by Lauren Layne
Carlos’s flowers still cradled in my arm, I head toward the cash register, where a sixty-year-old woman is reading one of the historical romances she’s never without.
“Thank God,” she says, not looking up from her book as I reach for last week’s bouquet, which has seen better days. “Those other ones were starting to smell like rot.”
“Which, clearly, you fell all over yourself trying to remedy,” I say good-naturedly.
She peers at me over the top of her purple-rimmed reading glasses, then slowly removes them, letting them rest against her impressive bosom, held in place by a hot pink chain.
I tilt my head and point to her right ear. “Is that a rabbit’s foot?”
She flicks the fuzzy red thing with a coral nail. May Stuckley has always been a cacophony of color and unique fashion sense. She’s also the closest thing I have to a mother, almost as much a part of this store’s legacy as my actual mother, and one of the most important people in the world to me.
“Rabbit’s feet are lucky,” she informs me.
“Then why only one?” I ask, since her left earring is a glittery pineapple.
“The asymmetry suited my mood,” she says, putting an ancient-looking bookmark with a little tassel into her book about an earl and his bride. “How was Rachel and her little one?”
“Good and adorable,” I answer. “Everything okay here? Thanks again for opening.”
May shrugs. “I didn’t, really. She was already here,” she says, “lowering” her voice to a whisper that’s somehow louder than her usual voice. She tilts her head in the direction of Robyn, who’s still going on about the pinot bianco grape.
“I hear that tone. I’m ignoring that tone,” I say over my shoulder, heading toward the back to swap the wilting flowers for the new ones.
“You don’t like her either,” May mutters.
I swallow a sigh at the familiar refrain. I don’t dislike Robyn, though I swear, the woman sometimes acts like it’s her life’s mission to ensure that I do. Robyn Frank was my dad’s last hire before he got sick—a sommelier I expect he hoped would be the ticket to ending the store’s struggles. I’ll grant that the woman knows her stuff when it comes to sparkling wine. Not just your basics, that cava from Spain is the best bang for your buck and that only sparkling wine from the Champagne region of France should actually be called champagne. Robyn takes it to a whole other level. She knows the flavor differences between a chardonnay-forward sparkling and a pinot noir–forward sparkling. She knows the different types of soil, the flavor effect of a vine’s location on a cliff, what happens to a grape in the sun, and a host of other things that I honestly do not give a fig about, but some of our customers seem appropriately impressed.
She’s brilliant. She can also be difficult and condescending.
I enter the “cave” at the back of the store. My parents called it that for as long as I can remember because it’s windowless and constantly cold for the sake of the wine inventory that’s not fancy enough to warrant a spot in the refrigerated wine locker, but still needs to be kept at fifty-five degrees.
I’m still hot from my walk, so the blast of cold air is welcome. I drop the old flowers into the trash—May’s right, they do stink—and rinse out the crystal vase. It’s got a fairly decent sized chip from when eleven-year-old Caleb thought bouncing a golf ball off the counter in a wine shop was a good idea, but I’ll never get rid of it.
I don’t have many memories of my mom, and those I do are a little foggy. But I do remember her painstakingly arranging yellow flowers—her favorite color—in this vase every week. Using the same vase makes me feel close to her, even if I like to change up the flower colors a bit more than she did.
The flowers don’t need much arranging—Pauline is a genius like that, creating “plop and drop” bouquets that look good without any fussing. I admire the gorgeous flowers once more as I carry the vase back out into the shop. All three customers have left, and May’s disappeared, so it’s just Robyn, who makes a very big show of putting away the enormous wine tome she’s reading before giving me her attention.
She’s the type of woman who’s in her late twenties but looks older—on purpose, I’m pretty sure. She always, and I do mean always, wears a black blazer over a white button-down, paired with black slacks. Even in the middle of summer. Her straight brown hair is cut to her chin, and she once informed me she has it trimmed every twelve days, precisely, to maintain “the line.” Completing the look is her trademark brownish-red matte lipstick that somehow emphasizes the fact that she never smiles.
