Goodnight June: A Novel (18 page)

It’s silly to read into dreams, so I try not to think of it. Besides, I may never have children of my own, but I have plenty who I’ve had the privilege of getting to know through the bookstore. Little Loretta Franco brought me a wreath for the door last week, and another little boy wrote me the sweetest thank-you card. This ought to be enough for me, and yet my heart longs for the type of motherly love I know I may never be able to experience.

Well, I worry that I’m wearing on your nerves, so I will change the subject. Oh! I had an idea this morning. I’ve decided to make a calendar of events for the store, which I’ll post in the window. Each day I’ll have something new to entice children to come in. I was thinking that on Tuesdays I’d do young author workshops. I’ll give children pens and paper and paint to make their own little picture books. Together we can come up with concepts for their stories, and then they can work on the art. Imagine how fun that could be!

Write soon and tell me about this new book idea that you have in mind!

With love,

Ruby

P.S. Anthony will be traveling to Chicago over my birthday weekend, which means I’ll be spending it alone.

August 25, 1946

TELEGRAM

TO: Ruby Crain

FROM: Margaret Wise Brown

Catching flight to see you in Seattle. Won’t let you be alone on your birthday.

Did Margaret Wise Brown come to Bluebird Books? I reread the telegram, and then Aunt Ruby’s letter, but there are no book titles mentioned, no further clues. What next? The story of the bookstore’s past beckons, and yet, I don’t know how to turn to the next chapter.

I
walk into Antonio’s with slumped shoulders, and slide into a chair at the table in the kitchen.

“It looks like someone could use some wine,” Gavin says, reaching to the shelf and plucking a glass. He uncorks a fresh bottle and pours its crimson liquid. “What happened?”

I sigh. “I went to the Magnuson house again. I talked to Victoria Magnuson.”

He grins. “The Queen Mum?”

“Yes,” I say. “I told her about the plight of the bookstore, and she offered to help. It was beautiful. She said it would be sort of a repayment for the way she treated Ruby over the years.”

“That’s good news, then, right?”

“Well, it was,” I say, “until her daughter walked in and accused me of trying to swindle money from an old woman.”

“Oh,” he says.

I take a sip of wine. “May doesn’t get it. I think she still has a ton of anger that her father abandoned her.”

“That makes sense,” Gavin says diplomatically.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t even know my father, and yet I don’t have any abandonment issues.”

He looks at me curiously, as if he knows me better than I know myself, maybe, which is vaguely unnerving. “You don’t?”

“I don’t,” I reply. “I don’t know anything about my dad except that he and my mom met at a bar, and it was a one-night stand. At least my sister’s father had it in him to stick around until a couple of weeks after she was born. Anyway, I have no interest in finding my father, nor do I feel as if he abandoned me. It is what it is.”

Gavin nods as though he’s not altogether convinced.

“It’s different with May,” I continue. “She grew up with a father who she loved, desperately so, and yet he was never around. And then as if she didn’t feel unloved enough, he goes and starts another family with Ruby.” I swirl the wine in my glass. “I get why she’s hurt. I get why she sees the bookstore as the impetus for her pain. I wish she’d see its value, from a community perspective. And I guess most of all, I wish she’d see that my intentions are good.”

“Don’t feel so bad,” he says. “This is bigger than you. You’re just the messenger. I bet she’ll come around.”

“I’m not so sure,” I say. “You should have seen the look on her face.”

“Well, then we’ll have to think of a Plan B.”

I throw up my hands. “Got any brilliant ideas, Watson?”

“Yes,” he says. “You know the letters you’ve found between your aunt and the children’s book author?”

“Margaret Wise Brown.”

“Well, I was thinking that maybe we could really spruce up the shop and host a party. A fund-raiser. We can sell tickets. I’ll cater it. Maybe you can hint that we have a big announcement to make about the literary history of the store, and then we can unveil the letters between your aunt and the author.”

“Actually, that’s genius,” I say, the wheels in my mind turning so fast I can hardly keep up with them. The bookstore has been featured in local media before. Ruby kept a framed
Seattle Times
article about the shop hanging over her desk. Surely the story of saving a beloved Seattle institution would appeal to modern-day media.

