by Sarah Jio
“Oh?”
She nods. “Of course, I’d heard of Ruby’s passing, and let me say, I am sorry for your loss.”
She has kind eyes, but her expression is distant, guarded.
“Thank you.”
“June,” she says, “how much do you know about your aunt’s past?”
“Well,” I say a little nervously, “I know that your father and my aunt were—”
“Lovers?” she says, without emotion. “Yes. They were.”
A silence falls on the room, and I see that Ruby and Anthony’s relationship is still a sore subject for May. And then, suddenly, I can see her as she was in 1946. A little girl in braids wearing a private school uniform and patent leather shoes, caught in the middle of her parents’ unhappiness.
“It killed Mother,” she continues. “The way they carried on all those years.” She sighs. “Mother used to drive by the store, with me in the back. She’d park outside just to watch her, just to try to see what she had that Mom didn’t. Well, thankfully, her memory loss has diminished that burden. It’s the only welcoming thing about dementia.”
The pain of the past is obviously still raw. I decide not to say anything and just listen. For now.
“I was thirteen when I put it all together. I asked Mother, and she told me. She didn’t spare any of the vulgar words she used to describe your aunt, either.” She sighs. “Daddy spent all of his time with her at the bookstore. It was their love nest, you know. Our family life, at home, was just . . . a formality.”
“I’m sorry,” I finally say. “I didn’t know that.” Hearing May’s perspective casts a shadow on the beautiful love story I’ve conjured up in my mind. And I wonder if there is a dark side to every great love story. With great love comes great hurt. I wonder if it’s inevitable.
“I always wanted to know what was so wonderful about Bluebird Books that Daddy would want to spend all his time there,” she says. Her eyes are stormy, and she looks like she might cry or laugh. “I remember one night,” she continues. “It was my birthday. My tenth birthday. It’s a tender age, you know, an age when a girl needs her father. And Mother had prepared a big dinner, and a chocolate cake for dessert. We waited until the food got cold, and he never did come. Of course, he brought a gift the next day, but it . . . well, it hurt.”
“Oh, May,” I say, my words flooding with emotion. I don’t know what to say, and yet part of me feels that I ought to apologize to her, for Ruby. I know she would have never wanted to hurt young May. “That must have been so hard for you.”
“Well,” she says stiffly, expertly navigating away from any sentimentality between us. “You’ve obviously come here for a reason. How can I help you?”
“Yes,” I say cautiously. “I hoped to learn more about my aunt’s life. I left Seattle when I was quite young myself, and there was so much about my aunt I didn’t know. I owe it to her to learn about her past. For instance, I had no idea that she and your father were in love.”
“Love,” she says. “It’s such a funny thing. You see, he was supposed to love us, but apparently we couldn’t hold his attention the way your aunt did.”
“Did you ever meet her, my aunt?” I ask, remembering the brief reference to May in the letters.
“A few times,” she says. “But my loyalty was with Mother.”
“Forgive me for asking this, but why didn’t your mother divorce him?”
“She loved him,” May says simply, as if there was no other explanation. “Even in spite of it all. She made a vow, and she never dreamed of breaking it.”
“And your father?” I ask. “Did he want a divorce?”
May shakes her head. “He needed her fortune to shore up his work in the community,” she explains. “You can put a pretty spin on it, but in actuality, what he did was use her.”
“But surely your mother could have gotten a divorce if she really wanted to.”
May shakes her head. “There was great shame in divorce in those days. She didn’t want her marriage to fail.”
I wonder if this is the truth or merely a story May has told herself over the years. Ruby’s letters described Victoria as a foreboding woman who was very much in charge of her affairs. If she really wanted a divorce, at least according to the picture Ruby painted, she could have gotten one. I look up at the striking dark-haired woman in the painting over the mantel and wonder, suddenly, if Victoria refused a divorce to punish Anthony and Ruby. By agreeing to a divorce, she’d allow them to be married, and perhaps she was too prideful to let that happen.
“And then there was the ultimate betrayal,” May continues, “when Ruby got pregnant.”
I sit up straighter. “What do you mean?”
May nods. “I had a feeling this would be news to you.”
I shake my head, speechless.
“It was a shock to everyone, really,” May adds. “Father was in his sixties then, and Ruby had to be in her forties. I got the news from Mother when I was traveling in Europe. She left a message at my hotel. I’ll never forget the way the maître d’s lip trembled when he came to my room to relay the news.”
I shake my head. “I don’t understand. Ruby never told me she was a mother. Are you sure?”
May sighs. “Perhaps she didn’t want anyone to know. She gave the baby up for adoption. He would have been about your age now. To think she has a son out there. And I have a brother.” She shakes her head as if this is a very disturbing thought.
I’m simply . . . stunned. “All these years,” I say. “I had no idea.”
“Well,” she adds, “Father never got to meet him. He died while Ruby was pregnant. They went out ice skating on Green Lake, and he fell. They thought it was a simple concussion. But he died four hours later.”
“How horrible,” I say. “For everyone.” I want to say, Especially for Ruby, but I don’t. I think of my aunt, pregnant, hovering over Anthony on the ice. I think of them together in the back of an ambulance, him reassuring her that everything will be fine. And then I picture her crying over his lifeless body in a hospital bed. Alone.
