“I think I’ll just wait here, if that’s all right with you.”
“Of course.”
But instead of waiting, she goes to the doorway and gives Amelia Mae a little wave.
Then she walks inside, toward where we’re sitting in the living room.
Her eyes rove around, taking in the photos and the throw pillows and the two shelves of colorful books written by the other person with the best name in the world. Her gaze landson the paperback that’s still in the center of the coffee table where Miguel left it yesterday.
And I see her smile ever so faintly, and I am reminded that maybe not now, or even right away, but at some point, everything will line up as it’s supposedto.
Miguel appears behind her. “Hi,” he says softly, as though he’s greeting her again for the first time.
“Hi yourself,” she says. “We told Amelia Mae the truth about the books.”
“Yes, she told me when she called. What will you do next?”
Fiona pushes her glasses up on her nose and appears to be considering what she’s going to say. “We’re not quite sure…but we’ve discussed letting readers know that the books were a collaboration of sorts. After all, that much is true. We thought about announcing that I wrote them, but Jon is concerned that my ex might come after my finances or do something else that would be bad for Amelia Mae. So, we’re treading lightly.”
“That sounds wise.”
“I hope so. I do know one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Actually, two things.”
He’s closer to her now, very close, but she hasn’t moved away. “I’m listening.”
“I’m going to keep writing, but I’m going to truly focus on women’s stories this time. And I’m going to publish under my own name. My married name, not Middleton-Biggs—I’m sure people will find out the connection, but I’m not going to start there. We’re lucky, Jon and I, that money isn’t a concern anymore. And I’m willing to fight to be taken seriously if I need to, for as long as it takes.”
“I’m thrilled to hear that. The world needs your work—and to know that you’re the genius behind it.”
She bites her lip, then says, “Thank you. That means a lot to me, especially from you.”
“What’s the second thing?” he asks.
She gives him what my Amelia used to callthe look.“John Williams has no idea how to write women.”
He erupts into laughter.
“Oh, there’s one more thing,” she says, touching his hand.
“I await with bated breath.”
“I’m still upset with you, but believe it or not, I’m still somehow happier when you’re around. In fact, I’ve been miserable since I left Michigan.”
He takes her hands in his. “Would you give me a chance to make it up to you?”
She smiles. “I’ll consider it. Why don’t we start with tonight’s event and see how it goes?”
“That sounds wonderful.”
“I should give them some privacy, Harry, just in case they want to smooch,” Amelia Mae whispers to me. “I’ll go grab your squeaky toy from the hallway. Be back in a few.”
As I watch her lope over there, I’m overcome by a memory.
Not long before she died, my Amelia went to Chicago for some sort of author event—maybe even the one where she met Fiona, come to think of it—and left me home with Miguel. Back then, I didn’t mind letting him sleep in because it was just for a few days, and I was rewarded with leftover cereal, which used to be a treat (oh, to be young and inexperienced again).
