by Sarah Jio
“OK, Sharon. If you think we should take it, let’s take it.”
“Good,” she says. “I’ll fax over the paperwork to you this afternoon.”
I set my phone down, a little stunned. “I just sold my apartment in New York.”
“Great news,” Gavin says. “This calls for a celebration.”
“Not really. I’m selling it at a big loss.”
“Oh.”
“I don’t think I’m going to have enough to save the store.” I feel like crying, or laughing, or both. And suddenly, out of nowhere, I begin to laugh. It pours from me like a river. I laugh until I’m crying.
“What?” Gavin asks. “What’s so funny?”
“My life,” I say. “It’s a total mess.”
He smiles at me. His eyes sparkle in the morning light streaming through the window. “It’s a beautiful mess.”
That afternoon, I borrow Gavin’s car so I can drive to a salon on Queen Anne Hill to get my hair done. No matter how dire things get this month, I can at least go about my business with nice hair.
After a partial foil and a trim, I start back to Green Lake, when I realize how close I am to the Magnuson home. I decide to drive by the old mansion again.
I pull the car up in front of the home, and I think about the break-in at the bookstore and Victoria Magnuson’s cryptic warning about her daughter. Was May really behind the break-in? It’s possible, yes, and yet I don’t believe it, not really. After all, it was kind of her to send me that note with the photo of little J.P. I shake my head. No, it couldn’t have been May.
I take the keys out of the ignition. What if I just went to the house and met with her again? Maybe she knows more about him. Maybe she remembers something that she can share. I step out of the car and walk up to the iron gate in front of the brick walkway that leads to the house. This is not the kind of residence one just drops into. You make an appointment. But there’s no time for those formalities now. I need to find J.P.
A Hispanic woman opens the door. “How can I help you?” she asks in a heavily accented voice.
“My name is June Andersen, and I was hoping to speak to May, if she’s home.”
The woman looks at me skeptically, then shakes her head. “Ms. Magnuson isn’t home. But I can—”
The door opens wider, and suddenly May’s mother appears. “I can take it from here, Julia,” Victoria says with surprising command. She looks lucid, aware, somewhat different than she did when I saw her before.
“But, ma’am,” the younger woman protests, “Ms. Magnuson said you must stay in bed today.”
“Ms. Magnuson doesn’t make the rules,” Victoria says. “I do. After all, this is still my house, isn’t it?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Julia says, stepping back.
“Now,” Victoria continues, “I will show you in, Miss . . . ?”
“Andersen. June Andersen.”
“June,” she says, staring at me curiously, as if she may or may not remember meeting me two weeks ago.
“Yes.”
We sit down in the library, and Julia looks at Victoria. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me.”
Victoria waves her away, and as soon as the library doors click shut, she turns to me. “I’m glad you came.”
“Thank you for inviting me in,” I say. “I wasn’t planning on stopping by, but I was in the area. There’s something I’d like to discuss with you.”
Victoria folds her hands in her lap and looks at me expectantly.
“I realize it may be hard for you, to revisit the past,” I say.
“I should have let him go to her,” the old woman says distantly. Her eyes search my face, then look away, to a far corner of the room, where perhaps she’s seeing her late husband and Ruby in the shadows. “I should have let them be a family. I didn’t love him like Ruby did. I could never love him the way she did, so completely. When I learned about the baby, I was jealous and I felt scorned.”
“You were hurt,” I say. “It’s a natural response.”
“Yes, but it was bigger than that. I wanted to make them pay. All along, I wouldn’t agree to a divorce. I said he’d get nothing.” She dabs a handkerchief to her eye. “That worked for a long time, but by the time Ruby got pregnant with the child, he didn’t care about the money anymore. He was going to leave me, leave everything he had to be with her. Of course, I wasn’t going to let him go that easy. I told him that I’d go to the newspapers. I’d disgrace him. I was desperate, but it didn’t matter. He’d already made up his mind. He was going to tell her his plans to leave the night he died. Even after he was gone, I just couldn’t let go. I threatened your aunt. I wanted to make her life miserable.”
