Goodnight June: A Novel (8 page)

I’m going to call the place Bluebird Books. What do you think? Oh Brownie, I can’t wait for you to see it! It has a fireplace on the first floor (and radiator heating, of course, but the fireplace is a nice touch), high ceilings for lots of bookshelves (Anthony’s bringing in a carpenter to install ladders on wheels so I can reach books on the top shelves), and big cheerful windows. Oh, and the upper-floor apartment is lovely. I’ll need to learn to cook so I can make Anthony dinner.

Can you feel my happiness beaming off the page?

I’ll write more soon and will think constantly of you and your health.

With love from Seattle,

Ruby

I smile when I think of Ruby keeping that gum wrapper all those years, and I instinctively open the little wooden box on the nightstand in search of it. I sift through a heap of jewelry—rings, bracelets, and necklaces with their chains snarled together—and then I see a bit of wax paper toward the back. I pull it out and press it to my nose. The scent of bubblegum has long since worn off, but its spirit has not. The memory of Ruby and Lucille’s great adventure lives on. I can almost hear their girlhood voices giggling as they run along the dusty road swinging their arms gleefully as they go.

I laugh to myself, remembering the time Amy and I pulled the cases off our pillows and tied them to sticks (something we saw in an episode of
The Smurfs
), then packed them with all the essentials—stuffed animals, Amy’s beloved blanket, a few picture books—and set out to the sidewalk, where we planned to run away. And we did. We roamed the neighborhood until after dark, when we were both so hungry, we considered climbing a tree to pick apples (my idea). In the end, we just went home. Nobody came looking for us like in the TV shows. And isn’t that why kids run away, anyway? So their parents will come searching for them with open arms and a never-ending stream of I-love-yous? Yes, but Amy and I just walked in the door to a dark house, with sad hearts and empty bellies.

The memory of Amy haunts me. And maybe it always will. Maybe I’ll just have to be OK with that.

There’s something else haunting me too: the mysterious man in my aunt’s past. I pull out my laptop and plop down on Ruby’s bed. I key the name Anthony Magnuson into Google, and thousands of results come back. A
Seattle Times
obituary dated December 9, 1974, is the first link I click on:

ANTHONY MAGNUSON REMEMBERED
FOR HIS CHARITABLE LIFE

Seattle mourns the loss of Anthony Magnuson. He died Tuesday at Swedish Hospital from injuries he sustained in an ice skating accident at Green Lake. He was 62. Magnuson is remembered for his work for the Magnuson Charitable Foundation, which his father founded a century ago. He is survived by his wife, Victoria, and his daughter, May. Magnuson’s will stated that he did not want a funeral. Remembrances may be sent to the Magnuson Charitable Foundation.

I do a search for the Magnuson Charitable Foundation and click on a link that takes me to its website. The bios in the About Us tab identify Victoria Gerhardt Magnuson, wife of Anthony, as emeritus fellow, and their daughter, May Magnuson, as executive director. I click on the embedded e-mail address and draft a note:

Dear May,

My name is June Andersen. My aunt, Ruby, recently passed away, leaving me her business, Bluebird Books. I am writing because I came across some letters that indicate that your father and my aunt may have been close at one time. This chapter in my aunt’s life is unknown to me. I apologize if I’ve stirred up any unpleasant memories from the past. I’m staying at the bookstore now while I sort through her estate. If you have a moment to talk, I’d be grateful.

Very best wishes,

June Andersen

After I send the e-mail, I scroll through my in-box to find a dozen or more e-mails from Arthur. He’s fuming, as evidenced by his excessive use of exclamation points and all caps. He wants to know where I am and when I will be returning to work. Overcome with guilt—and maybe fear, I’m not sure—I hit the Reply button and with tingly fingers I type:

Arthur, so sorry for my delay. I’ve been consumed in matters of my aunt’s estate. I hate to say this, but I need more time before I can return to the city. I thought I could wrap things up in a week, but it’s not looking likely. Please bear with me. I’ll keep you posted. —June

I’m overcome with a panicky flutter in my stomach when I consider the very real possibility that my employment is on the line. If I lose my job, I lose all that I am. And I can’t do that. No, I have to speed up the process of liquidating the shop. I decide to start with the attorney to get a sense of the financial health of my aunt’s estate. Is the bookstore mortgaged? Is there any outstanding debt? I’ll need these answers before approaching a developer. The attorney has all the pertinent information recorded for me; I’ll just need to request it in an e-mail, which I do immediately.

