Chapter Twenty-Three
Twenty-Three
I have not fulfilled my duty, but I am closer than I have been at any other point.
Despite his guilt, Miguel was humming last night as he did the dishes that had been piling up in the sink.
He even washed his sheets—and what is spontaneous laundry-doing if not a sign of a man who has found a reason to care again?
He does not love Fiona yet, but I believe he could.
He could.
Yet to my dismay, he does not call her the morning after our around-town excursion.
And when he tells me he’s going out to run errands, I’m certain he’s not attempting to bump into Fiona and Amelia Mae at the farmer’s market, or wherever it is he’s going; otherwise, he’d say so, and probably bring me along for the journey.
When he returns, I demonstrate my displeasure by refusing to look at him.
Except he doesn’t even seem to notice! He just commands me to go outside because he was watching me like a hawk when I went into the yard this morning and he knows I didn’t finish my business.
“Don’t run off again,” he warns when he opens the back door for me.
I couldn’t if I tried—my whole dog’s barking today—but I suppose I do want to see if that dreadful possum’s been sniffing around the raised garden box again.
I mosey over to it, checking for the decaying meat odor that lingers long after the beasts are done playing dead.
But no tomatoes have been planted this year, no basil or kale—and so there’s no reason for the possum to do anything but pass through.
I make a pile in a corner of the yard, then circle the yellowing grass for good measure before letting myself back inside, as Miguel has left the door cracked for me.
There’s a smell that’s at once familiar and foreign wafting from the kitchen. I trot over to Miguel, who’s at the counter. That’s when I see he’s wearing an apron.
He’s making food? Dare I trust my (admittedly hazy) eyes?
I lift my head, trying to figure out precisely what he’s working on up there; the only scents I can detect are flour, butter, and powdered sugar.
I’ve still got my snout in the air when the phone rings.
As he bounds across the kitchen to see who’s calling, I take the opportunity to put my front paws on the edge of the counter.
“Eh, I’ll call Miriam back later,” he says when he reaches the phone. I’ve just spied a bowl, a spatula, and a plastic tub of some unidentified substance when he spots me. “Harold! Get down right now! I can’t have you getting fur in the guava cakes.”
But…I don’t smell guava. And he only baked those for Amelia.
I’m not sure if I like that he’s making them now. In fact, I feel oddly protective, like the time Amelia’s friend brought over her Maine coon—that cat was a real show-off, chasing after a tennis ball like it was some kind of puppy. Couldn’t he bake something else for Fiona?
This means your plan is working, Harold, I remind myself. You don’t get to pick how he’s being romantic. Just enjoy your victory for a hot second.
“Can’t believe I have to substitute quince,” he says, frowning at the tub.
Quince? Phew.
He continues. “Maybe after the bookstore’s closed, I’ll open a tiendita—someone needs to stock guava paste and plantains around here.
” He sticks the end of a spoon into the container, then puts it into his mouth, oblivious to my incredulous stare.
He may be half joking, but I don’t like him talking so casually about closing the store.
“Hmm. Acceptable.” He tosses the spoon into the sink, where it lands with a clang, then says, “Sorry, dog, these are for our picnic. But be patient, because I’m sure your little friend will slip you one when I’m not looking. ”
For once, I don’t care about free human food.
We’re going on a picnic? With Amelia Mae?
Two get-togethers two days in a row is well beyond Miguel’s limit.
He’s doing even better than I’ve given him credit for.
And maybe I should give myself credit here, too, because didn’t I help summon Amelia Mae and Fiona to town?
I spend the next hour pacing in nervous anticipation instead of napping like I should.
Miguel finishes baking the cakes, then packs them up and directs me to the car.
I expect him to keep humming, but he’s quiet on the short drive to the bed-and-breakfast. I myself am having trouble focusing, but that’s mostly from feeling tired and wired.
But I forget all about my exhaustion when I see Amelia Mae skipping down the front walk toward the car.
“Hiya, Harry,” she says, sliding next to me in the back seat. “I’d give you a squeeze, but—” She gestures to the large picnic basket she just placed between us. “The inn had a basket we could borrow, and Fiona took it as a personal challenge to fill it to the brim.”
“I might have,” says Fiona, who’s just gotten into the passenger seat.
