by Sarah Jio
As the plane takes off, I reach into my bag and pull out the new pair of letters, which I found on the top shelf in Ruby’s kitchen, in an old copy of Betty Crocker’s Cookbook. I read with anticipation.
July 5, 1946
Dear Brownie,
Thank you for your wonderful advice. As always, your words soothed my ache like medicine. I will give Lucille more time. Maybe we’ll have our European tour . . . someday.
I want to go to one of these literary parties you wrote of. I’d like to have a few words with anyone who finds your work “amusing.” How dare they belittle you! How dare they question the importance and brilliance of your work!
Just yesterday, a little boy and his mother came into the bookstore. You should have seen this child, so dejected and sad. His mother told me his father had died two months ago and he was having trouble at school. She said he didn’t have many friends, and she hoped to get him some books to cheer him up. So I led him to a bookshelf and pulled out a copy of When the Wind Blew. I told him I knew the author—you, of course—and his eyes lit up. I read the story to him. And though I’ve read it before, it hit me then that this was a story about finding happiness in the loneliest little corners of life; that even a cat or a dog can be a companion, which leads one to the notion that we are not as alone as we feel we might be. What a transformative message, for a child and an adult.
Well, Brownie, the little boy turned to me after I finished reading and he smiled. “Boxer’s my best friend,” he said.
“Boxer?” I asked.
“My dog,” he said cheerfully.
Next time you feel that your work doesn’t have merit, remember how your words cheered this little boy, how they lifted his spirits during a dark time in his life. Let the others be the serious “literary” types. Let them write big important novels and give each other accolades. But, in all of it, remember that you are doing very important work. And there are very few in this life as uniquely talented as you to do this work.
Margaret, I hope you’ll take what I’ve just written and put it in your pocket and save it. When you’re feeling down about your work, your purpose, may you take it out and remember just how important you are.
With all my love,
Ruby
P.S. Anthony invited me to accompany him on a business trip to Miami. He says he’ll get a car to take me to Key West for a day or two while he’s tied up with work. Key West! I admit, all I’ve been able to think about in the past few days is a) I need to find a swimsuit, and b) What are the chances of running into Ernest Hemingway?
I study the letter carefully and see that Margaret must have heeded Ruby’s advice, because the letter has obviously been folded many times. Its creases are very deep and worn, as if she might have done just what Ruby suggested. I hope you’ll take what I’ve just written and put it in your pocket and save it. She must have done just that.
July 12, 1946
Dear Ruby,
Your letter arrived just before I left for Maine, and I’m so grateful it did, for you saved me from myself. I might have spent the entire monthlong holiday trying to be someone I will never be. And when I say that, I mean a novelist. I suppose there will always be a part of me that wonders if I could do it. And maybe I could. But what you say is true. I have been granted a special talent, and it’s one I shouldn’t be ashamed of. Thank you for reminding me of that, my dear friend.
Maine is lovely. Warm and quiet, just me and the creatures. Frogs croaking at dawn; jackrabbits hopping through the morning mist; dragonflies buzzing in the tall grass; crickets chirping at dusk. Time passed slowly. In fact, I was oblivious to it entirely, which is always the best time spent. I would find myself lying on a blanket in the grass with a book, and I’d doze off. When I awoke, I didn’t know if it was the next day or an hour later. Everyone should experience such marvelous laziness.
I thought of you often, Ruby. I’d look up at the moon at night and think of you staring at the same moon. When do you leave for Miami? I must say, I’m tempted to find a swimsuit and join you both there. I’m dying to meet Anthony, and then there’s Ernest. Did I ever tell you that we met at a party in New York last year? He’d had far too much to drink when he told me I looked like Lana Turner, but I have to admit, even despite his inebriation, I did find him altogether charming. What a pair we’d make. The hotheaded literary don and the children’s book author. It’s almost too hilarious to think about.
Well, I’m off to a meeting with my editor. I suppose we’ll be talking about all things Little Fur Family. In keeping with Operation Sisterhood, I will bring Roberta the very first copy, with a yellow ribbon tied around it.