After I’ve sent the message, I close my laptop and take one of my pills. I lean back on Ruby’s bed, close my eyes, and lie still until my heartbeat stabilizes again and I consider my predicament with Bluebird Books.

Uncertainty is weakness, or so Arthur always says. But maybe he’s wrong. Maybe uncertainty is simply
human
. I consider each scenario carefully. There’s my life in New York. A sure thing. I get up in the morning, I go to work, I kick butt at my job, and for that I’m paid well. But life here in Seattle? It’s less sure. In fact, it’s risky. Didn’t I just read a
Wall Street Journal
article about the forthcoming doomsday for booksellers? Even if I do try to save Bluebird Books, even if I put every drop of my blood, sweat, and tears into it, it might still fail. I nod to myself. From a business perspective, it’s like the underperforming stock you know you shouldn’t put more money into. All the analysts say sell. So why can’t I get rid of that quiet voice inside that says buy?

I let out an exhausted sigh and close my eyes again, and when sleep comes, I don’t fight it. I dream of a garden where books grow on trees, and Ruby is there, rocking in her chair, smiling at me as Gavin and I read. I see Amy, too, skipping across the garden on the arm of that doctor from the ER in New York, and the happiness fades.

I open my eyes, disoriented. How long have I slept? The sunlight is fading, and I look at the clock: It’s nearly five, and I remember the dinner at Antonio’s. I dress quickly, selecting a black pencil skirt and tights and a red sweater. I pull my hair back into a tidy ponytail, then slip into a pair of suede heeled booties. I don’t know what to expect tonight, only that I’m showing up, and trusting Gavin.

I step out to the sidewalk, and I can hear jazz notes beckoning a couple about my age into the entrance to Antonio’s. My heart flutters for a moment. What am I doing? I take a deep breath and walk to the restaurant, placing my hand on the doorknob. Through the glass door, I see Gavin in a crisp white shirt, with an apron tied around his waist. As he crosses the dining room to greet an older couple, he notices me standing outside. His eyes meet mine, and he rushes to the door.

“Right this way,” he says cheekily, holding it ajar.

I smile and walk inside. A three-piece band is wedged into a corner. They play their instruments softly, and the melody seeps through the air, mixing with the aroma coming from the kitchen. I breathe it all in.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Gavin continues. “We’re short staffed.”

“Oh?”

He nods. “Adrianna has the flu, and one of our servers had to fly to California this afternoon for a family emergency.” He hands me an apron. “Can you wait tables?”

“Wait . . . tables?” I shake my head. “I’ve never—”

“It’s not rocket science,” he says. “Just ask them what they’d like, bring out the food, then check on them every now and then.” He doesn’t wait for my response before handing me a little notepad and pen. His eyes are pleading, sincere. “Thanks,” he continues, before I can respond. “I owe you,
big time
.”

A moment later, he disappears behind the swinging door that leads to the kitchen. I turn to face the restaurant guests, and the clarinet player, an older man with a kind face, gives me a knowing smile.

I can do this
, I tell myself as I tie the apron around my waist. I take a calming breath, then walk to the nearest table. “Good evening,” I say. “I’m going to be running the dining room this evening for Gavin. May I bring you something to drink?”

At half past ten, I’ve brought out the last order of tiramisu, when Gavin flips the sign in the door to
CLOSED
. I’m wiping the counter as the final guests file out the door, one a bit tipsy from too much wine. I watch as she trips on the sidewalk; her date catches her arm.

My feet are killing me, so I slip off my boots and collapse into a stool at the counter. Gavin leans over the counter beside me. “You were amazing tonight,” he says. “May I hire you?”

