Goodnight June: A Novel (17 page)

With lots of love,

Ruby

I smile to myself as I turn to the next letter.

August 14, 1946

Dear Ruby,

Key West was divine, wasn’t it? If I had more confidence in my ability to be a wife, I think I’d marry Ernest. But you’re right, we could never make each other happy, not in any sustainable way. We’d drive each other mad, that much is certain. But it would be great fun for a while, wouldn’t it? Can you see me yukking it up in Key West with him and all those cats? I’d live in long sundresses and straw hats. I’d go barefoot and my skin would be covered in freckles.

But no, I could never do it, for two important reasons, the first being Ernest’s beard. I know he’d never shave it, and I would despise the scratchy feeling on my face. The second reason is, of course, hurricanes. The thought of them coming as unexpectedly as they do would frighten me to no end. So there you have it, beards and hurricanes: the two reasons why Ernest Hemingway and I will never be lovers.

But I do think those cats will always stay with me. I loved that little fellow who got mixed up with a can of paint. Blue paws. I can’t get them out of my head. I think I shall write a book someday about two kittens who get into mischief with buckets of paint. I could call it
Color Kittens
. What do you think?

I’m writing to you on a drab day in New York. I’m looking out my Cobble Court window and the wind’s blowing the little white picket fence gate so hard that it flings open every few seconds, then slams shut again. While it was good to come home, to sleep in my own bed again, I realize how lonely I am here sometimes. I’m like the gate, swinging in the breeze when I long for someone to just secure the latch and stop me from flailing about.

Perhaps this is how you feel about Lucille. When we lose touch with a person we love, I suspect it feels that we lose a part of ourselves. As I’ve always said, don’t lose heart. But prepare yourself for the day that you must mourn your loss and move on, rather than let it paralyze you. I hate to think of you stymied by the choices of another.

Well, I should be getting back to work. My editor wants a new idea soon, and I’m afraid none feel good enough to share just yet. I keep coming back to the moon concept you mentioned months ago. I think there’s something there.

Sending love and sunshine and another one of those tart key lime margaritas (which they, obviously, named after me),

M.W.B.

I think of what Margaret wrote about the cat at the Hemingway home, and realize it’s proof of the inspiration for the book
The Color Kittens
. Of course, I read the book dozens of times as a child in the bookstore. I think of Aunt Ruby and Margaret sipping cocktails with Ernest Hemingway, and I smile to myself.

I take a deep breath, pondering Margaret’s more serious words:
Prepare yourself for the day that you must mourn your loss and move on
. What if I’m not ready to move on? What if there’s still hope after all? I place my hand on the phone, then pull it back again. Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow.

G
avin walks into the bookstore the next morning with a cup of coffee for me. “I’m going to miss Joe’s,” he says.

“Me too,” I say, taking a sip of the Americano, mixed with the perfect amount of half-and-half.

“Any luck finding the mysterious J.P.?”

I shake my head. “It’s a little harder than I thought. But I posted something on an adoption website, and I just have to hope that if he’s looking to find more about his past, he’ll see it. Sometimes fate plays a role in these things.”

My cell phone buzzes on Ruby’s desk, and I run to retrieve it. It’s a New York number.

“Hello?”

“Oh, hi, June, it’s Sharon. Can you talk?”

“Just a sec,” I say, then cover the phone and turn to Gavin. “It’s my real estate agent.”

He nods, and I turn back to the phone. “So, do you have a juicy offer for me? Please, tell me you do.”

“Well,” Sharon says, “we do have an offer, which is encouraging, but I’m sorry to say it’s not juicy.”

“How much?”

“It’s ten percent below asking,” she says, “which isn’t bad in this market. I think we should take it, June.”

“But I’m already selling it at a loss,” I protest, a little panicked.

“It’s a good offer, June. All cash. Quick closing.”

“Can we counter?”

“We can do anything you want to, but in a market like this, I don’t want to scare off a buyer. I suggest you take it.”

I sit down in Ruby’s old swivel chair and look at Gavin standing beside a bookcase, so strong, so sure. His smile tells me it’s going to be OK. And somehow, I feel that it will be.

“OK, Sharon. If you think we should take it, let’s take it.”