“I can see the headline now,” Gavin says, “‘Fund-Raiser Held to Save Historic Seattle Children’s Bookstore Believed to Be Birthplace of
Goodnight Moon
.’”

I think of the last set of letters between Margaret and Ruby, and I worry that I’ve hit the end of the scavenger hunt. I shake my head. “I don’t know that Bluebird Books was the inspiration for
Goodnight Moon
, just that my aunt encouraged Margaret to write about the moon.”

“Do you know if she ever visited the store?”

I nod. “I think she was planning to. I found a telegram stating that she planned to come. I just don’t know if she ever did. I can’t find the next set of letters.”

“Surely there’s a clue that you’ve overlooked,” Gavin says.

I pull the letter and telegram out of my pocket and hand them to him. “No. No books mentioned,” I say. “So now what?”

He’s silent for a few moments as he reads, and then he smiles. “Wait a second. What about this mention of the children’s homemade books, here?” He points to the page, and I reread it:
I was thinking that on Tuesdays I’d do young author workshops. I’ll give children pens and paper and paint to make their own little picture books. . . . Imagine how fun that could be!

“I think you’re brilliant,” I say.

Gavin leaves a pot simmering on the stove and together we race over to the bookstore. I climb a ladder to a high shelf where I remember Ruby tucking in the treasured “books” her youngest customers had made especially for her. They’re bound in all fashion—staples, glue, tape, yarn. I pull out one with a colorful cover held together with masking tape that’s yellowed over the years. “A Tugboat’s Dream,” the title reads. “By Jenny Hamilton.”

I feel a bulge beneath its pages and there they are, the letters. I almost squeal as I hold them out for Gavin to see. “Found them!”

“Good,” he says, turning to the door. “I’ve got to get back to the kitchen before the sauce boils over, but come over as soon as you can, OK?”

It’s good to see him moving ahead with the restaurant, confidently, and I think of what a pair we’d make as co-owners of a bookstore-café. But I don’t want to rush things. “Go make your sauce,” I say, grinning. I race to the wingback chair and read expectantly.

September 2, 1946

Dear Brownie,

You just stepped into the taxi that will take you to the airport, and oh how I hate to see you go home to New York. This has been my very favorite birthday of my life, and I shall be forever grateful to you for traveling across the country to share it with me. Your friendship is more than a friendship; it’s a sisterhood.

I’m so delighted that you love Bluebird Books as much as I do.

I pause and gasp. Margaret Wise Brown
did
come to Seattle, to Bluebird Books, and she loved it.

I knew it the moment Anthony brought me to the space (blindfolded at first!). Certain buildings just have good feelings to them, don’t you think? The apartment upstairs isn’t much, but I’m going to fix it up in time. I have a paint color picked out for the walls, and one day I’d like to have part of the space framed in for an office, or maybe a bedroom, though I do love the openness of the space, and sleeping at the center of it all. Walls are so stifling.

Anthony will be sad to have missed you. He was so glad to know you were coming to stay with me. In all the excitement of your visit, I didn’t even notice the little box tied with ribbon tucked into my desk drawer. I found it just now and opened it straightaway. It’s a watch, from Anthony. Cartier. He must have seen me admiring it on our trip to Miami. I admit, I’d forgotten about it entirely until I found it. Oh, Brownie, but it’s not so much the watch as what he had engraved on the back of it. It says, “I will love you until the end of time.”

I still have tears in my eyes. It’s the most beautiful sentiment I’ve ever read. I may not ever get a ring, but I will wear this watch proudly.

Oh, before I forget, you left your sketches for the new moon book on the table upstairs. Would you like me to mail them back to you? Or did you intend for me to keep them? I must admit, I love getting a little more time to linger over the pages and see your brilliant creative process. Do you always think of ideas for the illustrator? Are they receptive to your artistic suggestions?

