A.J. rises. “No, please. Let me. You should sit.” He stacks the dishes and moves them into the dishwasher.
“Do you want to see what that book is?” she says.
“What book?” A.J. asks as he fills the lasagna dish with water.
“The one in my office that you asked about. Isn’t that what you came to see?” She rises to her feet, swapping out her rolling device for crutches. “My office is through my bedroom, by the way.”
A.J. nods. He walks briskly through the bedroom so as not to seem presumptuous. He is almost to the office door when Amelia sits on her bed and says, “Wait. I’ll show you the book tomorrow.” She pats the place on the bed next to her. “My ankle hurts, so apologies if my seduction lacks some of the subtlety it might usually have.”
He tries to be cool as he walks back across the room to Amelia’s bed, but A.J. has never been cool.
AFTER AMELIA HAS fallen asleep, A.J. tiptoes into the office.
The book leans against the lamp, unmoved since the day they talked over the computer. Even in person, the cover is too faded to be made out. He opens to the title page: A Good Man Is Hard to Find and Other Stories by Flannery O’Connor.
“Dear Amy,” the book is inscribed, “Mom says this is your favorite writer. I hope you won’t mind that I read the title story. I found it a bit dark, but I did enjoy it. A very happy graduation day! I am so proud of you. Love always, Dad.”
A.J. closes the book and sets it back against the lamp.
He writes a note: “Dear Amelia, I honestly don’t think I could bear it if you waited until the Knightley fall list to come back to Alice Island. —A.J.F.”
The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County
1865 / Mark Twain
Proto-postmodernist story of a habitual gambler and his bested frog. The plot isn’t much, but it’s worth reading because of the fun Twain has with narrative authority. (In reading Twain, I often suspect he is having more fun than I am.)
“Jumping Frog” always reminds me of the time Leon Friedman came to town. Do you remember, Maya? If not, ask Amy to tell you about it someday.
Through the doorway, I can see you both sitting on Amy’s old purple couch. You are reading Song of Solomon by Toni Morrison, and she is reading Olive Kitteridge by Elizabeth Strout. The tabby, Puddleglum, is between you, and I am happier than I can ever remember being.
—A.J.F.
That spring, Amelia takes to wearing flats and finds herself making more sales calls to Island Books than the account, strictly speaking, requires. If her boss notices, he does not say. Publishing is still a gentleperson’s business, and besides, A. J. Fikry is carrying an extraordinary number of Knightley titles, more than nearly any other bookstore in the Northeast corridor. The boss does not care whether the numbers are driven by love or commerce or both. “Perhaps,” the boss says to Amelia, “you might suggest to Mr. Fikry a spotlight on Knightley Press table in the front of the store?”
That spring, A.J. kisses Amelia just before she gets on the ferry back to Hyannis and says, “You can’t be based from an island. You have to travel too much for your job.”
She holds him at arm’s length and laughs at him. “I agree, but is that your way of asking me to move to Alice?”
“No, I’m . . . Well, I’m thinking of you,” A.J. says. “It wouldn’t be practical for you to move to Alice. That’s my point.”
“No, it wouldn’t be,” she says. She stencils a heart on his chest with a fluorescent pink nail.
“What hue is that?” A.J. asks.
“Rose-Colored Glasses.” The horn sounds, and Amelia boards the boat.
That spring, while waiting for a Greyhound bus, A.J. says to Amelia, “You couldn’t even get to Alice three months of the year.”
“It would have been easier for me to commute to Afghanistan,” she says. “I like how you bring this up at the bus station, by the way.”
“I try to put it out of my mind until the last minute.”
“That’s one strategy.”
“I take it you mean not a good one.” He grabs her hand. Her hands are large but shapely. A piano player’s hands. A sculptress. “You have the hands of an artist.”
Amelia rolls her eyes. “And the mind of a book sales rep.”
Her nails are painted a deep shade of purple. “What color this time?” he asks.
“Blues Traveler. While I’m thinking about it, would you mind if I painted Maya’s nails the next time I’m on Alice? She keeps asking me.”
That spring, Amelia takes Maya to the drugstore and lets her choose any polish color she likes. “How do you pick?” Maya says.
“Sometimes I ask myself how I’m feeling,” Amelia says. “Sometimes I ask myself how I’d like to be feeling.”
Maya studies the rows of glass bottles. She selects a red then puts it back. She takes iridescent silver off the shelf.
“Ooh, pretty. Here’s the best part. Each color has a name,” Amelia tells her. “Turn the bottle over.”
Maya does. “It’s a title like a book! Pearly Riser,” she reads. “What’s yours called?”
Amy has selected a pale blue. “Keeping Things Light.”
That weekend, Maya accompanies A.J. to the dock. She throws her arms around Amelia and tells her not to go. “I don’t want to,” Amelia says.
“Then why do you have to?” Maya asks.
“Because I don’t live here.”
“Why don’t you live here?”
“Because my job is somewhere else.”
“You could come work at the store.”
“I couldn’t. Your dad would probably kill me. Besides, I like my job.” She looks at A.J., who is making a great show of checking his phone. The horn sounds.