I sense that she’s gearing up for a complaint and try to beat her to the punch. “Any takers on the Franciacorta?” I ask, knowing that spreading awareness about the excellent Italian sparkler is one of her pet projects of late.
Robyn shrugs. “He said he’d be back later to pick up a bottle.”
I feel my heart sink a little bit. They never come back later to pick up the bottle. I wish I could say that losing one customer doesn’t matter, but even though the store’s better off than it was a year ago, we can’t afford to let our few customers leave empty-handed.
“Some ladies bought your cocktail picture,” she says. “I had to ring them up, because May decided to take an early lunch.”
“Hey, that’s great,” I say, ignoring the swipe at May. “I’m glad that picture found a good home.”
She shrugs. “How can you possibly know it was a good home? They could have been murderers.”
“Yes, I’m sure that’s the hallmark of murderers. Buying leopard-print-themed watercolors while out shopping with their friends.”
“I didn’t really get it,” she says, missing or ignoring my sarcasm. “Drinking out of a patterned cocktail glass is almost as bad as drinking out of a patterned wineglass. You can’t properly assess the color, and if you can’t assess the color, your nose doesn’t know what to expect.”
I glance at my watch. “Isn’t it your lunch break?”
“Past,” she says, grabbing her purse. “May couldn’t be bothered to check the schedule, so I had to cover.”
“I’ve got this,” I say, because really, it doesn’t take much to run a shop with zero customers. “Take an extralong one and enjoy the sunshine. It’s a lovely day.”
“I’ll be back in exactly one hour,” Robyn says.
“Fantastic.”
I pick up my phone, settling on the stool with the intent to write to Sir when the bell jingles.
Praying it’s a customer and not Robyn back to inform me that it’s not a lovely day and that she doesn’t enjoy the sunshine, I stand, ready to offer assistance if needed.
The man stops to inspect the Bargain Bubbles bin at the front of the shop. Usually people rummage a bit to see the different labels and prices, but he studies them without moving.
Then he turns toward me, and my welcome, customer! smile freezes before it can start, because I find myself staring into a familiar pair of aqua eyes.
My dear Lady,
Where do you fall on serendipity? Fate? Destiny? Or is it all mere coincidence?
Yours in inquiry,
Sir
* * *
To Sir, with careful consideration,
Hmm. I don’t believe in coincidence…
But I’m learning the hard way that while serendipity may be real, it’s not always pleasant…
Lady
Four
You found me, is what I think.
“You,” is what I say.
The surprise in his eyes tells me he’s as shocked to see me as I am him. The slight line between his thick dark brows tells me he’s not quite sure what to do about it. He looks around, as though wanting to verify he’s where he’s supposed to be. “Hello. I’m looking for the owner.”
Ugh. You don’t own a shop without quickly learning that “I’m looking for the owner” almost always means a complaint or a tacky sales pitch.
Still, I force a bright smile. “I’m the owner. How may I help y
ou?”
The line between his eyebrows becomes a full scowl. “You’re a member of the Cooper family?”
I try to hide my surprise. Some of our longtime regulars know we’re a family-run shop, but it’s not something we advertise. And this man is definitely not a longtime regular.
Maybe if we were, he’d be married to me instead of dating that other woman, and we’d have aqua-eyed babies…
Oh dear, Gracie. Pull it together.
I keep my smile in place and nod. “I’m Gracie Cooper.”
He stares at me a minute longer, and something like disappointment flickers in his eyes before he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a white envelope—the long, skinny, official-looking kind, not the cute just thinking of you! greeting card variety that we sell in this very shop.
“I came to deliver this in person,” he says. “It seems the ones we’ve sent by mail have gotten… lost.”
