A.J. is relieved that Amelia isn’t too hurt but a bit disappointed that she isn’t coming (and also by the news that the American hero is most definitely still in the picture).
He thinks about sending Amelia flowers or a book but ultimately decides to send her a text. He tries to find a True Blood quote, something that will make her laugh. When he Googles the matter, the quotes all seem too provocative. He writes, I’m sorry you’re hurt. Had been looking forward to hearing Knightley’s summer list. Hope we can reschedule soon. Also, and it pains me to say this—“Giving Jason Stackhouse vampire blood is like giving Ho Hos to a diabetic.”
Six hours later, Amelia writes back, YOU WATCHED!!!
A.J.: I did.
Amelia: Could we do the list over the phone or Skype?
A.J.: What’s Skype?
Amelia: Do I have to teach you everything?!?
After Amelia explains what Skype is, they decide to meet that way.
A.J. is happy to see her even if it has to be on a video screen. While she’s going through the list, he finds he can barely pay attention. He is fascinated by the Amelianess of the things in the frame behind her: a mason jar filled with dying sunflowers, a diploma from Vassar (he thinks it says), a bobblehead of Hermione Granger, a framed picture of a young Amelia and people he guesses are her parents, a lamp with a polka-dotted scarf draped over it, a stapler that looks like a Keith Haring figure, an old edition of some book whose title A.J. cannot make out, a bottle of sparkly nail polish, a windup lobster, a set of plastic vampire fangs, an unopened bottle of good champagne, a—
“A.J.,” Amelia interrupts. “Are you listening?”
“Yes, of course. I’m . . .” Staring at your things? “I’m unused to Skyping. Can I make Skype a verb?”
“I don’t think OED has weighed in on the matter, but I think you’ll be fine,” she says. “As I was saying, that Knightley has not one, but two, short-story collections on the summer list.”
Amelia goes on to describe the collections, and A.J. returns to spying. What is that book? It’s skinnier than a bible or a dictionary. He leans in to try to see it better, but the worn gold leaf text is too faded to decipher out over a video conference call. How irritating that he can’t zoom in or change the angle. She is no longer speaking. Clearly, some response is required from A.J.
“Yes, I’m looking forward to reading them,” he says.
“Great. I’ll put them in the mail to you today or tomorrow. So that’s it until the fall list.”
“I hope you’ll be able to come in person.”
“I will. I definitely will.”
“What’s the book?” A.J. asks.
“What book?”
“The old one leaning against the lamp, on the table behind you.”
“Wouldn’t you like to know?” she says. “It’s my favorite. A gift from my father for my college graduation.”
“So what is it?”
“If you ever make it down to Providence, I’ll show you,” she says.
A.J. looks at her. This might have sounded flirtatious except she hadn’t even looked up from the notes she’d been writing when she said it. And yet . . .
“Brett Brewer seemed like a nice guy,” A.J. says.
“What?”
“When he called me to say you were hurt and couldn’t come,” A.J. explains.
“Right.”
“I thought he sounded like Bill from True Blood.”
Amelia laughs. “Look at you, casually dropping the True Blood references. I’ll have to tell Brett that the next time I see him.”
“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.”
After an overpriced lunch at a mansion, they drive to Providence to check into their hotel.
“You go visit Amelia,” Lambiase tells A.J. “I was thinking me and the kid would go to the Children’s Museum in town. I’d like to show her the many reasons it would be impractical to hide out in a museum. In a post – September eleventh universe at least.”
“You don’t have to do that.” A.J. had planned to take Maya with him so that the visit to Amelia’s would seem more casual. (Yes, he was not above using his beloved daughter as a prop.)
“Stop looking guilty,” Lambiase says. “That’s what godfathers are for. Backup.”
A.J. gets to Amelia’s house just before five. He has brought her an Island Books tote filled with Charlaine Harris novels, a good bottle of Malbec, and a bouquet of sunflowers. After he rings the doorbell, he decides the flowers are too obvious and he stows them under the cushions of the porch swing.
When she answers the door, her knee is supported by a wheelie cart. Her cast is pink and has been signed as much as the most popular kid in school’s yearbook. She is wearing a navy blue minidress with a red patterned scarf tied jauntily around her neck. She looks like an airline stewardess.
“Where’s Maya?” Amelia asks.
“My friend Lambiase took her to the Providence Children’s Museum.”
Amelia cocks her head. “This isn’t a date, is it?”
A.J. tries to explain about the topiary garden having been closed. The story sounds incredibly unconvincing—halfway through telling it, he almost decides to drop the tote and run.
“I’m teasing,” she says. “Come in.”
Amelia’s house is cluttered but clean. She has a purple velvet couch, a smallish grand piano, a dining-room table that seats twelve, many framed pictures of her friends and family, several houseplants in various states of health, a one-eyed tabby cat named Puddleglum, and of course, books everywhere. Her house smells like what she’s cooking, which turns out to be lasagna and garlic bread. He takes off his boots so as not to track mud into her house. “Your place is just like you,” he says.
“Cluttered, mismatched,” she says.
“Eclectic, charming.” He clears his throat and tries not to feel unbearably corny.
They are through with dinner and into their second bottle of wine when A.J. finally gets up the nerve to ask her what had happened with Brett Brewer.
Amelia smiles a little. “If I tell you the truth, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
She finishes the dregs of her wine. “Last fall, when we were corresponding all the time . . . Listen, I don’t want you to think I broke up with him for you because I didn’t. I broke up with him because talking to you made me remember how important it is to share a sensibility with someone, to share passions. I probably sound silly.”
“No,” A.J. says.
She narrows her pretty brown eyes. “You were so mean to me the first time we met. I still haven’t forgiven you, you know.”
“I’d hoped you’d forgotten that.”
“I haven’t. My memory is very long, A.J.”
“I was awful,” A.J. says. “In my defense, I was going through a bad time.” He leans across the table and brushes a blond curl off of her face. “The first time I saw you, I thought you looked like a dandelion.”
She pats her hair self-consciously. “My hair’s such a pain.”
“It’s my favorite flower.”
“I think it’s actually a weed,” she says.
“You’re rather stunning, you know.”
“They used to call me Big Bird in school.”
“I’m sorry.”
“There are worse names,” she says. “I told my mother about you. She said that you didn’t sound like good boyfriend material, A.J.”
“I know. I’m sorry for that. Because I like you enormously.”
Amelia sighs and moves to clear the table.