Goodnight June: A Novel

by Sarah Jio

  “Wow,” I say. “So you’d take over the business.”

  “Maybe,” she says. “I still have to think it all through, especially how my leaving would affect . . . Antonio’s.”

  I nod.

  “Well, Gavin’s in the kitchen right now,” she continues. “He doesn’t know I’m here. I think you should go over and see him today. Talk to him. The two of you need a fresh start without me in the picture.” She pauses for a moment. “I’m not sure what I’ll do after San Francisco, but I think a few days away will give me clarity.” She stands up and smiles. “But I have to warn you, Gavin snores. And he’s a bear in the mornings. And he doesn’t do the dishes, unless you beg him, and he will probably forget your birthday. And Valentine’s Day. But other than that, he’s about the best guy you could ever find.” She takes a long look at me and before she turns to the door, I think I detect a glint of moisture in her eyes. “Best of luck to you, June. I really mean it.”

  Before I can say anything else, she’s gone.

  The real estate agent arrives at two. He’s about my age, with hair that’s slicked back. His smile reveals unusually white teeth. “You must be June,” he says in the doorway. “I’m John from Coldwell Banker Bain.”

  “Yes,” I say. “Hi, John. Come in.”

  “Quite a place this is,” he says. There’s an excited glint in his eye.

  “Yeah,” I say a little nostalgically. “Isn’t it something?”

  I can see by the look on his face that he doesn’t share my sentimentality about the store. “Imagine all the work you’d have to put in to get this place functioning again,” he says, shaking his head. He picks up a book lying on top of a shelf, then tosses it down like a piece of junk mail. “You’re smart to think of selling. Nobody’s making money at books these days. It’s an uphill battle. Might as well cash out now.” He surveys the shop and points up to the ceiling. “The place has good bones. It’ll likely appeal to a condo developer, though they’ll most likely be interested in bringing in the wrecking ball.”

  I know I’ve invited him here, and I know he’s simply assessing the store from a place of dollars and cents, which is his job, but I don’t like it. I don’t like it at all.

  He points to the rug with the cushions splayed out on the floor, where Ruby used to hold court for her daily story time, and laughs to himself. “Do kids even go to bookstores anymore?”

  “Of course they do,” I say, annoyed by his bravado. “This bookstore is beloved by generations of children.”

  “Maybe not this generation,” he retorts. “My sister has kids, and they don’t read books. They do everything on their iPad.”

  I feel my cheeks redden. How dare he walk in here and declare my aunt’s legacy meaningless. How dare he imply that books are dead. This man embodies the type of thinking that Ruby despised. And even if I am going to sell the shop, I don’t need to work with someone with such a cavalier attitude about literature. Real estate agents are a dime a dozen, anyway. I’ll find another.

  “You know,” I say suddenly, “I don’t think this is a good fit.”

  The agent looks confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean that I don’t think this is going to work out. I’d prefer to work with someone who has a vision for this space. And you clearly don’t.”

  He looks panicked. “Oh, I think you misinterpreted me. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

  “Well,” I say, flipping on my business face, “you did.” I extend my hand. “Thank you for your time.”

  He shakes my hand regretfully. “Well, you have my card. If you change your mind—”

  “Yes, thank you,” I say, walking him to the door and closing it behind him.

  I sink into a wingback chair and make a promise to myself: If I sell the store, I’ll need to find an agent who respects the legacy of Bluebird Books the way I do.

  I remember the last mention of a book in the previous pair of letters: Calico Bush. I read it when I was eleven. I search the shelves until I find the first edition and open the cover, where the letters are waiting.

  May 25, 1946

  Dear Ruby,

  I don’t like the sound of the suspicious visitors to the shop. But try not to dwell on it. Keep your doors locked at night. Be diligent, but don’t let a few odd incidents rob you of your joy. The type of happiness you have is what everyone wants. If you leave it out for the taking, it will be taken. Guard your joy, and don’t let anyone snatch it.

  Oh, how I do envy what you have with Anthony! Of course, I am so very happy for you, even if my own prospects are a bit dire.

  I talk a lot about how unconventional I am, which is true, but I will let you in on a secret: I do dream of the happily ever after too, Ruby. But with each passing year, I have to wonder if it’s in the cards for me. I’ve had so many failed love affairs that I’m afraid the pile of wilted roses might reach the height of the Empire State Building.

  Even still, I haven’t given up on love just yet. Your happiness gives me hope.

  Meanwhile, the wheels keep turning. They’re doing an article about me in Life magazine. Evidently I have sold nearly one million copies of children’s books over the past years, which was news to me. (I can only keep track of what is directly in front of me, and today I just received finished copies of Little Fur Family, which, I must say, came out quite well. Don’t bother buying it. I’ll have Harper send you a box.) Well, back to Life. Apparently, they think people want to know more about the woman behind the stories.

  I find it curious that I am scheduled to be in the issue with Ingrid Bergman on the cover (or so the rumor is). Ingrid Bergman and me! Maybe my father will finally take my work seriously after he sees the issue (though I won’t count on it). I suspect Roberta will find it all amusing. She’s coming around, by the way. She sent me a postcard from her recent trip to Niagara Falls, and that cheered me. Another step forward for Operation Sisterhood.

