Goodnight June: A Novel (23 page)

M
om stayed with me upstairs in the week that followed. The days and nights blurred together, the way they do when you’re sleep deprived, or grieving, or both. Little Ruby kept us going, though. She gave us a purpose. Diapers and bottles and smiles. Repeat.

“I think you can handle this,” Mom says as I feed Ruby her morning bottle. She leans down and tucks a pair of jeans into her duffel bag.

“Wait, you’re not going, are you? Not yet!”

Mom smiles. “You don’t need me anymore, sweetie. It’s time you two fly solo.” She pauses, and I can see the regret in her eyes. “Besides, you’re already a better mother than I ever was.”

Little Ruby yawns after she finishes the last drop of her bottle, and I set her in the Pack ’n Play contraption Gavin found at Babies R Us. It isn’t the beautiful white crib I envisioned for her, with a ruffled bumper and matching sheets, but it works.

“But I—”

“You’ll be fine,” Mom says again. “I’m going out of town with Rand for a bit, but I’ll be back for the fund-raiser, I promise.”

At first I’m annoyed with Mom for leaving at this moment. We only sent out the press releases for the event yesterday, and we still need to get the invitations in the mail and make plans. And I’ll have to do this while taking care of a baby. But none of this is Mom’s fault. She has her life to live, and this is mine. If I’ve learned anything from Amy’s tragic passing, it’s to stop holding silent grudges against family members. Mom is just being Mom—often selfish, sometimes spacey, a little unpredictable. But I can love her, flaws and all. And I can forgive her for the small, annoying lapses, and the big ones too.

“OK,” I say. “I guess I’ve got to pull the bandage off at some point, right?”

“What are you afraid of, honey?”

“Screwing up,” I reply honestly, peering over at Ruby, sleeping soundly. “Look at her. She’s so delicate. What if I drop her? Or forget a feeding? Or—”

“You won’t,” she says. “And if you make a mistake, you’ll both be fine.”

I nod as she picks up her bag and walks to the stairway.

“I’ll call you and check in,” she says. “And I’m sure Gavin will be a big help.”

“Yeah,” I say. “He’s great with her. And she loves Antonio’s. Remember when she was having a crying fit yesterday afternoon when you were leaving for yoga? Well, I brought her over to the restaurant and it totally soothed her. I think she’s going to love Italian food.”

Mom smiles. “You’ll be great at this, honey; I know it.”

I nod. “Bye, Mom.”

And then she’s gone, and it’s just Ruby and me.

That night, Gavin brings over dinner, and instead of eating at the table, we lay a blanket on the floor and eat beside Ruby, who’s having her daily allotment of “tummy time.” (I read about it online this morning, and freaked out when I realized she’s missed nearly three weeks of valuable neck strengthening; Gavin assured me that she won’t be a hunchback.)

“I brought lasagna,” he says, dishing up a sizable helping on my plate.

I smile. “And lasagna aids in what temperament issue?”

“Nervousness,” he replies with a grin.

“I’m not nervous!” I say. “OK, maybe a little.”

“Eat up.”

I take a bite. “Wow,” I say, covering my mouth. “So good.”

Gavin smiles. “Any bites from the press release yet?”

“Actually, yes!” I say. “I was so busy with Ruby this afternoon, I almost forgot to tell you that the
Seattle Times
loves the idea, and they want to do a piece on the store and our fund-raiser in Friday’s paper!”

“Wow,” he says. “That’s in . . . two days.”

“Yeah, they’re coming over tomorrow afternoon to do an interview. Fortunately, the walls are painted. And the shelves look good, thanks to a certain someone.”

Gavin grins. “Did you see how I organized the newer books in those rows?” While the store is adequately stocked, there’s a shortage of newer inventory, so Gavin displayed the new books for greater visual appeal.

“Yes,” I say. “It’s perfect. And don’t the curtains look fantastic?” I run my hand along the edge of the new drapes.

“They do,” Gavin says, scooping a helping of roasted vegetables onto my plate.

We eat in silence for a few moments. Ruby coos on her tummy, and I feel the familiar twinge of anxiety creep in. “What if no one comes?” I say. “What if the event is a failure? Then what?”

