Goodnight June: A Novel (20 page)

The driver hands me a clipboard, and I sign my name on the page in front of me. “If you could just take them through the shop, then upstairs to the apartment, that would be great. The staircase is in the back.”

The man looks up to the awning nostalgically.

“Bluebird Books,” he says. “I remember coming to this place as a kid. My mom used to take me to story time.”

“My Aunt Ruby owned the store,” I say. “She passed away recently, and I’m going to try to keep it alive.”

“Wow,” the man says. “Sure brings back memories.” There’s grease under his fingernails, tattoos up and down his arms. He has the look of someone who’d rather be at the local tavern than home with his nose in a book. But that’s when I remember that books do not discriminate. Ruby always said that.

“I wish I read more now,” he says. “Somehow I lost interest over the years.”

He and his goateed assistant reach for boxes and proceed inside the store, where they stop suddenly near a shelf by the window. I set up a Roald Dahl display last week, remembering how much I loved
James and the Giant Peach
as a girl. The tattooed man picks up a copy. “I used to love this book,” he says. “Man, just seeing the cover takes me back. My fourth-grade teacher read it to us. Every day after that, I wanted a peach tree in my backyard.”

“Keep it,” I say.

The man looks surprised. “Really?”

“Yeah,” I reply. I know that giving away books isn’t exactly the point of a bookstore, nor is it a decision my former self, the financier, would approve of, but somehow it feels like the right thing to do in the moment.

“Thank you,” he says with a smile, tucking the paperback into his back pocket. “That’s really kind of you.”

I think of what he said a moment ago, about wishing he could love reading again, and I remember something Ruby said to parents who claimed their children wouldn’t read, and to bored-looking teenagers sulking through the door with their younger siblings: “All it takes is one book.”

As the movers unload the truck, I glance over at Antonio’s and see smoke coming out of the chimney above. Gavin must be there already, getting the ovens warmed for lunch. And then I notice Adrianna’s car parked out front, and I feel a shiver creep down my back.

A half hour later, the movers have emptied the truck, and it’s time for me to think about heading downtown for my meeting at the library with J.P. I change into a sweater dress and leggings. I feel nervous—for Ruby, for the future of Bluebird Books. What will he be like? Will he look like her? Will he laugh the same way? Will he eat sandwiches for breakfast the way she used to?

The cab stops on the street in front of the old library, and I peer out the window at the columns that line the facade, then pay the fare and step out to the sidewalk and follow the path to the front entrance. I remember that J.P. said he’d be on the third floor, so I take the elevator up. My heart beats loudly as the doors open. I follow the pathway to the reception desk, where a young woman wearing dark-rimmed glasses is perched behind a computer screen. “Can I help you?” she asks cheerfully.

“Yes,” I say, “I’m here to see J.P.”

She nods. “I’ll go find him.”

I bite my lip nervously and stare at the doorway the woman disappeared through. J.P., presumably Ruby’s son, is behind that wall. I hear footsteps approaching and I take a deep breath. The woman appears again, and she’s with a man. He’s tall and broad shouldered in a pin-striped white and blue oxford with a solid navy tie. Handsome. And—my heart sinks—African American. He can’t be the biological son of Ruby and Anthony Magnuson.

“Hi,” he says to me. “You must be June.”

“Yes,” I say, smiling, trying to conceal my disappointment.

“So I take it we’re not related,” he says with a grin.

He looks like a young Denzel Washington.

We stand there awkwardly, and I feel a lump in my throat. I wonder if he does too.

“Listen,” he says. “You came all the way down here. Let me buy you a cup of coffee. I’ll show you around.”

I nod. “I’d like that.”

We finish our coffee in the lobby area, then walk together up and down ramps, down long corridors, through winding shelves of books. “There’s just something about books that makes you feel better,” I say.

He smiles. “It’s why I work here.”

I remember the cab driver’s advice. “Can we go up to the top floor?”

“Yes,” he says. “You can’t leave without seeing my favorite part of the library.”

We walk up a set of stairs to the top floor. It’s a gray day in Seattle, but light pours into the leaded glass windows all around. J.P. points to a couch in the corner of the room, where there are fewer people. “Let’s sit for a while.”

I nod and follow him to the squarish brown leather sofa with a chrome frame.

He sets his coffee cup down on a table in front of us. “I suppose you’re as disappointed as I am.”

“It’s too bad,” I say. “I really thought you’d be him.”

“What was she like, your aunt?”

“She was, well,
wonderful
. One of a kind. She founded Bluebird Books near Green Lake.”

“The children’s bookstore?”

“Yes,” I say. “You know it?”

He smiles. “This is too weird. Just a few months ago I sent a letter to the owner, asking if she’d like to be the bookseller at a children’s event on the calendar. But I never heard back. I realize now that it’s because she . . .”

I nod soberly. “Because she passed away.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I think I read a bit about the history of the store. Hasn’t it been in business since the 1940s?”

“Yes,” I say. “My aunt left it to me, and I’m going to try to keep it going. It will be an uphill battle, though, with all the challenges bookstores are facing these days, and the debt I’ll need to cover to keep the lights on.” I look down at my hands in my lap. “It sounds so silly to say this now, but I thought you would be the one. The long-lost son of Ruby who would help me save the store.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I guess you’ll keep looking for him?”

“I’ll try,” I say. “And how about you? Will you keep looking for your birth family?”

“I suppose I’ll always be searching,” he replies. “It’s funny, because I’ve had a great life, a wonderful childhood. And yet I can’t help but look into the eyes of every stranger who fits the profile of my birth mother and think, ‘Could it be her?’”

“I hope you find her,” I say.

“Thanks,” he replies. “So what next? For the bookstore?”