She’s changed into a short blue dress today and has a big straw hat on her head, while Amelia Mae’s dressed in dark colors and is wearing a pair of very big sunglasses.
“I appreciate you picking us up,” she says, leaning across the armrest to give Miguel a hug.
He accepts, but I can’t help but notice he looks like a person who’s never had a pair of arms around his shoulders before.
“No worries. You look nice,” he says.
A compliment? I take it back. Heck, I’d give him a bone if I could. He’s being such a good boy!
“Thank you. I found a place to pick up some clothing, since”—Fiona raises an eyebrow at her daughter—“this was an impromptu trip.”
“Since you haven’t gone on vacation in a million years, you’re welcome,” says Amelia Mae.
“Thanks, I suppose,” Fiona says, but she’s smiling at Miguel now. “At any rate, I’m so glad there’s a breeze. It’s perfect weather for a picnic.”
“Isn’t it?” he says. “I think you’ll like the park I’ve picked out.”
The park’s really just a stretch of grass that runs along the beach. My Amelia liked to come here sometimes because tourists didn’t know about it; even in the middle of the summer, it was often just the three of us. There are only a few other people in sight this evening, too.
“Don’t go in the water,” Fiona warns Amelia Mae as she spreads out the blanket that Miguel has retrieved out of the trunk. She pulls sandwiches and fruit out of the basket. She’s packed plates and little glasses, too, and a bottle of some sort of beverage, and—ooh, is that a bone?
“The bone is from me, Harry,” Amelia Mae tells me. “But you’ll have to wait until dinner to have it. In the meantime, let’s go check out the lake.”
A gift to gnaw on? Could this day get any better?
“I’m serious about the water, love. There could be a rip current,” Fiona warns her.
She glances down at her shirt and shorts. “Do you really think I’m going swimming in this getup? I’m just going to go to the edge and stick a toe in. Then I’ll find a nice stranger to accept unwrapped candy from.”
Fiona balks, but Amelia Mae’s already turned to me. “Harry, you don’t have to if it’s too much.”
It probably is too much, but that’s never stopped me before. I stick my tongue out and wait for her to pick up my leash.
It’s hard to walk in hot, dry sand, but soon we reach the firmer sand at the shore’s edge.
And maybe because I’m so poky, she decides it’s best if we sit.
Her eyes rove along the water, which sparkles in the low sunlight.
“I like it here,” she says after a while.
“At home, everyone thinks I’m the know-it-all with the famous uncle.
I can’t change their minds, but I could make new friends somewhere else.
I bet this could be a good place for a fresh start. ”
It was once that exact thing for me. I still remember the first time Amelia brought me to the lake.
She thought I would swim, since I’m a bird dog who’s supposed to know how to find ducks or whatever it is my ancestors were bred to fetch, but the water was so cold that I decided to drink it instead, and she laughed and laughed.
That was long ago. Now I just hope this will be a good place for a slow finish.
“Fiona’s being weird,” Amelia Mae tells me.
She’s running her finger along the sand and writing something—of course, I don’t know what it says, and even as I’m wishing I did, a wave comes and washes it away.
“I asked her why Uncle Jon left, and she said she doesn’t have the faintest idea, but I don’t believe her.
My mom isn’t perfect, Harry, but she never lies to me. Why would she do that now?”
I sigh and rest my head between my paws.
“I don’t get why Uncle Jon would take off like that—it’s not like him.
He owes my mom. I’m not supposed to think that, but she took care of him after my grandparents died even though she should have been off at college doing whatever college kids do.
” She lowers her head for a second. “It’s probably my fault.
He must have gotten tired of trying to fill in for my dad.
Uncle Jon’s always telling my mom to get out more, to go live a little instead of doing everything for me.
But he never really did that, either. Maybe that’s what he’s off doing now. Living.”
She puts her hand on my back. I wish I could tell her that these are big worries for such a small human, that none of this could possibly be her fault.
“They like each other,” she says, glancing over her shoulder. “Can you tell?”
I turn to see what she’s looking at. Fiona and Miguel are each propped on an elbow, so they’re facing. Even from here, I can tell that Amelia Mae is right—they do like each other. Oh, this is all coming together so perfectly!