“Then we’ll think of Plan B,” Gavin says, lying down beside Ruby. He coos and babbles along with her.

“You’d make a great dad, you know,” I say, swelling with pride.

The next morning, I strap Ruby into a baby carrier that Mom bought me, and take her on a walk around the lake before the reporter arrives at two. His name is Greg, and he’s about my age.

“Your daughter?” he asks, smiling at Ruby.

“Yes,” I say. “Well, my sister’s. But Amy passed away shortly after this little one was born. I’m raising her now. Her name is Ruby.”

“I’m so sorry for your loss,” he says. “She’s a beautiful baby. I have three of my own, all girls.”

“Oh, wow,” I say. “So, you got any tricks for me?”

“An armload,” he says. “For starters, at some point around three months, she’s going to think she forgot how to sleep. But don’t let her fool you. Give her time to work it out in her crib. She will.”

“I hate it when she cries,” I say, looking down at Ruby in the carrier. I rock back and forth gently, hoping to lull her to sleep. “It kills me.”

“My wife says the same thing.” He smiles, looking around the shop. “Daddies are better at not falling to pieces every time they hear a squawk.” I think of Gavin and how good he is with Ruby.

“This really is a lovely bookstore,” Greg continues. “You know, I came here as a child.”

“You did?”

“Yes,” he says. “Your aunt was quite a woman. I still remember the way she’d do the voices in books. It taught me to read to my children with more flair.”

“Wow,” I say, touched by his sentiments about my aunt. “I wish Ruby were here to hear that. It would have made her smile.”

He opens up his notebook and begins asking me questions about the history of the store, Ruby’s friendship with Margaret Wise Brown, the business’s uncertain financial future. I tell him everything I can think of and then he nods and closes his notebook. “Thank you,” he says. “I think I have everything I need. It will be a great story. I hope you get a lot of responses from it.”

“Me, too,” I say.

After her evening bottle, Ruby dozes off. I know I have about three hours before her next feeding, so I decide to assemble the guest list for the invitations to the fund-raiser. Gavin’s designer friend did a lovely job, and they’re now printed and sitting in boxes in the apartment, waiting to be addressed.

I think of all the people I know from my past and present: former school librarians, friends, teachers, Peter and Nate in New York, J.P. from the Seattle Public Library, the other shopkeepers on the street. I add in notable Seattleites like the mayor, the CEOs of Safeco and Boeing, both of whom I met at a bank party in New York several years ago, though I’m not counting on their remembering me. When I have a decent list compiled, I look up addresses online and finish my spreadsheet.

Ruby sleeps soundly as I press a stamp on each, then stack them into a box, which I’ll take to the post office tomorrow.

“There,” I say to myself with a sigh. “Let this bluebird fly. Please let it fly.”

I finish washing the dishes, then sit by the window and stare out at the half-moon in the clear sky. The city rests, and Green Lake sparkles in the moonlight. The street below is quiet, but just before Ruby wakes up for her ten o’clock feeding, a dark SUV drives by, slowing down in front of the bookstore. I clutch my phone, then open the window and lean out, making my presence known. The vehicle revs its engine and speeds off before I can get a license plate number.

T
he next day, I strap Ruby into the carrier and we walk to the nearby post office, where we mail out the invitations. “There goes our future, Ruby,” I say to her as I drop the stack into the mailbox. “Let’s hope for the best.”

We walk to Joe’s and I eagerly order a triple espresso, hoping the caffeine will jump-start my energy level but not my blood pressure. Joe comes out from behind the counter with a big smile on his face.

“How is Miss Ruby this morning?” he asks, all grins.

“Great,” I say. “But I think she’s starting to mix up her nights with her days, which means I’m not getting a ton of sleep.”

“Well, I have something to perk you up.”

“I already ordered a triple Americano,” I say. “That should help.”