“Say good-bye to Amy,” A.J. says.
Amelia calls A.J. from the ferry, “I can’t move from Providence. You can’t move from Alice. The situation is pretty much irresolvable.”
“It is,” he agrees. “What color were you wearing today?”
“Keeping Things Light.”
“Is that significant?”
“No,” she says.
That spring, Amelia’s mother says, “It isn’t fair to you. You’re thirty-six years old, and you aren’t getting any younger. If you truly want to have a baby, you can’t waste any more time in impossible relationships, Amy.”
And Ismay says to A.J., “It isn’t fair to Maya to have this Amelia person be such a big part of your life if you aren’t really serious about her.”
And Daniel says to A.J., “You shouldn’t change your life for any woman.”
That June, the good weather makes A.J. and Amelia forget these and other objections. When Amelia comes to pitch the fall list, she stays for two weeks. She wears seersucker shorts and flip-flops adorned with daisies. “I probably won’t see you much this summer,” she says. “I’ll be traveling for work and then my mother’s coming to Providence in August.”
“I could come see you,” A.J. suggests.
“I really won’t be around,” Amelia says. “Except for August, and my mother is an acquired taste.”
A.J. puts sunscreen on her strong, soft back and decides he simply can’t be without her. He decides to contrive a reason for her to come to Alice.
The minute she’s back to Providence, A.J. calls her on Skype. “I’ve been thinking. We should have Leon Friedman come sign at the store in August while the summer people are still in town.”
“You hate the summer people,” Amelia says. She has heard A.J. rant on more than one occasion about the seasonal residents of Alice Island: the families who come into his store right after buying ice cream from Captain Boomer’s and let their toddlers run around touching everything, the theater festival people with their too-loud laughs, the reverse snowbirds who think going to the beach once a week suffices for personal hygiene.
“That isn’t true,” A.J. says. “I like to complain, but I sell them a fair number of books, too. Plus Nic used to say that, contrary to popular belief, the best time to have an author event was during August. The people are so bored by then, they’ll do anything for distraction, even go to an author reading.”
“An author reading,” Amelia says. “My, that is substandard entertainment.”
“Compared to True Blood, I suppose.”
She ignores him. “Actually, I love readings.” When she was starting out in publishing, a boyfriend had dragged her to a ticketed Alice McDermott event at the 92nd Street Y. Amelia thought she hadn’t liked Charming Billy, but she realized when she heard McDermott read from it—the way her arms moved, the emphasis she placed on certain words—that she hadn’t understood the novel at all. When they left the reading, the boyfriend had apologized to her on the subway, “Sorry if that was kind of a bust.” A week later, she ended the relationship. She can’t help thinking how young she’d been, how impossibly high her standards.
“Okay,” Amelia says to A.J. “I’ll put you in touch with the publicist.”
“You’ll come, too, right?”
“I’ll try. My mother’s visiting me in August so—”
“Bring her!” A.J. says. “I’d like to meet your mother.”
“You only say that because you haven’t met her yet,” Amelia says.
“Amelia, my love, you have to attend. I’m having Leon Friedman for you.”
“I don’t remember saying I wanted to meet Leon Friedman,” Amelia says. But that’s the beauty of video calling, A.J. thinks— he can see that she’s smiling.
FIRST THING MONDAY morning, A.J. calls Leon Friedman’s publicist at Knightley. She’s twenty-six and brand new like they always are. She has to Google Leon Friedman to figure out what the book is. “Oh, wow, you’re the first appearance request I’ve had for The Late Bloomer.”
“The book is really a store favorite. We’ve sold quite a few copies of it,” A.J. says.
“You might be the first person to ever host an event with Leon Friedman. Like seriously, ever. I’m not sure.” The publicist pauses. “Let me talk to his editor to see if he’s up to doing events. I’ve never met him, but I’m looking at his picture right now, and he’s . . . mature. Can I give you a call back?”
“Assuming he’s not too mature to travel, I’d want to schedule it for the end of August before the summer people leave. He’ll sell more books that way.”
A week later, the publicist leaves word that Leon Friedman is not yet dead and available in August to come to Island Books.
A.J. has not hosted an author for years. The reason being, he has no talent for such arrangements. The last time Island had an author event was back when Nic was still alive, and she had always organized everything. He tries to remember what she had done.
He orders books, hangs posters in the store with Leon Friedman’s ancient face, sends relevant social media dispatches, and asks his friends and employees to do the same. Still, his efforts feel incomplete. Nic’s book parties always had a gimmick, so A.J. tries to come up with one. Leon Friedman is OLD, and the book flopped. Neither fact seems like much to hang a party on. The book is romantic but incredibly depressing. A.J. decides to call Lambiase. He suggests frozen shrimp from Costco, which A.J. now recognizes as Lambiase’s default party-throwing suggestion. “Hey,” Lambiase says, “if you’re doing events now, I’d really love to meet Jeffery Deaver. We’re all big fans of his at the Alice PD.”
A.J. then calls Daniel, who informs him, “The only thing a good book party needs is plenty of liquor.”
“Put Ismay on the phone,” A.J. says.
“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.”