Goodnight June: A Novel (13 page)

I want to tell him,
You can push through this
, but I know he’s right. I know if I had tried to work with Ryan after . . . well, it would have killed me. Not a quick, clean death, but a slow, painful one. I can see why Adrianna wants out.

We round the corner to a crosswalk that leads to downtown Winslow, the only “city” on the island.

“What will you do, then?” I ask soberly.

“You could hire me to be your assistant in the bookstore,” he says with a mischievous grin.

“It’s not a bad idea,” I say. “Especially if we knock down a wall and turn Antonio’s into a café.”

He’s quiet for a moment, and at first I worry that I’ve offended him, but he turns to me and stops on the sidewalk, and his eyes flash. “Yes,” he says. “That’s a perfect idea. A bookstore-café. We could specialize in family fare, kids’ food.”

“Well,” I say. My heart skips a little picturing a new sign with the words
BLUEBIRD BOOKS & CAFÉ
. “I wasn’t actually serious when I suggested it, but now you’ve got me thinking we’re onto something.”

“I think we are,” Gavin continues. “I talked to Joe yesterday. He’s closing his café in two months.”

“Oh, no, why?” I ask.

“He wants to retire, sail to Mexico. And without Joe’s the street will need a new café.”

“I don’t know,” I say. “What about Adrianna? She’d have to weigh in, and we don’t know what her plans are for the future.”

Gavin pauses, and his eyes look momentarily stormy, as if he’s stopping to let a squall pass. “She told me that if I wanted to buy out her half of the business, I could. Of course, I told her no. I don’t want her to think I’m trying to force her out.”

“But maybe she
wants
out,” I suggest. “Listen,” I say quickly. “Let’s not think about this now. We’re stowaways on an island. Let’s make a day of it. No serious talk.”

He smiles, and weaves his fingers through mine. “Where to, then?”

I see a sign that reads
BLACKBIRD BAKERY
across the street, and I point to it. “Coffee and a scone first?”

We sit at a corner table and talk and laugh over Americanos and blackberry scones, then continue our tour of Winslow, stopping at a wine store. Gavin buys a case of local cabernet for the restaurant, and an extra one for me. When I notice a bookstore, Eagle Harbor Books, across the street, we walk there next.

“I love this bookstore,” I say, breathing in the air as we step inside.

“You’ve been here before?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “With Ruby. She knew the owners, and used to take my sister and me over on the ferry for events. We once saw Maurice Sendak read here.”

“As in,
Where the Wild Things Are
?”

“Yeah,” I say.

“What was he like?”

“Grumpy and wonderful, and wise,” I reply. “Ruby was sad that he couldn’t make it to Bluebird Books as part of his tour, but she was determined to take us to see him. She closed the store, and we came over on the ferry.” I point to the children’s section, remembering how dozens of children crowded in to get a glimpse of the foreboding author with his bushy eyebrows and serious face. “I stood right here,” I continue, pointing to a place along the far wall. “And he said, ‘You there, little girl. May I ask you for your assistance?’ And so I went up to the front, and he asked me to hold the book for him as he read. He also asked me to make the growling sounds for the monsters. At first I was nervous. But then I kind of got into it, and I just let it out. After that he told me I had the very best monster roar he’d ever heard.”

“I love that story,” Gavin says. “Do you still remember how to roar?”

“Still do,” I say with a wink. “It’s one of my most well-honed skills, in fact.”

We scan the bookshelves independently for a few minutes, and I select a novel from the “staff picks” table. Gavin returns to my side with an illustrated book about birds. A barrel-chested bluebird appears on the cover. “I thought you could keep this in the store,” he says.

“I love it.”

We pay for our purchases and meander down the sidewalk. “Can you imagine a world without bookstores?” I say.

Gavin shakes his head.

