Goodnight June: A Novel (14 page)

And maybe this is why I’m so fixated on my mortality these days. After all, life is short. We must pursue the people, places, and things in life that bring us the most joy. This is the challenge I’ve given myself of late.

To explore it fully, I’m going up to Maine again soon. It will be just me and the frogs, for a month, maybe more. I’m hoping I will be able to hear myself think a little clearer up there. Maybe I’ll finally begin the novel I’ve been dreaming up.

Though this will be my last letter for a while, when I return, I hope to find a letter from you waiting.

With all my love, your friend,

M.W.B.

When I set the letters down a great sense of clarity comes over me. I eye my laptop on the desk, then open it up and pull up my e-mail. I know what I need to do. I know what the next chapter holds, but taking that first step, oh, it’s hard. Buoyed by Margaret’s words—
After all, life is short. We must pursue the people, places, and things in life that bring us the most joy
—I write the words I should have written years ago:

Dear Arthur,

Please accept this letter of resignation from my position at Chase & Hanson Bank. You took me under your wing and showed me the ropes of the bank. You made me who I am, and my success in our profession is owed solely to you. But, speaking frankly, Arthur, I don’t like who I’ve become. I don’t like the woman who’s learned to feel no emotion, the woman who can sell a beloved business on the auction block without blinking an eye. Yes, positions like ours are integral to the success of business, to capitalism, to the world, even. I just don’t want to be the one who carries out that work anymore. It’s time for me to turn the page. You’re a good man, Arthur. You’re the nicest asshole I’ve ever met.

Yours,

June

I stare at my in-box for a while. It’s after seven New York time. I know that Arthur’s still at work, combing through paperwork, thinking about what restaurant he’ll order in from. I know he’s reading my e-mail right now. I know he’s seething. But I don’t predict his speedy response. The chime of my in-box makes my heart rate quicken. I feel the familiar numbness in my hands, and I realize I haven’t taken my medicine.
Don’t be afraid
, I hear Ruby say then.
Don’t let anyone stop you from being your true self.
My true self. Is that who Ruby saw? Amy? I know one thing for certain: This person sitting here in Bluebird Books is the real June Andersen. But
that
person, the VP of Chase & Hanson Bank, who’s she? I don’t know her. I take my medication, then exhale deeply before opening up Arthur’s e-mail.

June,

You’ve let me down.

Arthur

He’s right, but the thing is, I’m no longer willing to let
myself
down.

T
he next morning, I hear a knock and see a mail carrier standing outside. “Hello,” I say, unlatching the door so we can talk.

“I’m Jim, the neighborhood postman. You must be June.”

“How did you know?” I ask.

“Your aunt told me you’d be taking things over.”

“She did?”

Jim nods. “She talked an awful lot about you. She was proud of you. Very proud. It’s sad to see her gone now. The street isn’t the same without her.”

My eyes sting. “The world isn’t the same without her,” I say.

“You’re right about that.” He hands me a large stack of mail. “Well, I saw the lights on in the apartment yesterday, and I figured I should restart the mail service. After I learned of Ruby’s passing, it didn’t seem right to let the mail pile up. So I kept it until you got here.”

“Thanks,” I say, eyeing the stack of catalogs and various hand-addressed letters.

“There’s one for you in there too.”

“For me?” I shake my head. “But no one knows I’m here.”

He shrugs. “Well, good luck with the bookstore. Ruby would be happy you’re here.”

“Thanks,” I say, turning back to the store.

Inside, I sit down at Ruby’s desk and sort through the mail, mostly publisher catalogs of new books, which I make a mental note to look through later. I set a few personal letters from friends of Ruby’s aside. They probably don’t know she died. I’ll have to write to let each of them know. Later.

Beneath another catalog, I see a card addressed to me. I recognize the name and address on the envelope immediately—May Magnuson—and I tear open the envelope with anticipation.

June, thank you for coming to see me last week. I found this old photo of your aunt with her baby in my files. Given that the chances are small we’ll ever find him, I thought you’d like to have this picture. —May

Beneath the front fold of the card is the photo, which May wrapped in a sheet of white paper. I pull out the grainy color photograph, wrinkled and weathered over the years. The background is the interior of the bookstore, but the shot is distant, perhaps taken by someone standing on the other side of the street. Ruby didn’t like to be photographed, and given the secretive way she handled the adoption, I could guess that she was probably unaware the camera had captured her image. I squint to make out the scene. There’s Ruby, holding an infant swaddled in a blue blanket. They’re sitting near the dollhouse. I can’t make out the baby boy’s face, just Ruby’s. She’s smiling—beaming, actually. She cradles her infant with such love, whoever was looking through the lens must have felt it. I feel it now. And I know in my heart I must find this boy. I must find him and I must tell him what an extraordinary person his mother was. And no matter what sort of life he’s had, no matter what pain he felt when his adoptive parents told him about his past, he’ll see this photo and know that his mother loved him, with all her heart.

