A.J. Fikry wants to be left alone, and for a while the island obliges him. He is thirty-nine, running Island Books on a stretch of Massachusetts coast you can only reach by ferry, a year or so out from the car crash that killed his wife, and he has narrowed his life down to a shop he does not especially want customers in and a rare Poe volume he intends to sell someday to fund his exit. He drinks alone in the apartment above the store. He tells a young sales rep exactly what he thinks of her publisher's list, at length, without apologizing for any of it. Then the Poe is stolen. Not long after that, somebody leaves a two-year-old in the picture-book aisle.
Zevin's smartest structural choice is the one that looks like decoration. Every chapter opens with the title of a short story and a few lines from A.J. about it, written for Maya, the toddler who becomes his daughter. At first they read like the handwritten cards taped to shelves in a good independent store. By the halfway point you understand that you are watching a man teach a child how to read him, and by the end those notes are doing something I did not see coming and will not spoil here. The device costs the novel nothing and pays for itself twice over.
The book is unapologetically sentimental, and your mileage will depend on how you feel about a small town where almost everybody turns out to be decent. The police chief starts a book club. The sales rep keeps coming back. Nobody is very complicated except A.J. himself, and several of the supporting characters get sketched where they should have been drawn. What holds it up is the shop-floor detail, which is exact: the boxes of returns nobody wants, the customer hunting for the one with the blue cover, the arithmetic of a store that lives or dies on a single good December. Zevin knows this world well enough to be funny about it, which is rarer than knowing it well enough to be reverent.
Why you should read
- Bookshop novels with real trade detail
- Grumpy protagonists worn down by love
- Short, warm literary fiction that ends in tears
- Anyone who loved Tomorrow, and Tomorrow, and Tomorrow
What to expect
- 273 pages you can finish in two sittings
- Unapologetic sentiment, handled with a light touch
- Chapter epigraphs that turn out to matter enormously
- A final act darker than the setup suggests
The last third turns hard. I will say only that the turn is planted in the first chapter and that the novel does not flinch once it arrives. What stayed with me afterward is smaller than the ending. It is A.J. reading aloud in an empty shop after closing, working through a stack he picked for one specific child, doing the single thing he was always good at for somebody who finally needed it. A bookstore in a novel is usually scenery. In this one it is the whole argument.