“This isn’t terribly literary or brilliant, but how about a garden party?” Ismay says. “The Late Bloomer. Blooms, get it?”
“I do,” he says.
“Everyone wears flowered hats. You have the writer judge a hat contest or something. It will lighten the mood, and all the mothers you’re friends with will probably show up, if only for the chance to take pictures of each other wearing ridiculous hats.”
A.J. considers this. “That sounds horrible.”
“It was only a suggestion.”
“But as I think about it, it’s probably the right kind of horrible.”
“I accept the compliment. Is Amelia coming?”
“I certainly hope so,” A.J. says. “I’m having this damned party for her.”
THAT JULY, A.J. and Maya go to the only fine jewelry store on Alice Island. A.J. points out a vintage ring with a simple setting and square stone.
“Too plain,” Maya says. She selects a yellow diamond as big as the Ritz, which turns out to be roughly the cost of a first-edition mint-condition Tamerlane.
They settle on a 1960s era ring with a diamond in the middle and a setting made out of enamel petals. “Like a daisy,” Maya says. “Amy likes flowers and happy things.”
A.J. thinks the ring is a bit gaudy, but he knows Maya is right—this is the one Amelia would pick, the one that will make her happy. At the very least, the ring will match her flip-flops.
On the walk back to the bookstore, A.J. warns Maya that Amelia could say no. “She’d still be our friend,” A.J. says, “even if she did say no.”
Maya nods, then nods some more. “Why would she say no?”
“Well . . . Lots of reasons, actually. Your dad is not exactly a catch.”
Maya laughs. “You’re silly.”
“And the place we live is hard to get to, and Amy has to travel for her work.”
“Are you going to ask her at the book party?” Maya asks.
A.J. shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to embarrass her.”
“Why would it embarrass her?”
“Well, I don’t want her to feel cornered into saying yes because there’s a crowd, you know?” When he had been nine years old, his father had taken him to a Giants game. They had ended up sitting next to a woman who was proposed to at half-time over the Jumbotron. Yes, the woman had said when the camera had been on her. But as soon as the third quarter started, the woman had begun to cry uncontrollably. A.J. had never much liked football after that. “And maybe I don’t want to embarrass myself either.”
“After the party?” Maya says.
“Yes, maybe if I work up the courage.” He looks at Maya. “Is this okay with you, by the way?”
She nods and then she wipes her glasses on her T-shirt. “Daddy, I told her about the topiaries.”
“What about them exactly?”
“I told her that I don’t even like them and that I was pretty sure we had gone to Rhode Island to see her that time.”
“Why did you tell her that?”
“She said a couple of months ago that you were ‘a hard person to read sometimes.’ ”
“I’m afraid that is probably true.”
AUTHORS NEVER LOOK that much like their author photos, but the first thing A.J. thinks when he meets Leon Friedman is that he really doesn’t look like his author photo. Photo Leon Friedman is thinner, clean-shaven, and his nose looks longer. Actual Leon Friedman looks somewhere between old Ernest Hemingway and a department store Santa Claus: big red nose and belly, bushy white beard, twinkly eyes. Actual Leon Friedman looks about ten years younger than his author photo. A.J. decides maybe it’s just the excess weight and the beard. “Leon Friedman. Novelist extraordinaire,” Friedman introduces himself. He pulls A.J. into a bear hug. “Pleased to meet you. You must be A.J. The gal at Knightley says you love my book. Good taste on your part, if I do say so myself.”
“It’s interesting that you call the book a novel,” A.J. says. “Would you say it’s a novel or a memoir?”
“Ah, well, we’ll be debating that until the cows come home, won’t we? You wouldn’t happen to have a drink for me. A bit of the old vino always makes these kinds of events go better for me.”
Ismay has provided tea and finger sandwiches for the event but not alcohol. The event had been scheduled for 2 p.m. on a Sunday, and Ismay hadn’t thought liquor would be necessary or suit the mood of the party. A.J. goes upstairs for a bottle of wine.
When he gets back downstairs, Maya is sitting on Leon Friedman’s knee.
“I like The Late Bloomer,” Maya is saying, “but I’m not sure I’m the intended audience.”
“Oh ho ho, that is a very interesting observation, little girl,” Leon Friedman replies.
“I make many of them. The only other writer I know is Daniel Parish. Do you know him?”
“Not sure that I do.”
Maya sighs. “You are harder to talk to than Daniel Parish. What is your favorite book?”
“Don’t know that I have one. Why don’t you tell me what you’d like for Christmas instead?”
“Christmas?” Maya says. “Christmas isn’t for four months.”
A.J. claims his daughter from Friedman’s lap and gives him a glass of wine in exchange. “Thank you kindly,” Friedman says.
“Would you mind terribly signing some stock for the store before the reading?” A.J. leads Friedman to the back where he sets him up with a carton of paperback books and a pen. Friedman is about to sign his name on the cover of the book when A.J. stops him. “We usually have the authors sign on the title page if that’s fine with you.”
“Sorry,” Friedman replies, “I’m new to this.”
“Not at all,” A.J. says.
“Would you mind telling me what kind of show you’d like me to put on out there?”
“Right,” A.J. says. “I’ll say a couple of words about you and then I thought you could introduce the book, say what inspired you to write it and such, then you could maybe read a couple of pages and then perhaps a Q and A with the audience, if there’s time. Also, we’re having a hat contest in honor of the book, and we’d be honored if you’d pick the winner.”
“Sounds fantastico,” Friedman says. “Friedman. F-R-I-E-D-M-A-N,” he says as he signs. “Easy to forget that I.”
“Is it?” A.J. asks.
“Should be a second e there, no?”
Authors are eccentric people so A.J. decides to let this pass. “You seem comfortable with children,” A.J. says.
“Yeah . . . I often play Santa Claus at the local Macy’s at Christmas.”
“Really? That’s unusual.”
“I’ve got a knack for it, I suppose.”
“I mean—” A.J. pauses, trying to decide if what he is about to say will offend Friedman. “I only mean because you’re Jewish.”
“Right-o.”
“You make a big point of it in your book. Lapsed Jewish. Is that the correct way of saying it?”
“You can say it any way you want,” Friedman says. “Say, do you have anything harder than wine?”
FRIEDMAN HAS HAD a couple of drinks by the time the reading commences, and A.J. supposes this must be the reason the writer garbles several of the longer proper nouns and foreign phrases: Chappaqua, après moi le déluge, Hadassah, L’chaim, challah, and so on. Some writers aren’t comfortable reading aloud. During the Q&A, Friedman keeps his answers brief.
Q: What was it like when your wife died?
A: Sad. Damned sad.
Q: What’s your favorite book?
A: The Bible. Or Tuesdays with Morrie. Probably the Bible, though.
Q: You look younger than your picture.
A: Why, thank you!
Q: What was it like working at a newspaper?
A: My hands were always dirty.
He’s more at home when picking the best hat and during the signing line. A.J.’s managed to get a respectable turnout, and the line extends out the door. “You should have set up corrals like we do at Macy’s,” Friedman suggests.
“Corrals are rarely necessary in my line of work,” A.J. says.
Amelia and her mother are the last to have their books signed.
“It’s really great to meet you,” Amelia says. “My boyfriend and I probably wouldn’t have gotten together if not for your book.”
A.J. feels for the engagement ring in his pocket. Is this the moment? No, too Jumbotron.