by Sarah Jio
I don’t know what I’m saying here. I don’t know what I’m telling you. Actually, I do. And this is the hard part. I’m asking you to help me, Arthur. Please, help me save Bluebird Books. I don’t expect you to move mountains, but I know you can press the Pause button on the foreclosure proceedings. Just give me a few more months. I’m selling my apartment, cleaning out my savings, but even then, I don’t know if I’ll have quite enough. Could you just give me a little more time?
Do it for me, please, or prove me wrong, that you’re not the nicest asshole I’ve ever met. I’d be eternally grateful.
Yours (even though I’m no longer your employee, can we still be friends?),
June
I press Send, and then I lay my head on my pillow with a thud, like it’s a bowling ball. Arthur’s my last hope. Please let him say yes. I just need time.
Chapter 15
Gavin picks me up at the airport the next day, and when I sink into his arms, I feel like I am home.
“How’d it go?” he asks.
“Well,” I begin, “it will be an uphill battle. I’m not even sure that if I sell the apartment I’ll have all the cash I’ll need to save the bookstore.” I pause for a moment, as he navigates his car onto the freeway. “I e-mailed my old boss at the bank, to see if he can help.”
“That’s a great idea,” Gavin says. “Do you think he will?”
“I’m not sure,” I reply. “I don’t want to get my hopes up. But, I think . . . maybe. I know somewhere under all those layers of spreadsheets that he has a heart. I haven’t checked my e-mail since last night, so maybe the answer is already waiting for me in my in-box.”
Gavin nods. “Either way, we’ll find a solution. Together.”
I shake my head. “I won’t drag you into my financial mess.”
“But it’s much nicer if we could call it ours,” he says.
I grin. “I do like the sound of that.”
Gavin spends the afternoon at the restaurant, which he’s managed to keep open as sole proprietor, for now, and I unpack upstairs in the apartment. I think of the boxes that will be coming on the moving trucks soon, and look around the apartment with new eyes. It’s home now.
I throw some clothes in the washing machine, then cautiously open up my laptop, and I see Arthur’s reply waiting for me. I was careful to take my medicine in New York to quell my bursts of rapid heartbeat that had surged in reaction to the financial and real estate stress.
When my heart begins to race again, I regret not taking a pill this morning. I click open the e-mail and hold my breath:
June,
I’m sorry, can’t help. It’s too bad, but it’s the way the cookie crumbles.
Arthur
I close the laptop quickly. For a few minutes, I just sit there, stunned. The way the cookie crumbles. My cheeks feel hot. I regret baring my soul to him. What was I thinking? And then I come to my senses. No, it’s not Arthur’s job to save this bookstore; it’s my job. And I will give it everything I’ve got.
I turn to my laptop again. It’s time to get to work. My aunt had a son. He must be out there, somewhere. Maybe he can help. I don’t know how, but I’m going to find him.
I pick up my cell phone. “Mom, it’s June. I need your help.”
“What is it? Honey, are you in some sort of trouble?”
“Well,” I say, “yes, maybe. Bluebird Books is in financial trouble. I just got back from New York. I’m selling my apartment. I’m going to try to save the store.”
“Honey, you know Rand and I don’t have any money, I—”
“Mom, that’s not why I’m calling. Listen, I know about Ruby’s baby.”
“What? You know about . . . ?”
“Mom, I know. I went to see Anthony Magnuson’s daughter, May. She told me about Ruby’s baby boy.”
“Ruby’s baby boy . . .”
“You know, don’t you, Mom?”
“Yes,” she says solemnly.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?”
“It wasn’t my place to. It was Ruby’s wish to keep it quiet.”
“Well,” I continue, “so much time has passed. The reasons she had for hiding him aren’t real anymore. Besides, I think I had it wrong. Instead of being a competitor, it’s more likely he’d want to help me save his mom’s store. And, who knows, he could even have the financial means to invest in Bluebird Books.”
“Oh, June,” Mom says. “I really don’t think you should go down that path. Besides, this person may not be who you think he is.”
“I have to do something,” I say. “Listen, where do you think he might be living? Do you remember anything? Any clue? A name? Anything to help me start my search?”
“No,” Mom says. Her voice sounds edgy, distant. “I can’t help you with this, June. I’m sorry.”
I can’t tell if she truly has no information or if she’s being deceptive for other reasons. How could she be so uncooperative? There’s a man out there, my cousin, and he may not even know how wonderful his mother was. He began his life here in the bookstore, and maybe he could come back, to help me save it.
After I end the call, I open my laptop. I feel a deep sense of conviction as I search the listings for the King County records department.
“Hello,” I say to the operator. “If I were trying to find out the name of someone who was born in Seattle in 1970, someone whose records were sealed in a closed adoption, could I get that information? Could I see his birth certificate, or would it be part of a closed file?”
“All birth certificates are a matter of public record,” the woman says. “You can come downtown and put in a request, or you can look it up. We just got our files digitized, so if it’s a quick answer you’re looking for, I can save you a bit of time and look it up right now for you.”
