Neither of us has been up there since she passed; I haven’t wanted to. Still, I know I should visit at least once more while I’m able. So, I rise to my feet to indicate that I’m game if he is, since I have a feeling this has something to do with him making things right.
He hoists me into his arms and carries me up the first set of stairs, and then up the narrower stairway leading to the attic. When we reach the top, he gingerly sets me on the carpet.
Amelia’s office is a cozy space with a low, vaulted ceiling and exposed wooden beams. The windows at either end are small, but there’s a skylight on the south side that helped keep her plants alive. This used to be the happiest place in the world other than the bookstore.
No longer. Amelia’s not here—and now that I’m looking around, I’m realizing her plants aren’t, either. The monstrous monstera, the heartleaf philodendron, the orchids: They’re allgone. Of course, there’s no way they would have survived all that time without water and attention. But even theirpotsare missing. Miguel must have cleaned them out when I wasn’t watching, and while I’m certain he meant well, I don’t like his sneaking around, nor the strange and sterile feel of the room now.
But then he gets on one knee in front of her desk and gingerly picks up a carved wood vessel in the center. I remember that container, which looks sort of like a vase with a lid, from the memorial, and that somehow, some part of Amelia is in there.
“I know it’s weird that I leave her urn up here,” he says to me. “But up until now, it felt like she belonged here. Maybe she did or maybe she didn’t. Either way, I don’t want her so far from me anymore.”
Now he sits cross-legged on the rug and puts the urn just in front of him. I lie beside him, close enough that he can touch me if he needs to. “Hi,” he says softly to the urn. “I’m really sorry I haven’t gotten here sooner. Honestly, I think leaving you in your office was just one more way I’ve been shutting people out, thinking that somehow it would ease the pain.” He puts his hand on top of the urn. “Of course, you already know it never did. But I did do something that might surprise you.” He’s started to cry, but he’s smiling, too, and it reminds me of a rainstorm on a sunny day. “I read your books. A whole bunch of them. And it made me realize how wrong I’ve been about not relying on other people.”
And, ahem, the dog who loves them,I think, scooching closer to him.
“Amelia, you were the most trusting woman I’d ever met, and for some strange reason, you decided to pickme,theweirdo who’s always struggled to trust people. I’d say I hope you didn’t regret it—spending your too-short life with me, I mean—but every one of those stories told me that you didn’t.” He sniffs and wipes his eyes. “You believed in our love, and maybe just as important, you believed that I could change. Of course, Ididchange because of you, always for the better. But I’m not done changing, Amelia, and that’s mostly because of you, too. I see now that you wouldn’t have wanted me to be alone. You would have wanted me to love again, and not to push that away. It might be too late, but at least I understand. And if I get the opportunity to let love in, I will.”
He cries for a minute or two, then dries his face on his T-shirt and rises. “Harold, I’m going to go put this on the bookshelf where it belongs,” he says, picking up the urn. “I’ll be right back.”
He returns a few minutes later and walks to the extra copies of Amelia’s novels, which are piled along the low attic walls and in stacks beside her desk; paper was the only clutter she allowed, but on that front, she was a true collector. “You know what I noticed?” he says to me, regarding the books. “Things never work out the way Amelia’s characters expect them to. Not in a single story. They start thinking they want one thing, and she gives them something else entirely—and it’s always what they need.”
Then he begins to pull copies from the piles. “Don’t freak out and nip me,” he instructs as he stacks them in his arms. “I hope Becky and Bob will find the courage to read these, or at least skim them. But I guess even if they send them straight to the dumpster, I’ll know I’ve done the right thing.”
Her parents?Those warped weasels don’t deserve to be inthe same house as my Amelia’s novels, let alone receive their own copies.
“Believe me, Harold, I have my reservations, too,” he says, frowning at the books he’s holding. “But if I can come around, who knows what’s possible? Remember, her mom did slip her a copy ofSense and Sensibilityin high school. Knowing Becky, she was trying to warn her about romance and did it in a misguided way. Even if she did,” he says, surveying the space, “it backfired.Ygracias a Diospor eso.Maybe she’ll read the books and see how great it was that her daughter wrote love stories.”
He totes his armful downstairs, then gathers another, and still a third. Finally, he returns forme.
“I got clean boxes,” he tells me as I watch him place the sets into the cardboard containers in the kitchen. “We have ours—now it’s time for Amelia’s books to find new readers. Anyway, she always said her stories only belonged to her until she published them. The minute they were out in the world, they took on a life of their own.”
Miguel fills a bunch of boxes, which he tapes up and hauls to his car. “Oof, these are heavy,” he says on his way out the door the first time. “Probably should have called Dane to see if he could help me. Live and learn.”
“Come on, Harold!” he calls, and I startle from my spot in the kitchen; I must have dozed off while he was in the driveway. “Don’t want to be late!”
Late for what, he doesn’t say. Instead, he picks me up again and places me on the seat. “Stay, okay? We’re not going far,” he tells me. “I’ll drive very slowly so you don’t hurt yourself.”
Raina’s on her front porch emptying her mailbox when we back out. I expect Miguel to drive past quickly, but he rollsdown the window and calls, “Thanks for the other day!” He laughs nervously. “The news about the blackout, I mean.”
She smiles. “I know what you mean, Miguel. You end up tossing a lot of food?”
“Didn’t have much to lose. Though it was good to have to throw out all the freezer casseroles people brought over after Amelia died. It was time for them to go.”
“Sounds like it was. I’m glad you’re okay.”
“Me, too,” he says.
“Don’t be a stranger,” she says, then waves as he drives away.
We turn onto the big road, and that’s when I realize we’re heading to the bookstore. Even though I’m sore and he told me not to, I still get on all fours and press my mouth against the window.
“Oh, Harold, I wish you’d listen. I hate driving fifteen miles an hour,” Miguel grouses, but he doesn’t really seem upset. When we reach the parking lot, he pulls into his usual spot. “Can you walk?” he asks, gently setting me on the asphalt. I can, so he grabs a box from the trunk. “I’ll have to get the rest of these after the staff meeting,” he tells me. I must look confused because he says, “They had to push it back because of the blackout. And you and I, dog, should have been here ten minutes ago.”
Sure enough, when we get inside, everyone’s already gathered in the reading nook. It doesn’t look like it normally does in here, and it’s not just because of the Romance section. Wait—is that the missing monstera, right beside the sofa? The philodendron’s over near the register, and the fern that I’ve always longed to pee on is in the corner in front of the window. I thought Miguel never went to the attic, but he musthave been sneaking up there to water Amelia’s plants this whole time. And here I thought I was hearing sounds of an old home settling, when it was his devotion all along.
Oh, Miguel,I think, spotting an orchid at the register, and although its flowers are gone, I can tell it’ll bloom again soon.What a good job you did—Amelia would have lovedit.
Riley, who’s seated in the yellow chair, clears her throat when she sees him. “Sorry, we just got started,” she says, and I wonder if she’s really apologizing about sitting in Amelia’s spot.
