Chapter Forty-Two
Forty-Two
“Just one more chapter, Harry.”
It’s the day before the big reopening, and Miguel has taken the morning off—but only after clearing it with Riley, who’s finally in charge of staff schedules.
I wasn’t sure what he was up to when he lifted me onto the sofa.
Then I spotted the paperback he was clutching when he plopped down next to me, and I understood.
It was time for him to read Amelia’s last novel.
That was several hours ago. Now he’s sniffling again and petting me softly because he’s about to finish it. Fortunately, his tears don’t worry me anymore.
And neither does the end.
“Oh, Amelia,” he murmurs, closing the book and gazing at her photo on the back.
“You pulled it off. I don’t know how, but you brought Adam around and made me believe he could change in the ways he needed to.
That he had changed for Carmen. You showed me it was possible, and I loved it—every single page. ”
He shuts his eyes and stays that way for so long that I wonder if he’s fallen asleep. But then he sits up suddenly, and darned if the man doesn’t look straight into my eyes like I’m human, too. “Harold,” he says decisively, “you were spot-on.”
Well, I know that. The question is, which part is he talking about?
“Not thinking about Amelia being gone all the time made me feel like I was betraying her, so I pushed Fiona away.” He shakes his head.
“And every time I put distance between us or insisted on making myself more miserable, your overbite would pop out, and I couldn’t figure out what that was for—it was like you were mocking me or something.
I understand you now, though, dog, and I’m sorry it took so long.
You just wanted me to be happy and find love, because you knew that’s what Amelia would have wanted for me.
And now I see that I can love and be happy again without ever letting go of what she and I had together.
” He glances around. “I have the home she made for us. The friends I have, my community, my life—those are because of her. And of course you, Harold. She gave me you, too, and you made our little family complete.” He wraps his arm around my back and presses his head to my fur.
Then he murmurs, “Thank you for helping me see she’s still everywhere. That she’ll always be with me.”
—
Things are changing. And although I can’t be certain, I don’t think I feel that way because of my heart or what’s happening at the store. One season is soon to become another, and there will be even less time than there is now.
I somehow sense that Amelia Mae knows this, too. Which is why I’m not surprised when she knocks on the back door the morning of the reopening.
Oh, hello, I think, peering at her through the glass as she grins and waves at me. I definitely conjured you.
Miguel, who has just walked into the kitchen behind me, hasn’t heard her.
Because when he spots her out of the corner of his eye, he immediately folds into himself, even though he’s got a perfectly acceptable amount of clothing on.
Then he remembers that he’s dressed, stands back up, and throws open the door.
“Um, hi there,” he says.
“Land ho!” She’s wearing a pair of sunglasses that are too big for her face, and she lifts them to look up at him. “We have arrived.”
“I see that,” he says, squinting. “Or at least I see you. Where’s your mother?”
She points in the direction of the street. “In the car. Can you believe I got her to drive here? And I convinced Uncle Jon to watch Walter, too, and he’s really not a dog person. Though he swears Walter is a cat in a tiny dog’s body.”
I can believe it. She could’ve told me she got Fiona to sprout wings to fly them here and I wouldn’t have been shocked.
“She did great,” she assures Miguel. “I’m very proud of her. I’m sure she’ll show in a minute, but I needed to see Harry as soon as possible. Is it okay if I come in?” she asks, already charging toward me.
“Don’t get him too excited!” Miguel calls as I bark and rub myself all over her.
“We’ve got to be careful with you, Harry,” she says, getting down on the floor, but I jump on her because I can’t not. What is pain, anyway, when you’re in love?
It’s worth it, I think, licking her cheek as she giggles. It’s always worth it.
On the deck, I can hear Miguel greet Fiona. Amelia and I immediately stop pouncing on each other, and she holds a finger to her lips and leans toward the door.
“I understand,” he says. “I really appreciate you being here.”
“It’s for Amelia Mae. And for Harry.”
“Thank you. This is the happiest I’ve seen him in—well, to be honest, since the last time they were together.”
Amelia Mae grins at me.