The second I see the envelope, recognizing the discreet navy logo that’s become the bane of my existence over the past couple of months, I roll my eyes. “You can take that right on back to your boss.”
He lifts his eyebrows. “My boss?”
“I’m assuming you work for Sebastian Andrews?” I say, irritatingly familiar with the name that’s been the signatory of every letter.
The man stares at me coolly before replying. “I am Sebastian Andrews.”
No doubt the man delighted in surprising me with his name as much as I enjoyed surprising him, but make no mistake: it is a surprise.
In fact, for a moment my entire world seems to tilt sideways in denial. How can it be possible that in the span of an hour I went from thinking this man was the love of my life to learning that he represents everything I hate about business?
Sebastian Andrews works for the V. Andrews Corporation, the company we lease the Bubbles space from. For the past three months, they’ve been making repeated, unwelcome offers to buy out the five years remaining on our ten-year lease, each version of the letter colder and more stern than the last.
“Of all the men,” I mutter. “It had to be you.”
Mr. Andrews blinks his remarkable eyes. “Pardon?”
Oops. “I said that out loud?”
“You did. You weren’t aware?”
I wave a hand. “I thought I’d outgrown my tendency to blurt out everything I’m thinking, though thoughts are really a bit of a revolving door, don’t you think?”
“Hardly.”
“Shouldn’t they be though?” I persist.
“Shouldn’t what be?” he asks warily.
“Wouldn’t life be more interesting if everyone was a bit more open?” My question’s rhetorical, but this stiff man in his formal suit seems to consider it seriously.
“Actually, I disagree entirely. If everyone spouted their every thought to every person, you’d remove the unique joy of getting to know one person in particular.”
It’s a wonderfully valid argument, and my opinion of him goes up fractionally, even as my annoyance with him increases tenfold.
“Is there something I can help you with? A nice bottle of Tattinger to celebrate your girlfriend’s new dove-gray boots?” I say with my best customer service voice.
His eyes narrow in warning. “I’m not here to purchase anything.”
“Just what all shop owners love to hear.”
“You received my company’s letters,” he says. It’s not a question.
“I did, yes. Very high-quality stationery.”
“Did you open them?”
“Some of them.”
His jaw tenses. “And the rest?”
“Went to a very special in-box.”
Mr. Andrews looks weary. “Let me guess. The trash bin?”
“No!” How very insulting. I gesture him around the counter, and with a sigh, he complies.
I regret my decision immediately, because it’s a small space, and it brings him near enough for me to smell his cologne, something smoky and masculine.
I point down to the paper shredder we keep beneath the counter, indicating the pile of crimped white scraps. “We only use this for the most special of papers.”
Unamused, he turns his head toward me and our eyes lock. Again, I feel that strange pull I felt on the sidewalk, that whisper of white doves and happily-ever-after. Only now that pull is also laced with frustration, both that he has a girlfriend and that he’s a corporate robot who seems to think nothing of trying to bully a beloved forty-year-old family shop out of business.
Mr. Andrews steps back around to the other side of the counter. I stay where I am, and when he puts the latest letter he’s brought with him on the counter between us, it feels like a line in the sand.
He and I engage in a silent battle of wills for what feels like minutes, though I’m sure it’s only seconds.
“Open it,” he commands.
“No, thank you. Not interested.”
His palm resting on the counter twitches, his fingers thrumming one at a time in plain irritation. “You don’t even know what it says.”
“It says that you want to put us out of business.”
He has the nerve to roll his eyes. “Don’t romanticize it.”
“Don’t romanticize it?” I repeat, outraged. “I assure you, my concern for my employees’ livelihood, my own livelihood, is extremely grounded in facts and logic.”
“If that’s the case, you owe it to your employees and yourself to seek the best option for them.”
“Oh, and closing my business will somehow achieve that?”
“We’ve put together a very compelling offer. Something you’d know, had you found a less special place for my letters.”