“The question is, which one of them will mess it up first? Probably both now that I’m thinking about it.
” I must give her a funny look because she laughs and jumps to her feet.
“Don’t poop on the messenger, Harry! That’s just what adults do—make simple things complicated.
Hopefully they’ll listen to us if it comes to that. ”
Miguel and Fiona are still sprawled out on the blanket when we return to the grassy area. They’re so deep in conversation that neither even glances at Amelia Mae as she grabs a sandwich and passes me my bone.
“You really haven’t read Stoner?” Miguel asks Fiona.
“Nope. I’ve heard of it, but so many books…”
“So little time,” he finishes. “You should—it’s one of my favorites. But one caveat: Williams doesn’t get his female characters right. At least, that’s my take.”
“And I should read it because…” she says teasingly.
He laughs. “I know, I know. I’ll argue it’s still worth it. Maybe if he’d written it a little later, he’d have known better. I mean, don’t you think some of the nuance your brother brings to his work is because he was born in this era instead of another?”
Above us, the sky is clear and sparkling, but a shadow crosses her face.
“And from your input,” Miguel quickly adds.
She manages to smile again. “You don’t have to say that.”
“I mean it, though.”
“Thank you. That means a lot to me from you.”
His fingers linger on hers as he passes her one of the little cakes he made. She takes a bite, then closes her eyes for a second. “Oh, my word. This is divine.”
His smile’s tinged with embarrassment. “I’m a little rusty, and the ingredients aren’t quite right.”
“If that’s true, I’m afraid to see what you can do when you’re well oiled.”
They’re staring at each other now, and neither one is smiling anymore. When dogs look at each other like that, it’s a challenge. This is, too—but a different kind.
“May I ask how you got into such a tight spot at the bookstore?” Fiona asks after a moment. “Like I said, I understand that it’s hard to be a bookseller, but I really didn’t know Jon’s event could be a make-or-break for you.”
“It’s kind of a long story.”
“I’ve got time if you want to tell it.”
A muscle in his jaw twitches. “The thing about my Amelia was…she was generous. She used her royalties to pay off the mortgage on our house, then subsidized the store with anything she had left over.”
“I apologize if I’m being too forward, but wouldn’t her royalties keep coming to you?”
“No, they go to her parents now.” His brief laugh’s more weary than bitter.
“We were together almost sixteen years, but we never got married. I would’ve married her in a heartbeat—I used to propose to her all the time—but she didn’t want…
well, she didn’t want to become her mom and dad.
Unfortunately, she didn’t have a will, because who expects to die at thirty-nine?
And common-law marriage doesn’t exist in Michigan. ”
“Why would they take that money from you instead of sending it to the bookstore?” Fiona says, aghast.
“They’re not nice people. Never have been—they were terrible to Amelia when she was a child and weren’t much better once she was older. They didn’t like me, and they hated that she wrote romance. They thought her books were trashy.”
“For heaven’s sake. They’re love stories,” says Fiona, shaking her head. Then she reaches out and touches his arm. “I can tell how important the store is to you. Tell me again why you won’t accept my check?”
“Honestly? As much as I’m glad you decided to come, this isn’t your mistake to fix.”
“I want to, though,” she insists. “Jon will reimburse me.”
He looks down at the blanket before meeting her gaze again.
“I’m going to be honest with you, Fiona—I don’t know if your brother showing up would’ve saved us.
He probably would have bought us more time, though.
I’m not much of a people person, and lately, I can’t even say whether I really want to run a bookstore anymore.
But I do care about my staff, and Amelia’s legacy. ”
“I understand that, which is why I’m still working out how to make this right,” she tells him.
Before Miguel can respond, Amelia Mae interjects. “Does that mean you’re going to go on another date before we leave?” she asks, her eyes wide with excitement. “Because that would be getting it right.”
“It’s not a date,” say Fiona and Miguel at the same time. They look at each other and laugh nervously.
“Besides, love, we’re leaving tomorrow morning,” Fiona reminds her.
Already? Date or no date, they haven’t spent enough time together to realize that they simply must make a habit of each other’s company.
But Amelia Mae grins mischievously at me, and that’s when I realize: I may not know how to accomplish my mission, but something tells me she can figure it out.