Goodnight June: A Novel (15 page)

T
he next morning, I have a half hour before the cab will pick me up for the airport. I hate to go, to leave the shop, more now that Gavin and I are on a solid path ahead. I blush when I think of him telling me he loves me.

The police came by yesterday evening to survey the bookstore, fingerprint the door, and ask questions about the break-in. “Was anything stolen?” a young female officer asked a bit disinterestedly.

“I don’t think so,” I said. “At least not that I can tell.”

Her eyes lit up when she saw a book on the floor, splayed out facedown. I hated to see the books disheveled like that, but Gavin had encouraged me not to alter the “crime scene” until the police arrived (some bit of knowledge he mined from
Law & Order
, no doubt). “Is this Eloise Wilkin?” the officer exclaimed.

“Yes,” I said, looking over her shoulder.

She thumbed through the pages of collected stories from Wilkin, then stopped on a page where a little girl glides through the air on a swing over a grassy lawn in front of a beautiful home with a gabled roof. “I used to daydream about this scene for hours,” she said, without taking her eyes off the page. “I would pretend that this was my life, my swing, my house.” She shook her head nostalgically. “You know, I don’t think I’ve seen this book since I was nine years old.”

“Why don’t you keep it?” I said.

“No,” she said. “I couldn’t.”

“I insist.”

She finished writing up the incident report, and left with the book tucked under her arm. Somehow I think it was meant for her.

I can tell my blood pressure is elevated, so I take my medication. I’ve done my best to tidy the mess before I leave this morning. Gavin said he’d keep an eye on the place, but what if whoever broke in comes back when he’s too busy at the restaurant to notice? What if this time they find whatever they came looking for before?

I feel a chill spread down my neck to my back as I reach for my suitcase and lock the door.

At the airport, I hand my ticket to the man standing at the gate. He sends it through a scanner, then says, “Have a nice trip, Ms. Andersen.”

A trip? I think to myself, this is
definitely
a
trip
. Here I am now, the unemployed owner of a bookstore in Seattle on the verge of financial failure. I left New York on top of the world—on paper, at least—and now I’m returning with nothing. And I desperately need to get my roots touched up at the salon.

Part of me wants to turn around and run back to the comfort of the bookstore, to run back to Gavin—to just leave New York in . . . New York. And yet, the practical side of me knows that getting on the plane is the first step toward a better future—for me, and for the store. I have to put one foot in front of the other. And that’s hard.

“Ms. Andersen,” the ticket agent says. “You may proceed to the airplane now.”

I nod. “Sorry. Right.”

I head down the terminal to Delta flight 208. I have an appointment with the real estate agent tomorrow morning, and then the movers come that afternoon, followed by drinks with Peter, my accountant friend, to shed light on my financial picture. I just hope I can pull together enough funds to keep Bluebird Books afloat.

As the plane takes off, I reach into my bag and pull out the new pair of letters, which I found on the top shelf in Ruby’s kitchen, in an old copy of
Betty Crocker’s Cookbook
. I read with anticipation.

July 5, 1946

Dear Brownie,

Thank you for your wonderful advice. As always, your words soothed my ache like medicine. I will give Lucille more time. Maybe we’ll have our European tour . . . someday.

I want to go to one of these literary parties you wrote of. I’d like to have a few words with anyone who finds your work “amusing.” How dare they belittle you! How dare they question the importance and brilliance of your work!

Just yesterday, a little boy and his mother came into the bookstore. You should have seen this child, so dejected and sad. His mother told me his father had died two months ago and he was having trouble at school. She said he didn’t have many friends, and she hoped to get him some books to cheer him up. So I led him to a bookshelf and pulled out a copy of
When the Wind Blew
. I told him I knew the author—you, of course—and his eyes lit up. I read the story to him. And though I’ve read it before, it hit me then that this was a story about finding happiness in the loneliest little corners of life; that even a cat or a dog can be a companion, which leads one to the notion that we are not as alone as we feel we might be. What a transformative message, for a child and an adult.

Well, Brownie, the little boy turned to me after I finished reading and he smiled. “Boxer’s my best friend,” he said.

“Boxer?” I asked.

“My dog,” he said cheerfully.

Next time you feel that your work doesn’t have merit, remember how your words cheered this little boy, how they lifted his spirits during a dark time in his life. Let the others be the serious “literary” types. Let them write big important novels and give each other accolades. But, in all of it, remember that you are doing very important work. And there are very few in this life as uniquely talented as you to do this work.

Margaret, I hope you’ll take what I’ve just written and put it in your pocket and save it. When you’re feeling down about your work, your purpose, may you take it out and remember just how important you are.

