The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry(30)

Amelia cocks her head. “This isn’t a date, is it?”

A.J. tries to explain about the topiary garden having been closed. The story sounds incredibly unconvincing—halfway through telling it, he almost decides to drop the tote and run.

“I’m teasing,” she says. “Come in.”

Amelia’s house is cluttered but clean. She has a purple velvet couch, a smallish grand piano, a dining-room table that seats twelve, many framed pictures of her friends and family, several houseplants in various states of health, a one-eyed tabby cat named Puddleglum, and of course, books everywhere. Her house smells like what she’s cooking, which turns out to be lasagna and garlic bread. He takes off his boots so as not to track mud into her house. “Your place is just like you,” he says.

“Cluttered, mismatched,” she says.

“Eclectic, charming.” He clears his throat and tries not to feel unbearably corny.

They are through with dinner and into their second bottle of wine when A.J. finally gets up the nerve to ask her what had happened with Brett Brewer.

Amelia smiles a little. “If I tell you the truth, I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.”

“I won’t. I promise.”

She finishes the dregs of her wine. “Last fall, when we were corresponding all the time . . . Listen, I don’t want you to think I broke up with him for you because I didn’t. I broke up with him because talking to you made me remember how important it is to share a sensibility with someone, to share passions. I probably sound silly.”

“No,” A.J. says.

She narrows her pretty brown eyes. “You were so mean to me the first time we met. I still haven’t forgiven you, you know.”

“I’d hoped you’d forgotten that.”

“I haven’t. My memory is very long, A.J.”

“I was awful,” A.J. says. “In my defense, I was going through a bad time.” He leans across the table and brushes a blond curl off of her face. “The first time I saw you, I thought you looked like a dandelion.”

She pats her hair self-consciously. “My hair’s such a pain.”

“It’s my favorite flower.”

“I think it’s actually a weed,” she says.

“You’re rather stunning, you know.”

“They used to call me Big Bird in school.”

“I’m sorry.”

“There are worse names,” she says. “I told my mother about you. She said that you didn’t sound like good boyfriend material, A.J.”

“I know. I’m sorry for that. Because I like you enormously.”

Amelia sighs and moves to clear the table.

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?”