by Sarah Jio
Anthony will be sad to have missed you. He was so glad to know you were coming to stay with me. In all the excitement of your visit, I didn’t even notice the little box tied with ribbon tucked into my desk drawer. I found it just now and opened it straightaway. It’s a watch, from Anthony. Cartier. He must have seen me admiring it on our trip to Miami. I admit, I’d forgotten about it entirely until I found it. Oh, Brownie, but it’s not so much the watch as what he had engraved on the back of it. It says, “I will love you until the end of time.”
I still have tears in my eyes. It’s the most beautiful sentiment I’ve ever read. I may not ever get a ring, but I will wear this watch proudly.
Oh, before I forget, you left your sketches for the new moon book on the table upstairs. Would you like me to mail them back to you? Or did you intend for me to keep them? I must admit, I love getting a little more time to linger over the pages and see your brilliant creative process. Do you always think of ideas for the illustrator? Are they receptive to your artistic suggestions?
I have a good feeling about this moon book. There’s a palpable sense of comfort in the nursery. But, if I may make a suggestion, I do think the walls should be a bright emerald green. It’s such a happy color, don’t you think? Also, in the nursery of my dreams, there would be a bookshelf and big picture windows so you can see the stars from the bed. And maybe a telephone—to symbolize a connection to the outside world—and a bowl of something warm on the nightstand. A little snack. Food. Warmth. Love. What more could a child ask for? What more could any of us ask for?
Whatever direction you and your illustrator take with the story, I know it will be a resounding success. I cannot wait to see it when it’s finished (and, of course, to sell stacks of copies on your behalf!).
Anthony is scheduled to return tomorrow on the 11 a.m. train. I’m going down to the station to greet him even though I know there’s a small chance that I may run into Victoria there. If she comes, it will only be to upset me. The life she’s living is a charade. She refuses to agree to a divorce, and yet she carries on with other men. I don’t think I told you this, but Anthony said he came home one night and found one of them at the house. They’re both miserable, and yet sometimes I feel as if each is intent on making the other even more so.
I had better sign off. Story time begins in fifteen minutes and I need to prepare. I expect at least a dozen children today.
Missing you already,
Ruby
P.S. I tucked a copy of Pippi Longstocking in your suitcase. Read it when you get a chance. I discovered it at a book fair in Seattle a few months ago. It’s a translation of a book that’s quite popular in Sweden. My prediction is that it will become a sensational hit with children in America before too long, but don’t mark my words.
September 12, 1946
Dear Ruby,
I managed to catch a cold on my journey home to New York. It is two in the afternoon, and I just now got out of bed to fetch the mail and what should I find but a letter from you. How it made me smile.
Roberta is expecting a baby. She phoned me this morning to give me the news. Funny you should describe how this news made you feel, because I had the same response. For all my life, I’ve said I didn’t want to be a mother. And now? Well, Roberta’s news made me question everything. It helped knowing you feel the same, that this news caused a collective twinge in our hearts. See, we are secret sisters, indeed.
My editor rang me up this morning, and she heard the gravelly tone to my voice, and she told me instantly that I’m not caring well enough for myself, which is rubbish, of course. She said I ought to sleep more and play less. Well, what sort of life would that be?
I should be on my feet in a day or two. And my week in Seattle was well worth this pesky cold. I loved seeing you in your element. The bookstore is exactly as I imagined it, and perhaps even lovelier.
Yes, the mockup of the moon book is yours to keep. We’ll be making changes to the text, of course, but I wanted you to have it—after all, you’ve been integral in its very creation. Maybe someday when I’m rich and famous you can sell it for a thousand dollars. Ha!
I’ve been thinking about your suggestions, which are very good. I’ve decided to change the opening lines of the book from “in the great room” to “in the great green room.” Doesn’t that have a happier ring to it? It practically chirps off your tongue. Like the little bluebirds you love so much.
And yes, there will be a telephone. A bookshelf. And a balloon. Perhaps, red? And there will be a bowl of porridge. And maybe a painting of a cow jumping over the moon, just like the one hanging over the hearth at Bluebird Books.
Well, I’m still sorting it all out, but as loose as it all is, I have a feeling about this book. It has a soul that some of my other projects didn’t. And I don’t worry about getting it just right, because I know the words will find me. I know the story will be written the way it’s meant to be written. That gives me great peace. I know I’ll wake up one morning and pick up a scrap of paper and write the words down, and that will be that.
Oh, and yes, I found the Pippi book. Thank you! And you are right, I do think American children will be wild about this little redhead. She has such spirit, such heart! She is the girl I longed to be as a child, strong and sure, kind and steadfast. I only wish I’d thought of her first. Alas, I shall keep with my bunny rabbits and dogs. And moons.
With love from foggy New York,
M.W.B.
My mind is reeling when I set the letters in my lap. Aunt Ruby not only helped Margaret Wise Brown come up with the idea for Goodnight Moon; she actually helped her shape it. And somewhere, under this very roof, there are sketches—an early mockup, perhaps—of the story for me to find. I can hardly wait to tell Gavin.