“Really?” I say, grateful. “Yes, that would be wonderful.”
“Do you have the child’s mother’s name?”
“Ruby Crain.” My heart beats faster as I hear her clicking on her keyboard over the phone.
“And you said the birth year was 1970?”
“Yes,” I reply.
“Here we are,” she says a few moments later. “Ruby Crain, delivered a child on . . .” She pauses for a second. “Looks like the type has smudged. Let me get my glasses.” I hear her set down the phone before she returns and picks it up again. “Yes, the baby, J.P. Crain, was born on May 12, 1970.”
“J.P.,” I say to myself after thanking the operator and hanging up. I think of Ruby’s son then. He’d be tall and slender like her. He’d have light hair, maybe a dusting of freckles on his face. He’d have kind eyes and a quick smile. Smart and gentle, and literary, just like his mom. The moment he got wind of Ruby’s store, he’d help me. And I’d welcome him, just like family. Gavin could host a dinner for him. We’d toast the next chapter of the bookstore.
“I’m going to find you, J.P. Crain,” I whisper as I lace up my running shoes and head out for a jog.
Gavin’s in the kitchen chopping cauliflower when I poke my head in later.
“Did you just get back from a run?” he asks.
I nod and pop a piece of raw cauliflower in my mouth. “I found Ruby’s son,” I say. “At least, I found his name.”
“What do you mean, Ruby’s son?”
“Ruby gave birth to a baby boy the year I was born. My cousin. Or second cousin.”
Gavin looks equally confused. “Great-cousin?”
I shrug. “In any case, I’m related to him. Ruby gave him up for adoption. But I keep thinking that if I can find him, maybe he can help save the bookstore.”
Gavin shakes his head. “What makes you think this guy will have any sympathy for a mother who gave him away?”
“Ruby had her reasons,” I say. “I’m sure it was excruciating for her to make the call, to make it a clo
sed adoption, but I know it’s what she felt she had to do. I’ll explain that to him. He’ll understand. And he’ll fall in love with the bookstore. He’ll love it like I do.”
“I don’t know,” Gavin says. “What if he has no interest in knowing about his past? What if he’s a drug addict or a con artist?”
“Aunt Ruby’s son?” I say. “Not a chance.”
He grins. “Don’t be so sure. Someone in my family line won a Pulitzer Prize, and yet the gene pool is equally peppered with degenerates.”
“Well, I just know that J.P. is not a degenerate.”
Gavin drizzles olive oil on the cauliflower spread out on a sheet pan before sprinkling a dusting of kosher salt on top. “Listen, I just don’t want you to get your hopes up. The guy could be a big disappointment.”
“Or the best thing that ever happened to Bluebird Books,” I add cheerfully.
As it turns out, J.P. is a very popular name. There are more than a thousand men in the Seattle area who go by the name J.P., and even then, I can’t be certain if his name is still J.P. Wouldn’t his adoptive parents have given him a new name? And then what? I can’t search under Ruby’s last name, Crain, as he’ll certainly have a new family name.
I decide to search on a website called Adoption Connector, where there are message boards designed to connect the grown children of closed adoptions with their birth families.
I take a deep breath, complete my registration on the site, and then post:
I am in search of the biological son of my great-aunt, a wonderful woman who passed away recently in Seattle. The child was born in Seattle on May 12, 1970. The name on his birth certificate is J.P. Crain. I can’t be certain of the exact date, but I believe he was adopted sometime after his birth, in a closed adoption. If you have any information, please e-mail me through this site. Thank you!
I flip on the old stereo and fiddle with the dial until I find my favorite jazz station, 88.5 FM, KPLU. I used to listen to it in high school and dream of smoky New York City jazz clubs. Little did I know that I’d end up sitting alone at those very tables years later wondering if I’d made a mistake in leaving home.
I find Where the Wind Blew after some searching (the first edition hid on a lower shelf), and pull out the next collection of letters:
July 19, 1946
TELEGRAM
TO: Margaret Wise Brown
FROM: Ruby Crain
Bought red gingham swimsuit. Will arrive in Miami on July 23. Staying at the Savoy. Key West together on the 26th?
July 20, 1946
TELEGRAM
TO: Ruby Crain
FROM: Margaret Wise Brown
Bought green swimsuit. Key West has no idea what it’s in for.
Beneath the telegrams are two letters, and I open the first hoping for an account of their time in Florida.
August 5, 1946
Dear Margaret,
I’ve only been home for a week, and yet I miss you and Florida so much. That sunshine! Anthony really liked you. He told me so several times. He said I am lucky to have such a devoted friend, and he’s right.
Oh, what fun we had in Key West! It was enough fun to last a lifetime, and take my mind off Lucille, who is back on no-speaking terms with me again. I’ll set that aside for now and just say, if I never do anything exciting again, at least I’ll be able to think back to those two days and smile to myself. The beaches! The dinners! Those drinks with the lime wedges in them and the salt on the rims of the glasses. The coconuts hanging from the palm trees.
