Chapter Fifteen
Fifteen
When we get home, Miguel finds the little card Fiona gave him and calls her. I can’t hear what they’re talking about—he leaves me in the living room with Dane and shuts himself up in the bedroom during the conversation—but when he emerges, he tells Dane to change.
“Nah, I’m good,” says Dane from his spot on the sofa.
Miguel looks from Dane’s face to his shirt and back again. “You’re wearing half the sushi you ordered earlier.”
“You suddenly the sartorial police? ’Cause you and I are practically twinsies these days. Though I must say, you’re sharp as a shiv tonight.”
Miguel glances down and seems surprised to find himself dressed in a short-sleeved linen shirt. It’s the pale yellow one Amelia bought him, and even I can tell he looks nice in it. “Thanks, I think.”
“You’re welcome, I think. Anyway, I’m not going with you.”
“Why not?”
“How’d we go from ‘this is a solo endeavor’ to ‘Dane, you play Luke’?”
“I am not asking you to play Luke. I just…expected you to join me.”
“Miguel, as much as I’m geeked you finally want to hang, you’re good.
Fiona likes you. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t have invited you over a second time.
” Dane rises from the sofa and ambles over to the fireplace, which Miguel’s standing in front of.
He claps him on the shoulder. “You leaving our dog friend with me? Seems like Fiona’s not as big of a fan of his. ”
“I got that impression, too, but she told me to bring him.”
Did she?
“She said the girl wants to see him,” Miguel adds.
Oh, I can barely contain my excitement.
“Then there you have it. It’s a double date!”
“It is not a date of any sort, Dane. I’m just going to have a drink with her and see if she’ll put us in touch with Jonathan.”
“Okay. But chief, your face.”
He reaches up and touches his beard, which he trimmed before we left town. “What? Do I have something on me?”
“Nope. You just look…happier than usual.”
Miguel immediately scowls. “I won’t be happy until JMB’s at the podium at our bookstore. And if I play my cards right tonight, that might finally happen.”
—
“There you are!” Her voice is higher pitched than when she growled at Miguel.
But it’s her, the other Amelia, who has spotted me and thrown open the front door of her house.
“I knew you’d come,” she says, guiding me into the townhouse.
With its deep brick facade and wavy windowpanes, her home looks far more like Miguel thought Jonathan’s would.
“But it took you long enough—it’s ten minutes past eight!
We’re going to have to have a talk about your owner’s punctuality, Harry. ”
Harry! I’ve always wondered what it would be like to have a nickname. Now I know: It’s a warm hug made of sound.
She ignores Miguel, who’s standing mutely behind me, and points at the small bowl of water she’s placed on the floor. “That’s for you. Not sure what you eat, but it’s hot out, so I got you something to drink.”
I glance up in appreciation, then slurp greedily, even though I suspect I’m splattering all over the tile.
“Bet you feel better now,” she says when I’m done.
I do, and I rub against her leg to thank her.
“You’re sweet, but we have work to do. You,” she says, finally addressing Miguel. “You’d better be nice to Fiona tonight.”
“Fiona?”
“My mom. Duh.”
“Yes, I’m aware,” he says with amusement. “I’m just surprised to hear you call your mother by her first name.”
“She doesn’t like it, either, but the Stone Age is over.” She points down the hall. “Go on, she’s in the kitchen. I’ll take care of Harry.”
“Harry, huh?” says Miguel.
“Yeah. No offense, but who calls a dog Harold?”
“I’m not offended. That’s the name he came with. Are you sure—”
“Of course I’m sure,” she interjects. “I turn twelve in two months, which is legally old enough to babysit siblings in plenty of states. Not that I have a sibling, but if I did, I’m sure Harry would be way better behaved.
Besides, Fiona will be less anxious if she doesn’t have to see him too much. Now go, and please be good.”
She doesn’t check to see if I’m trotting behind her as she makes her way up the stairs; we both know I am. “Sorry,” says the other Amelia when we reach the second level. “I know you’ve had quite the day. I have, too. But I’m glad you’re here again.”
How can I not be charmed, when she’s talking to me just like my Amelia used to? Of course, Miguel rambles at me plenty, but this is different. She’s doing it because she wants to, not because it’s compulsive and there’s no one else to listen.
“Well, here’s my room,” she says, directing me inside.
I know right away that this is the best spot in the house. The walls are mostly built-in bookshelves, and there are a bunch of beanbags and blankets strewn about in front of them. The floor’s littered with books and notebooks and markers, too.
