Goodnight June: A Novel (16 page)

The movers arrive at two, and at my direction, they box up my closets and drawers, clear out the books from my shelves. “All the furniture stays,” I say.

They shrug as if they’ve heard stranger things from people before. The lead guy, who introduced himself as Jose, has kind eyes. He works meticulously to tape my boxes of clothing and shoes. I remember him admiring the glass entryway table. The piece was picked out by my decorator when I first moved in; I always hated it.

“Hey,” I say, pointing to the table. “Would you like to have this one?” I see a gold wedding band on his left hand. “Maybe for your wife?”

“Really?” he says, surprised.

I nod. “It’s yours if you’d like it.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, beaming, before returning to the task at hand.

Peter texts me that he’s going to be late, so I slide into a booth at the Fifty-sixth Street Bistro and order a gin and tonic for me and a martini for him. I gaze out the window and think about how long it takes to build a life. The many ladder steps you climb in a career. The laborious task of setting up a home, buying furniture and throw pillows, and curating the collection like a museum. Then there’s the art of honing your identity—your favorite restaurants, where you shop for groceries, get your coffee in the morning. And then, just like that—in a single afternoon, really—you can simply light a match and let it burn.

Peter arrives just as I finish my drink and the waitress brings me another.

“My girl!” he exclaims, leaning in to give me a big hug.

“It’s so good to see you,” I say, smiling. “How’s Nate?”

“Good as ever,” he says with a smile. Peter and his boyfriend, Nate, recently purchased a brownstone in Brooklyn, and they had me over for dinner the month before I left for Seattle. “We finally got the living room paneling done.”

“I bet it looks amazing,” I say, thinking about what it might feel like to put down roots the way Peter and Nate have. This is to be their only house. They spent a fortune on the place, which ultimately became affordable when Nate’s parents gave them the money for the down payment. In some ways, I envy them. I envy the certainty of their lives, when mine feels more like a box whose possessions have been scattered all over the floor. Picking them up and setting everything back into place feels exhausting now.

“Aw,” he says, “what’s with the sad face?”

He leans in to hug me again, and then sets his overcoat on the hook on the outside of our booth.

“I was just thinking about how much things have changed,” I say. “I never thought I’d leave New York. I thought this was
me
.”

“It still can be,” he says. “I mean, I am slightly biased, but I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to go. Do Nate and I need to launch a Keep June in New York City campaign?”

“You’re adorable, you know?” I take a sip of my drink, and grin. “No, I have to go.”

“You’ve fallen in love with the bookstore, haven’t you?” he asks. I already filled him in on the situation by phone from Seattle.

“Yes,” I say. “And I think I’ve also fallen in love with a man.”

He raises his right eyebrow and gestures to the waitress for a refill for both of us. “The plot thickens,” he says. “Cute?”

“Very.”

“Good heart?”

“
Huge
heart.”

“Then you have to go,” he says. “As much as I hate the thought of you on the other side of the country, you know I’m a sucker for true love.”

“Then you should hear about my aunt Ruby’s story,” I say.

Peter looks intrigued.

“She was in love, all her adult life, with a married man, who bought her the bookstore,” I explain. “His name was Anthony.”

“So she was a
kept
woman?”

“No, nothing like that,” I say. “It was . . . somehow sweeter than that.”

“And did they ever marry?”

“No,” I say. “His wife refused to give him a divorce. So he divided his time between his life with her and with my aunt. And yet, Ruby loved him fiercely, until his death.”

“How’d he die?”

“This is the tragic part,” I say. “My aunt got pregnant in her forties, which I think was a shock to both of them. And Anthony died one day when they were ice skating. He fell and hit his head. Just like that.”

“Just like that,” Peter says, rubbing his forehead. “It’s tragic.”

I nod. “Their relationship was obviously far from perfect, but if we could all find an ounce of the love that Ruby and Anthony shared, we’d be doing very well.”

“Sounds like you’ve found it.”