Gavin’s fiddling with an enormous food processor when I return to the restaurant. I tell him about the revelations in the letters, and he beams. “Just think of all the Seattle celebrities and notables who would come if they knew the history of the bookstore.”
I feel a surge of confidence now. “If we could really reach the people who grew up coming to Aunt Ruby’s story times, her young author workshops, if we could appeal to them, surely they’d want to help to save the bookstore.”
“That’s exactly what I’m thinking,” Gavin says. “If we can get people to come back and show them how important the bookstore is, talk about its legacy and its future, they’re bound to contribute.”
“You’re amazing, you know?” I say.
“Not really,” he says. “I just think I was a publicist in a former life.”
“So where should we start?”
“Well, let’s get the store spiffed up first. Maybe a few new shelves? Some fresh paint? Nothing extravagant, but if we’re going to lure people in, we have to make the place shine.”
“I agree,” I say.
“What do you think about timing the event?”
“We’re going to have to do it soon,” I reply. “I’m afraid we don’t have much time before the bank pounces. And they will pounce.”
“Yes,” he says. “I have a buddy who’s a graphic designer. I’m sure he can help us with the invitations, posters. I can write the press release.”
“Wonderful,” I say. “We’ll have to think of a good name for the event. Maybe ‘Inspired by the Moon’ or something like that.” I inch closer to Gavin. “Can’t you just imagine how happy Ruby would be right now if she were here?”
He smiles.
“And if this is all a success,” I continue, “if we can keep the shop afloat, maybe we can pursue our plan to join forces. I mean, if you really want to.”
“I do,” he says. His words are sincere, but his eyes are distant.
“What?” I ask suddenly. “What is it?”
He rubs a stain on his apron compulsively. “It’s nothing.” He pauses for a moment, and then looks up at me. �
�Listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to . . .”
I search his eyes, but he doesn’t make contact with mine. “What is it?”
Just then, the kitchen door swings open and a man with clipboard appears. “Sorry to interrupt,” he says. “I knocked, but there was no answer. The door was open so I just came on in. I’ve got your wine order. Just need you to sign right here.”
“Of course,” Gavin says, hurrying toward him. He rubs his brow nervously before he takes the pen in his hand.
“Where should I leave the boxes?”
“By the bar is fine, thanks,” Gavin replies, turning back to me as the man disappears through the doors to the dining room.
“Well, I . . .”
I decide not to press him, especially while he’s working. If he needs to tell me something, he will. In time. “Are you coming over tonight?” I ask. “After you close?”
“I can’t tonight,” he says a little distantly. “I have to . . . make the marinara for a wedding I’m catering this weekend.”
“Oh,” I say. “Can I help?”
He smiles. “Thanks, I’ve got it covered. But I’ll bring lunch over to the bookstore tomorrow. Sound good?”
“OK,” I say. “Call me if you want help.”
“I will.” He kisses me softly before I turn toward the door.
I spend three hours tidying the store, energized by the idea of the fund-raiser. I think of Goodnight Moon, and decide that I’ll contract a painter; I’ll try to match the exact color of the emerald-green walls of the nursery in the illustrations. And maybe I can have the drapes replaced. They’ve gotten so sun-bleached over the years. We already have a rocking chair, and the old telephone, plus the painting of the cow jumping over the moon, hanging over the fireplace.
It’s nine before I stop for dinner. I can smell the aroma from Antonio’s next door, and my stomach growls. I think about going over and eating in the kitchen, but I don’t want to bother Gavin. So I walk up the stairs to the apartment and make a frozen dinner. I stocked the freezer before I left for New York. I flip on Ruby’s old TV while I eat the little dish of cheese ravioli. I wonder how many times Ruby sat in this chair and watched television over a frozen dinner, alone. And my heart hurts so much, I have to clutch my chest then and blink away the tears. I think of how she was always knitting. Scarves. Sweaters. Mittens. She was never particularly good at it. If you inspected her handiwork closely, you’d find a dropped stitch here, or a small hole or lump there. But it was impossible not to love something Ruby had made. “Made with love,” she’d say.
After I eat, I reach for my laptop. I checked my messages this morning, a little disappointed. It was a small chance that J.P. would find the message, and yet, I held on to hope and had to fight the urge to check the adoption website hourly. But I tell myself that a quick check before bed wouldn’t be a bad idea.
I key in the website and pull up my dashboard. I see that there’s a mail icon next to my profile name. I click on it eagerly, and read a message with the subject line titled “Hello from J.P.”
Hi, I saw the message on Adoption Connector. My name is J.P. I live in Seattle, where I was adopted by my parents, a kind and wonderful couple who raised me with love. I am thirty-five years old. I had a wonderful childhood, but recently learned that I was adopted (my parents kept this from me for fear that I’d do just this: try to find my biological family). I assured them that I have no interest in replacing them. They are my parents. No others could fill that role. And yet, I can’t rest until I know where I come from. I have little information about my birth mother, just that she was in her forties when she had me, and that she was a single mom and educated. She named me J.P., also, and my parents kept the name because they liked it. Anyway, I work downtown, at the main branch of the Seattle Public Library. I’m director of reader services. I’d love to meet, to discuss all of this. Maybe we could have coffee. Look forward to hearing from you. —J.P.
