“Oh, I’m sorry,” says Miguel. “I promise, Harold won’t do that to you.”
“I’m sure he won’t,” she says, but there’s a hint of a question in her voice.
“Do you know what you’d like to eat? I can go order,” he asks her.
Good boy!I take back everything I thought about his behavior.
“A caprese salad, if you don’t mind,” she says.
“White wine?”
“If you’re having some, sure.”
“Oh, I definitely am,” he says, nodding his head, and she laughs. “And you?” he says to the other Amelia.
“Grilled cheese, please!” she says.
“On it. I’ll be right back.”
“Isn’t this great, Harry?” Amelia Mae says to me, watching Miguel at the counter. “I didn’t think he’d call today, but he came through. I want us to spend as much time as possible together while we’re here.”
“Love, I can hear you. And as a reminder, we’re only here to deal with your uncle’s mistake,” Fiona tells her. “You need to get back to camp, remember?”
“Drama camp,” she says, rolling her eyes. “Nowthat’san oxymoron. It’s as dramatic as watching paint dry.”
“All the same, you are going when we return. I paid for it.”
She sticks her bottom lip out. “You offered to write an eight-thousand-dollar check to make up for Uncle Jon’sHoudini routine-y. Something tells me we can afford for me to miss camp.”
“Goodness, Amelia Mae,” says Fiona in a low voice. She glances around the café. It’s nearly full, but save for a stinky French bulldog a few tables away, no one’s paying attention to us. “For the record, your uncle would be covering that—not us. But can we please not discuss this in public?”
“All good?” Miguel’s just reappeared and is somehow holding two glasses of wine and a cup of water—oh, to have opposable digits. “These are pretty full, so be careful. I’ll be right back with our plates.”
“Thank you. That was kind of you,” says Fiona when he returns. She smooths out her skirt before she lifts the glass he’s set in front of her. “Though shouldn’t I be the one treating you?”
“No,” he says simply, and I wonder if he notices that she’s smiling into her wine.
“So,” says Miguel.
“So,” she says, looking back up at him. “I read that profile you wrote about my brother for theMichigan Quarterly Review.”
His eyes widen. “You did? That was what, four years ago? I thought no one saw that.”
“It was very good,” says Fiona, nodding, “though I would have taken the opportunity to dig deeper about why Jon feels so confident writing female characters the way he does.”
“Touché,” replies Miguel, but he’s clearly pleased. “I’m no expert.”
“From what I read, you know more about my brother’s work than a closet full of English professors.”
“I’m not sure how many English professors you can fit in a closet, exactly.”
“Believe me, plenty. Their egos, on the other hand—those require an additional storage unit.”
The corner of Miguel’s mouth ticks up. I’m pleased, too; I can’t remember the last time he was this engaged in something other than bills and staffing schedules. “I can’t disagree. But how’d you find that article, anyway?”
“I spend a fair amount of time online and know where to search. I was a journalist in another life.”
“Another life? Do tell.”