“Maybe I have,” I say. “Time will tell. But first I have to save Bluebird Books.” I glance out the window at the New York street beyond. “I can’t explain it,” I continue, shaking my head. “I think I’ve always known, deep down, that I belong in Seattle, at the bookstore. I just didn’t feel it was a purpose, a calling, until now. Peter, I desperately want to save the store. I hope it wasn’t a pain for you to crunch all those numbers.”

He holds up his hand as if to say, “Nonsense!” then reaches for his brown leather messenger bag and pulls out a file folder. Peter was my friend before he became my accountant, but I soon learned that he’s as good with numbers as he is with friendship.

He sets a spreadsheet on the table so we can both see it.

“If I clear everything out, will it be enough? I mean, enough to save the store and to live on?”

“Honey,” he says soberly, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t think so. I took a look at your aunt’s debt, and here’s the thing—you’re going to have to sell the apartment at a profit. You were mortgaged pretty high on that place, and you no longer have an income. Even if you clear out your savings and IRA, which I would not recommend doing—even then, you still might only make it work by the skin of your teeth.”

My heart sinks. “Oh.”

Peter pauses for a long moment. “You could ask your old boss . . . Arthur. Maybe he could help.”

I shake my head. “Are you kidding? No. I could never do that. It would be like crawling to Potter.”

“To Potter?”

“You know, in the movie
It’s a Wonderful Life
, when Jimmy Stewart has to swallow his pride and ask Mr. Potter for the money to repay his debt.”

“Oh stop,” Peter says. “You’re overdramatizing this. Just send him an e-mail. Tell him the trouble you’re in. You worked for the guy, for what, like, ten years? He’s got to have a heart.”

I shrug. “I don’t know.”

“Sure he does,” Peter says. “What did you always call him? The best jerk in the world?”

“The nicest asshole I’ve ever met.”

“See?” he says.

“But I don’t think it’s a fifty-fifty thing. I think the asshole side outweighs the nice side, by a long shot.”

Peter takes a long sip of his martini. “Still, I think it’s worth a shot. What do you have to lose?”

“My pride,” I say. “It takes a lot to crawl back to Potter.”

He grins and grabs my hand. “The thumb-wrestling champion makes the call. You win, you do it your way. I win, you go to Arthur.”

I roll my eyes but play along, mostly because I always beat Peter at thumb wrestling.

“On your mark,” he says, “get set, go!”

He goes in for the (thumb) jugular. I wriggle free from his grasp and put the clamp down, but not hard enough—he extricates his thumb and is back in the running.

“I’m not going to lose,” he says. “I won’t let you give up on your destiny.”

“My destiny, eh?” I say, trying my hardest to pin him (er, his thumb). “And who says my destiny isn’t to marry Ryan Gosling and have six children?”

“Because,
shhh
, don’t tell Nate, but it’s
my
destiny to marry Ryan Gosling,” he says with a victorious grin, before clamping my thumb down with his and holding it down.

“No,” I say. “Rematch!”

“No rematch. I won, fair and square. Now, you have to talk to Arthur.”

I lean back in my chair and realize that Peter’s right. “OK. I’ll send him an e-mail. But you know he’s just going to rub my face in it.”

“So what if he does? At least you’ll give it the old college try.”

I roll my eyes. “Who says that?”

Peter folds his arms across his chest. “Smart people.”

“Smart people from 1982.”

We pretend to be angry at each other for about three seconds before we hug.

“I’m going to miss you,” he says.

“I’m going to miss you, too,” I say as my eyes well up with fresh tears. Suddenly I’m questioning everything. I left Seattle when I was eighteen. I’m a New Yorker now. “Maybe this is a big mistake. Maybe I’m not supposed to move to do this.”

“Honey,” he says. “Don’t second-guess yourself. Even though I haven’t met Gavin, I can tell that he makes you happy. Trust yourself, OK?”

I nod. Turns out, it’s harder than you think to trust yourself. It’s easier to trust Peter. So I do that.