I can’t believe we walked up to Ernest Hemingway’s home and rang the doorbell, just like that, like a couple of salesgirls. To think he’d answer his own door like he did and invite us in for a drink (or ten!). He was a hoot, wasn’t he? And such a gentleman, too. He obviously had eyes for you, Brownie. Did you see the way he looked at you? I’d say you should write him, but I don’t know that a man like that would be good for you. I fear he’d drive you mad. Or perhaps you’d drive each other mad. You both burn hot. You’re both so alive. I suppose the type of woman Ernest needs is the type of man you need: someone mild and peaceful. Besides, isn’t he married?
Well, needless to say, that night will go down in history as one of my very favorites. (Though, how strange Ernest’s cats were! They seemed almost human in the way they’d look at you. And one had six toes. Did you see that? It was the one with blue paws. Poor kitty must have gotten into a bucket of paint.)
Off to go shelve a new shipment of books. Wish you were here this afternoon. It’s raining, and I’m already missing the tropics. And you.
With lots of love,
Ruby
I smile to myself as I turn to the next letter.
August 14, 1946
Dear Ruby,
Key West was divine, wasn’t it? If I had more confidence in my ability to be a wife, I think I’d marry Ernest. But you’re right, we could never make each other happy, not in any sustainable way. We’d drive each other mad, that much is certain. But it would be great fun for a while, wouldn’t it? Can you see me yukking it up in Key West with him and all those cats? I’d live in long sundresses and straw hats. I’d go barefoot and my skin would be covered in freckles.
But no, I could never do it, for two important reasons, the first being Ernest’s beard. I know he’d never shave it, and I would despise the scratchy feeling on my face. The second reason is, of course, hurricanes. The thought of them coming as unexpectedly as they do would frighten me to no end. So there you have it, beards and hurricanes: the two reasons why Ernest Hemingway and I will never be lovers.
But I do think those cats will always stay with me. I loved that little fellow who got mixed up with a can of paint. Blue paws. I can’t get them out of my head. I think I shall write a book someday about two kittens who get into mischief with buckets of paint. I could call it Color Kittens. What do you think?
I’m writing to you on a drab day in New York. I’m looking out my Cobble Court window and the wind’s blowing the little white picket fence gate so hard that it flings open every few seconds, then slams shut again. While it was good to come home, to sleep in my own bed again, I realize how lonely I am here sometimes. I’m like the gate, swinging in the breeze when I long for someone to just secure the latch and stop me from flailing about.
Perhaps this is how you feel about Lucille. When we lose touch with a person we love, I suspect it feels that we lose a part of ourselves. As I’ve always said, don’t lose heart. But prepare yourself for the day that you must mourn your loss and move on, rather than let it paralyze you. I hate to think of you stymied by the choices of another.
Well, I should be getting back to work. My editor wants a new idea soon, and I’m afraid none feel good enough to share just yet. I keep coming back to the moon concept you mentioned months ago. I think there’s something there.
Sending love and sunshine and another one of those tart key lime margaritas (which they, obviously, named after me),
M.W.B.
I think of what Margaret wrote about the cat at the Hemingway home, and realize it’s proof of the inspiration for the book The Color Kittens. Of course, I read the book dozens of times as a child in the bookstore. I think of Aunt Ruby and Margaret sipping cocktails with Ernest Hemingway, and I smile to myself.
I take a deep breath, pondering Margaret’s more serious words: Prepare yourself for the day that you must mourn your loss and move on. What if I’m not ready to move on? What if there’s still hope after all? I place my hand on the phone, then pull it back again. Tomorrow. Maybe tomorrow.
Chapter 16
Gavin walks into the bookstore the next morning with a cup of coffee for me. “I’m going to miss Joe’s,” he says.
“Me too,” I say, taking a sip of the Americano, mixed with the perfect amount of half-and-half.
“Any luck finding the mysterious J.P.?”
>
I shake my head. “It’s a little harder than I thought. But I posted something on an adoption website, and I just have to hope that if he’s looking to find more about his past, he’ll see it. Sometimes fate plays a role in these things.”
My cell phone buzzes on Ruby’s desk, and I run to retrieve it. It’s a New York number.
“Hello?”
“Oh, hi, June, it’s Sharon. Can you talk?”
“Just a sec,” I say, then cover the phone and turn to Gavin. “It’s my real estate agent.”
He nods, and I turn back to the phone. “So, do you have a juicy offer for me? Please, tell me you do.”
“Well,” Sharon says, “we do have an offer, which is encouraging, but I’m sorry to say it’s not juicy.”
“How much?”
“It’s ten percent below asking,” she says, “which isn’t bad in this market. I think we should take it, June.”
“But I’m already selling it at a loss,” I protest, a little panicked.
“It’s a good offer, June. All cash. Quick closing.”
“Can we counter?”
“We can do anything you want to, but in a market like this, I don’t want to scare off a buyer. I suggest you take it.”
I sit down in Ruby’s old swivel chair and look at Gavin standing beside a bookcase, so strong, so sure. His smile tells me it’s going to be OK. And somehow, I feel that it will be.