Write soon, and let’s make plans for Key West.
With all my love and adoration,
M.W.B.
Sharon, my real estate agent, stands in the kitchen of my New York City apartment. She wears a black suit jacket and skirt, with heels so high, they make my feet hurt just looking at them. “Well,” she says skeptically, “it will be a challenge.”
Sharon helped me buy the apartment five years ago, which, sadly, was the peak of the real estate market. I paid more than the asking price because there had been a bidding war. But now? Sharon explains that the market is flooded with similar listings and there will be no bidding wars. In fact, we’ll be lucky to get even one full-price offer.
“You’re going to have to lower your expectations for the sale,” she says, walking to the living room. She runs her finger along the edge of the old mantel, which I intended to have repainted but never did. She attempts to smooth a bubble of peeling paint, then frowns. “It’s a buyers’ market now.”
I gaze out the big windows that look out to the balcony and views of New York City beyond, and I shake my head. “Sharon, I have to sell the co-op for what I paid for it, or more.”
She sighs. “Well, if you want my advice, I’d suggest sitting on it for a while. Maybe get a renter in here. Then, in a few years, maybe there’ll be less inventory to compete with and you can get your price.”
I shake my head and tell her about the bookstore in Seattle. “I can’t. I need to cash out. I need the money for Bluebird Books.”
“Well,” she says, obviously disappointed, “I can’t promise you success, but I will certainly do my best.”
“That’s all I can ask, I guess.”
“When do you want the listing to go live?”
“Tomorrow,” I say.
“That quick? You sure you don’t want to think about options a little?”
I shake my head. “It’s clear to me what I need to do.” I try to project confidence, but my heart is fluttering, even though I made sure to take my medication before Sharon arrived.
She nods. “OK then, will we need to stage it?”
“No,” I say. “I’ll leave the furniture. Moving it to Seattle isn’t practical, as my aunt’s place is furnished. I’ll just pack my personal belongings. The movers are coming later today.” I don’t tell her that I don’t want any reminders of my old life, my old self. I want to shed my New York self like molted skin.
“OK,” she says. “The furniture will help. I can have a photographer come by this afternoon, so I can get the photos for the listing. Will that work?”
I nod, and her business face melts for a moment. “Remember when I first showed you this apartment?”
I smile to myself. I’d just been promoted at the bank, and I had the feeling of invincibility. I walked into the open house and fell in love with the apartment instantly. It didn’t matter that there was a six-way bidding war; I knew I’d make this place mine.
“You’ve changed,” Sharon says, clutching her Louis Vuitton purse. She looks at me curiously.
“I have,” I say simply. “I want different things now.” We stand together in silence for a moment. “Or maybe I always wanted those things, but I just didn’t know it yet.”
The movers arrive at two, and at my direction, they box up my closets and drawers, clear out the books from my shelves. “All the furniture stays,” I say.
They shrug as if they’ve heard stranger things from people before. The lead guy, who introduced himself as Jose, has kind eyes. He works meticulously to tape my boxes of clothing and shoes. I remember him admiring the glass entryway table. The piece was picked out by my decorator when I first moved in; I always hated it.
“Hey,” I say, pointing to the table. “Would you like to have this one?” I see a gold wedding band on his left hand. “Maybe for your wife?”
“Really?” he says, surprised.
I nod. “It’s yours if you’d like it.”
“Thank you, ma’am,” he says, beaming, before returning to the task at hand.
Peter texts me that he’s going to be late, so I slide into a booth at the Fifty-sixth Street Bistro and order a gin and tonic for me and a martini for him. I gaze out the window and think about how long it takes to build a life. The many ladder steps you climb in a career. The laborious task of setting up a home, buying furniture and throw pillows, and curating the collection like a museum. Then there’s the art of honing your identity—your favorite restaurants, where you shop for groceries, get your coffee in the morning. And then, just like that—in a single afternoon, really—you can simply light a match and let it burn.