I listen, though it’s hard to hear. Her words sting. I am a surrogate for Ruby’s pain.
“It seemed unthinkable to me that she could bear his child,” she continues, “that she could keep such a beautiful piece of him. I hated that.”
“But you had May.”
“Yes, but May was grown. She had her own life to live. I was alone. And here your aunt had a chance to start all over again. I wanted that desperately.”
I nod, nervous for what’s to come.
“I drove your aunt to give away her son, you know,” she says. “It was all me and my threats. I made her think that I’d have the child followed. I told her the child deserved to grow up as a Magnuson, and that my attorneys would see to it that he was raised the way Anthony was, in the best boarding schools. Well, as you can imagine, she didn’t want me in her son’s life. And she made it so I never would be. She arranged the private adoption. She duped me.”
I shake my head. “Would you have really tried to take the baby from his mother?”
Victoria sighs. “There was a time when I think I actually might have. I think Ruby knew I was capable of it. God knows, I have enough money to get things I want. But as the years passed, my heart began to soften.” She leans toward me. “What I want you to know, June, is that I have deep regrets about the way I behaved in those years. My actions kept two people from each other, and then tore apart a family. I never should have intervened the way I did. And I shall go to my grave with those regrets. I just pray that Anthony has forgiven me.”
I wipe a tear from my cheek and move to sit beside Victoria. I take her hand in mine, and I look her in the eye. “I know he’d forgive you,” I say. “As would Ruby.”
She shakes her head. “My actions are unforgivable.”
“No,” I say. “Your heart is in the right place now.”
“I wish I could turn back time,” she says. “I wish I could fix things.”
I think of Bluebird Books and my eyes widen. “There is a way you can,” I say. “The bookstore is in financial trouble now. It will close if I can’t raise enough funds.” It feels strange to make this appeal to her, after the years of pain she endured. And yet, her story has come full circle in a way that feels right. “Would you consider making a contribution to keep the business going?” I pause. “In memory of Anthony, and Ruby.”
“Of course I will, dear,” Victoria says. “How much do you need?”
Her answer comes so quick, it startles me. And then I hear the library doors open, and I turn around to see May standing in the doorway. She looks startled, a little angry.
“Mother? What are you doing downstairs? You should be resting.”
“Everyone’s always telling me I should be resting,” she says. “When you get to be ninety, you’ll realize how tiresome it is to be told this at every hour of the day.”
May walks over to her mother and eyes her territorially, then turns to Julia, who’s standing in the doorway now. “Julia, take Mother upstairs. I’ll be up in a moment.”
“Outnumbered,” Victoria says, winking at me. “Well, you be in touch now, all right?”
“I will,” I say, smiling. “Than
k you so much.”
After the doors have closed behind us, May looks at me with intense eyes. “Let me be clear,” she says. “You will not be in touch with my mother.”
“But I—”
“I know what you’re here for,” she says. “I heard you asking her for money.”
“No,” I say quickly. “It’s not like that. It’s for the bookstore. I—”
Her eyes are searing. “You will leave now, and Mother will have no further contact with you.”
I shake my head. “But she said she—”
“She has dementia,” May says. “She doesn’t know what she’s saying.” She shakes her head. “Shame on you for trying to take advantage of an old woman.”
“But, May, I wasn’t. I was only—”
“You were only looking out for your own interests. Good-bye, June.”
Back at the bookstore, I feel deflated, discouraged. I find The Color Kittens and long for the letters that I know will cheer me.
August 21, 1946
Dear Brownie,
As much as I miss the sunshine of Florida, I must admit, it is nice to be home. I suppose Seattle will always suit me more than warmer climates. There’s a certain madness to sunshine, I think. Warm weather makes people think they should be doing something, always. There is no rest in warm weather. And yet there is something so comforting and peaceful about the dark clouds and rain. Everyone goes inside and cozies up with books.