I practically squeal when I finish reading the message. This has to be him. A librarian? Thirty-five? The son of an educated single mother in her forties? It all fits.
I reply to his message immediately:
Dear J.P., How amazing to hear from you! I cannot wait to meet you and discuss more! Are you free on Tuesday for coffee at ten? I can meet you at the library. Thank you, June
I check my messages incessantly for the next hour until I see his reply:
Dear June, SO good to hear from you. Yes, Tuesday at ten. My office is on the third floor. Just go to the reception desk and ask for me there.
I leap out of my chair and throw on a sweater. It’s after ten. The restaurant just closed, but I know Gavin will still be in the kitchen working on the marinara, just as he said he would be, so I head to the back door to the kitchen. I reach for the handle, but it’s locked. That’s strange. I peer through the window. The kitchen is dark and I feel the familiar flutter of my heart rate quickening as my anxiety rises.
Chapter 18
I wake early the next morning and phone Green Lake Painters. I arrange for a crew to come to the bookstore. Eager for work, they arrive later that morning, and because their bid is reasonable, I get them started on prepping the bookstore for its new look. The trim and windows are taped, and within an hour, the place looks like a construction zone, with ladders everywhere, men in overalls carrying paint buckets. The first editions are on the far wall, so I’m not too worried about getting paint on them, but I had the crew cover the shelf with a tarp as a precaution.
Gavin shows up at noon with a paper bag wafting delicious aromas. He’s kept his promise, but the sight of him makes my stomach twist in knots.
“Hi,” he says from the doorway.
“Hey,” I say. I decide not to ask him about his absence from the restaurant last night. Not yet.
“I brought lunch,” he says.
“Let’s eat upstairs,” I suggest. “They’re about to start the first coat.” The foreman seems like a decent person, so I don’t worry about theft of the more valuable books in the store. Besides, most people wouldn’t know of their worth.
In the apartment, I set Ruby’s kitchen table for two. Gavin opens a few takeout boxes and smiles. “I’m starved. Eat up,” he says.
I nibble on a breadstick as he scoops a large helping of spaghetti onto my plate. “I have news,” I say between bites.
“What?” he asks with wide eyes.
“I think I may have found Ruby’s son, J.P.”
“Really? That’s amazing!”
“I’m meeting him downtown tomorrow,” I say. “Get this—he’s a librarian.”
“Talk about fate,” Gavin says.
I grin. “And you thought he’d be a degenerate.”
“No,” he says, quickly swallowing the bite in his mouth. “I said there’s the possibility of him being a degenerate.”
“Well, he sounds like a great guy,” I say. “I mean, have you ever met a librarian you didn’t like?”
Gavin looks thoughtful for a moment. “Yes,” he says finally. “Mrs. Thorndike. The librarian at my elementary school. She scared the you-know-what out of me.”
“Oh, stop,” I say. “She was probably just rattled by ten-year-old boy antics.”
“You’re right,” he agrees, nodding conspiratorially. “I suppose it didn’t help that my best friend and I set a lizard loose during story time.”
I roll my eyes. “Males. Anyway, I have high hopes for J.P. If Ruby’s son is a librarian, imagine the partnership we could forge. Bluebird Books could sell the titles at library events, and we could sponsor summer reading programs, that sort of thing.”
“The match does sound heaven sent,” Gavin says. “But don’t get your hopes up, OK? I mean, at least until you’re really sure he is the guy.”
“I know,” I say. “But I have a good feeling about finally solving this family mystery.” I finish my
salad, and I can’t help but think of the empty kitchen last night when I stopped by Antonio’s. The old feelings of betrayal rush back. He said he’d be working on the marinara, but he wasn’t. I bite my lip.
“Gavin,” I say a bit tentatively. “I stopped by the restaurant last night around ten. I thought you’d be there working on the marinara. I was surprised to find the lights out.”
“Oh,” he says, pausing an extra moment. “I was exhausted last night. I decided to come in early today instead.”
I nod, trying to rid myself of the pain of the past, the insecurities I’ve carried with me for so many years. I tell myself that Gavin is different. He wouldn’t hurt me. He certainly wouldn’t lie to me.
His cell buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out quickly, then looks at me apologetically. “I have to take this one,” he says. “You finish lunch. I’ll stop by a little later, OK?”
“OK,” I say, trying not to broadcast my disappointment. I pick at the pasta on my plate, and wonder who’s so important on the phone, and why Gavin’s suddenly acting secretive.
“Sorry,” I hear him say as he heads down the back staircase. “I can talk now.”
An hour later, I stare at the Italian food spread out on the table, and I shake my head. Gavin’s keeping something from me. I know it. Is it Adrianna? Does he still have feelings for her? Is she having some sort of crisis that he’s trying to help her with? If so, why can’t he tell me about it? Why can’t we deal with it together?
I shake my head, collecting the plates and silverware and piling them in the old ceramic sink with the dripping faucet. What would Ruby have done?
