by Sarah Jio
“I have to tell you something,” I say to Gavin.
He looks startled. “What?”
“I haven’t been honest with you about . . . my intentions for the bookstore.” He holds silent, so I continue. “I’m a banker. You know that. But what you don’t know is that I’m the kind of banker who specializes in shutting down businesses in default. Cafés, little craft shops, even bookstores. You name it, I’ve closed it.” I shake my head, unable to make eye contact with him. “As a finance student, I would never have been able to imagine myself performing such excruciating tasks in the name of business, like looking in the eyes of a seventy-year-old woman who has been late on her mortgage payments for eleven months and saying, ‘I don’t care that your business has been in the family for six generations. I’m shutting you down. Sayonara.’” I sigh. “But that’s the kind of person I’ve had to be. And I was good at it. Am good at it. I’m paid well to clean up these kinds of messes.”
I turn to face Gavin, but he’s staring off at the horizon. I’m not sure if he’s just taking it all in, or if he’s thinking about how he’s grossly misjudged my character. “I’d hardened over the years,” I continue. “I didn’t realize that until I came home to Seattle and the old memories came rushing back. I honestly thought I could spend a few days, sort through my aunt’s estate, and sell off the assets, just like in my work life.” I shake my head. “I had a real estate agent come out yesterday to appraise the store, and I couldn’t stand the way he looked at the place with dollar signs in his eyes. I began to realize then that I could never sell the store, because I love it too much. And I know I always will.”
Gavin’s silence makes my heart race in anticipation. Will his feelings for me change now? Is he formulating his exit strategy? I fold my hands together tightly and bite the edge of my lip, as he turns to face me again. “That,” he says, “took a lot of guts to tell me.”
I look away. “It’s the sad truth.”
He takes my left hand in his, and I turn back to face him. “No, there’s nothing sad about this story,” he says. “It has a happy ending.”
“Well,” I say, “not yet.”
“You’re the prodigal niece,” Gavin continues with a smile. “You left home and forged a life you thought you wanted, but it didn’t fulfill you. It took coming home, seeing all the love waiting for you here, before you could face your past, face yourself.”
I smile, ignoring the stinging sensation in my eyes. “You make my life sound poetic, when it’s really quite a mess.”
“Nah,” he says. “It’s not a mess. So you have a job to quit, an apartment to sell. You’ve had bigger fish to fry. You can get this done.” He kisses my hand lightly. “And you’ll have me to help.”
“Thank you,” I say, smiling again. “Isn’t it fascinating how a situation can feel infinitely more difficult when it’s part of your own life?” I shake my head. “I don’t know how I’m going to tell Arthur.”
“Arthur?”
“My boss. He’s the one who trained me into this profession, groomed me, made me into the corporate woman I became. He’s not going to see this coming.”
“He’s already seen it coming,” Gavin says.
“How do you know?”
“Because it’s impossible not to see how unhappy that job has made you,” he says. “This Arthur has seen it all along, and he’s ignored it.”
I nod. “Frankly, I think the job makes him miserable too.”
“Then tell him,” Gavin says. “Soon. The sooner you get this off your chest, the better you’ll feel.” He squeezes my hand. “The sooner you can focus on what’s next.”
I tousle his windblown hair. “Where did you come from?”
“Next door,” he says simply.
“Why couldn’t you have been next door before I left Seattle?”
“Because we wouldn’t have been ready for each other then,” he says. “We had a lot of hurdles to jump first. And we did.”
One of the seagulls from the flock meanders closer to me. “Sorry, little guy,” I say. “That’s the last of the crackers.”
He bobs his beak as if he understands and hops backward, then swoops into the air, letting out a shriek as he flies against the wind.
“I love how they do that,” Gavin says, pointing to the bird. “It’s like they’re suspended in the sky.”
