by Sarah Jio
I do a search for the Magnuson Charitable Foundation and click on a link that takes me to its website. The bios in the About Us tab identify Victoria Gerhardt Magnuson, wife of Anthony, as emeritus fellow, and their daughter, May Magnuson, as executive director. I click on the embedded e-mail address and draft a note:
Dear May,
My name is June Andersen. My aunt, Ruby, recently passed away, leaving me her business, Bluebird Books. I am writing because I came across some letters that indicate that your father and my aunt may have been close at one time. This chapter in my aunt’s life is unknown to me. I apologize if I’ve stirred up any unpleasant memories from the past. I’m staying at the bookstore now while I sort through her estate. If you have a moment to talk, I’d be grateful.
Very best wishes,
June Andersen
After I send the e-mail, I scroll through my in-box to find a dozen or more e-mails from Arthur. He’s fuming, as evidenced by his excessive use of exclamation points and all caps. He wants to know where I am and when I will be returning to work. Overcome with guilt—and maybe fear, I’m not sure—I hit the Reply button and with tingly fingers I type:
Arthur, so sorry for my delay. I’ve been consumed in matters of my aunt’s estate. I hate to say this, but I need more time before I can return to the city. I thought I could wrap things up in a week, but it’s not looking likely. Please bear with me. I’ll keep you posted. —June
I’m overcome with a panicky flutter in my stomach when I consider the very real possibility that my employment is on the line. If I lose my job, I lose all that I am. And I can’t do that. No, I have to speed up the process of liquidating the shop. I decide to start with the attorney to get a sense of the financial health of my aunt’s estate. Is the bookstore mortgaged? Is there any outstanding debt? I’ll need these answers before approaching a developer. The attorney has all the pertinent information recorded for me; I’ll just need to request it in an e-mail, which I do immediately.
After I’ve sent the message, I close my laptop and take one of my pills. I lean back on Ruby’s bed, close my eyes, and lie still until my heartbeat stabilizes again and I consider my predicament with Bluebird Books.
Uncertainty is weakness, or so Arthur always says. But maybe he’s wrong. Maybe uncertainty is simply human. I consider each scenario carefully. There’s my life in New York. A sure thing. I get up in the morning, I go to work, I kick butt at my job, and for that I’m paid well. But life here in Seattle? It’s less sure. In fact, it’s risky. Didn’t I just read a Wall Street Journal article about the forthcoming doomsday for booksellers? Even if I do try to save Bluebird Books, even if I put every drop of my blood, sweat, and tears into it, it might still fail. I nod to myself. From a business perspective, it’s like the underperforming stock you know you shouldn’t put more money into. All the analysts say sell. So why can’t I get rid of that quiet voice inside that says buy?
I let out an exhausted sigh and close my eyes again, and when sleep comes, I don’t fight it. I dream of a garden where books grow on trees, and Ruby is there, rocking in her chair, smiling at me as Gavin and I read. I see Amy, too, skipping across the garden on the arm of that doctor from the ER in New York, and the happiness fades.
I open my eyes, disoriented. How long have I slept? The sunlight is fading, and I look at the clock: It’s nearly five, and I remember the dinner at Antonio’s. I dress quickly, selecting a black pencil skirt and tights and a red sweater. I pull my hair back into a tidy ponytail, then slip into a pair of suede heeled booties. I don’t know what to expect tonight, only that I’m showing up, and trusting Gavin.
I step out to the sidewalk, and I can hear jazz notes beckoning a couple about my age into the entrance to Antonio’s. My heart flutters for a moment. What am I doing? I take a deep breath and walk to the restaurant, placing my hand on the doorknob. Through the glass door, I see Gavin in a crisp white shirt, with an apron tied around his waist. As he crosses the dining room to greet an older couple, he notices me standing outside. His eyes meet mine, and he rushes to the door.
“Right this way,” he says cheekily, holding it ajar.
I smile and walk inside. A three-piece band is wedged into a corner. They play their instruments softly, and the melody seeps through the air, mixing with the aroma coming from the kitchen. I breathe it all in.
“I’m glad you’re here,” Gavin continues. “We’re short staffed.”
“Oh?”
He nods. “Adrianna has the flu, and one of our servers had to fly to California this afternoon for a family emergency.” He hands me an apron. “Can you wait tables?”
“Wait . . . tables?” I shake my head. “I’ve never—”
“It’s not rocket science,” he says. “Just ask them what they’d like, bring out the food, then check on them every now and then.” He doesn’t wait for my response before handing me a little notepad and pen. His eyes are pleading, sincere. “Thanks,” he continues, before I can respond. “I owe you, big time.”
A moment later, he disappears behind the swinging door that leads to the kitchen. I turn to face the restaurant guests, and the clarinet player, an older man with a kind face, gives me a knowing smile.
I can do this, I tell myself as I tie the apron around my waist. I take a calming breath, then walk to the nearest table. “Good evening,” I say. “I’m going to be running the dining room this evening for Gavin. May I bring you something to drink?”