“So you have a brother somewhere,” I say, as if somehow, by uttering the words aloud, I’ll come closer to understanding a part of my aunt’s life I never knew existed.
“Well, a half brother,” May says.
“Did you ever . . . meet him?”
She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them again. “No, I never did, and never will. It was a closed adoption. Ruby wanted it that way. I think because she didn’t want the Magnuson family meddling in his life. It was her way of keeping control. To think there was a little boy that was the flesh and blood of Father, and we couldn’t even know him.” May lets out a deep sigh. “Mother hired a private investigator to tail Ruby and Father for years, and after the baby was born, I know she had her PI keep a close eye on the bookstore. Maybe it spooked your aunt.”
“Why would your mother do that?”
“Listen,” May continues. “If there was a Magnuson being raised in the bookstore by her husband’s bohemian lover, then she wanted to be sure the child was raised well.” She sighs. “Yes, I think the ongoing surveillance compelled your aunt to give him up.”
I shake my head. “I can’t imagine Ruby giving up her only child as . . . revenge.”
May smirks. “Then I guess you never knew your aunt.”
For a moment, I begin to think that May could be right. If Ruby could hide a friendship with the legendary Margaret Wise Brown, what else could she hide?
“I don’t know what to say,” I finally concede.
“Well,” she continues, “we might be able to work together. We share a family member. He’s out there somewhere, and if we combine our efforts we might be able to find him.”
I think for a moment, and consider the fact that if Ruby wanted to find him, wanted us to find him, she would have included him in h
er will, or left a letter about his whereabouts, if she even knew.
“As curious as I am, there are Ruby’s wishes to consider,” I say.
May sighs to herself. “There have been far too many secrets kept in my family,” she says to me. “Please, help me.”
“And if we find this long-lost brother,” I say, “which would be my . . . cousin, I suppose—what then?”
“Honestly, I don’t know. I just think it’s time I found him. He’s my brother, after all. Surely you can understand that.”
I think of the store then, and consider the fact that this long-lost son of Ruby’s might make a claim on Bluebird Books. With no sentimentality about a mother he never knew, he might try to sell it. And even though my intentions for the store are equally questionable, the business side of me is poised for a fight. Ruby left the store to me, not him.
“Your aunt must have kept some documentation about her child,” she says.
“But you said it was a closed adoption.”
“Yes,” she says. “I’ve been thinking about this for so many years now and I’ve come to this conclusion: This was the son of my father, the greatest love of her life. Would she really give the boy away and cut off all contact with him forever?” May shakes her head. “I don’t think so. It was her last tie to Anthony. She would have found a way to keep her son in her life, from a distance, and in a way that fooled everyone else.” May nods to herself. “Mother received word through our attorney that the boy had been given up for adoption, and that the proceedings were sealed. In some ways, it helped Mother attain closure. She stepped back. But I never could.”
Though I feel uncertain of May’s intentions, I think she’s right about Ruby: She must have kept in some kind of contact with her son.
“I thought, maybe, I might come over, to the bookstore, and have a look around,” she says. “There has to be some old paperwork that would lead us to her son.”
I think of the pain Victoria, and possibly even May, might have caused Ruby over the years, and I decide Ruby, if she were still alive, might not be thrilled about one of them riffling through her possessions. “I’ll keep an eye out, and I promise to let you know if anything turns up.”
She seems vaguely disappointed by my response, then turns to the doorway, where her assistant stands.
“Excuse me for interrupting, Ms. Magnuson, but you’re wanted on the telephone.”
“Please take the call,” I say quickly. “I was just leaving.”
“Shall I show you out?” the young assistant asks me.
“No,” I say, gathering my purse. “That’s all right.”
“Well, good-bye, June,” May says.
“Good-bye.”
She and her assistant disappear into the hallway, and I stand there for a moment, a little stunned, before making my way to the doorway, where I nearly collide with an old woman, who I instantly realize is May’s mother, Victoria. Her gray hair is short and curled close to her head. The tired skin sags on her face like wrinkled silk, but even so, I can tell that she once was very beautiful, perhaps more beautiful than her daughter could ever have been. I wonder what kind of effect this had on May, growing up in her mother’s shadow.
“Oh, excuse me, ma’am,” I say, a little startled.
“Well at least they’ve done something right,” the woman mutters to herself. “They finally remembered I like lilies. Last week they set up tulips everywhere. I hate tulips.”
“You must be Victoria,” I say.
The old woman looks at me as if she’s just noticed my presence. “Do we know each other?”
“No,” I reply. “I was just, well, here to see your daughter. I’m June Andersen, Ruby Crain’s niece.”
Victoria looks shaken, and I know that after all these years, my aunt’s name still has power over her. Of course it does. For the majority of her marriage to Anthony, Ruby was “the other woman.”
Victoria looks right, then left. “What did my daughter tell you?” she asks quickly, as if we might not have much time to speak.
I decide to be vague. “Not much, really,” I say. Besides, I’ve already said enough. She’s an old woman, and I worry that memories of my aunt may not be good for her nerves.
