“It’s a chain clothing store. Actually, we should be so lucky. They’ll probably turn it into a bank.” She sips at her coffee. “Or a drugstore.”
“Maybe a Jamba Juice?” Lambiase says. “I love Jamba Juice.”
Ismay starts to cry.
The waitress stops by the table, and Lambiase indicates that she should clear the plates. “I know how you feel,” Lambiase says. “I don’t like it either, Izzie. You know something funny about me? I never read much before I met A.J. and started going to Island. As a kid, the teachers thought I was a slow reader, so I never got the knack for it.”
“You tell a kid he doesn’t like to read, and he’ll believe you,” Ismay says.
“Mainly got C’s in English, too. Once A.J. adopted Maya, I wanted to have an excuse to go into the store to check on them, so I kept reading whatever he’d give me. And then I started to like it.”
Ismay cries harder.
“Turns out I really like bookstores. You know, I meet a lot of people in my line of work. A lot of folks pass through Alice Island, especially in the summer. I’ve seen movie people on vacation and I’ve seen music people and newspeople, too. There ain’t nobody in the world like book people. It’s a business of gentlemen and gentlewomen.”
“I wouldn’t go that far,” Ismay says.
“I don’t know, Izzie. I’m telling you. Bookstores attract the right kind of folk. Good people like A.J. and Amelia. And I like talking about books with people who like talking about books. I like paper. I like how it feels, and I like the feel of a book in my back pocket. I like how a new book smells, too.”
Ismay kisses him. “You’re the funniest sort of cop I ever met.”
“I worry about what Alice is going to be like if there isn’t a bookstore here,” Lambiase says as he finishes his coffee.
“Me too.”
Lambiase leans across the table and kisses her on the cheek. “Hey, here’s a crazy thought. What if, instead of going to Florida, you and me took over the place?”
“In this economy, that is a crazy thought,” Ismay says.
“Yeah,” he says. “Probably so.” The waitress asks if they want dessert. Ismay says she doesn’t want anything, but Lambiase knows she’ll always share a little of his. He orders a slice of cherry pie, two forks.
“But, you know, what if we did?” Lambiase continues. “I’ve got savings and a pretty good pension about to come in, and so do you. And A.J. said the summer people always bought a lot of books.”
“The summer people have e-readers now,” Ismay counters.
“True,” Lambiase says. He decides to let the subject drop.
They are halfway through their pie when Ismay says, “We could open a cafe, too. That would probably help with the bottom line.”
“Yeah, A.J. used to talk about that sometimes.”
“And,” Ismay says, “we turn the basement into a theater space. That way, the author events don’t have to be right in the middle of the store. Maybe people could even rent it as a theater or meeting space sometimes, too.”
“Your theater background would be great for that,” Lambiase says.
“Are you sure you’re up to this? We aren’t super young,” Ismay says. “What about no winters? What about Florida?”
“We’ll go there when we’re old. We’re not old yet,” Lambiase says after a pause. “I’ve lived in Alice my whole life. It’s the only place I’ve ever known. It’s a nice place, and I intend to keep it that way. A place ain’t a place without a bookstore, Izzie.”
A FEW YEARS after she sells the store to Ismay and Lambiase, Amelia decides to leave Knightley Press. Maya is graduating from high school soon, and Amelia is tired of traveling so much. She finds a position as a book buyer for a large general retailer out of Maine. Before she leaves, as her predecessor Harvey Rhodes had done, Amelia writes up notes on all her active accounts. She saves Island Books for last.
“Island Books,” she reports. “Owners: Ismay Parish (ex – school teacher) and Nicholas Lambiase (ex – police chief). Lambiase is an exceptional hand seller, especially of literary crime fiction and young adult novels. Parish, who used to run the high school drama club, can be counted on to throw an A+ author event. The store has a cafe, a stage, and an excellent online presence. All this was built on the solid foundation established by A. J. Fikry, the original owner whose tastes ran more toward the literary. The store still carries a ton of literary fiction, but the owners won’t take what they can’t sell. I love Island Books with all my heart. I do not believe in God. I have no religion. But this to me is as close to a church as I have known in this life. It is a holy place. With bookstores like this, I feel confident in saying that there will be a book business for a very long time. —Amelia Loman”
Amelia feels a bit embarrassed about those last several sentences and cuts everything after “the owners won’t take what they can’t sell.”