At half past ten, I’ve brought out the last order of tiramisu, when Gavin flips the sign in the door to CLOSED. I’m wiping the counter as the final guests file out the door, one a bit tipsy from too much wine. I watch as she trips on the sidewalk; her date catches her arm.
My feet are killing me, so I slip off my boots and collapse into a stool at the counter. Gavin leans over the counter beside me. “You were amazing tonight,” he says. “May I hire you?”
I smile. “Well, I don’t know if I’d say I was amazing. I’m sorry about the ravioli incident.”
He laughs, recalling the plate I dropped on the dining room floor. “It’s why we don’t have carpet. Easy cleanup.”
“Well, thanks for not firing me,” I say.
“Are you hungry?”
“I’m starved. Nothing like waiting tables all evening to work up an appetite. I think I may have drooled a little when the guy at the corner table ordered the puttanesca.”
As I untie my apron, he turns to the stereo system behind the bar and flips it on. Soft guitar music seeps through the speakers as he reaches for a wine bottle high on the shelf. He uncorks it with precision and selects two wineglasses, filling each halfway.
“To new beginnings,” he says, holding his glass out to mine.
“To new beginnings,” I reply.
“Come on,” he says, taking my hand. “Now I get to cook for you.”
I slip my shoes back on and follow him into the kitchen. The lights are dimmed, and the space has a different, more intimate feel than it did before. Gavin selects a pan hanging on the wall and drizzles olive oil inside before adjusting the flame on the stove. “This,” he says, pointing to the pan, “is what I cook for someone who’s grappling with a big decision.”
I shake my head. “What do you mean? I—”
“You’ve just inherited a bookstore thousands of miles away from your home and work—of course you’re going to be making decisions. Huge decisions.” I watch the gas flame on the stove flicker as he adds garlic, then gives the pan a little shake. The basil goes in next, and then a heaping pile of chopped tomatoes. “Pasta arrabiata always helps.” He mixes in a generous sprinkle of red chili flakes. “It’s the spice that gives you clarity.”
“I wish it were that easy,” I say, smiling.
“It is,” he says, letting the sauce simmer as he takes a seat beside me at the table. A moment later, he tops off our wineglasses, then turns to me again
. “Tell me more about you.”
“What do you want to know?” I ask a little cautiously.
“Well, I know that you grew up here, and that you left and pretty much never came back. Why?”
“Would you believe me if I said it was the rain?”
“No,” he says with a smile. “I’ve lived here long enough to know that Seattleites aren’t scared off by the rain. Affinity for moisture is in your blood.”
“You’re right,” I say. “We also don’t use umbrellas.”
“I know!” he says, grinning. “What’s with that? It can be a flash flood, and no one even bothers with them. And what’s the deal with all the flip-flops—in January!”
I smile slyly, then shrug. “What can I say? We’re an unusual bunch.”
“So, what was the real reason? Why did you leave?”
I look away from him for a moment. “For the same reasons anyone leaves their home, I guess. I wanted to prove myself.”
“Prove what?”
“I had a fight with my mother about that,” I say. “She could never understand me. We’re so different; always have been. I didn’t want to grow up to be like her. She was someone who viewed work as an obligation, a burden, which I know now was because she never found her passion in life. It’s hard to feel passionate about a job at the grocery store.”
Gavin nods. “Unless you love your work at the grocery store.”
“True,” I say. “But she didn’t love her work. She never did.”
“So you wanted to find your calling?”
“Yes and no,” I say. “I’d always thought I’d stay in Seattle, and help Ruby with the bookstore. In fact, as a child, that’s all I wanted to do. But after the drama with my mom, I felt I needed to leave to find myself. Does that make sense?”
“Oh yes,” he says. “I know this story all too well.”
I nod. “So I decided to go as far away as I could. Ruby attended college on the East Coast, so I applied to some schools, and eventually settled on New York University. Along with my acceptance letter from the admissions office was an award of a full scholarship.”
“Wow, you must have earned really good grades in high school, then.”
I shake my head. “No. I mean, they were good. A’s and B’s, but I didn’t have a 4.0. Not even close. The reason for the scholarship was never fully explained beyond that it came from one of the school’s anonymous donors who wanted to recognize my merit as a student from a low-income home in Seattle. But I was grateful for the opportunity, grateful for it every day. Because of that scholarship, I got my degree in finance.”
Gavin looks confused. “So why’d you pick finance?”
I sigh. “In my junior year, I had to choose a major, and I remember scanning the list of options, and I thought to myself, ‘Finance, money. Yes. I’ll learn about money so I’ll never have to be poor again.’ As it happened, I was good at managing money. And it all turned out all right.”
Gavin doesn’t look convinced. “Did it?”
“Sure,” I say a little defensively.
“What did Ruby think of your leaving?”
My heart sinks when I remember the last time I visited Bluebird Books. There were tears in her eyes, though she tried not to let me see them. “She didn’t like to see me go, but she supported my decision. I don’t know how to describe it other than to say that she got it. She understood. My mom? Not so much. She said I was a fool to traipse across the country to a fancy college in a fancy city. She said I’d be home within the year, and that if I wanted a better life, I’d be better off looking for a rich man.”
