The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry(24)

Don’t you have any other publishers to read? Amelia texts him.

A.J. thinks a long time about his reply. None with sales reps I like as well as you is his first draft, but he decides this is too presumptuous for a girl with an American hero fiancé. He redrafts. It’s a compelling list for Knightley, I guess.

A.J. orders so many Knightley titles that even Amelia’s boss notices. “I’ve never seen a little account like Island take so many of our books,” the boss says. “New owner?”

“Same guy,” Amelia says. “But he’s different from when I first met him.”

“Well, you must have really done a number on him. That guy doesn’t take what he can’t sell,” the boss says. “Harvey never came close to these kinds of orders with Island.”

Finally, A.J. gets to the last title. It’s a charming memoir about motherhood, scrapbooking, and the writing life, written by a Canadian poet that A.J. has always liked. The book is only 150 pages, but it takes A.J. two weeks to get through it. He can’t seem to read a chapter without falling asleep or being distracted by Maya. When he finishes it, he finds himself unable to craft a response. The writing is elegant enough, and he thinks the women who frequent his store could respond to it. The problem, of course, is that once he replies to Amelia, he’ll be done with the Knightley winter catalog, and he’ll have no reason to contact Amelia until the summer list hits. He likes her, and he thinks it’s possible that she might like him, despite that horrendous first meeting. But . . . A. J. Fikry is not the kind of man who thinks it’s okay to try to steal another man’s fiancée. He doesn’t believe in “the one.” There are zillions of people in the world; no one is that special. Besides which, he barely knows Amelia Loman. What if, say, he did manage to steal her and it turned out they weren’t compatible in bed?

Amelia texts him, What’s happening? Didn’t you like?

Not for me, unfortunately, A.J. replies. Looking forward to seeing what’s on Knightley’s summer list. Yours, A.J.

The response strikes Amelia as overly businesslike, dismissive. She thinks about picking up the phone but doesn’t. She texts back, While you’re waiting, you should definitely watch TRUE BLOOD. True Blood is Amelia’s favorite television show. It had gotten to be a kind of joke with them that A.J. would like vampires if only he would watch True Blood. Amelia fancies herself a Sookie Stackhouse type.

Not gonna happen, Amy, A.J. writes. See you in March.

March is four and a half months away. By then, A.J. feels sure his little crush will have gone away or at least resolved itself into a more tolerable dormancy.

March is four and a half months away.

Maya asks him what’s wrong, and he tells her that he’s sad because he’s not going to see his friend for a while.

“Amelia?” Maya asks.

“How do you know about her?”

Maya rolls her eyes, and A.J. wonders when and where she learned that gesture.

Lambiase hosts his Chief’s Choice Book Club at the store that night (selection: L.A. Confidential), and after that, as is their tradition, he and A.J. share a bottle.

“I think I’ve met someone,” A.J. says after a glass has mellowed him.

“Good news,” Lambiase says.

“The problem is, she’s affianced to someone else.”

“Bad timing,” Lambiase proclaims. “I’ve been a police officer for twenty years now and I’ll tell you, pretty much every bad thing in life is a result of bad timing, and every good thing is the result of good timing.”

“That seems terribly reductive.”

“Think about it. If Tamerlane hadn’t gotten stolen, you wouldn’t have left the door unlocked, and Marian Wallace wouldn’t have left the baby in the store. Good timing is what that was.”

“True. But I met Amelia four years ago,” A.J. argues. “I just didn’t bother to notice her until a couple of months ago.”

“Still bad timing. Your wife had died. And then you had Maya.”

“It’s not much consolation,” A.J. says.

“But hey, it’s good to know your heart still works, right? Want me to set you up with someone?”

A.J. shakes his head.

“Come on,” Lambiase insists. “I know everyone in town.”

“Unfortunately, it’s a very small town.”

As a warm-up, Lambiase sets up A.J. with his cousin. The cousin has blond hair with black roots, overly plucked eyebrows, a heart-shaped face, and a high-pitched voice like Michael Jackson. She wears a low-cut top and a push-up bra, which creates a small, sad shelf for her name necklace to rest. Her name is Maria. In the middle of mozzarella sticks, they run out of conversation.

“What’s your favorite book?” A.J. attempts to draw her out.

She chews on her mozzarella stick and clutches her Maria necklace like it’s a rosary. “This is some kind of a test, right?”

“No, there’s no wrong answer,” A.J. says. “I’m curious.”

She drinks her wine.

“Or you could say the book that had the greatest influence on your life. I’m trying to get to know you a little.”

She takes another sip.

“Or how about the last thing you read?”

“The last thing I read . . . ” She furrows her brow. “The last thing I read was this menu.”