Peter arrives just as I finish my drink and the waitress brings me another.
“My girl!” he exclaims, leaning in to give me a big hug.
“It’s so good to see you,” I say, smiling. “How’s Nate?”
“Good as ever,” he says with a smile. Peter and his boyfriend, Nate, recently purchased a brownstone in Brooklyn, and they had me over for dinner the month before I left for Seattle. “We finally got the living room paneling done.”
“I bet it looks amazing,” I say, thinking about what it might feel like to put down roots the way Peter and Nate have. This is to be their only house. They spent a fortune on the place, which ultimately became affordable when Nate’s parents gave them the money for the down payment. In some ways, I envy them. I envy the certainty of their lives, when mine feels more like a box whose possessions have been scattered all over the floor. Picking them up and setting everything back into place feels exhausting now.
“Aw,” he says, “what’s with the sad face?”
He leans in to hug me again, and then sets his overcoat on the hook on the outside of our booth.
“I was just thinking about how much things have changed,” I say. “I never thought I’d leave New York. I thought this was me.”
“It still can be,” he says. “I mean, I am slightly biased, but I’m here to tell you that you don’t have to go. Do Nate and I need to launch a Keep June in New York City campaign?”
“You’re adorable, you know?” I take a sip of my drink, and grin. “No, I have to go.”
“You’ve fallen in love with the bookstore, haven’t you?” he asks. I already filled him in on the situation by phone from Seattle.
“Yes,” I say. “And I think I’ve also fallen in love with a man.”
He raises his right eyebrow and gestures to the waitress for a refill for both of us. “The plot thickens,” he says. “Cute?”
“Very.”
“Good heart?”
“Huge heart.”
“Then you have to go,” he says. “As much as I hate the thought of you on the other side of the country, you know I’m a sucker for true love.”
“Then you should hear about my aunt Ruby’s story,” I say.
Peter looks intrigued.
“She was in love, all her adult life, with a married man, who bought her the bookstore,” I explain. “His name was Anthony.”
“So she was a kept woman?”
“No, nothing like that,” I say. “It was . . . somehow sweeter than that.”
“And did they ever marry?”
“No,” I say. “His wife refused to give him a divorce. So he divided his time between his life with her and with my aunt. And yet, Ruby loved him fiercely, until his death.”
“How’d he die?”
“This is the tragic part,” I say. “My aunt got pregnant in her forties, which I think was a shock to both of them. And Anthony died one day when they were ice skating. He fell and hit his head. Just like that.”
“Just like that,” Peter says, rubbing his forehead. “It’s tragic.”
I nod. “Their relationship was obviously far from perfect, but if we could all find an ounce of the love that Ruby and Anthony shared, we’d be doing very well.”
“Sounds like you’ve found it.”
“Maybe I have,” I say. “Time will tell. But first I have to save Bluebird Books.” I glance out the window at the New York street beyond. “I can’t explain it,” I continue, shaking my head. “I think I’ve always known, deep down, that I belong in Seattle, at the bookstore. I just didn’t feel it was a purpose, a calling, until now. Peter, I desperately want to save the store. I hope it wasn’t a pain for you to crunch all those numbers.”
He holds up his hand as if to say, “Nonsense!” then reaches for his brown leather messenger bag and pulls out a file folder. Peter was my friend before he became my accountant, but I soon learned that he’s as good with numbers as he is with friendship.
He sets a spreadsheet on the table so we can both see it.
“If I clear everything out, will it be enough? I mean, enough to save the store and to live on?”
“Honey,” he says soberly, “I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but I don’t think so. I took a look at your aunt’s debt, and here’s the thing—you’re going to have to sell the apartment at a profit. You were mortgaged pretty high on that place, and you no longer have an income. Even if you clear out your savings and IRA, which I would not recommend doing—even then, you still might only make it work by the skin of your teeth.”
My heart sinks. “Oh.”
Peter pauses for a long moment. “You could ask your old boss . . . Arthur. Maybe he could help.”