“Good,” she says. “I’ll fax over the paperwork to you this afternoon.”

I set my phone down, a little stunned. “I just sold my apartment in New York.”

“Great news,” Gavin says. “This calls for a celebration.”

“Not really. I’m selling it at a big loss.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t think I’m going to have enough to save the store.” I feel like crying, or laughing, or both. And suddenly, out of nowhere, I begin to laugh. It pours from me like a river. I laugh until I’m crying.

“What?” Gavin asks. “What’s so funny?”

“My life,” I say. “It’s a total mess.”

He smiles at me. His eyes sparkle in the morning light streaming through the window. “It’s a
beautiful
mess.”

That afternoon, I borrow Gavin’s car so I can drive to a salon on Queen Anne Hill to get my hair done. No matter how dire things get this month, I can at least go about my business with nice hair.

After a partial foil and a trim, I start back to Green Lake, when I realize how close I am to the Magnuson home. I decide to drive by the old mansion again.

I pull the car up in front of the home, and I think about the break-in at the bookstore and Victoria Magnuson’s cryptic warning about her daughter. Was May really behind the break-in? It’s possible, yes, and yet I don’t believe it, not really. After all, it was kind of her to send me that note with the photo of little J.P. I shake my head. No, it couldn’t have been May.

I take the keys out of the ignition. What if I just went to the house and met with her again? Maybe she knows more about him. Maybe she remembers something that she can share. I step out of the car and walk up to the iron gate in front of the brick walkway that leads to the house. This is not the kind of residence one just drops into. You make an appointment. But there’s no time for those formalities now. I need to find J.P.

A Hispanic woman opens the door. “How can I help you?” she asks in a heavily accented voice.

“My name is June Andersen, and I was hoping to speak to May, if she’s home.”

The woman looks at me skeptically, then shakes her head. “Ms. Magnuson isn’t home. But I can—”

The door opens wider, and suddenly May’s mother appears. “I can take it from here, Julia,” Victoria says with surprising command. She looks lucid, aware, somewhat different than she did when I saw her before.

“But, ma’am,” the younger woman protests, “Ms. Magnuson said you must stay in bed today.”

“Ms. Magnuson doesn’t make the rules,” Victoria says. “I do. After all, this is still my house, isn’t it?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Julia says, stepping back.

“Now,” Victoria continues, “I will show you in, Miss . . . ?”

“Andersen. June Andersen.”

“June,” she says, staring at me curiously, as if she may or may not remember meeting me two weeks ago.

“Yes.”

We sit down in the library, and Julia looks at Victoria. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”

Victoria waves her away, and as soon as the library doors click shut, she turns to me. “I’m glad you came.”

“Thank you for inviting me in,” I say. “I wasn’t planning on stopping by, but I was in the area. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”

Victoria folds her hands in her lap and looks at me expectantly.

“I realize it may be hard for you, to revisit the past,” I say.

“I should have let him go to her,” the old woman says distantly. Her eyes search my face, then look away, to a far corner of the room, where perhaps she’s seeing her late husband and Ruby in the shadows. “I should have let them be a family. I didn’t love him like Ruby did. I could never love him the way she did, so completely. When I learned about the baby, I was jealous and I felt scorned.”

“You were hurt,” I say. “It’s a natural response.”

“Yes, but it was bigger than that. I wanted to make them pay. All along, I wouldn’t agree to a divorce. I said he’d get nothing.” She dabs a handkerchief to her eye. “That worked for a long time, but by the time Ruby got pregnant with the child, he didn’t care about the money anymore. He was going to leave me, leave everything he had to be with her. Of course, I wasn’t going to let him go that easy. I told him that I’d go to the newspapers. I’d disgrace him. I was desperate, but it didn’t matter. He’d already made up his mind. He was going to tell her his plans to leave the night he died. Even after he was gone, I just couldn’t let go. I threatened your aunt. I wanted to make her life miserable.”

I listen, though it’s hard to hear. Her words sting. I am a surrogate for Ruby’s pain.

“It seemed unthinkable to me that she could bear his child,” she continues, “that she could keep such a beautiful piece of him. I hated that.”

“But you had May.”

