A.J. orders so many Knightley titles that even Amelia’s boss notices. “I’ve never seen a little account like Island take so many of our books,” the boss says. “New owner?”
“Same guy,” Amelia says. “But he’s different from when I first met him.”
“Well, you must have really done a number on him. That guy doesn’t take what he can’t sell,” the boss says. “Harvey never came close to these kinds of orders with Island.”
Finally, A.J. gets to the last title. It’s a charming memoir about motherhood, scrapbooking, and the writing life, written by a Canadian poet that A.J. has always liked. The book is only 150 pages, but it takes A.J. two weeks to get through it. He can’t seem to read a chapter without falling asleep or being distracted by Maya. When he finishes it, he finds himself unable to craft a response. The writing is elegant enough, and he thinks the women who frequent his store could respond to it. The problem, of course, is that once he replies to Amelia, he’ll be done with the Knightley winter catalog, and he’ll have no reason to contact Amelia until the summer list hits. He likes her, and he thinks it’s possible that she might like him, despite that horrendous first meeting. But . . . A. J. Fikry is not the kind of man who thinks it’s okay to try to steal another man’s fiancée. He doesn’t believe in “the one.” There are zillions of people in the world; no one is that special. Besides which, he barely knows Amelia Loman. What if, say, he did manage to steal her and it turned out they weren’t compatible in bed?
Amelia texts him, What’s happening? Didn’t you like?
Not for me, unfortunately, A.J. replies. Looking forward to seeing what’s on Knightley’s summer list. Yours, A.J.
The response strikes Amelia as overly businesslike, dismissive. She thinks about picking up the phone but doesn’t. She texts back, While you’re waiting, you should definitely watch TRUE BLOOD. True Blood is Amelia’s favorite television show. It had gotten to be a kind of joke with them that A.J. would like vampires if only he would watch True Blood. Amelia fancies herself a Sookie Stackhouse type.
Not gonna happen, Amy, A.J. writes. See you in March.
March is four and a half months away. By then, A.J. feels sure his little crush will have gone away or at least resolved itself into a more tolerable dormancy.
March is four and a half months away.
Maya asks him what’s wrong, and he tells her that he’s sad because he’s not going to see his friend for a while.
“Amelia?” Maya asks.
“How do you know about her?”
Maya rolls her eyes, and A.J. wonders when and where she learned that gesture.
Lambiase hosts his Chief’s Choice Book Club at the store that night (selection: L.A. Confidential), and after that, as is their tradition, he and A.J. share a bottle.
“I think I’ve met someone,” A.J. says after a glass has mellowed him.
“Good news,” Lambiase says.
“The problem is, she’s affianced to someone else.”
“Bad timing,” Lambiase proclaims. “I’ve been a police officer for twenty years now and I’ll tell you, pretty much every bad thing in life is a result of bad timing, and every good thing is the result of good timing.”
“That seems terribly reductive.”
“Think about it. If Tamerlane hadn’t gotten stolen, you wouldn’t have left the door unlocked, and Marian Wallace wouldn’t have left the baby in the store. Good timing is what that was.”
“True. But I met Amelia four years ago,” A.J. argues. “I just didn’t bother to notice her until a couple of months ago.”
“Still bad timing. Your wife had died. And then you had Maya.”
“It’s not much consolation,” A.J. says.
“But hey, it’s good to know your heart still works, right? Want me to set you up with someone?”
A.J. shakes his head.
“Come on,” Lambiase insists. “I know everyone in town.”
“Unfortunately, it’s a very small town.”
As a warm-up, Lambiase sets up A.J. with his cousin. The cousin has blond hair with black roots, overly plucked eyebrows, a heart-shaped face, and a high-pitched voice like Michael Jackson. She wears a low-cut top and a push-up bra, which creates a small, sad shelf for her name necklace to rest. Her name is Maria. In the middle of mozzarella sticks, they run out of conversation.
“What’s your favorite book?” A.J. attempts to draw her out.
She chews on her mozzarella stick and clutches her Maria necklace like it’s a rosary. “This is some kind of a test, right?”
“No, there’s no wrong answer,” A.J. says. “I’m curious.”
She drinks her wine.
“Or you could say the book that had the greatest influence on your life. I’m trying to get to know you a little.”
She takes another sip.
“Or how about the last thing you read?”
“The last thing I read . . . ” She furrows her brow. “The last thing I read was this menu.”
“And the last thing I read was your necklace,” he says. “Maria.”
The meal is perfectly cordial after that. He never will find out what Maria reads.
Next, Margene from the store sets him up with her neighbor, a lively female firefighter named Rosie. Rosie has black hair with a blue streak, exceptional arm muscles, a great big laugh, and short nails she paints red with little orange flames. Rosie is a former college hurdles champion, and she likes to read sports history and particularly athletes’ memoirs.
On their third date, she’s in the middle of describing a dramatic section from Jose Canseco’s Juiced when A.J. interrupts her, “You know they’re all ghostwritten?”
Rosie says she knows and she doesn’t care. “These high-performance individuals have been busy training and practicing. When did they have time to learn to write books?”
“But these books . . . My point is, they’re essentially lies.”
Rosie cocks her head toward A.J. and taps her flame nails on the table. “You’re a snob, you know that? Makes you miss out on a lot.”
“I’ve been told that before.”
“All of life’s in a sports memoir,” she says. “You practice hard and you succeed, but eventually your body gives out and it’s over.”
“Sounds like a latter-period Philip Roth novel,” he says.
Rosie crosses her arm. “That’s one of those things you say to sound smart, right?” she says. “But, really, you’re trying to make someone else feel stupid.”
That night in bed, after sex that feels more like wrestling, Rosie rolls away from him and says, “I’m not sure I want to see you again.”
“I’m sorry if I hurt your feelings before,” he says as he puts his pants back on. “The memoirs thing.”
She waves her hand. “Don’t worry about it. You can’t help the way you are.”
He suspects she is right. He is a snob, not suited for relationships. He will raise his daughter, run his store, read his books, and that, he decides, will be more than enough.
AT ISMAY’S INSISTENCE, it is determined that Maya should take dance. “You don’t want her to be deprived, do you?” Ismay says.
“Of course not,” A.J. says.
“Well,” Ismay says, “dance is important, not just physically but socially, too. You don’t want her to end up stunted.”
“I don’t know. The idea of enrolling a little girl in dance. Isn’t that kind of an old-fashioned and sexist notion?”