She places her hand on his shoulder. “Of course. I really am sorry, but I’m glad we were able to connect. Maybe we can come see Lakeside Books for ourselves sometime.”
He doesn’t blink as he looks at her. “If it’s still there when you’re in the area, we’d love to have you.”
That’s it—we’re leaving, with no promises to see them again? My heart feels heavy. But then Amelia Mae sticks herface in my fur and whispers, “This story isn’t over yet, Harry,” and everything lightens and brightens.
She’s right, of course; I’m not thinking this all the way through. Because Jonathan Middleton-Biggs going on a walkabout that led me and Miguel straight to her and Fiona?
Thatcould not be a coincidence.
Seventeen
When we drive home the following morning, the tall buildings disappearing in the car’s rear window make me lonely. Which is strange, since Miguel and Dane are right there.
But maybe that’s just how you feel when you can’t be with the person you want to be with.
I wonder if Miguel’s feeling that way, too, because he barely says a word to me and Dane on the drive—and for once, Dane mostly lets him sit in silence. In fact, Miguel’s not even muttering to himself. What’s going on inside that giant skull of his? And why didn’t he properly invite Fiona and Amelia Mae to come visit us while the store was definitely still open? I’d like to show it to them. Really, this week would be ideal, and later today would be even better.
When we reach West Haven, we drop Dane off at the coffee shop so he can caffeinate himself before he starts his afternoon shift at Lakeside. Then Miguel and I head to the house, where he hauls in his suitcase and my things while I tend to my needs in the yard. I’m on my way back inside when I hear Miguel’s voice, faint and floating from the second floor. I rushupstairs to find him and end up scraping my undercarriage on the stairs in the process. The bedroom door’s closed, but even from the other side, I can tell he’s speaking Spanish.
And for a split second, I forget she’s gone.
Amelia’s Spanish was dreadful, but she tried anyway because she loved Miguel and making him laugh—and oh, how he laughed when she confused verbs or unintentionally lapsed into French, which she’d studied in school. “Ay, amor,” he’d say, mock-chiding. “Eres tan mona cuando intentas hablar español.”
Yes, she was quite cute. But I’ve just remembered that it’s not her talking now, that I’ll never hear her voice again, and wish my memory hadn’t failedme.
So, he must be on the phone with—well, let’s be honest, it’s got to be Miriam; he doesn’t really speak with anyone else, regardless of the language, but they rarely speak English or even Spanglish when it’s serious. He’s telling her about Amelia’s parents and our trip and how JMB’s in Copenhagen. She must be interjecting soothing noises and comments because his agitation quickly gives way to melancholy as he explains that he’s done all he can and is really and truly out of options.
“Tendré que cerrar la tienda en septiembre,” he adds woefully.
Close the bookstore in September?! What happened to that being like “losing Amelia all over again”?
Oblivious to my panic and his own shortsightedness, Miguel begins to babble justifications: I should have done it a while ago. I don’t even read anymore, so I’m obviously in the wrong business. It’s not the same without Amelia here.
Of course it’s not. Nothing is. That doesn’t mean he can just…quit.
I’m sure Miriam’s responding in all the ways I wish I could:telling Miguel to hang in there, not to give up so soon, to leave space for things to work themselves out and maybe even a miracle or two.
She must have just told him to take the money Fiona offered, because he says sharply in Spanish, “I don’twanther money. I’m not so desperate that I’m going to let her spend all that cash to clean up his mess. Even if he pays her back, it isn’t right. No, Miriam, I’m not being self-righteous…it’s called having principles. Besides, just getting through August and even September won’t save us when the business is clearly broken, and Amelia’s parents are heartless. I don’t see the point.”
She talks for a while—I know because he’s silent until he tells her he’ll be okay, just like he always does, and that he’ll call again soon. Then he hangs up, flings open the bedroom door, and spots me hovering in the hallway. “Eavesdropping, Harold?”
Me?Never.
“Don’t give me those sad eyes,” he tells me. “I know you miss the girl, and I’m sorry about that. I never should have dragged us to Chicago in the first place. What an absolute waste of time and energy.”
Yes, he should have! And yes, I do miss her—probably far more than I should. I’d like her to read more stories to me, even if they aren’t ones she plans to write when she’s ready. I’d like to hear about the things she puts in the notebooks she has strewn all over; I’m willing to bet Fiona and Miguel made it onto her pages last night.
I squeeze my lids closed and remind myself that this is about Miguel. OfcourseI know that; it’s the last and most important thing my Amelia asked ofme.
But a small, selfish part of me can’t help but wish he would think about what I want, too.
My eyes spring open again, and though the sun streaming through the small window in the hallway burns them, it’s all right. Because in imagining what Miriam said to Miguel, I have conjured a memory that doesn’t hurt quite so much and might—just might—help a little.
I never believed her then, but my Amelia always swore thinking about someone could make them appear. “You werejuston my mind,” she’d say with delight when she answered her phone or ran into a friend around town. “I must’ve conjured you!”
I suspect she spent a lot of time thinking about a lot of people she cared about, which I suppose is its own form of magic, if not the sort she thought it was. Yet…it worked. All the time. And though I don’t know if it’ll work for me and Miguel, I’m willing to try anything, and I do mean anything, to get Fiona and Amelia Mae here.
So, I squeeze my lids shut, imagine a tall, sunny woman and her perfectly cloudy child, and tell them to find their way to Michigan—fast.