That night, my last night in my New York City apartment, I pull out my laptop and address an e-mail to Arthur. I think of all the previous times I’ve e-mailed him to report on a successful foreclosure or an ambush on a small business, one that resulted in less loss for the bank. I shiver. This time it’s different, of course. This time it’s personal. I close my eyes tightly, then open them again. And then I type:

Dear Arthur,

So . . . I don’t know exactly how to put this. But, here goes . . . I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a mess. You see, I inherited a bookstore in Seattle, a beloved children’s bookstore, where I spent the only happy hours of my childhood. And I didn’t know it when I flew out to Seattle to get my aunt Ruby’s estate in order, but I realized that I want to make a life of this. No, I
need
to make a life of this. I want to be a bookseller. I want to read to children, and I want to try to teach them the same love of literature that my aunt taught me. But the bookstore is on the brink of financial ruin. It’s kind of ironic, given my (former) line of work. I got a form letter from you, Arthur. You (a.k.a. Chase & Hanson Bank) are foreclosing on Bluebird Books. My aunt Ruby’s Bluebird Books.
My
Bluebird Books. The funny thing is that after all these years doing what we do, I somehow trained myself to stop feeling. I trained myself to just get the job done. Like a robot. And now I’m on the other side. And it turns out, it really sucks.

I don’t know what I’m saying here. I don’t know what I’m telling you. Actually, I do. And this is the hard part. I’m asking you to help me, Arthur. Please, help me save Bluebird Books. I don’t expect you to move mountains, but I know you can press the Pause button on the foreclosure proceedings. Just give me a few more months. I’m selling my apartment, cleaning out my savings, but even then, I don’t know if I’ll have quite enough. Could you just give me a little more time?

Do it for me, please, or prove me wrong, that you’re not the nicest asshole I’ve ever met. I’d be eternally grateful.

Yours (even though I’m no longer your employee, can we still be friends?),

June

I press Send, and then I lay my head on my pillow with a thud, like it’s a bowling ball. Arthur’s my last hope. Please let him say yes. I just need time.

G
avin picks me up at the airport the next day, and when I sink into his arms, I feel like I am home.

“How’d it go?” he asks.

“Well,” I begin, “it will be an uphill battle. I’m not even sure that if I sell the apartment I’ll have all the cash I’ll need to save the bookstore.” I pause for a moment, as he navigates his car onto the freeway. “I e-mailed my old boss at the bank, to see if he can help.”

“That’s a great idea,” Gavin says. “Do you think he will?”

“I’m not sure,” I reply. “I don’t want to get my hopes up. But, I think . . . maybe. I know somewhere under all those layers of spreadsheets that he has a heart. I haven’t checked my e-mail since last night, so maybe the answer is already waiting for me in my in-box.”

Gavin nods. “Either way, we’ll find a solution. Together.”

I shake my head. “I won’t drag you into my financial mess.”

“But it’s much nicer if we could call it ours,” he says.

I grin. “I do like the sound of that.”

Gavin spends the afternoon at the restaurant, which he’s managed to keep open as sole proprietor, for now, and I unpack upstairs in the apartment. I think of the boxes that will be coming on the moving trucks soon, and look around the apartment with new eyes. It’s home now.

I throw some clothes in the washing machine, then cautiously open up my laptop, and I see Arthur’s reply waiting for me. I was careful to take my medicine in New York to quell my bursts of rapid heartbeat that had surged in reaction to the financial and real estate stress.

When my heart begins to race again, I regret not taking a pill this morning. I click open the e-mail and hold my breath:

June,

I’m sorry, can’t help. It’s too bad, but it’s the way the cookie crumbles.

Arthur

I close the laptop quickly. For a few minutes, I just sit there, stunned.
The way the cookie crumbles.
My cheeks feel hot. I regret baring my soul to him.
What was I thinking?
And then I come to my senses. No, it’s not Arthur’s job to save this bookstore; it’s
my
job. And I will give it everything I’ve got.

I turn to my laptop again. It’s time to get to work. My aunt had a son. He must be out there, somewhere. Maybe he can help. I don’t know how, but I’m going to find him.

I pick up my cell phone. “Mom, it’s June. I need your help.”