“Yes, but May was grown. She had her own life to live. I was alone. And here your aunt had a chance to start all over again. I wanted that desperately.”

I nod, nervous for what’s to come.

“I drove your aunt to give away her son, you know,” she says. “It was all me and my threats. I made her think that I’d have the child followed. I told her the child deserved to grow up as a Magnuson, and that my attorneys would see to it that he was raised the way Anthony was, in the best boarding schools. Well, as you can imagine, she didn’t want me in her son’s life. And she made it so I never would be. She arranged the private adoption. She duped me.”

I shake my head. “Would you have really tried to take the baby from his mother?”

Victoria sighs. “There was a time when I think I actually might have. I think Ruby knew I was capable of it. God knows, I have enough money to get things I want. But as the years passed, my heart began to soften.” She leans toward me. “What I want you to know, June, is that I have deep regrets about the way I behaved in those years. My actions kept two people from each other, and then tore apart a family. I never should have intervened the way I did. And I shall go to my grave with those regrets. I just pray that Anthony has forgiven me.”

I wipe a tear from my cheek and move to sit beside Victoria. I take her hand in mine, and I look her in the eye. “I
know
he’d forgive you,” I say. “As would Ruby.”

She shakes her head. “My actions are unforgivable.”

“No,” I say. “Your heart is in the right place now.”

“I wish I could turn back time,” she says. “I wish I could fix things.”

I think of Bluebird Books and my eyes widen. “There is a way you can,” I say. “The bookstore is in financial trouble now. It will close if I can’t raise enough funds.” It feels strange to make this appeal to her, after the years of pain she endured. And yet, her story has come full circle in a way that feels right. “Would you consider making a contribution to keep the business going?” I pause. “In memory of Anthony, and Ruby.”

“Of course I will, dear,” Victoria says. “How much do you need?”

Her answer comes so quick, it startles me. And then I hear the library doors open, and I turn around to see May standing in the doorway. She looks startled, a little angry.

“Mother? What are you doing downstairs? You should be resting.”

“Everyone’s always telling me I should be resting,” she says. “When you get to be ninety, you’ll realize how tiresome it is to be told this at every hour of the day.”

May walks over to her mother and eyes her territorially, then turns to Julia, who’s standing in the doorway now. “Julia, take Mother upstairs. I’ll be up in a moment.”

“Outnumbered,” Victoria says, winking at me. “Well, you be in touch now, all right?”

“I will,” I say, smiling. “Thank you so much.”

After the doors have closed behind us, May looks at me with intense eyes. “Let me be clear,” she says. “You will not be in touch with my mother.”

“But I—”

“I know what you’re here for,” she says. “I heard you asking her for money.”

“No,” I say quickly. “It’s not like that. It’s for the bookstore. I—”

Her eyes are searing. “You will leave now, and Mother will have no further contact with you.”

I shake my head. “But she said she—”

“She has dementia,” May says. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” She shakes her head. “Shame on you for trying to take advantage of an old woman.”

“But, May, I wasn’t. I was only—”

“You were only looking out for your own interests. Good-bye, June.”

Back at the bookstore, I feel deflated, discouraged. I find
The Color Kittens
and long for the letters that I know will cheer me.

August 21, 1946

Dear Brownie,

As much as I miss the sunshine of Florida, I must admit, it is nice to be home. I suppose Seattle will always suit me more than warmer climates. There’s a certain madness to sunshine, I think. Warm weather makes people think they should be doing something, always. There is no rest in warm weather. And yet there is something so comforting and peaceful about the dark clouds and rain. Everyone goes inside and cozies up with books.

Lucille surfaced, in the form of a card, announcing that she and her husband are expecting their first child this winter. My sister is going to be a mother! Of course, I’m exceedingly happy for her, but I will admit, only to you, that it caused me to examine my own life in greater detail. Will I ever be a mother? Anthony’s made it clear that he cannot and will not become a parent again, and yet, I would be lying if I said that there isn’t a certain part of me that longs to hold a baby, my own baby, in my arms.

Yet, this isn’t the path I chose when I decided to love Anthony. But sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. The dream is always the same: I have a baby in my arms that someone takes from me.