I sigh to myself and set the photo down, which is when I notice a familiar logo on the corner of a stark white envelope addressed to Ruby, one I’ve come to know well over the past eleven years. I tear open the flap in anticipation, and pull out the letter inside.

Dear Ms. Crain,

We regret to inform you that your bookstore, Bluebird Books, will enter foreclosure on August 1, if you do not remit the outstanding balance of your delinquent payments. I’ve enclosed a detailed payment sheet to show the amount owed. If you cannot cover this debt, we will proceed with foreclosure and seize your assets and sell them at auction to recoup what is owed.

Regards,

Arthur St. Claire, VP of Small Business Affairs,
Chase & Hanson Bank International

I shake my head. Is Arthur really coming after Bluebird Books? After a dead woman? Of course, he doesn’t know of the connection to me. It’s a form letter. Bluebird Books is just one of thousands of pesky small businesses in default, in need of discipline from his department. And if he knew that I inherited the shop? It wouldn’t change his course of action. Business is business. I can almost hear his voice in my head.

I flip to the second page, and see that not only is Ruby behind on payments, but she took out a primary and secondary mortgage on the shop years ago. I shake my head. The attorneys mentioned they’d be sending over an accounting of Ruby’s estate, and they hinted that she had some debt, but nothing of this magnitude. I sigh. Even if I sell my apartment in New York, which is what I’m planning to do, and empty out my savings, there’s no way I’ll have the funds necessary to save the store. That’s the brutal fact.

Bluebird Books will have to close. Tears sting my eyes, and I wonder about the June Andersen who used to run an arm of Chase & Hanson Bank, the June Andersen with a heart of steel. She’d laugh at me now, an out-of-work owner of a bookstore in foreclosure.

I feel foolish. If I’d only received the letter from Arthur yesterday. But would it have changed things? Would I really have left Bluebird Books in foreclosure, left it on its deathbed, then returned to New York to my old life as if nothing had happened?

And then I remember my journey. I remember the reasons why I decided to part ways with my career. I crumple the letter into a ball and toss it in the wastebasket by my feet. The foreclosure notice changes nothing. In fact, it gives me a
purpose
. I will fight for Bluebird Books in the way I used to fight for Chase & Hanson Bank. I will use everything in my arsenal to save the bookstore. My heart beats strong and sure, not erratically, the way it used to when under stress. Yes, I will fight for the bookstore, and even if I fail, I will go down having given it my all.

The disagreement Gavin and I had earlier seems insignificant now. I need to tell him about my plans for the bookstore; I need him to help me fight.

I run out to the sidewalk without even bothering to lock the door. I see that there’s an
OPEN
sign on the door of Antonio’s.
Good
, I think.
He’s decided to keep it open.
The idea to combine the bookstore with the restaurant and create a bookstore-café is appealing, but maybe Gavin would prefer keeping Antonio’s intact. And the restaurant he’s built is worth preserving. I see the band setting up in the corner of the dining room, and I assume he’s having them back ahead of schedule to attract more customers. Maybe I can help him. The bookstore is sinking in a quicksand of debt, but I could wrap an apron around my waist and wait tables until I figure out my next steps. Restaurant work is exhausting, but fun, and oddly satisfying. I feel a pit in my stomach when I think of the possibility of the bank repossessing Bluebird Books, auctioning off Ruby’s prized possessions. They’ll sell it to a developer who will demolish the place and turn it into a row of shoddily built townhouses or, worse, condos. Seattle does
not
need more condos. It will be me against Chase & Hanson Bank. David vs. Goliath.

I sigh, walking into the restaurant. The scent of sauce simmering and bread baking comforts me. “Hi,” I say to Ned, the saxophone player. “Is Gavin here?”

“Yes, but he’s—”

“Thanks,” I say, making my way back to the kitchen. I burst through the double doors. “Gavin, I got a letter in the mail and . . .”

My voice trails off when the scene before me comes into view. The edges are blurry at first, but they quickly become crisp and clear, soberingly so.

“Oh,” I say, catching my breath.