“What is it? Honey, are you in some sort of trouble?”

“Well,” I say, “yes, maybe. Bluebird Books is in financial trouble. I just got back from New York. I’m selling my apartment. I’m going to try to save the store.”

“Honey, you know Rand and I don’t have any money, I—”

“Mom, that’s not why I’m calling. Listen, I know about Ruby’s baby.”

“What? You know about . . . ?”

“Mom, I know. I went to see Anthony Magnuson’s daughter, May. She told me about Ruby’s baby boy.”

“Ruby’s baby boy . . .”

“You know, don’t you, Mom?”

“Yes,” she says solemnly.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”

“It wasn’t my place to. It was Ruby’s wish to keep it quiet.”

“Well,” I continue, “so much time has passed. The reasons she had for hiding him aren’t real anymore. Besides, I think I had it wrong. Instead of being a competitor, it’s more likely he’d want to help me save his mom’s store. And, who knows, he could even have the financial means to invest in Bluebird Books.”

“Oh, June,” Mom says. “I really don’t think you should go down that path. Besides, this person may not be who you think he is.”

“I have to do something,” I say. “Listen, where do you think he might be living? Do you remember anything? Any clue? A name? Anything to help me start my search?”

“No,” Mom says. Her voice sounds edgy, distant. “I can’t help you with this, June. I’m sorry.”

I can’t tell if she truly has no information or if she’s being deceptive for other reasons. How could she be so uncooperative? There’s a man out there, my cousin, and he may not even know how wonderful his mother was. He began his life here in the bookstore, and maybe he could come back, to help me save it.

After I end the call, I open my laptop. I feel a deep sense of conviction as I search the listings for the King County records department.

“Hello,” I say to the operator. “If I were trying to find out the name of someone who was born in Seattle in 1970, someone whose records were sealed in a closed adoption, could I get that information? Could I see his birth certificate, or would it be part of a closed file?”

“All birth certificates are a matter of public record,” the woman says. “You can come downtown and put in a request, or you can look it up. We just got our files digitized, so if it’s a quick answer you’re looking for, I can save you a bit of time and look it up right now for you.”

“Really?” I say, grateful. “Yes, that would be wonderful.”

“Do you have the child’s mother’s name?”

“Ruby Crain.” My heart beats faster as I hear her clicking on her keyboard over the phone.

“And you said the birth year was 1970?”

“Yes,” I reply.

“Here we are,” she says a few moments later. “Ruby Crain, delivered a child on . . .” She pauses for a second. “Looks like the type has smudged. Let me get my glasses.” I hear her set down the phone before she returns and picks it up again. “Yes, the baby, J.P. Crain, was born on May 12, 1970.”

“J.P.,” I say to myself after thanking the operator and hanging up. I think of Ruby’s son then. He’d be tall and slender like her. He’d have light hair, maybe a dusting of freckles on his face. He’d have kind eyes and a quick smile. Smart and gentle, and literary, just like his mom. The moment he got wind of Ruby’s store, he’d help me. And I’d welcome him, just like family. Gavin could host a dinner for him. We’d toast the next chapter of the bookstore.

“I’m going to find you, J.P. Crain,” I whisper as I lace up my running shoes and head out for a jog.

Gavin’s in the kitchen chopping cauliflower when I poke my head in later.

“Did you just get back from a run?” he asks.

I nod and pop a piece of raw cauliflower in my mouth. “I found Ruby’s son,” I say. “At least, I found his name.”

“What do you mean,
Ruby’s son
?”

“Ruby gave birth to a baby boy the year I was born. My cousin. Or second cousin.”

Gavin looks equally confused. “Great-cousin?”

I shrug. “In any case, I’m related to him. Ruby gave him up for adoption. But I keep thinking that if I can find him, maybe he can help save the bookstore.”

Gavin shakes his head. “What makes you think this guy will have any sympathy for a mother who gave him away?”

“Ruby had her reasons,” I say. “I’m sure it was excruciating for her to make the call, to make it a closed adoption, but I know it’s what she felt she had to do. I’ll explain that to him. He’ll understand. And he’ll fall in love with the bookstore. He’ll love it like I do.”