I shake my head. “Are you kidding? No. I could never do that. It would be like crawling to Potter.”
“To Potter?”
“You know, in the movie It’s a Wonderful Life, when Jimmy Stewart has to swallow his pride and ask Mr. Potter for the money to repay his debt.”
“Oh stop,” Peter says. “You’re overdramatizing this. Just send him an e-mail. Tell him the trouble you’re in. You worked for the guy, for what, like, ten years? He’s got to have a heart.”
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
“Sure he does,” Peter says. “What did you always call him? The best jerk in the world?”
“The nicest asshole I’ve ever met.”
“See?” he says.
“But I don’t think it’s a fifty-fifty thing. I think the asshole side outweighs the nice side, by a long shot.”
Peter takes a long sip of his martini. “Still, I think it’s worth a shot. What do you have to lose?”
“My pride,” I say. “It takes a lot to crawl back to Potter.”
He grins and grabs my hand. “The thumb-wrestling champion makes the call. You win, you do it your way. I win, you go to Arthur.”
I roll my eyes but play along, mostly because I always beat Peter at thumb wrestling.
“On your mark,” he says, “get set, go!”
He goes in for the (thumb) jugular. I wriggle free from his grasp and put the clamp down, but not hard enough—he extricates his thumb and is back in the running.
“I’m not going to lose,” he says. “I won’t let you give up on your destiny.”
“My destiny, eh?” I say, trying my hardest to pin him (er, his thumb). “And who says my destiny isn’t to marry Ryan Gosling and have six children?”
&nbs
p; “Because, shhh, don’t tell Nate, but it’s my destiny to marry Ryan Gosling,” he says with a victorious grin, before clamping my thumb down with his and holding it down.
“No,” I say. “Rematch!”
“No rematch. I won, fair and square. Now, you have to talk to Arthur.”
I lean back in my chair and realize that Peter’s right. “OK. I’ll send him an e-mail. But you know he’s just going to rub my face in it.”
“So what if he does? At least you’ll give it the old college try.”
I roll my eyes. “Who says that?”
Peter folds his arms across his chest. “Smart people.”
“Smart people from 1982.”
We pretend to be angry at each other for about three seconds before we hug.
“I’m going to miss you,” he says.
“I’m going to miss you, too,” I say as my eyes well up with fresh tears. Suddenly I’m questioning everything. I left Seattle when I was eighteen. I’m a New Yorker now. “Maybe this is a big mistake. Maybe I’m not supposed to move to do this.”
“Honey,” he says. “Don’t second-guess yourself. Even though I haven’t met Gavin, I can tell that he makes you happy. Trust yourself, OK?”
I nod. Turns out, it’s harder than you think to trust yourself. It’s easier to trust Peter. So I do that.
That night, my last night in my New York City apartment, I pull out my laptop and address an e-mail to Arthur. I think of all the previous times I’ve e-mailed him to report on a successful foreclosure or an ambush on a small business, one that resulted in less loss for the bank. I shiver. This time it’s different, of course. This time it’s personal. I close my eyes tightly, then open them again. And then I type:
Dear Arthur,
So . . . I don’t know exactly how to put this. But, here goes . . . I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a mess. You see, I inherited a bookstore in Seattle, a beloved children’s bookstore, where I spent the only happy hours of my childhood. And I didn’t know it when I flew out to Seattle to get my aunt Ruby’s estate in order, but I realized that I want to make a life of this. No, I need to make a life of this. I want to be a bookseller. I want to read to children, and I want to try to teach them the same love of literature that my aunt taught me. But the bookstore is on the brink of financial ruin. It’s kind of ironic, given my (former) line of work. I got a form letter from you, Arthur. You (a.k.a. Chase & Hanson Bank) are foreclosing on Bluebird Books. My aunt Ruby’s Bluebird Books. My Bluebird Books. The funny thing is that after all these years doing what we do, I somehow trained myself to stop feeling. I trained myself to just get the job done. Like a robot. And now I’m on the other side. And it turns out, it really sucks.