Adrianna, her feet bare, is wearing a black cocktail dress that’s half-zipped in the back. Gavin stands behind her, with his hand on the zipper. The dress is low-cut, and I can see the outline of her ample breasts and the lace of her camisole beneath the fabric. Suddenly everything Adrianna said, everything Gavin said about their past, their present—it doesn’t matter. All that matters is this moment, this emotionally charged, intimate moment.

Gavin projects extreme discomfort. “Adrianna got back from her trip a little early,” he says awkwardly. “I was just helping her with—”

“I came home early,” Adrianna says, fumbling for words. “My grandmother found a buyer for her restaurant. I have a—”

“I should go,” I say quickly. “I’m sorry. I . . . I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I run out the door, through the dining room, and then out to the street. I’m mad at myself, for being a fool, for thinking I could actually step into Adrianna’s shoes, for letting her convince me she was ready to move on, when she clearly isn’t. And maybe it’s too soon for
Gavin
.

I’m grateful I have my running shoes on, because all I want to do is sprint. I turn to the lake and find my way to the path, where I sift into the steady stream of bikers and joggers. I want to run until I can’t feel anything anymore—not my hands, not my feet, not my legs, and not my heart.

I
don’t even know how long I’ve been running, how many laps I’ve completed, when I notice the bench ahead. It’s the same bench where I met Gavin a few weeks ago. I sit, tucking my knees to my chest, and think about Gavin and Adrianna. How foolish I’ve been to not see that he still loves her. My cheeks flush when I think about how beautiful she looked in that dress. What could he ever see in me? I shake my head and stand. I feel a raindrop on my cheek as I make my way to the street. By the time I pass Joe’s Café, it’s an all-out downpour. I look into the window of Joe’s, packed with regulars, and feel sad, remembering what Gavin said about Joe retiring, closing the shop. Why must things change? Why can’t everything just go on as it is? As I pass Antonio’s I can’t distinguish the raindrops from my tears. A black SUV peels out of the parking spot in front of the bookstore, and when I see the door to the shop left ajar, my heart beats faster.

Suddenly, Gavin appears. “June!” he cries. “I was looking everywhere for you! I went to go find you at the store and”—he pauses to point to the open door, and as frightened as I am about the prospect of burglary, I can’t help but think of how adorable he looks standing in the rain, when I probably look like a soggy, drowned rat—“June, someone broke into the bookstore.”

I come to my senses as he runs ahead. I follow him through the store, and I gasp. Bookshelves have been overturned, boxes ripped open. Books and papers are scattered all over the floor. Even the air feels disturbed, violated.

“Who would have done this?” Gavin asks.

“I don’t know,” I say.

I’m shaking as I kneel down and begin sorting through the books and papers—days of my hard work ruined in the span of minutes.

He places his hand on my back. “Let me help you.”

“No,” I say quickly. “I’ll be fine.”

“June,” Gavin says, “I’m staying whether you say yes or not. I won’t leave you here like this. What if the people who did this come back? You need to file a police report.”

“I will,” I say in a shaking voice. “Gavin,” I cry. “I got a letter today from Chase and Hanson, from my old division. My aunt was in a lot of debt, apparently. Bluebird Books is almost in foreclosure.”

He looks as if my words have knocked the wind out of him. “What?”

“I don’t have much time,” I continue. “There’s a chance, a small one, that if I sell my apartment for a profit, and drain my savings, I might be able to keep the shop afloat. But even then, I’m not sure if it will all work. It might not be enough.”

Gavin nods. “I have some savings,” he says. “I mean, it’s not a lot, after buying out Adrianna’s share, but please, let me help.”

“No,” I say quickly. “I mean, that’s kind of you, but you have the restaurant to consider.”

“When will you know if . . .” He swallows hard. “If you’ll have enough?”

“Soon,” I say. “I’ll probably catch a flight out tomorrow, and I’ll talk to my friend, Peter, in New York. He’s an accountant, and this will take some serious number crunching. We’ll plot it all out.”

“And this,” Gavin says, indicating the mess left by the intruders. “Does this frighten you? If someone is looking for something, what if they come back?”

“Yes, it does frighten me.” For the first time, I tell him about the letters between Ruby and Margaret Wise Brown, the way Ruby left them out for me to find, with clues, one after the next. And then I tell him about Anthony Magnuson, my aunt’s baby boy, and the cryptic warning from Victoria Magnuson about her daughter.

“There must be something of considerable value here in the store,” Gavin says. “Do you have any idea what it could be?”

