The Storied Life of A. J. Fikry(59)
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.