“. . . THE OWNERS WON’T take what they can’t sell.” Jacob Gardner reads his predecessor’s notes one last time, then clicks off his phone and disembarks the ferry with long, purposeful strides. Jacob, twenty-seven years old and armed with a half-paid-off master’s degree in nonfiction writing, is ready. He can’t believe his luck in landing this job. Sure, the pay could be better, but he loves books, has always loved books. He believes that they saved his life. He even has that famous C. S. Lewis quote tattooed on his wrist. Imagine getting to be one of those people who actually gets paid to talk about literature. He’d do this for free, not that he wants his publisher to know that. He needs the money. Living in Boston isn’t cheap, and he’s only doing this day job to support his passion: his oral history of gay vaudevillians. But this isn’t to take away from the fact that Jacob Gardner is nothing short of a believer. He even walks like he has a calling. He could be mistaken for a missionary. In point of fact, he was raised Mormon, but this is another story.
Island is Jacob’s first sales call, and he can’t wait to get there. He can’t wait to tell them about all the great books he’s carrying in his Knightley Press tote bag. The bag must weigh almost fifty pounds, but Jacob works out and he isn’t even feeling it. Knightley’s got a remarkably strong list this year, and he’s certain his job will be easy. Readers are going to have no choice but to love these titles. The nice woman who hired him had suggested he start with Island Books. The owner there loves literary crime fiction, eh? Well, Jacob’s favorite from the list is a debut about an Amish girl who disappears while on Rumspringa, and in Jacob’s opinion, it’s a must-read for all serious lovers of literary crime fiction.
As Jacob passes over the threshold of the purple Victorian, the wind chimes play their familiar song and a gruff, but not unfriendly, voice calls, “Welcome.”
Jacob walks down the history aisle and holds out his hand to the middle-aged man on the ladder. “Mr. Lambiase, have I got a book for you!”
Acknowledgments
There aren’t unicorns, there is no Alice Island, and A. J. Fikry’s tastes are not always my own.
Lambiase and the first Ms. Fikry speak variations on the phrase, “A town isn’t a town without a bookstore.” Surely, they both must have read American Gods by Neil Gaiman.
Kathy Pories edited this book in such a generous and precise way that she somehow managed to improve my whole life. This is the power of a good editor. Thank you to all at Algonquin, especially Craig Popelars, Emma Boyer, Anne Winslow, Brunson Hoole, Debra Linn, Lauren Moseley, Elisabeth Scharlatt, Ina Stern, and Jude Grant.
Douglas Stewart, my agent, is a fine poker player and occasionally a magician. These skills were put to use on A. J. Fikry’s behalf. Thanks also to his colleagues Madeleine Clark, Kirsten Hartz, and particularly Szilvia Molnar. For a variety of reasons, I am also indebted to Clare Smith, Tamsyn Berryman, Jean Feiwel, Stuart Gelwarg, Angus Killick, Kim Highland, Anjali Singh, Carolyn Mackler, and Rich Green.
My dad, Richard Zevin, bought me my first book with chapters, Little House in the Big Woods, and when I liked that one, made a happy gift of the next thousand or so. On her lunch hours from work, my mom, AeRan Zevin, used to drive me to the bookstore so I could get my favorite authors on their first day of release. My grandparents Adele and Meyer Sussman gave me books practically every time they saw me. My eleventh-grade English teacher, Judith Beiner, introduced me to contemporary literary fiction when I was at a particularly impressionable age. Hans Canosa has been my first and most patient reader for the better part of two decades. Janine O’Malley, Lauren Wein, and Jonathan Burnham were the editors on the seven books I wrote before this one. In combination, all these acts and people might hold the formula for growing a writer.
As a sales rep for Farrar Straus Giroux, the gregarious Mark Gates, who is no longer with us, drove me around Chicagoland on my 2007 book tour. I suspect I began to conceive of this book back then. Several years later, Vanessa Cronin graciously answered my questions about sales calls and the timing of lists. Mistakes should be considered my own, of course.
I would be remiss if I did not acknowledge the many booksellers, author escorts, librarians, teachers, writers, book festival volunteers, and sundry publishing folk who have hosted and chatted with me in the ten years since I sold my first novel. These conversations are the foundation on which Island Books was built.
Finally, liberties were taken with regard to the depiction of the Green Animals Topiary Garden in Portsmouth, Rhode Island. What is true: the garden is not open in winter, but in the summer, you will indeed find a unicorn there.