Goodnight June: A Novel (11 page)

“Oh, excuse me, ma’am,” I say, a little startled.

“Well at least they’ve done something right,” the woman mutters to herself. “They finally remembered I like lilies. Last week they set up tulips everywhere. I hate tulips.”

“You must be Victoria,” I say.

The old woman looks at me as if she’s just noticed my presence. “Do we know each other?”

“No,” I reply. “I was just, well, here to see your daughter. I’m June Andersen, Ruby Crain’s niece.”

Victoria looks shaken, and I know that after all these years, my aunt’s name still has power over her. Of course it does. For the majority of her marriage to Anthony, Ruby was “the other woman.”

Victoria looks right, then left. “What did my daughter tell you?” she asks quickly, as if we might not have much time to speak.

I decide to be vague. “Not much, really,” I say. Besides, I’ve already said enough. She’s an old woman, and I worry that memories of my aunt may not be good for her nerves.

“Listen, my dear,” she continues, lowering her voice to a hush. “Please, you must be careful with my daughter.”

“What do you mean?” Surely she doesn’t think I came here to disturb her in some way?

“My daughter’s like a dog with a bone,” Victoria says bluntly. If there’s any love hidden in her meaning, I can’t detect it. “She won’t give up on the past. She won’t give up until she’s found . . .”

“Found what?”

She looks up at the stairs and then back at me.

“I’ve tried to tell her to move on with her life, to put it all past her. I’ve done that for myself. But she won’t. She won’t rest until she has it.”

“Do you mean information about Ruby’s son?”

Victoria looks confused, and she shakes her head. “No. No, it’s something else. Something she believes is in the bookstore.”

I look back when I hear the faint sound of voices behind me, and then May and her assistant round the corner.

“Mother,” May says. “What are you doing out of bed? You should be resting before your surgery tomorrow.”

Victoria flashes her a dutiful smile. “Just on my way up,” she says. The assistant takes her arm, and escorts her down the hallway. I hear her mutter, “Lilies. I like lilies, not tulips,” as she disappears into a darkened corridor on the right.

“I hope Mother didn’t say anything upsetting,” May says to me. Her words are less of a statement and more of a question.

“No,” I say guardedly. “No, she didn’t.”

“Because she’s very confused these days. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Some days she doesn’t even know my name.”

“We were just talking about how much she loves lilies,” I say, adjusting the strap of my purse on my shoulder. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your morning. Good-bye, May.”

Before walking back up to Queen Anne Avenue to catch a cab, I cast one final look at the house, and see May watching me from the window. I look away quickly.

Back at the bookstore, I sort through the contents of two boxes of Ruby’s paperwork, scanning each page with greater zeal than before. If there’s any trace of Ruby’s son under this roof, I’ll find it. But after two hours sprawled out on the floor, I have nothing more than a stack of useless old book order forms for the shop. They sit in a defeated heap destined for the recycle bin.

I hear a knock at the back door. I haven’t seen Gavin since the night at the restaurant, and honestly, I’m not prepared to talk to him, not yet. Whatever has been said, or left unsaid, between him and Adrianna has created a rift between us. We’re like a cherry tree branch on the verge of blooming, but we’ll never bear fruit. It seems smarter to clip off the buds now and save us both a lot of headaches.

I walk to the door hesitantly and turn the lock, opening it just enough to peer out to the alley, and I’m shocked to see Adrianna standing there.

“Hi,” she says. “Sorry, am I disturbing you? I wasn’t sure if the front door was open or not.”

“No, no,” I say, a little surprised by her civility toward me given the iciness of our past encounters. “I mean, no you’re not disturbing me. Come in.”

Adrianna follows me inside the bookstore, and I point to the wingback chairs beside the fireplace.

“Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess in here,” I say as we both sit down.

“Please,” she says with a smile. “I guess Gavin hasn’t mentioned that I’m a total slob. Messes are sort of my thing.”

I grin, surprised by her warmth toward me.

“Listen,” she says. “I came here to apologize. Gavin probably told you about us.”

I nod.