  Ursula, my editor at Harper, arranged the Life interview. A photographer and reporter will meet me at Cobble Court (you know, the little cottage in Manhattan that I rent as my office), where I imagine I must look presentable and answer questions intelligibly, and hopefully intelligently.

  I am really quite shy, as you know, so this doesn’t bode well for me. But I will smile, and I will answer the reporter’s questions. I’ll probably have to defend my work, as I always seem to be doing at parties these days. At a friend’s party last week, I sat beside the head of Random House. He looked over at me through his spectacles and made a comment about an award one of his authors won, and then he smirked and said something like, “But you wouldn’t know anything about that, writing baby books.” Baby books. He laughed heartily. His ample belly shook beneath his starched shirt. And what did I do? I poured my drink on his lap and walked out with a satisfied smile on my face.

  Well, you wouldn’t believe what showed up at Cobble Court the next morning: a flower arrangement with a card that read, “Forgive me.”

  I have decided to use the Life magazine interview to explain that I do what I do because it is a vocation just like any other—granted, one I fell into. But sometimes one must fall into their life’s work this way, like Alice stumbling into the rabbit hole, simply because we, if left to our own devices, would only take more sensible paths, and ruin our destinies.

  I’m always feeling as if I must defend my work, defend its worthiness. What I might say to the Life reporter is that I do not write for accolades or awards, for money or praise. I don’t even write for children, not in a direct way. I write because of the child that is still in me.

  For example, yesterday, I woke up after dreaming a tale of a dog who built himself a house, and did not think to myself, “The children of the world will love this story!” I thought to myself, “I love this story!”

  Still, I carry with me the sentiments of others who see my work as unimportant, those w
ho, like the Random House executive, refuse to take me seriously. In these moments, I do wish I could be like Virginia Woolf or Gertrude Stein. I often think about the respect they commanded upon entering a room.

  Clem and Posy are coming over for drinks this evening at Cobble Court. As you know, Clem is the illustrator I work with most closely. Tonight we’ll talk about a new idea, one partially inspired by your prodding to write something about the moon. I think we will.

  With all the love and affection in the world, my dear friend,

  Brownie

  June 2, 1946

  Dear Brownie,

  Life magazine! You will do fine in the interview. Just tell them what you wrote me. Speak from your heart and everyone will love you as I do.

  I do wish you didn’t have to run up against such scrutiny in literary circles. They’re snobs. Ignore them. (And, in all of your idolization of Gertrude Stein, remember her ill-fated attempt at publishing a children’s book? I know you loved the book, as you love everything she’s written, but I will remind you that children did not. As a bookseller, I saw firsthand how the copies languished on the shelf. My point being: Just as you aren’t a novelist, she is not a proficient teller of children’s tales. We all have our gifts.)

  I have been well. Though, Operation Sisterhood isn’t going as well over here as it seems to be on your side of the country. Lucille told me the idea of having a zoo outing was utterly childish, and, naturally, I got my feelings hurt. I’ve learned that it isn’t as easy as it sounds to put oneself out there repeatedly and to be continually denied by the other. I suspect there will come a time when I grow weary of such rejection, but I’m not ready to quit just yet.

  The shop is flourishing, and I’m counting my blessings. I love to read to the children on Wednesday mornings at story time. I love everything about Bluebird Books. It is, as Anthony had hoped, my haven.

  A real estate developer came into the shop yesterday and told me I ought to sell so they could build a department store in the space. He offered to pay me one and a half times more than what Anthony paid for it. You should have seen this man in his fancy suit and Italian leather shoes. He just waltzed in with paperwork and assumed I’d sign. When I refused, he laughed and said I was a fool to think I’d make any money selling books to children. I was too stunned to respond and he left before I could tell him off. But I still have the last word, at least here, to you, Brownie. For we know the importance of the book industry. We know the importance of literature. It doesn’t always come with monetary reward, but just the same, I feel deeply that what we do, you and I, in our own different ways, is worthy.

  Well, that’s all for now. Until your next letter, I’ll be thinking of you, my friend.

  Yours,

  Ruby

  P.S. I got a shipment of the most delightful new books today. I must admit, I’d all but ignored the Little Golden Books imprint as the owner of Elliott Avenue Books had dismissed them as “fluff,” but you know, I do believe she was wrong! In looking through the latest titles, like Baby Looks, I wonder if more simple storylines might be refreshing to children. I often worry that we’re filling their heads with fairy tale after fairy tale, when in reality, I think they want to read about their own lives. In stories, children look for reflections of the world, so they can process and better understand it. Isn’t this what you’ve always called the “here and now” style of writing? Well, I see its value now more than ever.

  I tuck the letters in Ruby’s desk drawer, and think about her words: I’ve learned that it isn’t as easy as it sounds to put oneself out there repeatedly and to be continually denied by the other. Is that how Amy feels? Denied? Rejected? I remember the tone in her voice the last time she called—tired, sad, weary. What if she stops trying? What then? For so long, it’s been enough to know that she’s trying, even if I’m not reciprocating. There’s a sad sort of comfort in her letters, her calls. But when that one-way communication line goes completely dark, will I feel better or worse?

