“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.”