“Oh, I can think of a less special place,” I say sweetly.
His fingers drum once more, faster this time, more irritated, and it fills me with… something.
I’m a middle child through and through, accustomed to being the peacemaker, to making everyone comfortable, to charming the conflict out of tense situations, but for the first time in my life, I have no desire to remove the tension in this moment. Mr. Andrews can go ahead and choke on it for all I care.
Unfortunately, I’ll be deprived of the pleasure of watching that, because the jingle of the bell indicates a new arrival. I glance at the front door, recognizing one of our regulars, and lift my hand in greeting.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say. “Paying customers require my attention.”
“Ms. Cooper, all I want is five minutes to discuss a business offer that would be beneficial to both of—”
“Understood,” I pick up the letter. “I’ll be sure to set this aside for review later.”
Holding his gaze, I lean down and feed the letter into the shredder. If our previous standoff had been a silent cold war, the shrill clatter of his offer being diced into a million pieces is a warrior’s cry.
He shakes his head, having the nerve to look disappointed in me.
“If you ever need some help fulfilling your sparkling wine needs,” I say under my breath, “I’d be delighted to point you to one of our competitors on Sixty-Fourth and Columbus.”
As far as parting remarks go, it’s not exactly gold, but I’m fairly pleased to at least have gotten the last word as I round the corner and head toward my customer without so much as a glance his way.
“Nicola, how are you?” I ask.
Nicola Cirillo is a publicist who lives in one of the fancy high-rises nearby and who’s in the shop at least once a week or so. She’s in her midforties, maybe even a very well-maintained fifty, and lives to entertain, frequently buying cases at a time for brunches, trivia nights, watching the Oscars, Super Bowl parties, etc.
Most of our regulars know what they like and buy the same label over and over, much to the chagrin of Robyn. Nicola, on the other hand, is always on the lookout for something new. Robyn’s going to be ticked she missed a chance to sell her Franciacorta.
“How’d your vintage game night go?” I ask, recalling the
reason for her last visit.
“It was a huge hit, thanks. Fun fact, tipsy Candy Land is more fun than you’d think. And you were so right on the New Mexico bubbles, by the way. Who knew the Southwest could produce that sort of quality?”
“We just got some more cases. Can I grab you a couple bottles?” I’m increasingly aware that Mr. Andrews missed my hint to leave and is now roaming the shop, pretending to browse.
“No,” Nicola says, running a well-manicured hand through her long blond hair as she surveys the front display of sparkling rosé. “I’ve got sort of a last-day-of-summer itch. I want a fun, pink Monday wine. Just for me.” She says it with a grin.
A lot of customers have the last-day-of-summer itch, which is exactly why I’d set up the summery display Nicola’s currently perusing at the front of the shop. In addition to the pink wines that scream sip me in the sunshine, I’ve also pulled together some summery hosting goodies: pool blue cocktail napkins, glittery fruit wineglass charms, and champagne bottle stops in bright pops of color.
I’m secretly itching to replace the whole thing with my fall display, but when Nicola makes a delighted sound at a corkscrew shaped like big Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, I know I’ve got at least another week to try to move the summer inventory.
“You have this one cold?” she asks, putting a finger to the foil of a Rotari Rosé.
“Pretty sure I do,” I say. “Let me double-check.”
A quick trip to the refrigerated section affirms that I have the bottle cold, and that Sebastian Andrews is still lurking. I glare at his profile, but he’s too busy pretending to study a bottle of Dom to notice.
I return to Nicola, still holding the sunglasses corkscrew as she surreptitiously steals glances at Mr. Andrews.
“Wow,” she mouths silently to me. She fans herself.
I know. But just wait till he opens his mouth and ruins it.
Guess I can have inside thoughts after all.
“Anything else?” I ask, lifting the bottle in question.
“Just that. Oh, and this,” she says, handing me the corkscrew. “I don’t need it, but it’s too cute to pass up.”
