The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry(36)

“That’s cute. Kind of like the first restaurant you go to or the first song you danced to or something.”

“Exactly.”

“Maybe he’s planning to propose to you?” the woman says.

“The thought had crossed my mind.”

Amelia empties the dustpan into the garbage can.

“Why don’t you think the book sold?” the woman asks after a bit.

“The Late Bloomer? Well . . . because it’s competitive out there. And even when a book is good, sometimes it still doesn’t work.”

“That must be hard,” the woman says.

“Are you writing a book or something?”

“I’ve tried, yes.”

Amelia pauses to look at the woman. She has long brown hair, well cut and super straight. Her purse probably costs as much as Amelia’s car. Amelia holds out her hand to introduce herself to the woman. “Amelia Loman.”

“Leonora Ferris.”

“Leonora. Like Leon,” Maya pipes up. She has had a milkshake and is now recovered. “I am Maya Fikry.”

“Are you from Alice?” Amelia asks Leonora.

“No, I came in for the day. For the reading.”

Leonora stands, and Amelia folds her chair and sets it by the wall.

“You must be a big fan of the book, too,” Amelia says. “Like I said before, my boyfriend lives here, and I know from experience that Alice isn’t the easiest place in the world to get to.”

“No, it isn’t,” Leonora says as she picks up her handbag.

All at once, Amelia is struck with a thought. She turns around and calls, “No one travels without purpose. Those who are lost wish to be lost.”

“You’re quoting The Late Bloomer,” Leonora says after a long pause. “It really was your favorite.”

“It was,” Amelia says. “ ‘When I was young, I never felt young.’ Something like that. Do you remember the rest of the quote?”

“No,” Leonora says.

“Writers don’t remember everything they write,” Amelia says. “How could they?”

“Nice talking to you.” Leonora starts heading for the door.

Amelia puts her hand on Leonora’s shoulder.

“You’re him, aren’t you?” Amelia says. “You’re Leon Friedman.”

Leonora shakes her head. “Not truly.”

“What does that mean?”

“A long time ago, a girl wrote a novel, and she tried to sell it, but no one wanted it. It was about an old man who lost his wife, and it didn’t have supernatural beings in it or a high concept to speak of, and so she thought it would be easier if she retitled the book and called it a memoir.”

“That’s . . . That’s . . . wrong,” Amelia stammers.

“No, it isn’t. All the things in it are still emotionally true even if they aren’t literally so.”

“So who was that man?”

“I called a casting office. He usually plays Santa.”

Amelia shakes her head. “I don’t understand. Why do the reading? Why go to the expense and bother? Why risk it?”

“The book had already flopped. And sometimes you want to know . . . to see for yourself that your work has meant something to someone.”

Amelia looks at Leonora. “I feel a little fooled,” she says finally. “You’re a good writer, you know?”

“I do know,” Leonora says.

Leonora Ferris disappears down the street and Amelia goes back into the store.

Maya says to her, “It has been a very weird day.”

“I agree.”

“Who was that woman, Amy?” Maya asks.

“Long story,” Amelia tells her.

Maya makes a face.

“She was distantly related to Mr. Friedman,” Amelia says.

Amelia gets Maya into bed then pours herself a drink and debates whether or not to tell A.J. about Leonora Ferris. She doesn’t want to sour him on the idea of author events. She also doesn’t want to make herself look foolish in his eyes or compromise herself professionally: she has sold him a book that has now revealed itself to be a fake. And maybe Leonora Ferris is right. Maybe it doesn’t matter if the book is, strictly speaking, true. She thinks back to a sophomore seminar she had taken in literary theory. What is true? the teaching fellow would ask them. Aren’t memoirs constructions anyway? She would always fall asleep during this class, which was embarrassing because only nine people were in it. All these years later, Amelia finds she can still drift off to the memory.

A.J. arrives back to the apartment a little after ten. “How was the drive?” Amelia asks.

“The best thing I can say is that Friedman was passed out for most of it. I’ve spent the last twenty minutes cleaning Ismay’s backseat,” A.J. reports.

“Well, I certainly look forward to your next author event, Mr. Fikry,” Amelia says.

“Was it that much of a disaster?”

“No. I think everyone had a great time, actually. And the store did sell a lot of books.” Amelia stands to leave. If she doesn’t leave now, she won’t be able to resist telling A.J. about Leonora Ferris. “I should get back to the hotel. Since we’re leaving so early tomorrow.”