LA Natural History Museum

I don't write many short stories, so when I decided to enter the Wild Rose Press's contest, it was a major writing decision.  The story had to be a romance and have some sort of a garden theme.  I'm anything but a garden person.  The Florida heat is more than I want to deal with, and my husband LOVES all kinds of yard work, so I'm happy to let him deal with the outside plants.  I take care of the inside ones (which are all silk).  The ones on the patio are in no-man's-land, and have to thrive on neglect. 

As always, I plunged in with an opening line which, of course didn't survive the edits once I knew my heroine better.  And having a brown thumb, I didn't want to have many scenes where she was actually gardening.  I moved her from Florida to Los Angeles, and used the rose garden at Exposition Park, a place I'd been many times growing up to fulfill the garden requirement. 

Another place in Exposition Park is the Natural History Museum, another favorite childhood haunt.  Because I wasn't sure how much the interior had changed, and because I'm anal about accuracy, I began asking their PR spokesperson questions, like what was the menu in the cafe (as always happens to me, it's undergoing renovations and new management), but I figured I could wing that one, since the story was set a few years ago.  Next--if my hero's got a backpack, will it be checked when he enters the museum?  Turns out, the word "checked" set off all sorts of red flags and the nice PR lady told me that on the advice of the legal department, she couldn't divulge any of the details.  All I wanted to know was if Richard would have to turn in his backpack and get a claim ticket, or if someone might make him open it.  No go.  Any requests for details about what the diorama halls looked like got stock responses about how I couldn't do any filming without permission.  It's a BOOK, lady.  I'm writing a short story, not making a movie. Finally, I got in touch with someone who works for the museum but not at the museum, but he goes there often and he took a slew of pictures so I could make those few paragraphs "real" for myself and (I hope) for readers.  Two weeks of correspondence and this is what it boiled down to, as far as descriptions went.  All the animals in the diorama--gone.  The color of the floor--who needed it?  But knowing what's really there helps the writing.  At least I hope so.  Let me know. 

An excerpt:

He put his pencil and sketchbook into a canvas backpack.  Together, they strolled to the Natural History Museum.  When Rose reached into her purse, Richard's hand stopped her.  "I've got a membership.  You're my guest."

Rose wondered why she hadn't come inside since she'd moved to LA.  More fears that the pictures she had in her head from Mama's stories wouldn't match reality?  Inside the museum, the entry hall loomed before them, dominated by a Tyrannosaurus and Triceratops, immobilized in a skeletal duel.  She imagined her uncle tugging on Grampa's hand, urging him to move faster. 

Richard guided her downstairs to the café.  Rose lifted her eyebrows. 

"Wolfgang Puck?  Not bad for a museum."

"Depends.  Frankly, I prefer less exotic pizza, but it's convenient."

 Over pizza, salad and iced tea, Rose confessed her ties to the rose garden. Almost immediately, she wished she hadn’t. Would he think she was trolling for a husband? Nothing in his demeanor changed, and she relaxed.

'What makes you come here every weekend?' she asked. 'There have to be millions of places to draw in LA.'

He picked up the crust of his pizza and flipped it around in his hands for a moment. His face, despite the straw hat he wore outside, was tan, but she thought a flush rose at the tips of his ears. He took a slow, deliberate drink of his tea.

'There are.'

'But you like it here because?'

'I saw you,' he mumbled.

'What?' Rose regretted the sharpness in her tone. Like he’d confessed to being a stalker.

He kept his gaze on his plate a moment longer, but when he raised it, he met her eyes. There was no doubt he was blushing.

'I first saw you about a month ago. In your own world. I came back the next week, hoping to see you again. You walk the grounds, then sit in the same place, survey the garden like you have a vested interest in the roses, then disappear into a book. Today, I finally got up the nerve to talk to you.'

Now Rose knew she was blushing as well. 'I’m glad you did.'

Silence hung between them for a moment, a gossamer curtain.

"You want to tour the museum for a bit?" Richard asked.

"I'd love to.  Do you know if they have rooms filled with animals?  Not real ones.  I think there was an elephant."

"Sure.  It's still there." 

They ambled through the museum to the Hall of African Mammals.  Glass-fronted dioramas surrounded a vast open space.  For Rose, it was like entering a cathedral.  Unaware of Richard beside her, she strode past the exhibits until she found the diorama her mother had described.  She stood, transfixed by the animals gathered around the watering hole, rooted in her mother's childhood, oblivious to people coming and going.