I grin. “I’ve always thought that it’s a game they play, like they’re trying to beat the wind.” Then I remember something Ruby said about being envious of birds because they can take off and fly anytime they want. “My aunt loved birds, all kinds. I once asked her why she named the bookstore Bluebird Books, and she told me about an old song she used to love called ‘Bluebird of Happiness.’”
“The Disney one?” He strains to remember the tune: “There’s a bluebird on my shoulder . . .”
“No,” I say, smiling. “It’s a different one. But come to think of it, bluebirds have inspired a lot of happy songs, haven’t they?”
“What makes you happy?” he asks, his face more serious now.
I pause for a moment, caught off guard. “I don’t know,” I say honestly. “I’ve spent so many years avoiding that question.”
He gives me a face as if he doesn’t understand.
“As a kid, I used to think I’d grow up and everything would sort itself out. When I left Seattle, I thought the perfect life was around the corner. And for a while, it sort of was. I thought I was happy. I thought I had everything I could ever want, and then, bam, I lost it all. Well, all but the job, and that sort of took over my life.”
“What happened?” Gavin asks.
I look away, counting the seagulls overhead. One, two, three, four. No, I’m not ready to tell him. Not yet.
The ferry’s horn sounds, and the seagulls scream and shriek overhead, sounding their disapproval. “We’d better walk down now,” I say. “We’re almost to the terminal.”
He smiles at me with a “we’re not finished with this conversation” look, and we walk together to the front of the boat. The ferry rocks and jostles a bit as it makes contact with the dock, and I lose my footing. Gavin places a steadying hand on my waist, then takes my hand in his as we walk off the boat down the ramp to the sidewalk that leads to the island’s main street shops.
It’s a warm day, and birds are chirping in the trees overhead. “I love Bainbridge Island,” I say, breathing in the salty air.
“I have a friend who lives on the island,” Gavin says. “His name is Jack. He and his wife live in an old colonial right on the waterfront. He fishes every day, and crabs.”
“Oh, I’ve always wanted to go crabbing.”
“The Dungeness are amazing out here,” he says. “I’ve been meaning to come out and get some crab for the restaurant.” He scratches his head. “But, I don’t know. Maybe not, since . . .”
I squeeze his hand. “Buy the crab,” I say with a smile. “Don’t you see? Cooking is your passion. Sure, things are hard now, but giving up on the restaurant isn’t what will help.”
He nods, but I can still see hesitation in his eyes. “Maybe, but it will be different. I thought I could do it, but I don’t really know if I can ultimately run this place without a partner.”
I want to tell him, You can push through this, but I know he’s right. I know if I had tried to work with Ryan after . . . well, it would have killed me. Not a quick, clean death, but a slow, painful one. I can see why Adrianna wants out.
We round the corner to a crosswalk that leads to downtown Winslow, the only “city” on the island.
“What will you do, then?” I ask soberly.
“You could hire me to be your assistant in the bookstore,” he says with a mischievous grin.
“It’s not a bad idea,” I say. “Especially if we knock down a wall and turn Antonio’s into a café.”
He’s quiet for
a moment, and at first I worry that I’ve offended him, but he turns to me and stops on the sidewalk, and his eyes flash. “Yes,” he says. “That’s a perfect idea. A bookstore-café. We could specialize in family fare, kids’ food.”
“Well,” I say. My heart skips a little picturing a new sign with the words BLUEBIRD BOOKS & CAFÉ. “I wasn’t actually serious when I suggested it, but now you’ve got me thinking we’re onto something.”
“I think we are,” Gavin continues. “I talked to Joe yesterday. He’s closing his café in two months.”
“Oh, no, why?” I ask.
“He wants to retire, sail to Mexico. And without Joe’s the street will need a new café.”
“I don’t know,” I say. “What about Adrianna? She’d have to weigh in, and we don’t know what her plans are for the future.”
Gavin pauses, and his eyes look momentarily stormy, as if he’s stopping to let a squall pass. “She told me that if I wanted to buy out her half of the business, I could. Of course, I told her no. I don’t want her to think I’m trying to force her out.”