My Amelia would have loved it here, and for some reason, that makes me a little sad for feeling this excited about having a new friend who shares her name.
“Make yourself at home,” she tells me, plopping down in front of a blue armchair in a corner. She shoots me a skeptical look when I sit tentatively beside her. “Home, Harry.”
Home. The word nearly sounds right coming out of her mouth.
“Come on, feel this carpet,” she tells me, bending to rub her hand on the floor. “It’s so soft. You can lie down on it and listen to me read.”
Yes, I think I’d enjoy that. I stretch out as she grabs a paperback from beside the chair.
She flips through it for a moment, then says, “I’m sure Fiona would prefer I was reading Anne of Green Gables or The Secret Garden or even The Baby-Sitters Club—but between us, I’d rather peruse the junk mail.
Anyways, I have a feeling Stephen King’s the only one who can help us right now. ”
Help us? Does he bail out bookstores?
“This is called Misery. It’s about a writer who gets kidnapped by a crazy fan.
I’m wondering if it’ll give me some ideas about what’s going on with Uncle Jon.
My mom’s trying to act like everything’s fine, but she’s being way too weird, and something’s up.
I can tell. I just don’t want her to be upset—she’s already been through so much with my grandparents getting killed in a car accident and then my dad taking off on her. ”
Hmm, that is a lot. I wonder if she realizes it’s a lot for her, too.
And if Amelia Mae doesn’t know where her uncle is, that means her mother probably doesn’t, either—which isn’t ideal.
But she’s beginning to read, so I close my lids.
Even though I don’t fall asleep, by the time she’s done, I feel every bit as rested as if I had.
“I’m glad you liked that,” she says, patting my belly. “I wasn’t sure how the whole leg-breaking thing would go over with you. Just remember, it’s only a book. You can always turn the page if you aren’t feeling it.”
“Love bug,” calls Fiona. “Come say hello! And please bring the dog with you—carefully!”
Amelia Mae frowns. “Drat, we’re being summoned. Come on, Harry. Let’s go make an appearance for the fogies. We’ve gotta show her we’re fine together.”
Fiona and Miguel are in the kitchen, which is smaller than Jonathan’s and smells like food. There are loads of photos on the fridge. Like with her room, you can tell someone actually lives here.
“There you are! I wanted you to say hello to Miguel,” says Fiona, who’s seated across from Miguel at the counter.
“We spoke,” Amelia Mae assures her mother. “Before I took Harry upstairs. And since you’re going to ask, he’s on his very best behavior today.”
Fiona’s eyes dart to me, and I flash her my teeth. She turns to Miguel. “Am I losing it or is he smiling at me?”
“Dogs do smile,” he says. He knows this because my Amelia read him something about it after he told her that wasn’t a thing. “Harold must like you,” he adds.
“Really?” she says with surprise.
I smile even wider to reassure her that I’m willing to let bygones be bygones if she will, too. Miguel nods, then takes a sip of the pale liquid in the glass he’s holding.
“You know, I didn’t even ask you if you would have preferred red,” she twitters. She suddenly seems nervous, and for once, I don’t think I’m the cause. “I have a cabernet. Or sparkling water if you don’t drink—oh goodness, I didn’t even ask you that, either.”
“This is good,” he grunts, sounding way too much like his prehistoric ancestors.
“Did Fiona show you the balcony yet?” Amelia Mae asks Miguel.
“The balcony?”
“It’s like the one I yelled at you from, but nicer. We have plants and stuff up there.”
“Oh.” He seems uncertain. Probably because he hasn’t spent much time around younger humans since he was one himself—even when he wasn’t always running from customers, he left the kids up to my Amelia and Beth, who used to run Story Hour before she left to have her own baby. “No, your mother hasn’t mentioned it.”
“Amelia Mae’s right. It’s lovely,” says Fiona, who seems unable to hide how uncomfortable she feels saying her own daughter’s name in front of him.
Miguel must pick up on this because he gives her a reassuring smile. It probably pains him to hear it, but maybe it’s getting easier already.
“Would you like to see the view?” she asks. “Maybe we can keep talking shop up there.”
“Sure,” he agrees.
Amelia Mae stands and claps her hands. “You kids have fun—I need to pee. Harry, think you can deal with the stairs again? If you go with them, I can meet you up there.”