I have a good feeling about this moon book. There’s a palpable sense of comfort in the nursery. But, if I may make a suggestion, I do think the walls should be a bright emerald green. It’s such a happy color, don’t you think? Also, in the nursery of my dreams, there would be a bookshelf and big picture windows so you can see the stars from the bed. And maybe a telephone—to symbolize a connection to the outside world—and a bowl of something warm on the nightstand. A little snack. Food. Warmth. Love. What more could a child ask for? What more could any of us ask for?

Whatever direction you and your illustrator take with the story, I know it will be a resounding success. I cannot wait to see it when it’s finished (and, of course, to sell stacks of copies on your behalf!).

Anthony is scheduled to return tomorrow on the 11 a.m. train. I’m going down to the station to greet him even though I know there’s a small chance that I may run into Victoria there. If she comes, it will only be to upset me. The life she’s living is a charade. She refuses to agree to a divorce, and yet she carries on with other men. I don’t think I told you this, but Anthony said he came home one night and found one of them at the house. They’re both miserable, and yet sometimes I feel as if each is intent on making the other even more so.

I had better sign off. Story time begins in fifteen minutes and I need to prepare. I expect at least a dozen children today.

Missing you already,

Ruby

P.S. I tucked a copy of
Pippi Longstocking
in your suitcase. Read it when you get a chance. I discovered it at a book fair in Seattle a few months ago. It’s a translation of a book that’s quite popular in Sweden. My prediction is that it will become a sensational hit with children in America before too long, but don’t mark my words.

September 12, 1946

Dear Ruby,

I managed to catch a cold on my journey home to New York. It is two in the afternoon, and I just now got out of bed to fetch the mail and what should I find but a letter from you. How it made me smile.

Roberta is expecting a baby. She phoned me this morning to give me the news. Funny you should describe how this news made you feel, because I had the same response. For all my life, I’ve said I didn’t want to be a mother. And now? Well, Roberta’s news made me question everything. It helped knowing you feel the same, that this news caused a collective twinge in our hearts. See, we are secret sisters, indeed.

My editor rang me up this morning, and she heard the gravelly tone to my voice, and she told me instantly that I’m not caring well enough for myself, which is rubbish, of course. She said I ought to sleep more and play less. Well, what sort of life would that be?

I should be on my feet in a day or two. And my week in Seattle was well worth this pesky cold. I loved seeing you in your element. The bookstore is exactly as I imagined it, and perhaps even lovelier.

Yes, the mockup of the moon book is yours to keep. We’ll be making changes to the text, of course, but I wanted you to have it—after all, you’ve been integral in its very creation. Maybe someday when I’m rich and famous you can sell it for a thousand dollars. Ha!

I’ve been thinking about your suggestions, which are very good. I’ve decided to change the opening lines of the book from “in the great room” to “in the great green room.” Doesn’t that have a happier ring to it? It practically chirps off your tongue. Like the little bluebirds you love so much.

And yes, there will be a telephone. A bookshelf. And a balloon. Perhaps, red? And there will be a bowl of porridge. And maybe a painting of a cow jumping over the moon, just like the one hanging over the hearth at Bluebird Books.

Well, I’m still sorting it all out, but as loose as it all is, I have a feeling about this book. It has a soul that some of my other projects didn’t. And I don’t worry about getting it just right, because I know the words will find me. I know the story will be written the way it’s meant to be written. That gives me great peace. I know I’ll wake up one morning and pick up a scrap of paper and write the words down, and that will be that.

Oh, and yes, I found the Pippi book. Thank you! And you are right, I do think American children will be wild about this little redhead. She has such spirit, such heart! She is the girl I longed to be as a child, strong and sure, kind and steadfast. I only wish I’d thought of her first. Alas, I shall keep with my bunny rabbits and dogs. And moons.

With love from foggy New York,

M.W.B.

My mind is reeling when I set the letters in my lap. Aunt Ruby not only helped Margaret Wise Brown come up with the idea for
Goodnight Moon
; she actually helped her shape it. And somewhere, under this very roof, there are sketches—an early mockup, perhaps—of the story for me to find. I can hardly wait to tell Gavin.