“But maybe she wants out,” I suggest. “Listen,” I say quickly. “Let’s not think about this now. We’re stowaways on an island. Let’s make a day of it. No serious talk.”
He smiles, and weaves his fingers through mine. “Where to, then?”
I see a sign that reads BLACKBIRD BAKERY across the street, and I point to it. “Coffee and a scone first?”
We sit at a corner table and talk and laugh over Americanos and blackberry scones, then continue our tour of Winslow, stopping at a wine store. Gavin buys a case of local cabernet for the restaurant, and an extra one for me. When I notice a bookstore, Eagle Harbor Books, across the street, we walk there next.
“I love this bookstore,” I say, breathing in the air as we step inside.
“You’ve been here before?”
“Yeah,” I reply. “With Ruby. She knew the owners, and used to take my sister and me over on the ferry for events. We once saw Maurice Sendak read here.”
“As in, Where the Wild Things Are?”
“Yeah,” I say.
“What was he like?”
“Grumpy and wonderful, and wise,” I reply. “Ruby was sad that he couldn’t make it to Bluebird Books as part of his tour, but she was determined to take us to see him. She closed the store, and we came over on the ferry.” I point to the children’s section, remembering how dozens of children crowded in to get a glimpse of the foreboding author with his bushy eyebrows and serious face. “I stood right here,” I continue, pointing to a place along the far wall. “And he said, ‘You there, little girl. May I ask you for your assistance?’ And so I went up to the front, and he asked me to hold the book for him as he read. He also asked me to make the growling sounds for the monsters. At first I was nervous. But then I kind of got into it, and I just let it out. After that he told me I had the very best monster roar he’d ever heard.”
“I love that story,” Gavin says. “Do you still remember how to roar?”
“Still do,” I say with a wink. “It’s one of my most well-honed skills, in fact.”
We scan the bookshelves independently for a few minutes, and I select a novel from the “staff picks” table. Gavin returns to my side with an illustrated book about birds. A barrel-chested bluebird appears on the cover. “I thought you could keep this in the store,” he says.
“I love it.”
We pay for our purchases and meander down the sidewalk. “Can you imagine a world without bookstores?” I say.
Gavin shakes his head.
“Before she died, Ruby left a letter for me in the apartment. She said she was afraid that the store was in its final act. She feared for the future of the store.” I shake my head regretfully. “She said she worried children didn’t love books the way they used to.” I turn to him. “Do you think that’s true?”
“I don’t know,” he says thoughtfully. “I think they have more choices today. There are books, and then video games, TV, which provide instant gratification. But with books, you have to work for it.”
“But that’s why reading is so wonderful,” I say, shaking my head. “You’re a participant.”
“Yes,” he says. “But it’s not just books versus TV, that’s the problem; it’s bookstores versus the Internet.”
I nod. “Ruby was afraid of the Internet. She didn’t even want a website.” I pause to remember the tech-savvy young customer who offered to set up a website for her ten years ago, but she resisted vehemently. “Gavin, what if Ruby was right? What if people stop going to bookstores? What if they abandon them entirely? I believe this was Ruby’s greatest fear.”
“And it will be your greatest challenge,” Gavin says, pointing back to Eagle Harbor Books. “Think of the memories you have of meeting Maurice Sendak, listening to him read his stories. Think of all the time you spent in Bluebird Books. You love books; you love bookstores because you made important memories in them as a child.” He nods. “The only way to save bookstores is to keep children coming to them. All you have to do is keep the doors open, and welcome children and families. You will be planting a seed, then letting it grow.”
I nod. “I guess you’re right. The dishwasher never rendered restaurants obsolete.”
“Neither did the microwave,” he says.
I laugh. “If anything, the microwave improved business.”
Gavin smiles. “Technology is not the enemy of bookstores.” He points to his heart. “It’s deeper than that.”
“You’re right,” I say.
