by Lauren Layne
“He’s out there,” I say lightly, trying not to think of the very unavailable Sir.
She looks like she wants to argue, but instead studies her champagne, twisting the glass this way and that, the tennis bracelet Alec bought her for their twentieth anniversary last year sending a little kaleidoscope of light over the counter. “Have you talked to Caleb lately?”
“A few texts,” I say casually, knowing it’s always bothered Lily that she and Caleb aren’t as close as he and I. “Hey, let’s set up a video chat with the three of us. I miss his stupid face.”
She smiles. “Me too.”
I pull out my phone to text him, and a half hour later, I hug Lily goodbye, a sibling chat on the calendar for the following week.
Checking my watch, I see it’s a little past closing time and flip the Open sign, trying not to feel despondent that in the entire time Lily was here, not a single customer came in.
I turn back to the shop, and for a moment I take it in as a stranger might—as Sebastian Andrews might. I look around at the well-stocked shelves, lined with bottles that are carefully dusted every other day to disguise the fact that we don’t move all that many. The dark hardwood floors are clean, but scuffed, in a way I hope looks timeless, when in reality, there’s no room in the budget to have the wood refinished.
I head back to my laptop, intending to dig back into the dismal books with the vain hope that I’ve miscalculated something—double counted an expense or miskeyed a sale. Instead of opening my computer, I pick up the framed photo that sits on the shelf behind the register. It was taken on my dad’s birthday, just a couple of weeks before my mom was killed. We’d gone to the Jersey Shore for a beach trip. My dad had splurged on a new camera, and for this tiny moment, he had managed to get the four of us—three kids and Mom—to pause our sandcastle building, Popsicle eating, and beach reading to pose for the photo.
My mom’s blond hair is windswept, and her sunglasses as big as her smile, as she crouches on the sand, gathering the three of us close to her. Lily and I are in matching purple swimsuits and smile obediently at my Dad’s say cheese command. Six-year-old Caleb, armed with a plastic bucket and shovel, is scowling at having his work on the sandcastle moat halted for the ten seconds required for him to stay still.
It’s not a perfect photo, but it is a perfect moment.
I use it as fuel to remember why I’m doing this, why I’m keeping the shop alive, when sometimes it feels blisteringly hard. The photo is a reminder that this space, this store, is not about the numbers on my laptop that are lower than any of us want them to be. It’s about family. The Cooper family.
If Sebastian Andrews has a problem with it, he can bring it to me, not my brother-in-law.
I’m not tipsy—not quite, but I’ve had just enough wine to feel all fired up and ready for war. I reach for one of the letters from Sebastian Andrews—the first one, and the only one I didn’t shred. I reread it, even though I know what it says. They want to buy out our lease and would be interested in a conversation if we could contact them at the below number to set up a time and place that’s convenient for us.
Convenient my ass.
There’s nothing even remotely convenient about someone trying to swipe your job out from under you.
I’ll be contacting them all right, but not for the reason Sebastian Andrews thinks.
I reach for my cell phone and dial the number, but before hitting the call button, I set my phone aside and pull out a ballpoint pen and a yellow legal pad. It’s 9:45 on a Thursday, which means I’ll get voice mail. Best get my talking points ready.
Bubbles is not for sale.
If you have a problem with that, you can bring it up with me, not my brother-in-law.
How can someone with such beautiful eyes have such an ugly soul?
I scratch that one out.
Go to hell.
I circle that one. It’s my thesis.
Maybe I’m a little tipsy after all, but it gives me the courage I need to hit dial, clear my throat, and stand up straight as I prepare to give my little speech.
I’m listening for a generic recording and the beep, so the rough “Sebastian Andrews” catches me off guard.
“Hello?” The gruff male voice says after a moment of silence, clearly impatient.
“Oh crap, is this your cell number?” I blurt out. Okay. Maybe a little tipsy after all.
Now it’s him who’s silent. “Who is this?”
“Gracie Cooper. I’m so sorry to call so late. I thought this was your office number—”
“It is.”
I frown and look at the clock on the wall, where the hour and minute hands are both—you guessed it—champagne bottles.
“It’s nearly ten o’clock.”
“Well, thank God you called to let me know, Ms. Cooper. I’d never have known the time without this call.”
I ignore his sarcasm and sit on the stool, pulling my heels up to rest on the wooden slat and resting my elbows on my knees. “Do you always work this late?”
Another moment of silence, as though he’s trying to decide whether responding to me is worth his time.
“No,” he answers finally. Then, “Sometimes.”
“You answer your own phone? I’d have thought you’d have a fleet of beautiful assistants in high heels to handle such menial tasks.”
“My assistant’s name is Noel, and he leaves the office at six. Is there something I can help you with?”
“Oh, right.” I pick up my notepad and clear my throat dramatically.
“Here we go,” I hear him mutter.
“Bubbles is not for sale.” I say it clearly, enunciating each word.
“Nobody’s asking you to sell the company, just give up the space. You can always relocate, perhaps to a neighborhood with cheaper rent. Did you read any of the letters before destroying them?”
I ignore the question and look down at my notepad, my irritation bubbling fresh all over again.