I shake my head as I survey the shelves where most of the first editions are housed. None have been touched. Then I glance at the papers and books on the floor. “Whatever it is, I don’t think they found what they were looking for.” I stand up and take a closer look at the shelf filled with valuable books. “If they were after valuables, they would have taken these old books,” I say. “But they didn’t. They must have been looking for something else.”

“Maybe you could sell some of the first editions,” he suggests, as if struck with a brilliant idea. “I mean, to help pay back the debt, to keep the store afloat.”

I shake my head. “I would hate for it to come to that. It would be like selling off part of the store’s soul.”

He nods as if he understands. “Then what?”

“I don’t know, but I think you’re right about there being something else of value in the store.” I take a deep breath and stare at the disarray. “If it’s here, I’ll find it.”

I stand up, and turn to the stairs that lead to the little apartment above the shop. “I’d better go pack.”

“Wait,” Gavin says, walking toward me. “Not until I tell you what I need to say. What you saw in the kitchen at the restaurant . . . it isn’t what you think.”

I look away. “You don’t have to—”

“I do. I do have to say this. Because you have it all wrong. Adrianna and I are over.”

“But I thought—”

“She’s going on a
date
tonight.”

“A date?”

“Yeah,” he says, grinning. “She returned from her trip early, and met someone on the plane, and”—he shakes his head at the absurdity of our conversation—“and they hit it off. He’s taking her to Canlis. She bought a couple dresses and really wants to look great, so she came over to get my opinion.”

“Wow,” I say, smiling. “I have to admit, when I saw you unzipping her dress—”

“
Zipping
her dress.”

“Oh,” I say, still smiling. “Well, when I saw you standing together, I felt like such a fool.”

He nods. “We both know it’s time to move on from each other, in life and in business. We’ll always care for each other, but we need our own space to just be without the other one always looking over our shoulders. It’s why she offered again to sell me her share of the restaurant, and I accepted.”

“You did?” My question comes out a little more like an exclamation.

“Yes, I did,” he says, smiling. “Of course, I’ll always be grateful for her help in building Antonio’s into what it is. But it’s time to turn the page.” He pauses and searches my face. “Remember how we talked on the island about the idea of joining forces? Combining the bookstore and the restaurant into a store-café model?”

I nod, feeling my heart pound with excitement.

“Well, if you still want to do that, we could,” he says. “I mean, if you feel it’s in the best interest of the store.”

“I do,” I say a little guardedly. “But, I . . .”

He rubs his forehead. “But what?”

“Well, I don’t even know if I’m going to be able to save it,” I continue. “Believe me, I’m going to try. But that’s all yet to be determined. I wouldn’t dream of yoking the store’s debt with Antonio’s—what if it caused you to go under too?” I know from professional experience that combining business efforts in this way is risky. “Also, you already tried to run a business with . . .”

“Someone I love?”

My cheeks flush.
Is he saying he loves me?

“You’re right,” he says. “There’s that. I see how you’d be worried that we’d make the same mistakes that Adrianna and I did.” He takes both of my hands in his. “But please, you have to know that what we have . . .” He clears his throat. “What we’re building together is so different. June, it’s so different, I don’t even want to compare. What I’m trying to say—and this is going to come out awkwardly, because I’ve never been one to sound smooth when I tell a woman I love her, which isn’t often. I’ve done it three times, and the first time I was eleven years old. But, I’m rambling.”

I smile and bite my lip. “Did you just say what I think you said?”

He nods. “I’m telling you, yes, that I stand here before you in this terrible mess of an old bookstore, staring at a girl I met not even three weeks ago, who probably thinks I’m completely nuts—but still, I cannot let you leave Seattle without knowing that I have found myself falling so hard for you.”

I giggle and cry at the same time, which sort of comes out sounding like a snort, but I don’t care. Nothing can ruin this moment. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say that you’re crazy about me in the same way I am about you.”

I lean into his arms. “I am,” I whisper. “And after everything I’ve been through, I didn’t think I could feel this way again.”

He gives me a little smirk. “Which, by the way, we need to cover in a future installment.” He kisses my forehead, then my nose, then my lips. “You’re a great mystery to me, June Andersen, a mystery I cannot wait to solve.”

“You will,” I say. “I promise.”

“Good,” he says, glancing at the clock on the mantel. “Does that really say four o’clock, or am I hallucinating?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Well, darn. I burned the bread. The loaves are probably on fire in the oven right now, unless one of the servers took pity on me and took them out. Let’s hope.”

“Oh, I’m sorry!”

He takes me in his arms again. “Never will burned bread taste as good as it will tonight,” he says, beaming. “To be continued,” he adds, running to the door.

“To be continued.”