Goodnight June: A Novel (12 page)

I’m always feeling as if I must defend my work, defend its worthiness. What I might say to the
Life
reporter is that I do not write for accolades or awards, for money or praise. I don’t even write for children, not in a direct way. I write because of the child that is still in me.

For example, yesterday, I woke up after dreaming a tale of a dog who built himself a house, and did not think to myself, “The children of the world will love this story!” I thought to myself, “
I
love this story!”

Still, I carry with me the sentiments of others who see my work as unimportant, those who, like the Random House executive, refuse to take me seriously. In these moments, I do wish I could be like Virginia Woolf or Gertrude Stein. I often think about the respect they commanded upon entering a room.

Clem and Posy are coming over for drinks this evening at Cobble Court. As you know, Clem is the illustrator I work with most closely. Tonight we’ll talk about a new idea, one partially inspired by your prodding to write something about the moon. I think we will.

With all the love and affection in the world, my dear friend,

Brownie

June 2, 1946

Dear Brownie,

Life
magazine! You will do fine in the interview. Just tell them what you wrote me. Speak from your heart and everyone will love you as I do.

I do wish you didn’t have to run up against such scrutiny in literary circles. They’re snobs. Ignore them. (And, in all of your idolization of Gertrude Stein, remember her ill-fated attempt at publishing a children’s book? I know you loved the book, as you love everything she’s written, but I will remind you that children did not. As a bookseller, I saw firsthand how the copies languished on the shelf. My point being: Just as you aren’t a novelist, she is not a proficient teller of children’s tales. We all have our gifts.)

I have been well. Though, Operation Sisterhood isn’t going as well over here as it seems to be on your side of the country. Lucille told me the idea of having a zoo outing was utterly childish, and, naturally, I got my feelings hurt. I’ve learned that it isn’t as easy as it sounds to put oneself out there repeatedly and to be continually denied by the other. I suspect there will come a time when I grow weary of such rejection, but I’m not ready to quit just yet.

The shop is flourishing, and I’m counting my blessings. I love to read to the children on Wednesday mornings at story time. I love everything about Bluebird Books. It is, as Anthony had hoped, my haven.

A real estate developer came into the shop yesterday and told me I ought to sell so they could build a department store in the space. He offered to pay me one and a half times more than what Anthony paid for it. You should have seen this man in his fancy suit and Italian leather shoes. He just waltzed in with paperwork and assumed I’d sign. When I refused, he laughed and said I was a fool to think I’d make any money selling books to children. I was too stunned to respond and he left before I could tell him off. But I still have the last word, at least here, to you, Brownie. For we know the importance of the book industry. We know the importance of literature. It doesn’t always come with monetary reward, but just the same, I feel deeply that what we do, you and I, in our own different ways, is worthy.

Well, that’s all for now. Until your next letter, I’ll be thinking of you, my friend.

Yours,

Ruby

P.S. I got a shipment of the most delightful new books today. I must admit, I’d all but ignored the Little Golden Books imprint as the owner of Elliott Avenue Books had dismissed them as “fluff,” but you know, I do believe she was wrong! In looking through the latest titles, like
Baby Looks
, I wonder if more simple storylines might be refreshing to children. I often worry that we’re filling their heads with fairy tale after fairy tale, when in reality, I think they want to read about their own lives. In stories, children look for reflections of the world, so they can process and better understand it. Isn’t this what you’ve always called the “here and now” style of writing? Well, I see its value now more than ever.

I tuck the letters in Ruby’s desk drawer, and think about her words:
I’ve learned that it isn’t as easy as it sounds to put oneself out there repeatedly and to be continually denied by the other.
Is that how Amy feels? Denied? Rejected? I remember the tone in her voice the last time she called—tired, sad,
weary
. What if she stops trying? What then? For so long, it’s been enough to know that she’s trying, even if I’m not reciprocating. There’s a sad sort of comfort in her letters, her calls. But when that one-way communication line goes completely dark, will I feel better or worse?

If I search my heart, I already know the answer, and it scares me.

I
wait until the next morning to knock on the door of Antonio’s. I want to be sure Adrianna has had time to say her good-byes. And even despite all she’s said, I’m not certain that Gavin feels for me the way I think I do for him. And what if he still loves her, as she does him? Still, I venture over to Antonio’s at ten, and I’m startled to see a sign on the door:
CLOSED
.

Closed.
My heart sinks. While the restaurant doesn’t open for lunch until eleven thirty, Gavin’s always there early, with the door open. I peer through the window, and see a light on in the kitchen. I knock on the door, and a few moments later, Gavin appears through the swinging door. He smiles when he sees me.

“Hi,” he says, opening the door.

“Hi,” I reply, stepping inside. “The closed sign’s up—feeling introverted this morning?”

He shrugs. “Adrianna came to talk to you, didn’t she?”

“Yes,” I say, “but what does that have to do with the closed sign?”

He nods. “With her leaving, I’m not sure if I can keep Antonio’s going by myself.” He looks around his beloved kitchen, and places his hands on the table. “I came in this morning and my confidence sank.”

