by Sarah Jio
There’s a round of applause, and then Bill Gates raises his hand. “May I say something?”
“Yes,” I say quickly. “Please.”
“Hello, everyone,” he says. He doesn’t have to introduce himself; everyone knows who he is. “I grew up here in Seattle and spent many happy hours of my childhood at this bookstore. Places like this are important because they ignite the love of literature in our children. They ignite their imagination. Ruby Crain of Bluebird Books did just that—for me, and for so many other Seattle children over the years. And now the store is on the verge of closing. Stores like this, all over the country, in fact, share a similar fate. If we don’t stand up for children’s literature, and support businesses like this, they will disappear right before our eyes. I ask you to join me in supporting Bluebird Books so it will continue to be a place of curiosity and discovery for children, for years to come.”
After the applause quiets, I weave my way through the crowd to Peter.
“I think you’ve hit it out of the park tonight,” he whispers.
“Thanks,” I say.
“Now, go have a glass of wine,” Peter adds, shooing me off. “Let me collect the money. That’s my job.”
I say a prayer then. Please, please let it be enough to keep Bluebird Books open.
Gavin slices a cake that a baker friend decorated to look like the “great green room,” and after everyone’s had a slice, the party begins to wind down.
I nervously eye the desk, where Peter is collecting a final contribution form. When the last guest leaves, Nate and I lock the door and rush to Peter.
“How’d we do?” I ask.
Peter scratches his head. “I’ve crunched the numbers eight ways,” he says, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, June, it’s not going to be enough.”
My eyes widen. “Even with the ticket sales? Even with the extra donations?”
He nods.
“Did you count my IRA and my savings?”
“All of it,” he says. “We’re still short. By a lot.”
I collapse in a defeated heap on the floor, and sink my head into my hands.
“Listen,” Peter says suddenly, “Nate and I have some savings. Not a lot. We were going to use it for our kitchen remodel this winter, but we really don’t need a Viking range, right, Nate?”
“Right,” Nate says cheerfully.
“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I couldn’t. I couldn’t ask you to do that.”
Peter nods soberly. “And I’m afraid even if we gave you every penny of that pot of remodel money, it still wouldn’t be enough.” He thinks for a moment. “You could sell the first editions—maybe to a collector?”
“And sell the soul of the bookstore? It wouldn’t be right.”
He nods, and I stand up and let out a deep sigh. “I guess this is it,” I say. “We tried and we failed.”
I look around at Bluebird Books, at Ruby’s life’s work. “But it was worth trying for,” Peter says. “You’ll never regret it.”
I look up and see Gavin standing at the door out on the sidewalk. He began shuttling back dirty dishes to Antonio’s after the last guest left. We must have locked him out.
I walk to the door dejectedly, and see that he’s holding an enormous bouquet of flowers, lavender roses.
“Someone knows my favorite flower,” I say flatly as I open the door for him.
“I wish I could take credit, but they’re not from me,” he says, handing me the bouquet.
I shrug and set the flowers down on a nearby shelf.
“Aren’t you going to open the card and see who they’re from?”
“Flowers aren’t going to save the bookstore,” I say.
Gavin frowns. “You mean we didn’t raise enough?”
I nod.
“Oh, June,” he says. “I’m so sorry.”
My eyes sting with fresh tears, and I hardly notice that Gavin has picked up the card in the vase and has torn open the flap. A moment later, he smiles. “June, you’re going to want to read this.”
I already know what it is. More well-wishes from a community member who loved Bluebird Books as a child. I’ll just have to write them, all of them, to tell them I failed, and that the store will be closing.
Gavin hands the card to me. His eyes are blazing with excitement. “Read it!”
I look down at the typewritten card and read:
June,
I saw you on CNN. You killed it, kid. I’ve closed down thousands of businesses. I figured I could help save this one. Foreclosure papers destroyed. I’ll cover the balance personally. Here’s the thing: A long time ago, I was a little boy who loved books. You reminded me of that.