“Before she died, Ruby left a letter for me in the apartment. She said she was afraid that the store was in its final act. She feared for the future of the store.” I shake my head regretfully. “She said she worried children didn’t love books the way they used to.” I turn to him. “Do you think that’s true?”

“I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully. “I think they have more choices today. There are books, and then video games, TV, which provide instant gratification. But with books, you have to work for it.”

“But that’s why reading is so wonderful,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re a participant.”

“Yes,” he says. “But it’s not just books versus TV, that’s the problem; it’s bookstores versus the Internet.”

I nod. “Ruby was afraid of the Internet. She didn’t even want a website.” I pause to remember the tech-savvy young customer who offered to set up a website for her ten years ago, but she resisted vehemently. “Gavin, what if Ruby was right? What if people stop going to bookstores? What if they abandon them entirely? I believe this was Ruby’s greatest fear.”

“And it will be your greatest challenge,” Gavin says, pointing back to Eagle Harbor Books. “Think of the memories you have of meeting Maurice Sendak, listening to him read his stories. Think of all the time you spent in Bluebird Books. You love books; you love bookstores because you made important memories in them as a child.” He nods. “The only way to save bookstores is to keep children coming to them. All you have to do is keep the doors open, and welcome children and families. You will be planting a seed, then letting it grow.”

I nod. “I guess you’re right. The dishwasher never rendered restaurants obsolete.”

“Neither did the microwave,” he says.

I laugh. “If anything, the microwave
improved
business.”

Gavin smiles. “Technology is not the enemy of bookstores.” He points to his heart. “It’s deeper than that.”

“You’re right,” I say.

We walk in silence for the next few minutes, until we cross the street and stop in front of a café on the corner. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had a crab melt from Cafe Nola,” he says.

I smile and we sink into a booth; we set our purchases down on one side and sit together on the other. He holds my hand in his under the table, and it makes my stomach feel fluttery, which surprises me. I tell myself it’s just hunger.

Our conversation is easy, and at times I find myself wondering if I’ve known this man all my life. We’re both firstborns. Our favorite color is green (the color of the Puget Sound, we both say, almost at the same time), we adore the movie
The Princess Bride
, and we both hate lima beans. All silly, small things, but when you add them up, and combine them with this feeling in my heart, it equals something wonderful, and a little frightening.

Gavin pays the bill, and we hear the horn of the ferry ahead. “If we’re quick, we can make the three thirty,” he says, looking at his watch.

We gather our bags and run ahead. Good food is sloshing in my belly, and there’s a huge smile plastered on my face. We climb the steps to the terminal, then make our way, a little out of breath, to the long, dimly lit corridor where walk-on passengers wait to board.

“Good,” he says, exhaling, “we’ll make it.”

I lean against the railing beside Gavin as hundreds of passengers from the Seattle side stream off the ferry and into the terminal. A few minutes later, a ferry worker unclicks the gate and motions for us to board.

We move to the right, to make way for a couple of passengers who are late to exit, and at first I don’t hear my name.

“June?”

I look behind me, and then to my left, and that’s when I see her. I stop in my tracks, like a rock lodged in a creek bed. The people, like rushing water, continue on around me. I can’t take my eyes off her.

“Amy?” My sister looks different. She was always thin, but she looks gaunt now. While she once wore layers of makeup, now her skin is bare. She’s beautiful, even more so without a painted face, and yet there’s a hollowness to her cheeks, sadness and longing in her eyes. She wears gray leggings and a black wool cape sweater. Her blond hair is pulled back into a tidy ponytail.

Amy takes a step forward. There are tears in her eyes, and I feel mine sting. My first instinct is to run to her, to embrace her, but my legs don’t move. They feel like they’re set in dried cement. And when I try to open my mouth, no words come out.

“June,” Amy cries. “I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe I actually ran into you.” She looks at Gavin as if to beg for his help at thawing my icy exterior. He turns to me and then back to Amy, confused, waiting for me to make a move, to say something.