“That doesn’t sound like the can-do guy I know.”

Gavin shakes his head. “Adrianna needs some time away, and I think I do too. I’ve been working so hard lately, and honestly, I haven’t had a day off since we opened this place.”

I nod. “Then take a break—but don’t give up on what you love.”

His eyes meet mine. “This past year, I’ve been so hell-bent on making the restaurant a success that I’ve forgotten to just take a deep breath, you know? To just live. There’s more to life than Antonio’s.”

“Sure there is,” I say. “But you’re talking as if you’re thinking of closing . . . for good. I know you’d regret it.”

“I might,” he says. “But for now, it feels like the right time to turn the page to the next chapter.”

His eyes pierce mine, and I look down at my feet. Somehow I know that if I let his gaze hold mine, it will be like stepping off a cliff. No turning back. But I feel his fingers on my chin, tilting my face up to look at his.

“Adrianna told me what she said to you. About us.”

I search his eyes.

“And I want you to know that I’m willing to give this a go if you’d like to.” He grins. “Sorry, I’m a little out of practice. What I mean is, I
want
to give this a go, and I hope you do too. The truth is, I’m crazy about you. I am. I want to take you to meet my friends, my family. June, I hope you want that too.”

“I do,” I say. “At least, I think I do. It’s been so long since I trusted someone.”

He pulls me closer to him. “Trust me,” he whispers in my ear.

I nod, and he presses his lips lightly against mine. Our lips fit together perfectly, and I feel a surge of warmth. For a moment, everything is right with the world.

“Let’s spend the day together,” Gavin says, kissing my forehead.

“I’d love that,” I say. “What do you have in mind?”

“Let’s take a ferry to the island.”

“Bainbridge?” I’ve always loved the little island, just a half-hour ferry journey from Seattle. I hesitate for a moment, thinking of all I have to do at the store. The clock is ticking for me. My job is waiting in New York, and then there’s the issue of Bluebird Books. If I sell, I’ll need to find the right buyer. Someone who, even with plans to demolish, would respect its past, its legacy. I shudder inwardly, and look into Gavin’s eyes, so warm, so happy. I decide not to think about the store. Just for today.

“Yeah, Bainbridge,” he says. “We can park downtown and walk on, maybe have lunch in Winslow. I know a little café that makes a mean crab melt. Then maybe we can walk along the waterfront, find a little park bench somewhere and just listen to the birds chirp. It’ll be good to get out of the city.”

“You had me at crab melt,” I say, grinning.

It’s a clear day, and Gavin and I choose to sit on the ferry’s top deck outside. It’s windy, and my hair will be blown to bits, but I don’t care.

“I love seagulls, don’t you?” he says, tossing a cracker from his pocket out onto the deck, where a half dozen seagulls swoop in and peck at it.

“Yeah,” I say. “It’s one of the things I missed most about Seattle. I love their calls. It’s a combination of a shriek and a scream, which sounds like it would be horrible. But, you know, I think it might actually be one of my most favorite sounds in the world.”

“The sound of the sea,” Gavin says.

I nod.

“I’m glad to hear you speaking in nostalgic terms about Seattle,” he says. “It means you’re going to put down roots here.”

I smile noncommittally, noticing his choice of the future tense, as if I’ve already parted ways with my old life in New York and am poised to begin my new life in Seattle as a children’s bookseller. If only it were that easy.

“Do you think you’ll stay above the shop?”

I think of myself living as Ruby did, rising with the sun streaming through those big old double-hung windows, making a simple breakfast, then running downstairs to reunite with her beloved Bluebird Books. I know why she loved it so, because I love it in the same way. And for the first time since arriving in Seattle, I realize that I can’t sell the shop, not to a developer, not to anyone. I can’t sell it, because I love it too much, and I see a life for myself here.

“I have to tell you something,” I say to Gavin.

He looks startled. “What?”

“I haven’t been honest with you about . . . my intentions for the bookstore.” He holds silent, so I continue. “I’m a banker. You know that. But what you don’t know is that I’m the kind of banker who specializes in shutting down businesses in default. Cafés, little craft shops, even bookstores. You name it, I’ve closed it.” I shake my head, unable to make eye contact with him. “As a finance student, I would never have been able to imagine myself performing such excruciating tasks in the name of business, like looking in the eyes of a seventy-year-old woman who has been late on her mortgage payments for eleven months and saying, ‘I don’t care that your business has been in the family for six generations. I’m shutting you down. Sayonara.’” I sigh. “But that’s the kind of person I’ve had to be. And I was good at it.
Am
good at it. I’m paid well to clean up these kinds of messes.”

I turn to face Gavin, but he’s staring off at the horizon. I’m not sure if he’s just taking it all in, or if he’s thinking about how he’s grossly misjudged my character. “I’d hardened over the years,” I continue. “I didn’t realize that until I came home to Seattle and the old memories came rushing back. I honestly thought I could spend a few days, sort through my aunt’s estate, and sell off the assets, just like in my work life.” I shake my head. “I had a real estate agent come out yesterday to appraise the store, and I couldn’t stand the way he looked at the place with dollar signs in his eyes. I began to realize then that I could never sell the store, because I love it too much. And I know I always will.”