“We were engaged,” she says. “And then we weren’t. I kind of got my heart broken.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No,” she replies. “That’s the thing. You have nothing to apologize for. Gavin is single. I’m single. What we had is . . . over. It’s just taken me a long time to realize that.”

I look at my hands in my lap, digesting her words.

“When I saw you two together the other night,” she continues, “I realized for the first time that it’s really, truly over between us. And you know, it was so weird, I thought I’d feel sadder than I was. But I had this epiphany. I was putting so much effort into the hope of getting back together that it was killing me. It was literally killing me. And now that I’ve acknowledged our end, I honestly just feel relieved.”

I nod again.

“I’ll probably always love him,” she says. “I mean, look at the guy. How can you not?”

I smile cautiously.

“What I’m trying to say is . . . Gavin really likes you. I think you two have a real chance, and I’d hate to think that my presence ruined your chance at happiness.”

I blink hard. “Wow, I don’t know what to say.” I shake my head in bewilderment at this unexpected show of kindness.

“You know, I completely misjudged you,” she says.

“I don’t understand.”

“I thought you were some high-powered New Yorker who’d waltz in here in your stiletto heels and sell the bookstore to the highest bidder.” She shakes her head. “But you really love this place. I see that now.”

“Well, I—”

“I don’t know how I read you so wrong.”

I smile awkwardly. Of course I love the bookstore; I always have. But I don’t tell her that the future of the bookstore is still uncertain. In fact, even though it pained me, I called a commercial real estate agent this morning to get an assessment of the property’s value.

Adrianna smiles nervously. “We’re more alike than we thought,” she says. “We both care deeply about family businesses. My grandmother’s restaurant in San Francisco is at risk of closing. She’s too old to be doing the cooking and neither of her daughters is interested in carrying on her legacy.” She pauses for a moment as if she’s considering a very weighty matter. “I haven’t told Gavin yet, but I’m going to fly down and assess the situation, see if I can help.”

“Wow,” I say. “So you’d take over the business.”

“Maybe,” she says. “I still have to think it all through, especially how my leaving would affect . . . Antonio’s.”

I nod.

“Well, Gavin’s in the kitchen right now,” she continues. “He doesn’t know I’m here. I think you should go over and see him today. Talk to him. The two of you need a fresh start without me in the picture.” She pauses for a moment. “I’m not sure what I’ll do after San Francisco, but I think a few days away will give me clarity.” She stands up and smiles. “But I have to warn you, Gavin snores. And he’s a bear in the mornings. And he doesn’t do the dishes, unless you beg him, and he will probably forget your birthday. And Valentine’s Day. But other than that, he’s about the best guy you could ever find.” She takes a long look at me and before she turns to the door, I think I detect a glint of moisture in her eyes. “Best of luck to you, June. I really mean it.”

Before I can say anything else, she’s gone.

The real estate agent arrives at two. He’s about my age, with hair that’s slicked back. His smile reveals unusually white teeth. “You must be June,” he says in the doorway. “I’m John from Coldwell Banker Bain.”

“Yes,” I say. “Hi, John. Come in.”

“Quite a place this is,” he says. There’s an excited glint in his eye.

“Yeah,” I say a little nostalgically. “Isn’t it something?”

I can see by the look on his face that he doesn’t share my sentimentality about the store. “Imagine all the work you’d have to put in to get this place functioning again,” he says, shaking his head. He picks up a book lying on top of a shelf, then tosses it down like a piece of junk mail. “You’re smart to think of selling. Nobody’s making money at books these days. It’s an uphill battle. Might as well cash out now.” He surveys the shop and points up to the ceiling. “The place has good bones. It’ll likely appeal to a condo developer, though they’ll most likely be interested in bringing in the wrecking ball.”

I know I’ve invited him here, and I know he’s simply assessing the store from a place of dollars and cents, which is his job, but I don’t like it. I don’t like it
at all
.

He points to the rug with the cushions splayed out on the floor, where Ruby used to hold court for her daily story time, and laughs to himself. “Do kids even go to bookstores anymore?”

“Of course they do,” I say, annoyed by his bravado. “This bookstore is beloved by generations of children.”