Yours, Arthur (a.k.a. the nicest asshole you’ve ever met)
“Peter, Nate,” I cry, “come here!”
I read the note to them. Each of us reads it over and over again. We cry. We cheer. We open another bottle of wine and toast the future of Bluebird Books.
I shake my head. “I never would have guessed that Arthur would come through. I guess I should thank you, Peter. You made me e-mail him.”
Peter nods. “See? You knew he had a heart.”
“Guess so,” I say. “I just didn’t know it was a big heart.”
Chapter 26
After Peter and Nate head to their hotel, Mom comes downstairs and I tell her the good news before we say good night to her. Ruby is asleep upstairs in her new crib, a gift shipped to the store from Gavin’s sister, and after Mom leaves, it’s just Gavin and me standing on a carpet of confetti, surrounded by half-eaten plates of cake and hors d’oeuvres. I reach for a plate atop a bookshelf and begin cleaning up, but I feel Gavin’s arm on my waist.
“It’s too nice a night to clean,” he whispers into my ear. “We’ll get the rest in the morning. Come sit with me.”
“But what if the food attracts mice?” I say. “You know these old buildings.”
“Let them have a few extra crumbs tonight.”
We move two chairs by the big windows in the store and stare up into the sky. I lean my head against Gavin’s shoulder.
“You did a good job tonight,” he says.
“Do you think Ruby would have been proud?”
“Yes,” he says. “So proud.” He grins. “Did you see the way Bill Gates was hovering over the dessert tray? It’s not every day that the richest man in the world walks in and eats three of your cannoli.”
“I can’t believe Arthur came through for me.”
Gavin nods. “Funny to think that he of all people ended up being the hero.”
“I know. But what did Ruby always say?” I pause to recall her words. “Yes, ‘When you’re looking for something, it’s right where you find it.’” I smile to myself. My feet ache and I feel a sense of peaceful exhaustion. I turn to Gavin and smile at him. “I think I’m cured.”
He turns to me, confused. “What do you mean?”
“My anxiety,” I say, shaking my head, a bit in disbelief. “I don’t know how to explain it other than to say it’s just . . . gone.”
Gavin squeezes my hand.
“I mean, I know that life’s not perfect or anything. It’ll never be. But I feel peace.” I look at him again, cautiously. “Do you?”
“Yes,” he says, nuzzling his cheek against mine.
I nod. “I guess I just can’t help but wonder.”
“Wonder what?”
“I wonder what’s next?”
Gavin grins. “For us, you mean?”
I nod shyly.
He stands up and turns my chair to face him. His smile is big and warm. “Well, first I’m going to kiss you, and then I’m going to marry you. After that we’re going to have a baby so Little Ruby can have a sister. Or maybe two. Three, if you’ll agree to it.”
I smile, unable to stop laughing.<
br />
He lifts me into his arms then. “And we’re going to run the bookstore-café together. We’re going to make it the best children’s bookstore-café in the country. And we’re going to keep it afloat with blood, sweat, and tears, and lots of love.”
He turns to the back stairs that lead to the apartment and kisses my forehead lightly before carrying me up. “And all along the way we’re going to write our own story. And it will be a beautiful one, filled with all the things we love.”
“Books,” I say.
He smiles and nods. “And good food.”
“Naturally.”
At the top of the stairs, he pushes open the door to the apartment with his elbow. “In the great green room, there was a shelf of first-edition books—”
“And a dripping sink,” I add.
“And stacks of old newspapers.”
I put my finger to his lips and say, “And a very handsome man who cooks.”
“And there were lots of generous Seattleites sitting in chairs.”
“And one little kitten who looked at you and became smitten.”
“And pasta and cannoli and a guy wearing fleece.”
“And a quiet old lady who is finally at peace.” I wipe a tear away. “Do you think she is, Gavin? Do you think we made her proud?”
