Miguel looks at Fiona, who nods. “Like Amelia Mae said, we’re not in a rush. Why don’t we take Walter on a walk to get him out of your hair, and you can give me a call when you’re done?”
—
“Brilliant,” murmurs Miguel. “Absolutely incredible.” He peers at me over his reading glasses—the pair he spent nearly half an hour searching for and finally located under the sofa, because whereelsewould they be? “It’s almost impossible to believe that I’m the second person to read Jonathan’s first work of fiction in several years. Oh, I can’t wait to talk to Fiona about this.”
He began reading the pages while they were still there, but she stopped him and said she didn’t want to bias him. So, she and Amelia Mae left with the puppy so he could “digest in peace,” as she describedit.
I don’t know about peace, but over the past hour, he’s laughed. He’s gasped. He’s snorted. As he tore through the twenty-some pages that Fiona printed out at the local library, he has looked…
Like a man who’s finally remembered who he is under all that pain.
My breathing slows as I watch him reading a second time, or maybe it’s a third. I’m nearly as relaxed as I was with Amelia Mae on the beach, but this feels less temporary. No, he and Fiona haven’t declared their love for each other yet. Still, I’ve waited six and a half seasons for him to be healed enough to enjoy himself without reservation, and I know that has everything to do with her.
He’s so happy that I almost wish he’d read the story one more time. But after another glance at the ending, he abandons the pages on the coffee table and heads upstairs to take a shower. I follow him, but instead of sitting outside the bathroom door, I take the opportunity to rest. I’m not worried that he’ll cry now. Also, I don’t feel so hot. I’d like to fix that before we see Fiona and Amelia Mae again.
I’ve started to drift off beside Miguel’s bed when he comes bounding out of the shower, as bare as the day he was born. He’s dripping water all over the floor and flapping his arms around like he’s trying to take flight.
“Harold!” he cries, and I leap to my feet. “It’s like I’ve known the whole time, but it’s been lurking beneath the surface. Something really hasn’t been sitting right with me since page three, and I finally figured it out.”
I watch him, trying to make sense of what he’s saying, as he wraps a towel around himself. He’s still blathering on when we head to the kitchen, where he grabs the phone off the wall and dials the number on the small card on the fridge.
“It’s Miguel. Yes, it’s stellar, just truly fantastic—that’s what I’m calling about. I was wondering, can you come over? Maybeyou could drop your daughter and the dog at the store so Riley can keep an eye on them, and we can pick them up afterward so she can say goodbye to Harold before you leave. No, no—nothing’s wrong. It’s just that there’s something I want to speak with you about privately.”
Thirty-Two
Fiona comes striding up the driveway to the deck, where Miguel and I are waiting.
“Hello, Harold,” she says, and I give her a grin nearly as wide as the one Miguel’s wearing.
“It’s you, isn’t it?” he says. His hair’s still wet, but he’s thrown on another linen shirt, this one in a darker hue, and he just brushed his teeth.
“What do you mean?” she asks.
“You’re his secret weapon!” he says excitedly. “Jonathan wouldn’t exist without you. Or at least his books wouldn’t. I see it now.”
“Yes.” She lowers her eyes and raises a hand to her face, almost as though she’s mortified by this admission. “I wondered if you knew. I’m sorry I didn’t say something earlier—Iwanted to, and believe me, I’ve been trying.”
“There’s no need to apologize. I’m dazzled by your genius,” he says, and she looks at him again.
Then he steps forward, puts his hand gently behind her head, and puts his lips to hers.
This time, I don’t evenwantto bark.
They’re still kissing, and their bodies are pressed together; I’m getting a strong whiff of what my Amelia liked to call “the tingles.” But Miguel and Fiona fit together differently than he did with her. And that’s okay. In fact, it’s just right.
At once, I’m overcome with the strangest, most melancholy joy—because I just realized that I have fulfilled my mission. I no longer need to worry if he’ll be okay once I’m gone; he willbe.
Our Amelia would be so proud ofus.
“Was that too much?” he says breathily when they finally let each othergo.
“No.” Her voice is lower than usual. “I could’ve done that all day. But I’m dying to know: How did you figure it out?”
“It was the line about who the protagonist would have been if she’d been born in another era. I recognized that from our conversation at the park. You must’ve been up all night editing.”
Her eyes flash with something; I don’t know what it is, but it’s no longer her mating instinct.
Miguel doesn’t catch it, though. “No wonder we’ve had such a connection,” he says in a husky tone. “I’ve spent years admiring your hard work, your influence.”