“Maybe not this generation,” he retorts. “My sister has kids, and they don’t read books. They do everything on their iPad.”

I feel my cheeks redden. How dare he walk in here and declare my aunt’s legacy meaningless. How dare he imply that books are dead. This man embodies the type of thinking that Ruby despised. And even if I am going to sell the shop, I don’t need to work with someone with such a cavalier attitude about literature. Real estate agents are a dime a dozen, anyway. I’ll find another.

“You know,” I say suddenly, “I don’t think this is a good fit.”

The agent looks confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that I don’t think this is going to work out. I’d prefer to work with someone who has a vision for this space. And you clearly don’t.”

He looks panicked. “Oh, I think you misinterpreted me. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

“Well,” I say, flipping on my business face, “you did.” I extend my hand. “Thank you for your time.”

He shakes my hand regretfully. “Well, you have my card. If you change your mind—”

“Yes, thank you,” I say, walking him to the door and closing it behind him.

I sink into a wingback chair and make a promise to myself: If I sell the store, I’ll need to find an agent who respects the legacy of Bluebird Books the way I do.

I remember the last mention of a book in the previous pair of letters:
Calico Bush
. I read it when I was eleven. I search the shelves until I find the first edition and open the cover, where the letters are waiting.

May 25, 1946

Dear Ruby,

I don’t like the sound of the suspicious visitors to the shop. But try not to dwell on it. Keep your doors locked at night. Be diligent, but don’t let a few odd incidents rob you of your joy. The type of happiness you have is what everyone wants. If you leave it out for the taking, it will be taken. Guard your joy, and don’t let anyone snatch it.

Oh, how I do envy what you have with Anthony! Of course, I am so very happy for you, even if my own prospects are a bit dire.

I talk a lot about how unconventional I am, which is true, but I will let you in on a secret: I do dream of the happily ever after too, Ruby. But with each passing year, I have to wonder if it’s in the cards for me. I’ve had so many failed love affairs that I’m afraid the pile of wilted roses might reach the height of the Empire State Building.

Even still, I haven’t given up on love just yet. Your happiness gives me hope.

Meanwhile, the wheels keep turning. They’re doing an article about me in
Life
magazine. Evidently I have sold nearly one million copies of children’s books over the past years, which was news to me. (I can only keep track of what is directly in front of me, and today I just received finished copies of
Little Fur Family
, which, I must say, came out quite well. Don’t bother buying it. I’ll have Harper send you a box.) Well, back to
Life
. Apparently, they think people want to know more about the woman behind the stories.

I find it curious that I am scheduled to be in the issue with Ingrid Bergman on the cover (or so the rumor is). Ingrid Bergman and me! Maybe my father will finally take my work seriously after he sees the issue (though I won’t count on it). I suspect Roberta will find it all amusing. She’s coming around, by the way. She sent me a postcard from her recent trip to Niagara Falls, and that cheered me. Another step forward for Operation Sisterhood.

Ursula, my editor at Harper, arranged the
Life
interview. A photographer and reporter will meet me at Cobble Court (you know, the little cottage in Manhattan that I rent as my office), where I imagine I must look presentable and answer questions intelligibly, and hopefully intelligently.

I am really quite shy, as you know, so this doesn’t bode well for me. But I will smile, and I will answer the reporter’s questions. I’ll probably have to defend my work, as I always seem to be doing at parties these days. At a friend’s party last week, I sat beside the head of Random House. He looked over at me through his spectacles and made a comment about an award one of his authors won, and then he smirked and said something like, “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, writing baby books.” Baby books. He laughed heartily. His ample belly shook beneath his starched shirt. And what did I do? I poured my drink on his lap and walked out with a satisfied smile on my face.

Well, you wouldn’t believe what showed up at Cobble Court the next morning: a flower arrangement with a card that read, “Forgive me.”

I have decided to use the
Life
magazine interview to explain that I do what I do because it is a vocation just like any other—granted, one I fell into. But sometimes one must fall into their life’s work this way, like Alice stumbling into the rabbit hole, simply because we, if left to our own devices, would only take more sensible paths, and ruin our destinies.