He shakes his head, and holds a copy of today’s
Seattle Times
. “I mean this.” He points to the front page, and there I am, standing in front of the store with Little Ruby in my arms. The photographer came out to snap our photo after the reporter’s visit. Ruby was fussy, and I felt nervous in front of the camera. I didn’t expect the photo to turn out, but I’m amazed at how vivid it looks, and Ruby actually looks like she’s smiling. I take a closer look and see the awning of Bluebird Books is front and center beneath the headline:
LOCAL WOMAN AIM
S TO SAVE HISTORIC C
HILDREN’S BOOKSTORE,
REPORTED INSPIRATION
FOR GOODNIGHT MOON
.

I gasp. “Wow. Ruby, look, we’re in the newspaper!”

“You sure are,” Joe says. “And you’d better go back to the store and hire an assistant, because your phone is going to be ringing off the hook today.”

I give him a confused look.

“For the fund-raiser,” he says. “You’re selling tickets, right?”

“Yes.”

“Can I buy one?”

“Of course you can,” I say. “I’d be so honored.”

“Good, my wife and I will be there.”

I smile and thank him, then head to the door, beaming. Maybe this will work out. Just maybe.

The phone in the bookstore begins to ring shortly after I put Ruby down for her nap. It startles me at first. In the time I’ve been at the store, it’s rung twice. Once, it was Mom; the second time, a telemarketer.

But now it rings nonstop. The first call comes from a man at a big architectural firm downtown who tells me his mother took him to Bluebird Books as a child; he wants to purchase four tickets to the fund-raiser. The next call is from a local author, who buys two. And on, and on, and on.

In an hour’s time, I’ve sold fifty-two tickets. More local media call. A reporter from Seattle’s NBC affiliate wants to know if I have any photos of Margaret Wise Brown in the bookstore (I tell her I’ll check and get back to her), and then someone from CNN calls saying they read the
Seattle Times
piece and wonder if I’ll be available for an interview tomorrow. Of course, I say yes.

Gavin walks in just as I hear Little Ruby begin to squawk on the monitor, which is when the phone rings again. “It’s ringing nonstop,” I say. “Do you mind getting her?”

“No problem,” he replies with a smile, heading to the stairs.

I pick up the phone again. “Bluebird Books,” I answer.

“Is this June Andersen?” the female caller asks. Her voice is clipped and professional.

“Yes,” I say. “How can I help you?”

“I’m Joan Cooper, assistant to Bill Gates. Mr. Gates read about the plight of your bookstore in the newspaper this morning and he asked me to get in touch with you.”

“Bill Gates?” I say, stunned. “
The
Bill Gates, as in, founder of Microsoft?”

“Yes,” the woman says. “You see, Mr. Gates grew up here in Seattle, and his mother took him and his siblings to your aunt’s bookstore often. He was especially fond of it.”

“He was?”

“Yes,” she replies. “And he believes you’re doing the community quite a service by stepping up to save the store. He and his wife would like to attend the fund-raising event. Is it possible to purchase two tickets? I’m sure he’d also be interested in sponsoring a portion of the event, as a way to bolster your fund-raising efforts. Of course, his security guards will also be traveling with him. There are four in total.”

“Really?” I say, still stunned. “I, I—yes! Yes, we’d love to have him. All of them. Please tell him how grateful I am for his support.”

“I will,” she says.

When I hang up the phone, Gavin is walking down the stairs with Ruby in one arm and a bottle in the other. “I thought she might be hungry.” He notices the smile on my face. “You look happy. Who was that on the phone?”

“Bill Gates’s assistant,” I say, still reeling.

“You’re kidding.”

“Not kidding. He and his wife are coming to our event!”

Gavin shakes his head in amazement.

“And so are fifty-some other people,” I add. The phone rings again. “There’s another.”

By the time the sun has set, I’ve sold 120 tickets, which, at 250 dollars apiece, equals thirty thousand dollars in funds raised for Bluebird Books. It won’t be enough to keep the debt collectors away, but Gavin and I have planned further donation opportunities for attendees during the event.

Once Little Ruby is changed and fed and sleeping soundly in her Pack ’n Play by my bed, I wander down to the bookstore with the monitor, and Gavin and I have a glass of wine before he heads back to the restaurant.

“What a day,” he says, grinning.

I nod. “I’m amazed that so many people feel so strongly about saving the store. I’m supposed to speak to CNN in the morning. Can you believe this?”