  If I search my heart, I already know the answer, and it scares me.

  Chapter 10

  I wait until the next morning to knock on the door of Antonio’s. I want to be sure Adrianna has had time to say her good-byes. And even despite all she’s said, I’m not certain that Gavin feels for me the way I think I do for him. And what if he still loves her, as she does him? Still, I venture over to Antonio’s at ten, and I’m startled to see a sign on the door: CLOSED.

  Closed. My heart sinks. While the restaurant doesn’t open for lunch until eleven thirty, Gavin’s always there early, with the door open. I peer through the window, and see a light on in the kitchen. I knock on the door, and a few moments later, Gavin appears through the swinging door. He smiles when he sees me.

  “Hi,” he says, opening the door.

  “Hi,” I reply, stepping inside. “The closed sign’s up—feeling introverted this morning?”

  He shrugs. “Adrianna came to talk to you, didn’t she?”

  “Yes,” I say, “but what does that have to do with the closed sign?”

  He nods. “With her leaving, I’m not sure if I can keep Antonio’s going by myself.” He looks around his beloved kitchen, and places his hands on the table. “I came in this morning and my confidence sank.”

  “That doesn’t sound like the can-do guy I know.”

  Gavin shakes his head. “Adrianna needs some time away, and I think I do too. I’ve been working so hard lately, and honestly, I haven’t had a day off since we opened this place.”

  I nod. “Then take a break—but don’t give up on what you love.”

  His eyes meet mine. “This past year, I’ve been so hell-bent on making the restaurant a success that I’ve forgotten to just take a deep breath, you know? To just live. There’s more to life than Antonio’s.”

  “Sure there is,” I say. “But you’re talking as if you’re thinking of closing . . . for good. I know you’d regret it.”

  “I might,” he says. “But for now, it feels like the right time to turn the page to the next chapter.”

  His eyes pierce mine, and I look down at my feet. Somehow I know that if I let his gaze hold mine, it will be like stepping off a cliff. No turning back. But I feel his fingers on my chin, tilting my face up to look at his.

  “Adrianna told me what she said to you. About us.”

  I search his eyes.

  “And I want you to know that I’m willing to give this a go if you’d like to.” He grins. “Sorry, I’m a little out of practice. What I mean is, I want to give this a go, and I hope you do too. The truth is, I’m crazy about you. I am. I want to take you to meet my friends, my family. June, I hope you want that too.”

  “I do,” I say. “At least, I think I do. It’s been so long since I trusted someone.”

  He pulls me closer to him. “Trust me,” he whispers in my ear.

  I nod, and he presses his lips lightly against mine. Our lips fit together perfectly, and I feel a surge of warmth. For a moment, everything is right with the world.

  “Let’s spend the day together,” Gavin says, kissing my forehead.

  “I’d love that,” I say. “What do you have in mind?”

  “Let’s take a ferry to the island.”

  “Bainbridge?” I’ve always loved the little island, just a half-hour ferry journey from Seattle. I hesitate for a moment, thinking of all I have to do at the store. The clock is ticking for me. My job is waiting in New York, and then there’s the issue of Bluebird Books. If I sell, I’ll need to find the right buyer. Someone who, even with plans to demolish, would respect its past, its legacy. I shudder inwardly, and look into Gavin’s eyes, so warm, so happy. I decide not to think about the store. Just for today.

  “Yeah, Bainbridge,” he says. “We can park downtown and walk on, maybe have lunch in Winslow. I know a little café that makes a mean crab melt. Then maybe we can walk along the w
aterfront, find a little park bench somewhere and just listen to the birds chirp. It’ll be good to get out of the city.”

  “You had me at crab melt,” I say, grinning.

  It’s a clear day, and Gavin and I choose to sit on the ferry’s top deck outside. It’s windy, and my hair will be blown to bits, but I don’t care.

  “I love seagulls, don’t you?” he says, tossing a cracker from his pocket out onto the deck, where a half dozen seagulls swoop in and peck at it.

  “Yeah,” I say. “It’s one of the things I missed most about Seattle. I love their calls. It’s a combination of a shriek and a scream, which sounds like it would be horrible. But, you know, I think it might actually be one of my most favorite sounds in the world.”

  “The sound of the sea,” Gavin says.

  I nod.

  “I’m glad to hear you speaking in nostalgic terms about Seattle,” he says. “It means you’re going to put down roots here.”

  I smile noncommittally, noticing his choice of the future tense, as if I’ve already parted ways with my old life in New York and am poised to begin my new life in Seattle as a children’s bookseller. If only it were that easy.

  “Do you think you’ll stay above the shop?”

  I think of myself living as Ruby did, rising with the sun streaming through those big old double-hung windows, making a simple breakfast, then running downstairs to reunite with her beloved Bluebird Books. I know why she loved it so, because I love it in the same way. And for the first time since arriving in Seattle, I realize that I can’t sell the shop, not to a developer, not to anyone. I can’t sell it, because I love it too much, and I see a life for myself here.