Gavin’s silence makes my heart race in anticipation. Will his feelings for me change now? Is he formulating his exit strategy? I fold my hands together tightly and bite the edge of my lip, as he turns to face me again. “That,” he says, “took a lot of guts to tell me.”

I look away. “It’s the sad truth.”

He takes my left hand in his, and I turn back to face him. “No, there’s nothing sad about this story,” he says. “It has a happy ending.”

“Well,” I say, “not yet.”

“You’re the prodigal niece,” Gavin continues with a smile. “You left home and forged a life you thought you wanted, but it didn’t fulfill you. It took coming home, seeing all the love waiting for you here, before you could face your past, face yourself.”

I smile, ignoring the stinging sensation in my eyes. “You make my life sound poetic, when it’s really quite a mess.”

“Nah,” he says. “It’s not a mess. So you have a job to quit, an apartment to sell. You’ve had bigger fish to fry. You can get this done.” He kisses my hand lightly. “And you’ll have me to help.”

“Thank you,” I say, smiling again. “Isn’t it fascinating how a situation can feel infinitely more difficult when it’s part of your own life?” I shake my head. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Arthur.”

“Arthur?”

“My boss. He’s the one who trained me into this profession, groomed me, made me into the corporate woman I became. He’s not going to see this coming.”

“He’s already seen it coming,” Gavin says.

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s impossible not to see how unhappy that job has made you,” he says. “This Arthur has seen it all along, and he’s ignored it.”

I nod. “Frankly, I think the job makes him miserable too.”

“Then tell him,” Gavin says. “Soon. The sooner you get this off your chest, the better you’ll feel.” He squeezes my hand. “The sooner you can focus on what’s next.”

I tousle his windblown hair. “Where did you come from?”

“Next door,” he says simply.

“Why couldn’t you have been next door before I left Seattle?”

“Because we wouldn’t have been ready for each other then,” he says. “We had a lot of hurdles to jump first. And we did.”

One of the seagulls from the flock meanders closer to me. “Sorry, little guy,” I say. “That’s the last of the crackers.”

He bobs his beak as if he understands and hops backward, then swoops into the air, letting out a shriek as he flies against the wind.

“I love how they do that,” Gavin says, pointing to the bird. “It’s like they’re suspended in the sky.”

I grin. “I’ve always thought that it’s a game they play, like they’re trying to beat the wind.” Then I remember something Ruby said about being envious of birds because they can take off and fly anytime they want. “My aunt loved birds, all kinds. I once asked her why she named the bookstore Bluebird Books, and she told me about an old song she used to love called ‘Bluebird of Happiness.’”

“The Disney one?” He strains to remember the tune: “There’s a bluebird on my shoulder . . .”

“No,” I say, smiling. “It’s a different one. But come to think of it, bluebirds have inspired a lot of happy songs, haven’t they?”

“What makes
you
happy?” he asks, his face more serious now.

I pause for a moment, caught off guard. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I’ve spent so many years avoiding that question.”

He gives me a face as if he doesn’t understand.

“As a kid, I used to think I’d grow up and everything would sort itself out. When I left Seattle, I thought the perfect life was around the corner. And for a while, it sort of was. I thought I was happy. I thought I had everything I could ever want, and then, bam, I lost it all. Well, all but the job, and that sort of took over my life.”

“What happened?” Gavin asks.

I look away, counting the seagulls overhead. One, two, three, four. No, I’m not ready to tell him. Not yet.

The ferry’s horn sounds, and the seagulls scream and shriek overhead, sounding their disapproval. “We’d better walk down now,” I say. “We’re almost to the terminal.”

He smiles at me with a “we’re not finished with this conversation” look, and we walk together to the front of the boat. The ferry rocks and jostles a bit as it makes contact with the dock, and I lose my footing. Gavin places a steadying hand on my waist, then takes my hand in his as we walk off the boat down the ramp to the sidewalk that leads to the island’s main street shops.

It’s a warm day, and birds are chirping in the trees overhead. “I love Bainbridge Island,” I say, breathing in the salty air.

“I have a friend who lives on the island,” Gavin says. “His name is Jack. He and his wife live in an old colonial right on the waterfront. He fishes every day, and crabs.”

“Oh, I’ve always wanted to go crabbing.”

“The Dungeness are amazing out here,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to come out and get some crab for the restaurant.” He scratches his head. “But, I don’t know. Maybe not, since . . .”

I squeeze his hand. “Buy the crab,” I say with a smile. “Don’t you see? Cooking is your passion. Sure, things are hard now, but giving up on the restaurant isn’t what will help.”

He nods, but I can still see hesitation in his eyes. “Maybe, but it will be different. I thought I could do it, but I don’t really know if I can ultimately run this place without a partner.”