“I can,” he says. “What you’re doing is very worthy, and people immediately recognize that.”

“Boy,” I continue, “it’s amazing how life changes. Just a couple of months ago, I was a banker. A banker! And now, here I am, the owner of a bookstore, with a baby.”

Gavin smiles. “She’s about the most perfect little girl anyone could ever hope for.” A moment passes. “Are you going to let her call you Mom?”

I shake my head. “No. I may be her guardian, but her mother is in heaven, and she’ll always know that. I’m fine just being her aunt.” I gaze around at Aunt Ruby’s bookstore with its fresh coat of paint, tidy shelves, and whimsical curtains. “And aunts are pretty awesome people.”

After Gavin returns to the restaurant, I decide to go hunting for the next set of letters between Margaret and Ruby. I’ve been so consumed with Little Ruby and the fund-raiser, I haven’t thought much about the letters, but now I turn to the bookshelf in anticipation. I feel I’m nearing the end of the scavenger hunt, and while I can’t be certain, it seems there’s a revelation ahead, something important Ruby wanted me to see. I search the shelves until I find a section of Pippi Longstocking books, then identify the first edition and find the letters. I read the first of them.

September 28, 1946

Dear Margaret,

All is well here. Anthony and I are happily looking ahead to fall, a lovely season in Seattle. I do wish you could come back and see it.

Every day the bookstore is filled with children and their parents. It is becoming a haven for young readers, and I am so delighted to see it. Remember the little writer’s workshop you taught at the store the day before you left? Well, a little boy named Billy brought back a book he wrote, inspired by his time working with you. And, Brownie, it’s quite good! Just think of how you inspired him by being here. That moment will live on, and maybe one day he’ll be a writer like you.

Anthony is well. He’s been busy with work of late, which means I’m spending more time alone than I like. I hate to sound paranoid, but sometimes I get the feeling that I’m being followed. I realize it’s probably only my imagination, but sometimes when I’m taking the rubbish out to the alley, or locking up the shop at night, I feel like someone’s there watching me. The other night, a car sped up to the block outside and slowed down and stayed there. The driver was looking into the bookstore for quite some time. When I went to the window, the car sped off. I may tell Anthony about it when he returns from his trip.

I’m afraid I have bad news about Lucille. Encouraged by the card she sent announcing her pregnancy, I picked out a baby gift (a little yellow pajama set with a hat) and brought it to her home yesterday. Well, little did I know that she was hosting a luncheon with all of her girlfriends. You should have seen the way she stepped out to the porch as if she dreaded letting them see me. As if I was an embarrassment to her. She told me it wasn’t a good time, and asked me to leave. Just like that. Brownie, I fear it’s too late for us. She will never accept me for who I am. To her, I will always be someone whose lifestyle she rejects.

Well, I miss you and hope you are well! Send copies of the moon book as soon as they’re off press. I simply cannot wait to see them!

Yours,

Ruby

P.S. Oh, and I know it may be too late to make such a suggestion (as it is, you may be at the printing stage now), but I had a little idea for the moon book: Instead of using the word “porridge,” which sounds a little stiff, why don’t you use “mush”? My sister and I used to call it that, and it sounds more playful, somehow. Also, it rhymes with “hush,” which would work well in a bedtime story. What do you think? Take it or leave it!

October 4, 1946

Dear Ruby,

I not only loved your suggestion for “hush” and “mush,” but I immediately took it to my editor and she did too! So, we’ve altered the manuscript accordingly. I ought to give you a byline on this book, my dear.

And, I have a title. We’re calling the book
Goodnight
Moon
! What do you think? I feel that it has a nice ring to it, and so does Clem. Have I mentioned him? He’s the illustrator, and a dear friend. He and his wife, Posey, are coming to stay with me at Vinalhaven soon. Wish you could join us. We’d be quite a foursome!

Have I told you, my dear friend, just how meaningful your letters are to me? I hope that in a hundred years, when someone takes it upon herself to write a biography of either of us (what fun to think about, though I daresay I’d probably read mine shrieking and squealing through parted fingers), they’ll stumble upon these letters and see how truly wonderful you are. After all, what is life without good friends?