“Yes,” he says, lying beside me on the bed. He kisses my lips with such tenderness, such love.
“Goodnight, Gavin,” I say. My eyelids are heavy, and he peels off my shoes, then nestles beside me.
“Goodnight, June,” he whispers softly in my ear. And when I close my eyes, I dream of the bookstore. Amy is holding her baby downstairs by the window, showering her with love. Ruby sits in a rocking chair in the corner of the little apartment with her knitting needles and a ball of yarn. It’s where she’s always been, of course, and it’s where she’ll always be, watching me as I sleep under the light of the moon.
And if I listen closely, I can almost hear her whispering, “Hush.”
Acknowledgments
Every novel has its own special journey, with special people who shepherd it (and its author) along. For this novel, I owe my biggest thanks to Elisabeth Weed, my dear literary agent and friend. Aside from my husband, the first person I share fledgling novel ideas with is Elisabeth. I remember the moment I told her the concept for this book. I nervously e-mailed her a brief synopsis, and her immediate enthusiasm told me that I needed to write this novel. But not only that, she encouraged me to make it a bigger, more heartfelt story than I’d ever imagined. As an author I’ve learned to do two things over the years: trust my heart, and trust Elisabeth.
Heartfelt gratitude also goes to my wonderful editor at Penguin, Denise Roy, who edits my books with such super-skill. Thank you for your amazingness, Denise, and for the dozens and dozens of brilliant suggestions that made this book stronger, deeper, better.
A team of fabulous people must be thanked, heartily, for their help, encouragement, and expertise: the amazing Jenny Meyer and Shane King; Dana Murphy; Dana Borowitz; Elizabeth Keenan, Ashley McClay, Phil Budnick, Kate Napolitano, and everyone else at Penguin who has worked so hard to share my books with readers.
Also, a special thanks to the legendary and very kind children’s book author and illustrator Thacher Hurd (who happens to be the son of Clement Hurd, the illustrator of Goodnight Moon) for chatting with me on the phone and telling me a sweet story about his time as a toddler at Margaret Wise Brown’s house in Maine that I will never forget.
To my family, who constantly encourages and inspires me—Terry and Karen Mitchell, Jessica Campbell, Josh Mitchell, Josiah Mitchell—thank you. A special note to you, Jessica, my dear sister: This book is for you because you have taught me more about life, friendship, and wisdom than any other friend. (And thanks for never running off with one of my boyfriends!) And to you, Katherine Estacio Mitchell, my beautiful sister-in-law: Read between the lines, and you will find yourself in this novel—your strength, resilience, and courage.
I suppose this book wouldn’t be here without me being a mom first. And so I thank my three boys, Carson, Russell, and Colby, who begged me to read the “moon book” over and over again when they were tiny (and even now). It was in those moments that this novel began to grow (I just didn’t know it yet).
And Jason, thanks for handling all those muddy T-ball practices solo while I wrote this book in my cozy office. xo
If you loved Goodnight June and are looking for more from New York Times bestselling author Sarah Jio, please enjoy the first chapter of Sarah’s first novel, The Violets of March, which was a Library Journal Best Book of 2011.
Chapter 1
“I guess this is it,” Joel said, leaning into the doorway of our apartment. His eyes darted as if he was trying to memorize every detail of the turn-of-the-century New York two-story, the one we’d bought together five years ago and renovated—in happier times. It was a sight: the entryway with its delicate arch, the old mantel we’d found at an antique store in Connecticut and carted home like treasure, and the richness of the dining room walls. We’d agonized about the paint color but finally settled on Morocco Red, a shade that was both wistful and jarring, a little like our marriage. Once it was on the walls, he thought it was too orange. I thought it was just right.
Our eyes met for a second, but I quickly looked down at the dispenser in my hands and robotically pried off the last piece of packing tape, hastily plastering it on the final box of Joel’s belongings that he’d come over that morning to retrieve. “Wait,” I said, recalling a fleck of a blue leather-bound hardback I’d seen in the now-sealed box. I looked up at him accusatorily. “Did you take my copy of Years of Grace?”