I’m not sure; it’s a lot of up and down, and I’m more worn out than I care to admit.
But she’s already disappeared, and I really should keep an eye on Miguel, just in case he says something stupid to Fiona again.
So, I follow them to the second floor and down a long hallway to a small study that opens onto the balcony.
In the study, Miguel stops to examine a tall bookshelf that’s much like the ones in the other Amelia’s bedroom.
“This is my office,” says Fiona from behind him.
Miguel turns to her. “I don’t mean to pry—I just can’t help but check out your selection.”
“Never trust a person without bookshelves filled to the brim,” she says, and he laughs lightly.
“Agreed. Ah,” he exclaims, spotting a thick book on her shelf. “Brief Interviews with Hideous Men—that’s one of my recent favorites.”
“ ‘One never knew, after all,’ ” she says.
“ ‘Now did one now did one now did one,’ ” he recites.
As they smile at each other, I’m reminded that there’s a special language shared between two people who have read and loved the same book.
“Admittedly, it doesn’t hold a candle to I, Edward,” he adds.
“Different style from my brother’s—but thank you. Not that I can take credit, of course.”
“Your brother is a genius. Safe to assume it runs in the family.”
“Genius is overrated, and you’re kind.” She turns and slides open the glass door, and they step onto the balcony. I’m about to join them when Miguel pulls the screen door in front of my face. “It’s way too hot out here, Harold,” he says. “Stay in the air-conditioning and go find your friend.”
“We can keep the glass door cracked to keep an ear on them,” says Fiona.
I know she most wants to keep an ear on me. I’m willing to overlook that, though. Because for all his nerves, Miguel may not be completely happy right now—but he’s content. And that’s owing to my stellar taste in potential mates; I just know it.
“So…why did Vik tell me to ask you about your brother?” he asks after they’ve sat down in the deck chairs. The patio overlooks the city, which is starting to blink like a yard full of fireflies now that the sun’s slipping in the sky.
Her eyes sweep Miguel. “You have a sibling, right?” she asks after a moment.
“A sister,” he says cautiously. “Miriam. She still lives in Puerto Rico.”
“Are you close?”
Now he doesn’t hesitate. “Very.”
“Then I assume you know and care more about your sister than almost anyone else,” she says, then lifts her glass to her lips and takes a sip.
“Well, yes,” he admits.
“Same with me and Jon. As you know, we lost our parents when he was young, and I helped raise him. I still feel the need to protect him all these years later.”
Miguel nods. “We did, too. Miriam and I, we lost our mother when I was twelve and she was nine, and our dad had already been in the wind for a while at that point. We felt…” He glances away for a moment before looking at her again.
“Well, like we weren’t enough for him to stay.
But after our mother passed, then it was like we were truly alone in the world and had only each other to rely on.
I think that’s why your brother’s work has always resonated so much with me.
Orphan as origin is a story I know a little too well, and the way he described your relationship—it’s a lot like how I feel about Miriam. ”
“I’m glad it resonated, but I’m also so sorry for your loss,” she says quietly.
“Thank you. I’m sorry for yours, too.”
Neither of them says anything more for a while. It’s a comfortable silence, though. So comfortable that I startle when I feel a hand on my back.
It’s Amelia Mae, who has snuck over to the study and is beside me on the floor. She holds a finger to her lips to indicate I’m not to announce her presence. We both lean silently toward the screen door.
“I promise I’d share more if I could, but I honestly don’t know what’s happening with Jon,” Fiona says quietly.
“You could at least tell me how to reach him. You must have his number.”
“Of course I do, but if he won’t pick up for me, he’s definitely not going to answer for you.”
“Are you sure he’s all right?”
“Sure? No. He and Vik got in a fight a month ago, and he hasn’t been the same since. But I’m not worried he’s going to hurt himself, if that’s what you’re asking.”
“So, he and Vik are together?”
“They were.”
“I had no idea.”
“It’s not because he’s trying to conceal their relationship. He just doesn’t want people to know anything about him, including who he dates. And I have to respect that.”
“Right,” Miguel agrees. “All the same, I would like the chance to speak with him.”
I jump up suddenly, like a flea bit me, but it’s not bugs that have me bothered. Amelia Mae isn’t here anymore. Where’d she go?
“Harold,” says Miguel, spinning around. “What’s wrong?”
Fiona’s eyes flash with fear. “Amelia Mae?” she yells. “Where are you?”