“Oh yeah,” I say, tossing the legal pad onto the counter and warming to my topic. “How dare you go around me to my brother-in-law!”
“How dare I?” He has the nerve to sound bemused.
“I run this shop. Not Alec. Ergo, I make the decisions.”
“Ergo.”
I frown. “You keep repeating me. Am I being unclear?”
“No, no. Just enjoying your word choice.”
“Well, see if you can focus on the context,” I snap. “How would you feel if I went around you to go to your sister-in-law to discuss business.”
“I don’t have any siblings, and I’m not married. Ergo, no sister-in-law.”
“Why not?”
“Why don’t I have any siblings? You’d have to ask my parents.”
“No, why aren’t you married?” I clarify. “Your girlfriend is super pretty,” I add when he doesn’t respond.
Yep. Definitely a little drunk. I pull out the snack basket and grab a peanut butter protein bar.
“Believe it or not, my qualifications for proposing marriage go beyond pretty.”
I tuck my phone under my ear and open the cellophane, taking a bite as I consider this. “What are your qualifications?”
“Is this why you called, Ms. Cooper? To discuss my personal life?”
“No, that wasn’t on my list.”
“You have a list?”
“Yup.” I pick up the pad once more. “Number one, not selling. Number two, you had no business going around me to my brother-in-law. Number three…”
“Number three?” he prods when I don’t continue.
I read the third item on my list about his beautiful eyes that I’d crossed out.
I skip that one. I’m not that drunk.
“Number three,” I say, smiling. “Go to hell.”
Sebastian—when did I start thinking of him as just Sebastian?—heaves out a sigh.
“Look, to clarify, I didn’t go around you to your brother-in-law. I’m not the villain in a mediocre legal dr
ama. We happened to be at the same event, in the same general vicinity. A mutual acquaintance made introductions, asked if we knew each other. In an effort to make conversation and find common ground, I mentioned that I’d recently met you. He asked for context, and I said I had a business proposal for you. I assure you, had I known I’d be harassed with a late-night phone call over it, I’d have never mentioned your name.”
I finish the rest of my protein bar as I listen to his explanation. It checks out. I still hate him.
“This isn’t harassment,” I say, crumpling up my wrapper and tossing it in the trash.
“No?”
“Nope. Harassment would be sending repeated letters to a local business that clearly wants nothing to do with you and then stalking them at their place of business when you don’t get the response you want. That’s harassment.”
“No,” he says with measured patience. “That’s business.”
“Not the way I do business.”
“No, I’ve seen the way you do business,” he snaps. “Instead of acknowledging that your business model is passé and your customer base shrinking, you delay the inevitable by selling ten-dollar trinkets and cutesy Tinker Bell paintings, and then slapping a generic modifier onto your business name.”
Cutesy Tinker Bell paintings.
It stings way worse than Lily dismissing my art as a hobby. I’m not sure if it’s the champagne, the protein bar, or the combination, but suddenly I feel slightly queasy.
“I apologize, Mr. Andrews. I should not have called so late,” I say quietly, my righteous fury all burned out, replaced by heartbroken weariness. “Have a nice evening.”
“Ms. Cooper—”
If I hear a tinge of remorse in his voice, I ignore it and hang up.
To Sir, with bruised feelings,
Do you ever let a comment slip under your skin that shouldn’t? The sort of jab from someone you don’t even like that you should really brush off, but instead it keeps you up at night because it… hurts?
Lady
* * *
My dear lady,
Given the hard-to-define nature of our correspondence, this is perhaps overstepping, but I confess my knee-jerk reaction to your note was to ask for a name and address of the offender. Duels are still a thing, right?
But alas, that would be a bit hypocritical of me. I too have been up at night, though not for something I heard but for something I said. A rash, spontaneous comment I wish I could take back.
Perhaps whomever hurt you feels the same regret? And if not, let me know about that duel…
Yours at dawn,
Sir
Six
I’ve moved apartments a few times in the past eleven years, but I’ve never switched neighborhoods. The city sometimes likes to pitch this neighborhood as Midtown West or Clinton, but make no mistake: we locals call it by its proper name, Hell’s Kitchen.
It sounds gritty as hell (pun intended), and while it has its moments, for sure, the neighborhood’s not nearly as rough as it used to be. Not to say it’s glamorous—I can’t afford glamorous, but neither do I particularly want it.
I currently live in a walk-up on Fifty-Fourth Street between Ninth and Tenth Avenues, in a cute little one-bedroom apartment. Does it have sleek granite countertops, central air, and a glass shower? Certainly not. Does it have brick walls, a window AC unit that does the trick, and a whole lot of character? Yes. Yes, it does.
If I could change one thing, I, like most New Yorkers, wouldn’t say no to more space. My living room doubles as my art studio, which means I can’t watch TV without first moving my easel, nor can I sit on the couch without first removing the plastic sheeting that protects the faux leather from flecks of paint.
It’s become my normal though, so I don’t really notice so much anymore. Whenever I start to feel a little crammed, I remind myself that I’m an artist in the city, and then I feel pretty darn lucky. Well, not a working artist—that generally implies I’d be able to live off my art, which I can’t.