Gavin’s eyes are kind and tender, and somehow, even though this subject still hurts, he makes me want to open up.
My lip trembles a little. Even after all these years, the memory still stings.
“Don’t you see?” he says, taking my hands in his. “Your mom’s comments weren’t about you. They were about herself. They grew out of her own disappointments about life. It’s a terrible thing adults do; they color their children’s lives in the same way they’ve shaded their own.”
I bite my lip. I hear Gavin’s words, and yet there’s a seventeen-year-old girl in me who still has trouble believing them, believing she is worth it.
“When I left my job at the law firm, I went home for a few weeks, before I sorted out my application to culinary school,” he says. “My dad took me out fishing, and I’ll never forget the way he looked over at me and said I was a fool for giving up on law. He said that as a man, he’d lost respect for me. I was stunned. And then he made some joke. He just sat there with his fishing pole, carrying on as if he hadn’t just completely pulled the rug out from under me.” He sighs, and takes another sip of his wine. “It hurt. But then I remembered that my dad’s dad probably had this same talk with him. History repeats itself, and if we don’t fight against it, we’ll do the same things our parents do. We expect the same things from our children that our parents expected from us. And when we’re cornered or confused or scared, I think we dip back into that old familial thinking. The important thing is to remember that we can break out of those old molds. You know?”
“It’s what you did, didn’t you?”
“I did,” he says. “But it wasn’t easy. For years, I kept hearing my father’s words in my head. They were always there. You’re a fool. A disgrace. I’ve lost respect for you.”
“What stopped it?” I ask.
“My mom came out to visit, see the restaurant,” he says. “She told me it was wonderful to see a man who loved his work after watching my father hate his throughout their entire marriage. That was news to me. My father worked for a large corporation. He worked his way up to vice president. You should have seen his desk. It was covered with service excellence awards. I thought he loved what he did. But then I realized that he didn’t. At all. I forgave my dad that day. And I moved on.” Gavin weaves his fingers through mine. “I think the important thing to remember is that your mom’s preconceived ideas about life have no bearing on your own. We’re each given one life, and it’s our job to make it useful, beautiful, and fulfilling. There is no value in suffering through it, doing something we hate. There’s no prize at the end for that kind of endurance. Just a spent life.”
I wipe away a tear. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. And I’m miserable.”
“At the bank?”
I nod.
“Then leave it in your past,” he says. “Start over. It’s never too late to start over, to create the life you deserve.”
“I don’t know if I can,” I say.
Gavin leans in to me, and whispers in my ear, “I know you can.” He stands up then and returns to the stove, and with a flick of his wrist, tosses the sauce in the pan, then drains a boiling pot of pasta into a colander over the sink. “And this will help.” He pulls two white bowls from the shelf and piles them high with wide pappardelle before spooning sauce over the top. He finishes with a generous amount of Parmesan cheese. It falls from the grater like snow, and when he sets the bowl in front of me at the table, fresh tears are in my eyes, and I’m not sure if I’m crying because I can’t remember the last time anyone has cooked for me or if it’s because I feel, for the first time in a very long time, well, happy.
“Dig in,” Gavin says, handing me a fork.
“This,” I say, “looks amazing. Arrabiata.” I pause, letting the word sink in. “Yes.” I take another bite.
We eat in silence until our bowls are empty and our bellies are full.
I haven’t had feelings for someone since Ryan, and for a moment, that frightens me. I vowed never to be vulnerable with a man again after the way that relationship ended so badly. But this feels different, somehow. I think of what Ruby wrote about her Anthony, that she could crawl into his smile and sleep for a thousand years. And in this moment, I understand what she meant. Yes, I barely know Gavin, bu
t all I want to do is know him. More. And more and more. When our eyes meet, I feel drawn to him. He’s like a powerful magnet; his pull is too strong to resist. He cradles my face in his hands, then coaxes my mouth to his. I feel light and airy, like I might float away. I don’t hear the kitchen door swing open in the background, not right away. But then Gavin pulls back abruptly, and we both look over to see Adrianna, staring at us. There’s a distinct look of hurt on her face.
“I’m sorry,” she says, shaking her head. “I didn’t know . . . I didn’t—”
Gavin takes a step back from me, and I try to make sense of the look on his face. Guilt? Regret? Worry? Something else?
Adrianna’s wearing sweats. Her cheeks are pale. “My fever came down, so I, uh, just thought I’d stop in and see how the night went. And, well, I wanted to talk to you about something.” She turns to the door. “But I see you’re busy, so . . . it can wait.”
“No,” Gavin says, concerned. “What is it?”
Adrianna looks at me, then back at Gavin.
My mouth falls open as she pushes through the door to the dining room. Gavin runs after her. “Adrianna,” he cries. “Please, don’t . . .”
I feel foolish, embarrassed. And in their heated exchange, neither notices when I slip through the swinging door, collect my purse, and leave through the back door to the alley.
I try not to think about Gavin as I slide my key into the back door to the bookstore and then run up the back stairs. And when I hear a faint knock on the door downstairs a half hour later, I don’t answer it.
Chapter 8