Tears stream down Amy’s face now, the way they did in the apartment in New York so many years ago, the day we parted ways forever.
Operation Sisterhood
, I think to myself. I imagine how Ruby and Margaret would have behaved, throwing their arms wide open for their sisters. I feel a flicker of warmth inside, but it isn’t enough to melt the ice. And I know in that moment that I . . .
just can’t
.

“I’m sorry,” I say finally. “We’ll miss our ferry. Let’s go, Gavin.” I barely recognize my own voice, stiff and cold. I bristle at the sound of it. It’s as if I’m on autopilot and the operating system has completely overridden my heart.

I don’t look back as we round the corner to board the ferry.

“What just happened back there?” Gavin asks as we sit down in a booth facing Seattle.

“Listen,” I say in a faltering voice, “if it’s OK with you, I’d rather not talk about it.”

He nods, and tucks a protective arm around my shoulder. As the ferry pulls out of the harbor, the seagulls outside the window swoop into the air in a frenzy. They shriek and cry as if begging me to turn back. But I can’t, and I don’t think I ever will.

G
avin and I don’t discuss my run-in with Amy on Bainbridge Island, and I’m thankful that as the next few days pass, I’ve almost forgotten about it.

But then, the following Tuesday, as I’m cleaning out the contents of Ruby’s desk, Gavin comes over with lunch from Antonio’s and sees a framed photo of Amy and me.

He’s quiet for a moment, and I know he recognizes her.

“That woman at the ferry terminal,” he says in a tentative voice. “Amy. She’s your sister, isn’t she?”

I sigh. “Yes,” I say after a long silence.

I watch him eyeing the photo of us. I’m six, and she’s barely two. We’re both wearing floral sundresses. My arm’s draped around her chubby shoulder. He looks back at me, and I read his mind.
Why can’t you forgive her for whatever she did? You’re
family
.

“Don’t,” I say defensively, plucking the frame from his hand and tucking it away in Ruby’s desk drawer.

“I didn’t say anything,” he says, a little hurt.

“But I know what you were
thinking
.”

“OK,” he says, “if you already know, then I’ll just say it.”

I rub my forehead.

“She’s obviously distraught that you won’t speak to her. Maybe it’s time to . . . move on? Put the past in the past.”

“It’s not that easy,” I snap. “Listen, can’t you just trust me when I say that I
don’t want
her in my life?”

He takes a step closer to me. His eyes are filled with concern. “I can, but I saw the way she looked at you. I’m just worried you may be making a decision you’ll regret one day, that’s all.”

“How can you even say that?” I counter. “You don’t know her. You don’t know what she did.”

“No,” he replies. “I don’t. But I know that you’re expending a lot of energy on whatever pain happened in the past. That’s taking a toll on you.” He sighs. “And her. I saw the pain in her eyes that day on the island. June, she’s—”

“She’s nothing to me,” I say quickly, turning back to Ruby’s desk. “Are we done here?”

Gavin takes a step back. He looks a little stunned, and I regret my choice of words as he moves toward the door. “Yes,” he says, closing it behind him. Ruby’s bells jingle, but they sound lonely and distant now.

I feel like a child who wants to throw herself on her bed and sob, but instead I look for comfort in another pair of Aunt Ruby and Margaret Wise Brown’s letters. I recall the mention of
Baby Looks
in their previous correspondence, and find the next set waiting for me in the first edition of a Little Golden Book with a plump, cherubic baby on the cover. I smile to myself as I thumb through the familiar pages, and I can almost hear Ruby’s soothing voice in my ear: “Baby found a buttercup, found a little clover. Leaned way down to sniff them, then he tumbled over.” I lean back in Ruby’s desk chair and read.

June 14, 1946

Dear Brownie,

I know you must be busy, because I haven’t heard from you this week. So, I will keep the torch burning and write to you again. I hope you aren’t growing tired of my letters!