I smile. “Well, I don’t know if I’d say I was amazing. I’m sorry about the ravioli incident.”

He laughs, recalling the plate I dropped on the dining room floor. “It’s why we don’t have carpet. Easy cleanup.”

“Well, thanks for not firing me,” I say.

“Are you hungry?”

“I’m starved. Nothing like waiting tables all evening to work up an appetite. I think I may have drooled a little when the guy at the corner table ordered the puttanesca.”

As I untie my apron, he turns to the stereo system behind the bar and flips it on. Soft guitar music seeps through the speakers as he reaches for a wine bottle high on the shelf. He uncorks it with precision and selects two wineglasses, filling each halfway.

“To new beginnings,” he says, holding his glass out to mine.

“To new beginnings,” I reply.

“Come on,” he says, taking my hand. “Now I get to cook for you.”

I slip my shoes back on and follow him into the kitchen. The lights are dimmed, and the space has a different, more intimate feel than it did before. Gavin selects a pan hanging on the wall and drizzles olive oil inside before adjusting the flame on the stove. “This,” he says, pointing to the pan, “is what I cook for someone who’s grappling with a big decision.”

I shake my head. “What do you mean? I—”

“You’ve just inherited a bookstore thousands of miles away from your home and work—of course you’re going to be making decisions. Huge decisions.” I watch the gas flame on the stove flicker as he adds garlic, then gives the pan a little shake. The basil goes in next, and then a heaping pile of chopped tomatoes. “Pasta arrabiata always helps.” He mixes in a generous sprinkle of red chili flakes. “It’s the spice that gives you clarity.”

“I wish it were that easy,” I say, smiling.

“It is,” he says, letting the sauce simmer as he takes a seat beside me at the table. A moment later, he tops off our wineglasses, then turns to me again. “Tell me more about you.”

“What do you want to know?” I ask a little cautiously.

“Well, I know that you grew up here, and that you left and pretty much never came back. Why?”

“Would you believe me if I said it was the rain?”

“No,” he says with a smile. “I’ve lived here long enough to know that Seattleites aren’t scared off by the rain. Affinity for moisture is in your blood.”

“You’re right,” I say. “We also don’t use umbrellas.”

“I know!” he says, grinning. “What’s with that? It can be a flash flood, and no one even bothers with them. And what’s the deal with all the flip-flops—in January!”

I smile slyly, then shrug. “What can I say? We’re an unusual bunch.”

“So, what was the real reason? Why did you leave?”

I look away from him for a moment. “For the same reasons anyone leaves their home, I guess. I wanted to prove myself.”

“Prove what?”

“I had a fight with my mother about that,” I say. “She could never understand me. We’re so different; always have been. I didn’t want to grow up to be like her. She was someone who viewed work as an obligation, a burden, which I know now was because she never found her passion in life. It’s hard to feel passionate about a job at the grocery store.”

Gavin nods. “Unless you
love
your work at the grocery store.”

“True,” I say. “But she didn’t love her work. She never did.”

“So you wanted to find your calling?”

“Yes and no,” I say. “I’d always thought I’d stay in Seattle, and help Ruby with the bookstore. In fact, as a child, that’s all I wanted to do. But after the drama with my mom, I felt I needed to leave to find myself. Does that make sense?”

“Oh yes,” he says. “I know this story all too well.”

I nod. “So I decided to go as far away as I could. Ruby attended college on the East Coast, so I applied to some schools, and eventually settled on New York University. Along with my acceptance letter from the admissions office was an award of a full scholarship.”

“Wow, you must have earned really good grades in high school, then.”

I shake my head. “No. I mean, they were good. A’s and B’s, but I didn’t have a 4.0. Not even close. The reason for the scholarship was never fully explained beyond that it came from one of the school’s anonymous donors who wanted to recognize my merit as a student from a low-income home in Seattle. But I was grateful for the opportunity, grateful for it every day. Because of that scholarship, I got my degree in finance.”