We walk in silence for the next few minutes, until we cross the street and stop in front of a café on the corner. “You haven’t lived until you’ve had a crab melt from Cafe Nola,” he says.
I smile and we sink into a booth; we set our purchases down on one side and sit together on the other. He holds my hand in his under the table, and it makes my stomach feel fluttery, which surprises me. I tell myself it’s just hunger.
Our conversation is easy, and at times I find myself wondering if I’ve known this man all my life. We’re both firstborns. Our favorite color is green (the color of the Puget Sound, we both say, almost at the same time), we adore the movie The Princess Bride, and we both hate lima beans. All silly, small things, but when you add them up, and combine them with this feeling in my heart, it equals something wonderful, and a little frightening.
Gavin pays the bill, and we hear the horn of the ferry ahead. “If we’re quick, we can make the three thirty,” he says, looking at his watch.
We gather our bags and run ahead. Good food is sloshing in my belly, and there’s a huge smile plastered on my face. We climb the steps to the terminal, then make our way, a little out of breath, to the long, dimly lit corridor where walk-on passengers wait to board.
“Good,” he says, exhaling, “we’ll make it.”
I lean against the railing beside Gavin as hundreds of passengers from the Seattle side stream off the ferry and into the terminal. A few minutes later, a ferry worker unclicks the gate and motions for us to board.
We move to the right, to make way for a couple of passengers who are late to exit, and at first I don’t hear my name.
“June?”
I look behind me, and then to my left, and that’s when I see her. I stop in my tracks, like a rock lodged in a creek bed. The people, like rushing water, continue on around me. I can’t take my eyes off her.
“Amy?” My sister looks different. She was always thin, but she looks gaunt now. While she once wore layers of makeup, now her skin is bare. She’s beautiful, even more so without a painted face, and yet there’s a hollowness to her cheeks, sadness and longing in her eyes. She wears gray leggings and a black wool cape sweater. Her blond hair is pulled back into a tidy ponytail.
Amy takes a step forward. There are tears in her eyes, and I feel mine sting. My first
instinct is to run to her, to embrace her, but my legs don’t move. They feel like they’re set in dried cement. And when I try to open my mouth, no words come out.
“June,” Amy cries. “I can’t believe you’re here. I can’t believe I actually ran into you.” She looks at Gavin as if to beg for his help at thawing my icy exterior. He turns to me and then back to Amy, confused, waiting for me to make a move, to say something.
Tears stream down Amy’s face now, the way they did in the apartment in New York so many years ago, the day we parted ways forever. Operation Sisterhood, I think to myself. I imagine how Ruby and Margaret would have behaved, throwing their arms wide open for their sisters. I feel a flicker of warmth inside, but it isn’t enough to melt the ice. And I know in that moment that I . . . just can’t.
“I’m sorry,” I say finally. “We’ll miss our ferry. Let’s go, Gavin.” I barely recognize my own voice, stiff and cold. I bristle at the sound of it. It’s as if I’m on autopilot and the operating system has completely overridden my heart.
I don’t look back as we round the corner to board the ferry.
“What just happened back there?” Gavin asks as we sit down in a booth facing Seattle.
“Listen,” I say in a faltering voice, “if it’s OK with you, I’d rather not talk about it.”
He nods, and tucks a protective arm around my shoulder. As the ferry pulls out of the harbor, the seagulls outside the window swoop into the air in a frenzy. They shriek and cry as if begging me to turn back. But I can’t, and I don’t think I ever will.
Chapter 11
Gavin and I don’t discuss my run-in with Amy on Bainbridge Island, and I’m thankful that as the next few days pass, I’ve almost forgotten about it.
But then, the following Tuesday, as I’m cleaning out the contents of Ruby’s desk, Gavin comes over with lunch from Antonio’s and sees a framed photo of Amy and me.
He’s quiet for a moment, and I know he recognizes her.
“That woman at the ferry terminal,” he says in a tentative voice. “Amy. She’s your sister, isn’t she?”