The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry(21)

“Saint Amelia who answered the phone,” A.J. says.

He has never called her before, and she assumes this must be the reason. “Are we still on for two weeks from now, or do you have to cancel?” Amelia asks.

“Oh no, nothing like that. I was just planning to leave you a message, actually.”

Amelia speaks in monotone. “Hi, you’ve reached the voice mail of Amelia Loman. Beep.”

“Um.”

“Beep,” Amelia repeats. “Go ahead. Leave your message.”

“Um, hi, Amelia. This is A. J. Fikry. I’ve just finished reading a book you recommended to me—”

“Oh yeah, which one?”

“That’s odd. Voice mail seems to be talking back to me. It’s one from several years back. The Late Bloomer by Leon Friedman.”

“Don’t go breaking my heart, A.J. That was my absolute favorite from four winter lists ago. No one wanted to read it. I loved that book. I still love that book! I’m the queen of lost causes, though.”

“Maybe it was the jacket,” A.J. says lamely.

“Lamentable jacket. Old people’s feet, flowers,” Amelia agrees. “Like anyone wants to think about wrinkly old feet let alone buy a book with them on it. Paperback re-jacket didn’t help anything either—black and white, more flowers. But jackets are the redheaded stepchildren of book publishing. We blame them for everything.”

“I don’t know if you remember, but you gave The Late Bloomer to me the first time we met,” A.J. says.

Amelia pauses. “Did I? Yes, that makes sense. That would have been around the time I started at Knightley.”

“Well, you know, literary memoirs aren’t really my thing, but this was just spectacular in its small way. Wise and . . .” He feels naked when speaking about things he really loves.

“Go on.”

“Every word the right one and exactly where it should be. That’s basically the highest compliment I can give. I’m only sorry it took me so long to read it.”

“Story of my life. What made you finally pick it up?”

“My little girl was sick, so—”

“Oh, poor Maya! I hope nothing serious!”

“Chicken pox. I was up all night with her, and it was the book nearest to me at the time.”

“I’m glad you finally read it,” Amelia says. “I begged everyone I knew to read this book, and no one would listen except my mother and even she wasn’t an easy sell.”

“Sometimes books don’t find us until the right time.”

“Not much consolation for Mr. Friedman,” Amelia adds.

“Well, I’m going to order a carton of the equally lamentably jacketed paperback. And in the summer, when all the tourists are here, maybe we could have Mr. Friedman in for an event.”

“If he lives that long,” Amelia says.

“Is he sick?” A.J. asks.

“No, but he’s, like, ninety!”

A.J. laughs. “Well, Amelia, I’ll see you in two weeks, I guess.”

“Maybe next time you’ll listen to me when I tell you something’s the ‘best book of the winter list’!” Amelia says.

“Probably not. I’m old, set in my ways, contrary.”

“You’re not that old,” she says.

“Not compared to Mr. Friedman, I suppose.” A.J. clears his throat. “When you’re in town, maybe we could have dinner or something.”

It isn’t at all uncommon for sales reps and booksellers to break bread, but Amelia detects a certain tone in A.J.’s voice. She clarifies. “We can go over the new winter list.”

“Yes, of course,” A.J. answers too quickly. “It’s such a long trip for you to Alice. You’ll be hungry. It’s rude that I’ve never suggested it before.”

“Let’s make it a late lunch, then,” Amelia says. “I need to catch the last ferry back to Hyannis.”

A.J. DECIDES TO take Amelia to Pequod’s, which is the second nicest seafood restaurant on Alice Island. El Corazon, the nicest restaurant, is not open for lunch, and even if it had been, El Corazon would have seemed too romantic for what is only a business meeting.

A.J. arrives first, which gives him time to regret his choice. He has not been to Pequod’s since before Maya, and its decor strikes him as embarrassing and touristy. The tasteful white table linens do not much distract from the harpoons, nets, and raincoats hanging from the walls, or the captain, carved out of a log, who welcomes you with a bucket of complimentary saltwater taffy. A fiberglass whale with tiny, sad eyes is mounted from the ceiling. A.J. senses the whale’s judgment: Should have gone with El Corazon, matey.

Amelia is five minutes late. “Pequod, like Moby Dick,” she says. She is wearing a dress made out of what looks like a repurposed crocheted tablecloth over a vintage pink slip. She has a fake daisy in her curly blond hair and is wearing galoshes despite the fact that the day is sunny. A.J. thinks the galoshes make her seem like a Boy Scout, in a state of readiness and prepared for disaster.

“Do you like Moby Dick?” he asks.

“I hate it,” she says. “And I don’t say that about many things. Teachers assign it, and parents are happy because their kids are reading something of ‘quality.’ But it’s forcing kids to read books like that that make them think they hate reading.”