“I’m glad,” says Fiona. “Is he doing okay?”
“Better than I expected. Thanks for asking. How’s Walter?”
“He’s great. Well, except for his preternatural ability to steal our food if we so much as glance away for a second.”
That dog is a far better student than I’ve given him credit for.
“He’ll learn.” He pauses, then says, “Do you want to come in?”
“I think I’ll just wait here, if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course.”
But instead of waiting, she goes to the doorway and gives Amelia Mae a little wave.
Then she walks inside, toward where we’re sitting in the living room.
Her eyes rove around, taking in the photos and the throw pillows and the two shelves of colorful books written by the other person with the best name in the world. Her gaze lands on the paperback that’s still in the center of the coffee table where Miguel left it yesterday.
And I see her smile ever so faintly, and I am reminded that maybe not now, or even right away, but at some point, everything will line up as it’s supposed to.
Miguel appears behind her. “Hi,” he says softly, as though he’s greeting her again for the first time.
“Hi yourself,” she says. “We told Amelia Mae the truth about the books.”
“Yes, she told me when she called. What will you do next?”
Fiona pushes her glasses up on her nose and appears to be considering what she’s going to say.
“We’re not quite sure…but we’ve discussed letting readers know that the books were a collaboration of sorts.
After all, that much is true. We thought about announcing that I wrote them, but Jon is concerned that my ex might come after my finances or do something else that would be bad for Amelia Mae. So, we’re treading lightly.”
“That sounds wise.”
“I hope so. I do know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Actually, two things.”
He’s closer to her now, very close, but she hasn’t moved away. “I’m listening.”
“I’m going to keep writing, but I’m going to truly focus on women’s stories this time.
And I’m going to publish under my own name.
My married name, not Middleton-Biggs—I’m sure people will find out the connection, but I’m not going to start there.
We’re lucky, Jon and I, that money isn’t a concern anymore.
And I’m willing to fight to be taken seriously if I need to, for as long as it takes. ”
“I’m thrilled to hear that. The world needs your work—and to know that you’re the genius behind it.”
She bites her lip, then says, “Thank you. That means a lot to me, especially from you.”
“What’s the second thing?” he asks.
She gives him what my Amelia used to call the look. “John Williams has no idea how to write women.”
He erupts into laughter.
“Oh, there’s one more thing,” she says, touching his hand.
“I await with bated breath.”
“I’m still upset with you, but believe it or not, I’m still somehow happier when you’re around. In fact, I’ve been miserable since I left Michigan.”
He takes her hands in his. “Would you give me a chance to make it up to you?”
She smiles. “I’ll consider it. Why don’t we start with tonight’s event and see how it goes?”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“I should give them some privacy, Harry, just in case they want to smooch,” Amelia Mae whispers to me. “I’ll go grab your squeaky toy from the hallway. Be back in a few.”
As I watch her lope over there, I’m overcome by a memory.
Not long before she died, my Amelia went to Chicago for some sort of author event—maybe even the one where she met Fiona, come to think of it—and left me home with Miguel.
Back then, I didn’t mind letting him sleep in because it was just for a few days, and I was rewarded with leftover cereal, which used to be a treat (oh, to be young and inexperienced again).
Maybe it was because she’d already had her first surgery, but I was so worried about her, even though everyone said she’d be fine. Still, when Amelia finally returned home, I jumped on her legs like she’d just rescued me from the kennel all over again, and my eyes got all wet.
“Why, Harold, are you crying?” she said, letting me lick her face. “I missed you so much, too. I’m here now, though. I’m here.”
“Dogs don’t cry,” Miguel told her, but she pulled a book off the shelf and showed him some passage that proves that we do. We cry when we’re happy, and we cry when we’re sad, though we also howl when we’re really upset. Just like humans.
So, I let myself cry a little now, and it feels like happiness and sadness and remembering, all mixed together.
And I don’t mind, even though I know Amelia Mae might not understand it.
I hope she does one day, though. Because it’s the kind of feeling you can have only after you’ve loved so much that you know in your bones that moving on will never, ever be the same thing as letting go.