Lucille surfaced, in the form of a card, announcing that she and her husband are expecting their first child this winter. My sister is going to be a mother! Of course, I’m exceedingly happy for her, but I will admit, only to you, that it caused me to examine my own life in greater detail. Will I ever be a mother? Anthony’s made it clear that he cannot and will not become a parent again, and yet, I would be lying if I said that there isn’t a certain part of me that longs to hold a baby, my own baby, in my arms.
Yet, this isn’t the path I chose when I decided to love Anthony. But sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. The dream is always the same: I have a baby in my arms that someone takes from me.
It’s silly to read into dreams, so I try not to think of it. Besides, I may never have children of my own, but I have plenty who I’ve had the privilege of getting to know through the bookstore. Little Loretta Franco brought me a wreath for the door last week, and another little boy wrote me the sweetest thank-you card. This ought to be enough for me, and yet my heart longs for the type of motherly love I know I may never be able to experience.
Well, I worry that I’m wearing on your nerves, so I will change the subject. Oh! I had an idea this morning. I’ve decided to make a calendar of events for the store, which I’ll post in the window. Each day I’ll have something new to entice children to come in. I was thinking that on Tuesdays I’d do young author workshops. I’ll give children pens and paper and paint to make their own little picture books. Together we can come up with concepts for their stories, and then they can work on the art. Imagine how fun that could be!
Write soon and tell me about this new book idea that you have in mind!
With love,
Ruby
P.S. Anthony will be traveling to Chicago over my birthday weekend, which means I’ll be spending it alone.
August 25, 1946
TELEGRAM
TO: Ruby Crain
FROM: Margaret Wise Brown
Catching flight to see you in Seattle. Won’t let you be alone on your birthday.
Did Margaret Wise Brown come to Bluebird Books? I reread the telegram, and then Aunt Ruby’s letter, but there are no book titles mentioned, no further clues. What next? The story of the bookstore’s past beckons, and yet, I don’t know how to turn to the next chapter.
Chapter 17
I walk into Antonio’s with slumped shoulders, and slide into a chair at the table in the kitchen.
“It looks like someone could use some wine,” Gavin says, reaching to the shelf and plucking a glass. He uncorks a fresh bottle and pours its crimson liquid. “What happened?”
I sigh. “I went to the Magnuson house again. I talked to Victoria Magnuson.”
He grins. “The Queen Mum?”
“Yes,” I say. “I told her about the plight of the bookstore, and she offered to help. It was beautiful. She said it would be sort of a repayment for the way she treated Ruby over the years.”
“That’s good news, then, right?”
“Well, it was,” I say, “until her daughter walked in and accused me of trying to swindle money from an old woman.”
“Oh,” he says.
I take a sip of wine. “May doesn’t get it. I think she still has a ton of anger that her father abandoned her.”
“That makes sense,” Gavin says diplomatically.
“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t even know my father, and yet I don’t have any abandonment issues.”
He looks at me curiously, as if he knows me better than I know myself, maybe, which is vaguely unnerving. “You don’t?”
“I don’t,” I reply. “I don’t know anything about my dad except that he and my mom met at a bar, and it was a one-night stand. At least my sister’s father had it in him to stick around until a couple of weeks after she was born. Anyway, I have no interest in finding my father, nor do I feel as if he abandoned me. It is what it is.”
Gavin nods as though he’s not altogether convinced.
“It’s different with May,” I continue. “She grew up with a father who she loved, desperately so, and yet he was never around. And then as if she didn’t feel unloved enough, he goes and starts another family with Ruby.” I swirl the wine in my glass. “I get why she’s hurt. I get why she sees the bookstore as the impetus for her pain. I wish she’d see its value, from a community perspective. And I guess most of all, I wish she’d see that my intentions are good.”