I tell him about the fund-raiser and Margaret Wise Brown, and his eyes instantly light up. “This is unbelievable,” he says. “A literary find of that magnitude doesn’t happen every day in Seattle. Have you told anyone? Does anyone from the press know?”

“Not yet,” I say. “I’ve kept it pretty quiet until I can get the store ready for the event.”

“Well,” J.P. continues, “I’ll lend any support I can from the library side. Just say the word.”

“Thank you so much. That means a lot.”

He walks me to the front entrance, where I hail a cab.

“Keep in touch, OK?” he says.

“I will,” I reply, and I mean it. “You know, I think we can still think of ourselves as family.”

“Sure we can,” he says. “We were almost cousins, after all.”

I smile and slip into the cab. “Bluebird Books on Sunnyside Avenue in Green Lake,” I say to the driver. The morning didn’t go as I’d expected, and yet, in some ways, I feel like it went even better.

T
he curb in front of the bookstore is crammed with cars and a produce delivery truck that’s double-parked—I also see that Adrianna’s car hasn’t moved since this morning—so the cab pulls up on the opposite side of the street, in front of Geppetto’s, the toy store. I notice the
OPEN
sign in the window, and remember how Amy and I used to love going into the stationery store for a sticker, then over to the toy store with Ruby. She was always friendly with the owners, a kind middle-aged couple. And yet, the woman didn’t give me a particularly warm welcome when I arrived at the store. I recall her scowl one morning as I set out for my jog, and how it sent me into a tailspin of rapid heartbeats and guilt over the future of Bluebird Books.

I pay the cab fare and decide to poke my head into the store, reintroduce myself. The door creaks loudly as I open it. I walk a few steps inside, and smile at an old jack-in-the-box toy on a nearby shelf. I’ve always found them irresistible, so I reach for it and begin cranking the handle. Without fail, the springy clown inside pops out of the tin box unannounced, and I feel my heart lurch. I hate that something so insignificant can make me jump like that. And I wonder: If I’m able to save Bluebird Books, if I’m able to preserve Ruby’s legacy and keep it going in the future, will I finally get control of my health? Will my anxiety evaporate?

“They get you every time,” a gray-haired man says from behind me.

“Yes,” I say, a little embarrassed as I set the toy back on the shelf. “I’m June Andersen,” I continue, turning to the man, “Ruby’s niece. I just thought I’d stop in to reintroduce myself. Ruby left me the store, and I—”

“Of course I remember you, June,” the man says. “I’m Bill.” His brown eyes sparkle a little under the store lights. “You and your sister used to come in here.”

“Yes,” I say. “I was the older one.”

“The better behaved one,” he adds with a smile.

I look away, eager to avoid the subject of Amy.

“So you’re getting the place ready to sell?”

“Sell?” I say. “Where did you hear that?”

The door to the back room opens and a woman appears. “Lillian, it’s June Andersen—you remember, Ruby’s niece.”

She walks closer, and eyes me suspiciously. “The banker?”

I shake my head. “I used to be in banking, but I resigned. I wanted you to know that I plan to stay, live above the shop, keep the store running just as Ruby did.”

Lillian looks at Bill, astonished, as if trying to determine whether to trust me, and then her frozen face melts into a big smile. “Bless your heart,” she says. “And here, all this time, we thought you were going to sell to a developer.”

“Over my dead body,” I say, grinning.

“You’re just like her, you know? That’s something Ruby would have said.”

“Were you close to her, in her final years?”

Lillian nods. “I checked in on her as often as I could. Sometimes when I’m walking up the sidewalk, I have to resist the urge to turn in to the bookstore. I still can’t believe she’s gone.”

“Me either,” I say. “Listen, you may not know it, but in recent years, the store has faced some financial challenges. I’m going to be throwing a party, a fund-raiser, to see if I can raise some community support for the store. I’d be honored to have you two attend.”

“We’d love nothing more,” Lillian says.

“Let us know if we can help with anything,” Bill adds.

“I will, thank you,” I reply, turning to the door. “Actually, there is something. I don’t know exactly how to say this, and you may not know the whole story, but I recently learned that my aunt had a child years ago.” I pause, and see the startled look on Lillian’s face. “A little boy who she gave up for adoption.”

Bill looks at Lillian, then back at me.

“Ruby had her reasons for making it a closed adoption,” I continue. “But I thought if I could find him, if I could tell him about Bluebird Books, he might join forces with me and try to help save the bookstore. His name is J.P.”

“J.P.?” Lillian says.

“Yes. Do you remember anything from that time? Ruby’s son was born in 1970. Geppetto’s was here then, right?”

“Yes,” Bill says. He looks at Lillian and waits for her to speak.

“It was so long ago,” she says. “I do remember Ruby’s baby. . . .” Her voice trails off then, as if she’s remembering dropping by the bookstore for tea and seeing Ruby with little J.P. on her hip. “I know it was very hard for her to say good-bye to her child.” She’s silent for a moment, then finally says, “I’m sorry. I wish I could be of more help to you.”

“I understand,” I say, a little disappointed. “Well, I’ll keep searching on my own. He has to be out there.”

Lillian nods to herself. Her eyes search my face, and then she smiles warmly. “When you’re looking for something, you usually find that it’s right in front of you.”

“Wait,” I say. “Margaret Wise Brown said something like that, I think. I read a quote from her online. I think it was something like, ‘Everything that anyone would ever look for is usually where they find it.’”

“Such truth,” Lillian says with a smile.

“Well,” I say, nodding, “let’s hope. Good-bye, you two. It was so nice to see you again.”

“You as well, June,” Bill says.

The door creaks open and shut, and I walk back to the bookstore. As I slip my key into the door, an appetizing aroma drifts over from Antonio’s, and Lillian’s words echo in my ear:
When you’re looking for something, you usually find that it’s right in front of you
.