“I’m perfectly capable of doing that on my own. And yes, she’s being a dunderhead, but I’m on it.”
He frowns. “I’m not sure you should be involved in our, um, affairs.”
“I wasn’t asking for your permission, Miguel. Is Harry still with you?”
“Yes,” he says cautiously.
“Great. Make sure you put the phone near his ear, but not too close.”
He follows her instructions, then says, “All right. He’s listening.”
“Harry, it’s me again. Are you in pain? Do you want me totell you a story?” she asks, and I cock my head at the phone in anticipation.
“Stupid question,” she says. “So, I’ve got agreatone for you today. Let me tell you the tale of two otherwise intelligent adults who were so fearful of letting other people in that an almost-twelve-year-old girl and a—how old are you again?”
“He’s fourteen,” Miguel tells her, shaking his head in amusement.
“Right, a not-young dog and the girl had to intervene so the adults would stop beating around the bush and do what they really wanted to do, which was spend time together.Ahem,” she says loudly, and I smile because she really is something else. “I’m sure you’re wondering, didn’t all that give the lonely girl a chance to get to know the world’s best dog? Don’t tell Walter I said that. The answer is, yes, it did, so we can’t totally blame the adults. But exactly when things were swimming right along for them, they had some sort of conversation in which they both said a bunch of things they probably didn’t mean.”
“Ahem,” says Miguel.
Amelia Mae ignores him and continues. “To be fair, they’ve both loved and lost before, so ofcoursethey’re afraid to let on how much they like each other. And yes, there’s a lake the size of a small sea between them—but the train ride’s only an hour, and honestly, one of them is the most fretful city mouse in all of Cook County and should move to Michigan like her daughter keeps telling her to. And I guarantee her new best friend would love a bigger yard now that he’s finally old enough to frolic in the grass.”
Miguel’s chuckling anxiously.
“Harry,” she says solemnly, “I know this all sounds like a speculative soap opera, but I swear on my grandmother’s knickers it’s a true story. We just need to come up with a better ending.”
“I presume you’re talking about me,” Miguel says.
“Ya think?” she drones. “You messed up.”
“I did,” he agrees. “But I’m going to make it right.”
“Good. How are you going to do that?”
“I’m not sure, but I think it begins with the novels I’ve been reading.”
“And what dothosehave to do with the price of printing in China?”
He laughs. “Everything. I’m finally reading Amelia’s books. The other Amelia, I mean.”
“Ohhhh. Well, that’s a start. And boy, do you have a type orwhat? She told me, you know.”
His brows inch closer together. “Who told you what?”
“Sorry—I mean Fiona told me the truth aboutherbooks. She and Uncle Jon sat me down the other night when the power was out. We had candles lit, and it was all shadowy and creepy and justperfectfor revealing the big twist! Course, I’m pretty sure I knew all along, deep down. He spent so little time at his computer, and she spent so much on hers, not to mention all that scribbling in her notebooks. Really, it never made sense.”
“Wait—your uncle’s home from Europe?”
“Why? You wanna kidnap him?” she teases, and he snorts.
“Believe me, I do not. But I was thinking I could come to Chicago to see your mom. Except it sounds like the timing isn’t good.”
“Yeah, the rest of this week’s crap. My play got pushed back because of the power thingy and I have rehearsals. But next week’s wide open. I don’t think you should come here, though. Not with Harry being all banged up.”
He glances down at me. “That’s a good point.”
“I’m full of sharp thoughts.”