“Don’t feel so bad,” he says. “This is bigger than you. You’re just the messenger. I bet she’ll come around.”
“I’m not so sure,” I say. “You should have seen the look on her face.”
“Well, then we’ll have to think of a Plan B.”
I throw up my hands. “Got any brilliant ideas, Watson?”
“Yes,” he says. “You know the letters you’ve found between your aunt and the children’s book author?”
“Margaret Wise Brown.”
“Well, I was thinking that maybe we could really spruce up the shop and host a party. A fund-raiser. We can sell tickets. I’ll cater it. Maybe you can hint that we have a big announcement to make about the literary history of the store, and then we can unveil the letters between your aunt and the author.”
“Actually, that’s genius,” I say, the wheels in my mind turning so fast I can hardly keep up with them. The bookstore has been featured in local media before. Ruby kept a framed Seattle Times article about the shop hanging over her desk. Surely the story of saving a beloved Seattle institution would appeal to modern-day media.
“I can see the headline now,” Gavin says, “‘Fund-Raiser Held to Save Historic Seattle Children’s Bookstore Believed to Be Birthplace of Goodnight Moon.’”
I think of the last set of letters between Margaret and Ruby, and I worry that I’ve hit the end of the scavenger hunt. I shake my head. “I don’t know that Bluebird Books was the inspiration for Goodnight Moon, just that my aunt encouraged Margaret to write about the moon.”
“Do you know if she ever visited the store?”
I nod. “I think she was planning to. I found a telegram stating that she planned to come. I just don’t know if she ever did. I can’t find the next set of letters.”
“Surely there’s a clue that you’ve overlooked,” Gavin says.
I pull the letter and telegram out of my pocket and hand them to him. “No. No books mentioned,” I say.
“So now what?”
He’s silent for a few moments as he reads, and then he smiles. “Wait a second. What about this mention of the children’s homemade books, here?” He points to the page, and I reread it: I was thinking that on Tuesdays I’d do young author workshops. I’ll give children pens and paper and paint to make their own little picture books. . . . Imagine how fun that could be!
“I think you’re brilliant,” I say.
Gavin leaves a pot simmering on the stove and together we race over to the bookstore. I climb a ladder to a high shelf where I remember Ruby tucking in the treasured “books” her youngest customers had made especially for her. They’re bound in all fashion—staples, glue, tape, yarn. I pull out one with a colorful cover held together with masking tape that’s yellowed over the years. “A Tugboat’s Dream,” the title reads. “By Jenny Hamilton.”
I feel a bulge beneath its pages and there they are, the letters. I almost squeal as I hold them out for Gavin to see. “Found them!”
“Good,” he says, turning to the door. “I’ve got to get back to the kitchen before the sauce boils over, but come over as soon as you can, OK?”
It’s good to see him moving ahead with the restaurant, confidently, and I think of what a pair we’d make as co-owners of a bookstore-café. But I don’t want to rush things. “Go make your sauce,” I say, grinning. I race to the wingback chair and read expectantly.
September 2, 1946
Dear Brownie,
You just stepped into the taxi that will take you to the airport, and oh how I hate to see you go home to New York. This has been my very favorite birthday of my life, and I shall be forever grateful to you for traveling across the country to share it with me. Your friendship is more than a friendship; it’s a sisterhood.
I’m so delighted that you love Bluebird Books as much as I do.
I pause and gasp. Margaret Wise Brown did come to Seattle, to Bluebird Books, and she loved it.
I knew it the moment Anthony brought me to the space (blindfolded at first!). Certain buildings just have good feelings to them, don’t you think? The apartment upstairs isn’t much, but I’m going to fix it up in time. I have a paint color picked out for the walls, and one day I’d like to have part of the space framed in for an office, or maybe a bedroom, though I do love the openness of the space, and sleeping at the center of it all. Walls are so stifling.
