldn't have to wait for any of them to be delivered to Honolulu.
After an uneventful flight and a satisfying view of Diamond Head, Joe climbed the stairs to his apartment, a cloth shopping bag filled with paperbacks in one hand, his Filson bag in the other. "Yo, Batman! New books!"
18
Mo swirled special noodles around in her bowl. "So, did you find out?
What's a story?"
Joe handed her a manila envelope. "Here's one," he said. "A story is about change, is of change. It's obvious, I guess, but I couldn't see it. My instructor, Roland, finally said, 'Look, Joe, for God's sake—in a story, sooner or later, something has to happen to somebody."' Joe shook his head. "I kept trying to stop time, like a painter. I've got it now; stories model, take place, in time. The meaning is embodied in the movement—like a dance—you can't separate them." He sipped tea. "The school has been good, but I'm stopping after this semester. Too expensive. Diminishing returns. I just have to do it now—the writing."
"It has been good for you," Mo said. "I have news."
"Aha," Joe said.
"Rob Wilcox. You remember? On Kauai? He's offered to go into business with me—a gallery and a fine art print shop with enough space to teach classes. He has a building on Queen Street. He'll supply the space and the money for equipment. I'll take care of the rest."