I had read the novel on our honeymoon in Tahiti six years prior, though it wasn’t the memory of our trip I wanted to eulogize with its tattered pages. Looking back, I’ll never know how the 1931 Pulitzer Prize winner by the late Margaret Ayer Barnes ended up in a dusty stack of complimentary books in the resort’s lobby, but as I pulled it out of the bin and cracked open its brittle spine, I felt my heart contract with a deep familiarity that I could not explain. The moving story told in its pages, of love and loss and acceptance, of secret passions and the weight of private thoughts, forever changed the way I viewed my own writing. It may have even been the reason why I stopped writing. Joel had never read the book, and I was glad of it. It was too intimate to share. It read to me like the pages of my unwritten diary.
Joel watched as I peeled the tape back and opened the box, digging around until I found the old novel. When I did I let out a sigh of emotional exhaustion.
“Sorry,” he said awkwardly. “I didn’t realize you—”
He didn’t realize a lot of things about me. I grasped the book tightly, then nodded and retaped the box. “I guess that’s everything,” I said, standing up.
He glanced cautiously toward me, and I returned his gaze this time. For another few hours, at least until I signed the divorce papers later that afternoon, he would still be my husband. Yet it was difficult to look into those dark brown eyes knowing that the man I had married was leaving me, for someone else. How did we get here?
The scene of our demise played out in my mind like a tragic movie, the way it had a million times since we’d been separated. It opened on a rainy Monday morning in November. I was making scrambled eggs smothered in Tabasco, his favorite, when he told me about Stephanie. The way she made him laugh. The way she understood him. The way they connected. I pictured the image of two Lego pieces fusing together, and I shuddered. It’s funny; when I think back to that morning, I can actually smell burned eggs and Tabasco. Had I known that this is what the end of my marriage would smell like, I would have made pancakes.
I looked once again into Joel’s face. His eyes were sad and unsure. I knew that if I rose to my feet and threw myself into his arms, he might embrace me with the love of an apologetic
husband who wouldn’t leave, wouldn’t end our marriage. But, no, I told myself. The damage had been done. Our fate had been decided. “Good-bye, Joel,” I said. My heart may have wanted to linger, but my brain knew better. He needed to go.
Joel looked wounded. “Emily, I—”
Was he looking for forgiveness? A second chance? I didn’t know. I extended my hand as if to stop him from going on. “Good-bye,” I said, mustering all my strength.
He nodded solemnly, then turned to the door. I closed my eyes and listened as he shut it quietly behind him. He locked it from the outside, a gesture that made my heart seize. He still cares. . . . About my safety, at least. I shook my head and reminded myself to get the locks changed, then listened as his footsteps became quieter, until they were completely swallowed up by the street noise.
My phone rang sometime later, and when I stood up to get it, I realized that I’d been sitting on the floor engrossed in Years of Grace ever since Joel left. Had a minute passed? An hour?
“Are you coming?” It was Annabelle, my best friend. “You promised me you wouldn’t sign your divorce papers alone.”
Disoriented, I looked at the clock. “Sorry, Annie,” I said, fumbling for my keys and the dreaded manila envelope in my bag. I was supposed to meet her at the restaurant forty-five minutes ago. “I’m on my way.”
“Good,” she said. “I’ll order you a drink.”
The Calumet, our favorite lunch spot, was four blocks from my apartment, and when I arrived ten minutes later, Annabelle greeted me with a hug.
“Are you hungry?” she asked after we sat down.
I sighed. “No.”
Annabelle frowned. “Carbs,” she said, passing me the bread basket. “You need carbs. Now, where are those papers? Let’s get this over with.”
I pulled the envelope out of my bag and set it on the table, staring at it with the sort of caution one might reserve for dynamite.