“I don’t know,” Gavin says. “What if he has no interest in knowing about his past? What if he’s a drug addict or a con artist?”

“Aunt Ruby’s son?” I say. “Not a chance.”

He grins. “Don’t be so sure. Someone in my family line won a Pulitzer Prize, and yet the gene pool is equally peppered with degenerates.”

“Well, I just
know
that J.P. is not a degenerate.”

Gavin drizzles olive oil on the cauliflower spread out on a sheet pan before sprinkling a dusting of kosher salt on top. “Listen, I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. The guy could be a big disappointment.”

“Or the best thing that ever happened to Bluebird Books,” I add cheerfully.

As it turns out, J.P. is a very popular name. There are more than a thousand men in the Seattle area who go by the name J.P., and even then, I can’t be certain if his name is still J.P. Wouldn’t his adoptive parents have given him a new name? And then what? I can’t search under Ruby’s last name, Crain, as he’ll certainly have a new family name.

I decide to search on a website called Adoption Connector, where there are message boards designed to connect the grown children of closed adoptions with their birth families.

I take a deep breath, complete my registration on the site, and then post:

I am in search of the biological son of my great-aunt, a wonderful woman who passed away recently in Seattle. The child was born in Seattle on May 12, 1970. The name on his birth certificate is J.P. Crain. I can’t be certain of the exact date, but I believe he was adopted sometime after his birth, in a closed adoption. If you have any information, please e-mail me through this site. Thank you!

I flip on the old stereo and fiddle with the dial until I find my favorite jazz station, 88.5 FM, KPLU. I used to listen to it in high school and dream of smoky New York City jazz clubs. Little did I know that I’d end up sitting alone at those very tables years later wondering if I’d made a mistake in leaving home.

I find
Where the Wind Blew
after some searching (the first edition hid on a lower shelf), and pull out the next collection of letters:

July 19, 1946

TELEGRAM

TO: Margaret Wise Brown

FROM: Ruby Crain

Bought red gingham swimsuit. Will arrive in Miami on July 23. Staying at the Savoy. Key West together on the 26th?

July 20, 1946

TELEGRAM

TO: Ruby Crain

FROM: Margaret Wise Brown

Bought green swimsuit. Key West has no idea what it’s in for.

Beneath the telegrams are two letters, and I open the first hoping for an account of their time in Florida.

August 5, 1946

Dear Margaret,

I’ve only been home for a week, and yet I miss you and Florida so much. That sunshine! Anthony really liked you. He told me so several times. He said I am lucky to have such a devoted friend, and he’s right.

Oh, what fun we had in Key West! It was enough fun to last a lifetime, and take my mind off Lucille, who is back on no-speaking terms with me again. I’ll set that aside for now and just say, if I never do anything exciting again, at least I’ll be able to think back to those two days and smile to myself. The beaches! The dinners! Those drinks with the lime wedges in them and the salt on the rims of the glasses. The coconuts hanging from the palm trees.

I can’t believe we walked up to Ernest Hemingway’s home and rang the doorbell, just like that, like a couple of salesgirls. To think he’d answer his own door like he did and invite us in for a drink (or ten!). He was a hoot, wasn’t he? And such a gentleman, too. He obviously had eyes for you, Brownie. Did you see the way he looked at you? I’d say you should write him, but I don’t know that a man like that would be good for you. I fear he’d drive you mad. Or perhaps you’d drive each other mad. You both burn hot. You’re both so alive. I suppose the type of woman Ernest needs is the type of man you need: someone mild and peaceful. Besides, isn’t he married?

Well, needless to say, that night will go down in history as one of my very favorites. (Though, how strange Ernest’s cats were! They seemed almost human in the way they’d look at you. And one had six toes. Did you see that? It was the one with blue paws. Poor kitty must have gotten into a bucket of paint.)

Off to go shelve a new shipment of books. Wish you were here this afternoon. It’s raining, and I’m already missing the tropics. And you.