The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry(47)

“Little bit of everything. I started with crime novels. Pretty predictable that, I guess. But then A.J. got me into other kinds of books, too. Literary fiction, I think you’d call it. Some of it doesn’t have enough action for my taste. Kind of embarrassing, but I like young adult. Plenty of action there and feelings, too. I also read whatever A.J.’s reading. He’s partial to short stories—”

“I know.”

“And whatever Maya’s reading, too. I like talking about books with them. They’re book people, you know. I also host a book group for the other cops. Maybe you’ve seen the signs for the Chief’s Choice?”

Ismay shakes her head.

“Sorry if I’m talking too much. I’m nervous, I guess.”

“You’re fine.” Ismay sips her drink. “Did you ever read any of Daniel’s books?”

“Yeah, one. The first one.”

“Did you like it?”

“Not my cup of tea. It was very well written, though.”

Ismay nods.

“Do you miss your husband?” Lambiase asks.

“Not really,” she says after a bit. “His sense of humor sometimes. But the best parts of him were in his books. I suppose I could always read those if I missed him too much. I haven’t wanted to read one yet, though.” Ismay laughs a little.

“What do you read, then?”

“Plays, the odd bit of poetry. Then there are the books I teach every year: Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Johnny Got His Gun, A Farewell to Arms, A Prayer for Owen Meany, some years Wuthering Heights, Silas Marner, Their Eyes Were Watching God, or I Capture the Castle. Those books are like old friends.

“When I’m choosing something new, though, something just for myself, my favorite kind of character is a woman in a faraway place. India. Or Bangkok. Sometimes she leaves her husband. Sometimes she never had a husband because she knew, wisely, that married life would not be for her. I like when she has multiple lovers. I like when she wears hats to block her fair skin from the sun. I like when she travels and has adventures. I like descriptions of hotels and suitcases with stickers on them. I like descriptions of food and clothes and jewelry. A little romance but not too much. The story is period. No cell phones. No social networking. No Internet at all. Ideally, it’s set in the 1920s or the 1940s. Maybe there’s a war going on, but it’s just a backdrop. No bloodshed. Some sex but nothing too graphic. No children. Children often spoil a story for me.”

“I don’t have any,” Lambiase says.

“I don’t mind them in real life. I just don’t want to read about them. Endings can be happy or sad, I don’t care anymore as long as it’s earned. She can settle down, maybe open a little business, or she can drown herself in the ocean. Finally, a nice-looking jacket is important. I don’t care how good the insides are. I don’t want to spend any length of time with an ugly object. I’m shallow, I guess.”

“You are one heck of a pretty woman,” Lambiase says.

“I’m ordinary,” she says.

“No way.”

“Pretty is not a good reason to court someone, you know. I have to tell that to my students all the time.”

“This from the woman who doesn’t read the books with the ugly covers.”

“Well, I’m warning you. I could be a bad book with a good jacket.”

He groans. “I’ve known a few of those.”

“For instance?”

“My first marriage. The wife was pretty but mean.”

“So you thought you’d make the same mistake twice?”

“Nah, I’ve seen you on the shelf for years. I’ve read the synopsis and the quotes on the back. Caring teacher. Godmother. Upstanding community member. Caretaker to sister’s husband and daughter. Bad marriage, probably made too young, but tried her best.”

“Sketchy,” she says.

“But it’s enough to make me want to read on.” He smiles at her. “Should we order dessert?”

“I HAVEN’T HAD sex in a really long time,” Ismay says in the car on the way back to her house.

“Okay,” Lambiase says.

“I think we should have sex,” Ismay clarifies. “If you want to, I mean.”

“I do want to,” Lambiase says. “But not if that means I don’t get to take you on a second date. I don’t want to be a warm-up for the guy that gets you.”

She laughs at him and leads him to her bedroom. She takes off her clothes with the lights on. She wants him to see what a fifty-one-year-old woman looks like.

Lambiase lets out a low whistle.

“You’re sweet, but you should have seen me before,” she says. “Surely you see the scars.”

A long one runs from her knee to her hip. Lambiase runs his thumb along it: it’s like a seam on a doll. “Yeah, I see them, but it doesn’t take away from anything.”

Her leg had been broken in fifteen places and she’d had to have the socket of her right hip replaced, but other than that, she’d been fine. For once in his life, Daniel had taken the brunt of the impact.

“Does it hurt much?” Lambiase asks. “Should I be careful?”

She shakes her head and tells him to take off his clothes.