Operation Sisterhood has been a miserable failure, I’m afraid. I invited Lucille to visit the bookstore, which I deeply regret, especially when Anthony walked in the door unexpectedly. He kissed me on the cheek, so I had to explain our relationship. It did not go over well. To make matters worse, apparently Lucille once worked at a nursery school where Anthony’s daughter, May, attended. So she knew about his marriage to Victoria. Imagine the look on her face when she put it all together. We’ve taken a giant step back, and, to be honest, I’m not sure if we can move forward again, and that is heartbreaking for me.

Anthony left on a business trip to Chicago, and I admit, I’ve missed him terribly. I’ve come to love our little routine. He comes over after work, and we have a late dinner together in the apartment above the bookstore. I’m getting better at cooking, too. I’ve been studying my copy of
Betty Crocker’s Cookbook
at night and actually trying to learn. It’s rather funny, actually. Imagine me, hovering over a cookbook! And, yes, it is all for a man (I may be struck down by lightning right this second).

Oh, but Brownie, he is a wonderful man. Gentle and kind, and he loves me so. He tells me, of course, but I also can see it in his gaze. I love to feel his gaze on me. We talk about the future, our life together. It is our unspoken understanding that our relationship will never be recognized by church or court, but I have his heart, and I believe I always will.

Last week, after I’d closed the bookstore, we were sitting by the fire together, and I asked him if he’d like to bring May to a story hour sometime. Brownie, you should have seen how the very mention disturbed him. He immediately rejected the idea. And he was angry at me for suggesting it. It was our first disagreement, if you could call it that.

I’ll never forget what he said. “Don’t you understand, Ruby? I must keep these two worlds separate, for your sake, and mine. And for May.”

I could not understand his reasoning, and I felt hurt that he wanted to keep me away from his “other” life. “But don’t you want me to know your daughter?” I pleaded.

He shook his head, and then he said the thing that made me understand, finally. “No, Ruby, I don’t. Because she’s a smart little girl. And she’ll see the way I look at you and she’ll know that I love you in a way I will never be able to love her mother. And I worry that will break her heart.”

I understood then. And this is why I will never get to know May. Still, I mourn the loss of this relationship that is never to be. I saw the way she behaved when I first met her at Elliott Avenue Books, and I couldn’t help but wonder if she might soften a bit if someone took an interest in her. I could have done that. But I will honor Anthony’s wishes.

I try not to think about his life outside of the one we’re building together. I know he goes home to Victoria. I know they share a bed, and every night when I set my head on my pillow, alone, I think of him lying beside that woman. I try not to think of her undressing in front of him, or her hands on his skin. But what right do I have to protest when their union is legally binding?

No, this is the arrangement I agreed on. I knew it wouldn’t be easy, but I went into it with eyes wide open. I did it for Anthony. Because I trust him. I just need to remember that.

I don’t see him as often as I’d like. His life is busy and full, but he makes room for me. I’ve come to view myself as a little mouse, happy to take a found crumb here and there. Oh, but they are such delicious crumbs!

Before he left for his trip, I got a shipment of new books in, and he helped me unpack them all onto the shelves. Afterward, we had dinner on the rug by the fire, like a picnic. We had this moment where we just looked in each other’s eyes for a long while, and then I asked him, “Why did you do all this for me?”

He reached up his hand to my cheek and said, “Because I knew it would make you happy.”

And I am happy. So terribly so. Sometimes I look at him and wonder if my heart might burst. And yet, I wonder if I’ll always feel this way. I wonder if years will pass and I will grow discontent with our arrangement. I wonder if I’ll gradually want more and more. What if I’m not satisfied until I have all of him? This is the human condition, you know, to keep yearning for more. But with Anthony, there will never be more. This love he offers is constrained.

So that is my dilemma, my great paradox. Brownie, what would you do in this situation? I’d love to know.

