Goodnight June: A Novel Read Online Free PDF Page A

right,” Arthur replies. In my eleven years with the bank, I’ve never behaved this way. And I suppose it surprises him as much as it does me.
    “I’ll be in touch,” I say.
    He’s too stunned to respond before I end the call.

    The plane touches down with a bump and a skid at Sea-Tac airport. I peer out the window at the city I left behind so many years ago. The sun is just peeking over the horizon, illuminating the familiar gray clouds, soggy with rain, that hover overhead.
    The passenger next to me, a middle-aged man wearing a blue fleece vest and Tevas with socks, lets out a contented sigh. “Good to be home,” he says.
    “Yes,” I manage to say, biting my lip nervously. The truth is, I’ve spent the entire six-hour flight regretting the trip, turning the decision over and over in my mind. On one side, I hear Arthur’s voice, telling me I’m losing my edge. On the other, doctor what’s-his-name at the hospital, saying, “Slow down. Take a vacation.” And then there’s Ruby. Without thinking, I place my hand on my chest, attempting to quiet my rapid heartbeat.
    “Live in Seattle?” the man asks, extracting me from my inner dialogue.
    “No,” I say. “I mean, I used to. A long time ago.”
    He nods, reaching for his bag under the seat in front of us. “Best city on earth.” He takes a deep breath. “Feel that?”
    “What?” I ask, confused.
    “There isn’t the pressure there is in other cities,” he says. “You can feel the calm.”
    I nod politely and almost forget his words entirely, until my cab drops me off in front of Bluebird Books. I take a deep breath, and just as the stranger predicted, I feel suffused with the very sense of calm he described. Or maybe it’s just my blood pressure medication finally kicking in.
    The store is just as I remember it, though, like me, I suppose, it’s showing signs of age. The brick facade, always a bit rustic, is shedding its mortar. The big white picture windows in front look like they could use a good scrub. Above the old green paneled door is the sign, still hanging proudly. I eye the familiar lettering:
    Bluebird Books
    A Place for Children
    Established 1946
    I reach into my bag and pull out the envelope with the key. The attorney was kind enough to overnight it to me. When we spoke on the phone, he explained that Ruby had been ill for many months leading up to her death. The bookstore had been closed for at least six months, maybe more. “Ruby just couldn’t keep it up,” he said. “But she tried, until the very end.”
    Thinking about his words makes my heart sink. The tingling sensation returns in my fingertips.
    “Ms. Andersen,” he said. “Are you all right?”
    “Yes,” I said quickly, taking a seat and reaching into my bag for another blood pressure pill.
    I insert the key into the old brass lock now, and the door creaks and jingles as I pull it open. And then I remember Aunt Ruby’s bells tied to the door handle. Jingle bells, she called them. Ruby had a way of making ordinary things seem extraordinary, and I smile as I close the door behind me and venture inside the old store, breathing in the air of my past.
    My heels click on the plank wood flooring, and the room before me blurs as my eyes well with tears. There is Aunt Ruby’s desk, covered with files and papers. Books are stacked precariously high, anchored by the old black rotary telephone she refused to replace. Beside the desk rests the store’s Victorian dollhouse. I kneel down and pick up a pint-size sofa that has fallen to the floor. My sister and I sat here for hours playing, imagining a dream world where we had our own bedrooms, nice clothes, and a mother who didn’t leave us all the time. I blow a layer of dust off the roof and rearrange the furniture in the library the way I always liked it: sofa on the right, table on the left, with room for the Christmas tree. Ruby made tiny ornaments for it by painting peppercorns red and gluing them on to the boughs.
    I stand