“When’s the wedding, by the way? Or has it already happened?”
She looks up at him. “It’s off, actually.”
“I’m sorry,” A.J. says.
“It happened a while ago. Over Christmas.”
“I thought because he called . . .”
“He was crashing at my house at the time. I try to stay friends with my exes,” Amelia says. “I’m that way.”
A.J. knows he is being intrusive, but he can’t stop himself. “What happened?”
“Brett’s a great guy, but the sad truth is we didn’t have very much in common.”
“Shared sensibility does matter,” A.J. says.
Amelia’s phone rings. “My mother. I have to take this,” she says. “I’ll see you in a couple of months, okay?”
A.J. nods. Skype clicks off, and Amelia’s status changes to Away.
He opens his browser and Googles the following phrase: “educational family attractions near Providence, Rhode Island.” The search yields no distinctive results: a children’s museum, a doll museum, a lighthouse, and other things he could more easily do in Boston. He settles on the Green Animals Topiary Garden in Portsmouth. He and Maya had read a picture book with topiary animals in it a while ago, and she’d seemed mostly interested in the subject. Plus it’s good for them to get off the island, right? He’ll take Maya to see the animals, then swing by Providence to see a sick friend.
“Maya,” he says that night at dinner, “how would you like to see a giant topiary elephant?”
She gives him a look. “Your voice is funny.”
“It’s cool, Maya. You remember that book we read with the topiaries?”
“You mean, when I was little.”
“Right. I found this place with a topiary animal garden. I have to go to Providence anyway to see a sick friend so I thought it would be cool for us to see the animal garden while we were there.” He gets out his computer and shows her the website with the topiary animals.
“Okay,” she says seriously. “I would like to see that.” She points out that the website says that the topiary garden is in Portsmouth, not Providence.
“Portsmouth and Providence are really close,” A.J. says. “Rhode Island is the country’s smallest state.”
It turns out, however, that Portsmouth and Providence are not all that close. Although there is a bus, the easiest way to get to there is by car, and A.J. doesn’t have a driver’s license. He calls Lambiase and asks him to come with them.
“Kid’s super into topiaries, huh?” Lambiase asks.
“She’s mad for them,” A.J. says.
“Seems a weird thing for a kid to be into, that’s all I’m saying.”
“She’s a weird kid.”
“But is the middle of winter the best time for touring a garden?”
“It’s almost spring. Besides, Maya’s into topiaries right now. Who knows if she’ll be as interested come summer?”
“Kids change quick. It’s true,” Lambiase says.
“Look, you don’t have to come.”
“Oh, I’ll come. Who wouldn’t want to see a giant green elephant? The thing is, though, sometimes people tell you you’re on one kind of trip, but it turns out to be another kind of trip, you know what I mean? I just want to know what kind of trip I’m on. Are we going to see topiaries, or are we going to see something else? Maybe that lady friend of yours, say?”
A.J. inhales. “It crossed my mind that I might stop by to see Amelia, yes.”
A.J. texts Amelia the next day: Forgot to mention that Maya and I are going to be in Rhode Island next weekend. Instead of you mailing the galleys, I could pick them up.
Amelia: Don’t have them here. Having them sent from NYC.
So much for that ill-conceived plan, A.J. thinks.
A couple of minutes later, Amelia sends another text: What are you doing in Rhode Island anyway?
A.J.: Going to the topiary garden in Portsmouth. Maya loves topiaries! (He is only slightly mortified by that exclamation point.)
Amelia: Didn’t know there was one. Wish I could come with you, but I’m still only semimobile.
A.J. waits a couple of minutes before he texts: Are you in need of visitors? Maybe we could stop by.
She does not immediately respond. A.J. takes her silence to mean that she has all the visitors she needs.
The next day, Amelia does text back: Sure. I’d like that. Don’t eat. I’ll make something for you and Maya.
“YOU CAN KIND of see them if you get on your tippy toes and look over the fence,” A.J. says. “There, in the distance!” They had left Alice at seven that morning, taken the ferry to Hyannis, then driven two hours to Portsmouth only to discover that the Green Animals Topiary Garden is closed from November through May.
A.J. finds that he cannot make eye contact with either his daughter or Lambiase. It is twenty-nine degrees, but shame is keeping him warm.
Maya stands on her toes and when that doesn’t work, she tries hopping. “I can’t see anything,” she says.
“Here, I’ll get you higher,” Lambiase says, lifting Maya onto his shoulders.
“Maybe I can see a little bit,” Maya says doubtfully. “No, I definitely cannot see anything. They’re all covered.” Her lower lip begins to quiver. She looks at A.J. with pained eyes. He doesn’t think he can take any more of this.
Suddenly, she smiles brightly at A.J. “But you know what, Daddy? I can imagine what the elephant looks like under the blanket. And the tiger! And the unicorn!” She nods at her father as if to say, Clearly this imaginative exercise must have been your point in taking me here in the middle of winter.
“That’s very good, Maya.” He feels like the worst parent in the world, but Maya’s faith in him seems to be restored.
“Look, Lambiase! The unicorn is shivering. She’s glad to be wearing the blanket. Can you see it, Lambiase?”
A.J. walks over to the security kiosk, where the guard shoots him a sympathetic expression. “Happens all the time,” she says.
“Then you don’t think I’ve scarred my daughter for life?” A.J. asks.
“Sure,” says the guard. “You’ve probably done that, but I doubt from anything that happened today. No child ever turned bad from not seeing topiary animals.”
“Even if her father’s real purpose was a sexy girl in Providence?”
The guard doesn’t seem to hear that part. “My suggestion to you is that you tour the Victorian residence instead. Kids love those.”
“Do they?”
“Some of them. Sure. Why not? Maybe you’ve got the kind that does.”
AT THE MANSION, Maya is reminded of From the Mixed-Up Files of Ms. Basil E. Frankweiler, a book Lambiase hasn’t read.
“Oh, you must, Lambiase,” Maya says. “You will love it. There’s this girl and her brother, and they run away—”
“Running away’s no laughing matter.” Lambiase frowns. “As a police officer, I can tell you that kids don’t do well on the streets.”
Maya continues, “They go to this big museum in New York City, and they hide out there. It’s—”
“It’s criminal is what it is,” Lambiase says. “It’s definitely trespassing. It’s probably breaking and entering, too.”
“Lambiase,” Maya says, “you are missing the point.”