Well, I’ve been going on and on, and I haven’t even asked how things are in your world. Writing? Love? What are you dreaming about these days? You always have the most amazing dreams. I wish my mind entertained me the way yours does. When I close my eyes, it’s as if the curtain closes on my imagination and I’m out like a light.

Brownie, I will sign off now. Please write soon.

With love,

Ruby

June 29, 1946

Dear Ruby,

I’ve been holed up in Maine for a few weeks writing. How your letters cheered me, though, when I returned to New York and found them waiting.

First order of business: Your cooking. I don’t know whether to be shocked or amused that you have become a proficient cook. In any case, I hope when I do finally make a trip to see you in Seattle that you’ll make me a nice pan of biscuits like the ones my mother used to make in the cast-iron skillet. Do you wear a red-checked apron, too? (I’m only teasing.)

Next, dear, I am so troubled about this upset with Lucille. Don’t give up on Operation Sisterhood just yet, though. You have experienced a significant setback, yes. But think of it this way: Lucille now has seen all of your “faults” and can accept you as you are, if she chooses, rather than the false, idealized image of you. And isn’t that the ultimate goal? To love each other through all of our flaws? And to do that, we must show each other who we really are. Give her time; I bet she’ll come around. It’s 1946, for crying out loud! It’s silly to think that relationships between men and women should be so scripted, when in actuality, our world has become so very complex.

In slightly better news, Roberta and I are considering making a trip to Europe together. Maybe you and Lucille could join us? Don’t lose heart.

I am flattered that you think my sleep life is appealing, but I assure you, when you wake up for the thirteenth time in a month with a dream of a white rabbit sailing on the high seas, with sharks in hot pursuit, you will wish you could dream like normal people do. The truth is, my mind never shuts off. I think it’s wearing me out, actually. The mind needs rest, just as the body does. I fear that my imagination only knows how to go, go, go. It’s so tiring, really. I don’t suppose someone who has an active imagination burns through their years faster than ones who do not? At this rate, I fear I’ll be dead by fifty.

A new experience has descended upon me without warning. I’m absolutely fixated on my mortality. Will I die on my walk to the café? Will I slip into a manhole on my way to a business meeting? I’m plagued with thoughts of my death, as if it’s near. Does this happen to you? Am I off my rocker? (I suppose we both already know that the answer to that question is yes.)

Frankly, I’m frustrated with my lot in life right now. Yes, I’ve cobbled together a career (fell into it accidently, I should say), and I’ve seen some success. I ought to be grateful, I know. But why am I not? I’ve come to see that I won’t be able to rest until I write my first real book. A book for adults.

I’ve shared my concerns with you before that the literary crowd, which includes the group of publishers, writers, poets, and other artists of my acquaintance, finds me amusing, at best. “There she is, Margaret Wise Brown,” they say, “the baby book writer.” Nobody thinks of me as a real writer. At parties, they simply smile and ask, “What new nursery rhymes are you working on, Margaret?”

I would be lying if I said this didn’t hurt me. It does. And I long to be taken seriously as a writer. I long to walk into a room and have people think, “There she is, Margaret Wise Brown, the
novelist
.”

Regarding Anthony, I hope you will remember that no two love stories are the same. Each plays by its own rules. Each takes different twists and turns, has different joys and challenges, different heartaches. There is no perfect story, just as there is no perfect man or perfect woman.

Society tells us that we must do this, or do that. Sign this paper, or that. Vow this or vow that. But none of that matters, not really, not from the perspective of the heart.

I have come to believe that the truest expression of love is when two people can come to each other honestly, and simply love. That is what you and Anthony have, no? My advice is that you celebrate that, live in that, become drunk in that love. For it’s more than most people get in a lifetime. And you should consider yourself the luckiest of women to have found it. After all, I’m still looking.

I should add that I do not mean to diminish your concerns. All that you have shared is valid. And yet, I want to remind you that there is a downside to every good thing. Our challenge is to not let the bad corrupt the good.