“Listen, my dear,” she continues, lowering her voice to a hush. “Please, you must be careful with my daughter.”
“What do you mean?” Surely she doesn’t think I came here to disturb her in some way?
“My daughter’s like a dog with a bone,” Victoria says bluntly. If there’s any love hidden in her meaning, I can’t detect it. “She won’t give up on the past. She won’t give up until she’s found . . .”
“Found what?”
She looks up at the stairs and then back at me.
“I’ve tried to tell her to move on with her life, to put it all past her. I’ve done that for myself. But she won’t. She won’t rest until she has it.”
“Do you mean information about Ruby’s son?”
Victoria looks confused, and she shakes her head. “No. No, it’s something else. Something she believes is in the bookstore.”
I look back when I hear the faint sound of voices behind me, and then May and her assistant round the corner.
“Mother,” May says. “What are you doing out of bed? You should be resting before your surgery tomorrow.”
Victoria flashes her a dutiful smile. “Just on my way up,” she says. The assistant takes her arm, and escorts her down the hallway. I hear her mutter, “Lilies. I like lilies, not tulips,” as she disappears into a darkened corridor on the right.
“I hope Mother didn’t say anything upsetting,” May says to me. Her words are less of a statement and more of a question.
“No,” I say guardedly. “No, she didn’t.”
“Because she’s very confused these days. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Some days she doesn’t even know my name.”
“We were just talking about how much she loves lilies,” I say, adjusting the strap of my purse on my shoulder. “Well, I’ve taken up enough of your morning. Good-bye, May.”
Before walking back up to Queen Anne Avenue to catch a cab, I cast one final look at the house, and see May watching me from the window. I look away quickly.
Back at the bookstore, I sort through the contents of two boxes of Ruby’s paperwork, scanning each page with greater zeal than before. If there’s any trace of Ruby’s son under this roof, I’ll find it. But after two hours sprawled out on the floor, I have nothing more than a stack of useless old book order forms for the shop. They sit in a defeated heap destined for the recycle bin.
I hear a knock at the back door. I haven’t seen Gavin since the night at the restaurant, and honestly, I’m not prepared to talk to him, not yet. Whatever has been said, or left unsaid, between him and Adrianna has created a rift between us. We’re like a cherry tree branch on the verge of blooming, but we’ll never bear fruit. It seems smarter to clip off the buds now and save us both a lot of headaches.
I walk to the door hesitantly and turn the lock, opening it just enough to peer out to the alley, and I’m shocked to see Adrianna standing there.
“Hi,” she says. “Sorry, am I disturbing you? I wasn’t sure if the front door was open or not.”
“No, no,” I say, a little surprised by her civility toward me given the iciness of our past encounters. “I mean, no you’re not disturbing me. Come in.”
Adrianna follows me inside the bookstore, and I point to the wingback chairs beside the fireplace.
“Sorry, it’s a bit of a mess in here,” I say as we both sit down.
“Please,” she says with a smile. “I guess Gavin hasn’t mentioned that I’m a total slob. Messes are sort of my thing.”
I grin, surprised by her warmth toward me.
“Listen,” she says. “I came here to apologize. Gavin probably tol
d you about us.”
I nod.
“We were engaged,” she says. “And then we weren’t. I kind of got my heart broken.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No,” she replies. “That’s the thing. You have nothing to apologize for. Gavin is single. I’m single. What we had is . . . over. It’s just taken me a long time to realize that.”
I look at my hands in my lap, digesting her words.
“When I saw you two together the other night,” she continues, “I realized for the first time that it’s really, truly over between us. And you know, it was so weird, I thought I’d feel sadder than I was. But I had this epiphany. I was putting so much effort into the hope of getting back together that it was killing me. It was literally killing me. And now that I’ve acknowledged our end, I honestly just feel relieved.”
I nod again.
“I’ll probably always love him,” she says. “I mean, look at the guy. How can you not?”
I smile cautiously.
“What I’m trying to say is . . . Gavin really likes you. I think you two have a real chance, and I’d hate to think that my presence ruined your chance at happiness.”
I blink hard. “Wow, I don’t know what to say.” I shake my head in bewilderment at this unexpected show of kindness.
“You know, I completely misjudged you,” she says.
“I don’t understand.”
“I thought you were some high-powered New Yorker who’d waltz in here in your stiletto heels and sell the bookstore to the highest bidder.” She shakes her head. “But you really love this place. I see that now.”
“Well, I—”
“I don’t know how I read you so wrong.”
I smile awkwardly. Of course I love the bookstore; I always have. But I don’t tell her that the future of the bookstore is still uncertain. In fact, even though it pained me, I called a commercial real estate agent this morning to get an assessment of the property’s value.
Adrianna smiles nervously. “We’re more alike than we thought,” she says. “We both care deeply about family businesses. My grandmother’s restaurant in San Francisco is at risk of closing. She’s too old to be doing the cooking and neither of her daughters is interested in carrying on her legacy.” She pauses for a moment as if she’s considering a very weighty matter. “I haven’t told Gavin yet, but I’m going to fly down and assess the situation, see if I can help.”