With all my love,

Ruby

P.S. Anthony invited me to accompany him on a business trip to Miami. He says he’ll get a car to take me to Key West for a day or two while he’s tied up with work. Key West! I admit, all I’ve been able to think about in the past few days is a) I need to find a swimsuit, and b) What are the chances of running into Ernest Hemingway?

I study the letter carefully and see that Margaret must have heeded Ruby’s advice, because the letter has obviously been folded many times. Its creases are very deep and worn, as if she might have done just what Ruby suggested.
I hope you’ll take what I’ve just written and put it in your pocket and save it.
She must have done just that.

July 12, 1946

Dear Ruby,

Your letter arrived just before I left for Maine, and I’m so grateful it did, for you saved me from myself. I might have spent the entire monthlong holiday trying to be someone I will never be. And when I say that, I mean a novelist. I suppose there will always be a part of me that wonders if I could do it. And maybe I could. But what you say is true. I have been granted a special talent, and it’s one I shouldn’t be ashamed of. Thank you for reminding me of that, my dear friend.

Maine is lovely. Warm and quiet, just me and the creatures. Frogs croaking at dawn; jackrabbits hopping through the morning mist; dragonflies buzzing in the tall grass; crickets chirping at dusk. Time passed slowly. In fact, I was oblivious to it entirely, which is always the best time spent. I would find myself lying on a blanket in the grass with a book, and I’d doze off. When I awoke, I didn’t know if it was the next day or an hour later. Everyone should experience such marvelous laziness.

I thought of you often, Ruby. I’d look up at the moon at night and think of you staring at the same moon. When do you leave for Miami? I must say, I’m tempted to find a swimsuit and join you both there. I’m dying to meet Anthony, and then there’s Ernest. Did I ever tell you that we met at a party in New York last year? He’d had far too much to drink when he told me I looked like Lana Turner, but I have to admit, even despite his inebriation, I did find him altogether charming. What a pair we’d make. The hotheaded literary don and the children’s book author. It’s almost too hilarious to think about.

Well, I’m off to a meeting with my editor. I suppose we’ll be talking about all things
Little Fur Family
. In keeping with Operation Sisterhood, I will bring Roberta the very first copy, with a yellow ribbon tied around it.

Write soon, and let’s make plans for Key West.

With all my love and adoration,

M.W.B.

Sharon, my real estate agent, stands in the kitchen of my New York City apartment. She wears a black suit jacket and skirt, with heels so high, they make my feet hurt just looking at them. “Well,” she says skeptically, “it will be a challenge.”

Sharon helped me buy the apartment five years ago, which, sadly, was the peak of the real estate market. I paid more than the asking price because there had been a bidding war. But now? Sharon explains that the market is flooded with similar listings and there will be no bidding wars. In fact, we’ll be lucky to get even one full-price offer.

“You’re going to have to lower your expectations for the sale,” she says, walking to the living room. She runs her finger along the edge of the old mantel, which I intended to have repainted but never did. She attempts to smooth a bubble of peeling paint, then frowns. “It’s a buyers’ market now.”

I gaze out the big windows that look out to the balcony and views of New York City beyond, and I shake my head. “Sharon, I have to sell the co-op for what I paid for it, or more.”

She sighs. “Well, if you want my advice, I’d suggest sitting on it for a while. Maybe get a renter in here. Then, in a few years, maybe there’ll be less inventory to compete with and you can get your price.”

I shake my head and tell her about the bookstore in Seattle. “I can’t. I need to cash out. I need the money for Bluebird Books.”

“Well,” she says, obviously disappointed, “I can’t promise you success, but I will certainly do my best.”

“That’s all I can ask, I guess.”

“When do you want the listing to go live?”

“Tomorrow,” I say.

“That quick? You sure you don’t want to think about options a little?”

I shake my head. “It’s clear to me what I need to do.” I try to project confidence, but my heart is fluttering, even though I made sure to take my medication before Sharon arrived.

She nods. “OK then, will we need to stage it?”

“No,” I say. “I’ll leave the furniture. Moving it to Seattle isn’t practical, as my aunt’s place is furnished. I’ll just pack my personal belongings. The movers are coming later today.” I don’t tell her that I don’t want any reminders of my old life, my old self. I want to shed my New York self like molted skin.

“OK,” she says. “The furniture will help. I can have a photographer come by this afternoon, so I can get the photos for the listing. Will that work?”

I nod, and her business face melts for a moment. “Remember when I first showed you this apartment?”

I smile to myself. I’d just been promoted at the bank, and I had the feeling of invincibility. I walked into the open house and fell in love with the apartment instantly. It didn’t matter that there was a six-way bidding war; I knew I’d make this place mine.

“You’ve changed,” Sharon says, clutching her Louis Vuitton purse. She looks at me curiously.

“I have,” I say simply. “I want different things now.” We stand together in silence for a moment. “Or maybe I always wanted those things, but I just didn’t know it yet.”