The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry(32)

“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.”