But knowing people buy things I create? There’s really no high like it, and it makes up for the inconvenience of having to turn sideways and slink against the wall to scoot around the easel to open the window—something I do the second I get home on a sunny afternoon, because the apartment has the distinct whiff of cat.
“Cannoli, darling, what in the world did you do to your litter box?”
The black-and-white cat jumps onto the back of the sofa and stares me down. I did a thing. Clean it.
“For being the runt of the litter, you produce a lot of output,” I mutter, scratching him behind the ears as I scoot around my work in progress to deal with the joys of being the owner of an indoor cat.
I pause and study the watercolor on my easel. It’s girly to the extreme. A pink cocktail in a traditional martini glass, with a whimsical New York City skyline in the background. It’s got distinct Sex and the City vibes, but the watercolor and not-quite-to-scale skyline make it feel softer, the type of scene where you wouldn’t be all that surprised to see a fairy with turquoise wings sitting atop the Empire State Building. Actually—I like that idea. I might add exactly that.
Cutesy Tinker Bell paintings.
“Little does Sebastian Andrews know I take that as a compliment,” I say, glancing at Cannoli.
The cat pauses in cleaning his paw. He didn’t mean it as one.
“I know, I know,” I grumble.
I take care of my litter box duties and change out of my work clothes—a sunny yellow dress and clunky-heeled sandals—into gray joggers and a plain white T-shirt. I dated a sweet coder in college for about a year, and by far the best thing to come out of that relationship was discovering the joys of men’s undershirts. Since I no longer have a guy in my life to swipe them from, I buy the soft and surprisingly affordable tees for myself.
It’s too early for dinner, but I skipped lunch, so I pull out a loaf of bread. Since I’m out of turkey, and Cannoli calls dibs on the tuna, I make myself a budget-friendly peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Leaning against my counter, I take methodical bites and wonder what to do with the rest of my day.
I rarely take Saturdays off—they’re one of Bubbles’s busiest days. But Josh, my newest hire, has been asking for more shifts—and more responsibility—lately, so I’d begged off at three to let him handle the afternoon and evening crowds under May’s watchful supervision.
Robyn’s working too, which is an annoyance for everyone else, but for once, I’m grateful for her infuriatingly extensive champagne knowledge. Josh is a hard worker and great with the customers, in his shy, sweet way, but he doesn’t know much about sparkling wine and is perhaps the only person in existence who actually seeks out Robyn’s lectures. He even carries around a little leather journal and takes notes. It’s very cute.
Three rhythmic knocks, inspired by Sheldon from The Big Bang Theory, tap on my door, and I grin, because there’s only one person who knocks on my door that way.
Keva Page is my upstairs neighbor, fellow Big Bang Theory fanatic, and exactly the sort of girlfriend every adult woman needs. Not that I love Rachel any less, but there’s something nice about having someone close enough to pop over whenever she feels like it. Keva filled the gap in my social life when Rachel moved to Queens. Keva is the brash, bold Miranda to my romantic Charlotte with less good hair.
I open the door, and she jumps back from where she’d been about to insert my spare key in the lock. She checks on Cannoli for me when I have to work late at the store. “Hey! You’re home. I was just going to leave this on your counter.” She waggles an open bottle of merlot in her hand. “I’m headed out to Cape May for a job and didn’t want this bad boy to turn to vinegar while I’m gone.”
“Ooh, beach trip! Jealous! You in a rush, or you want to come in for a glass?” I ask.
“Mmm, both,” she says, rolling her red suitcase into my apartment. She hands me the bottle, then walks without hesitation to the cupboard where I keep my wineglasses and pulls do
wn two. “Let’s make it fast, but don’t be chintzy with the pour.”
“Wedding?” I ask as I pour the wine. Keva is the assistant chef for a catering company. Not the kind that brings in big bowls of potato salad and pigs in a blanket, but the fancy kind. Saffron arancini, truffle crab dumplings, and homemade ricotta ravioli with arugula pistachio pesto are some of her latest masterpieces that I was all too happy to taste-test.
In addition to being crazy talented, Keva’s the type of woman who crackles with energy, who declares red her favorite color and owns it. Her lips are always a bright cherry red, and on days when she doesn’t have to work, her nails match. In silent protest to her boring white chef uniform, she’s informed me that she only ever wears red underwear, which probably explains at least in part why her love life is so much better than mine.
“Fancy engagement party,” she answers, sipping the wine and pushing her trademark silk headband—also red—a little farther back into her dark hair. It’s tucked into a tidy bun now, the way she wears it for work, but I know the second the job’s over, she’ll pull out the elastic and let her amazing black curls do their thing.
She moved into the building about a year after I did, and we met when her pasta was delivered to 4C (my unit) instead of 5C (hers). Thinking it was my own Chinese delivery, I accepted it before realizing it was the wrong one. I’d taken the bag upstairs to deliver it to her myself, and hearing The Big Bang Theory theme song through the door, decided to make whoever was on the other side my new best friend.
She picks up my sad-looking peanut butter sandwich, and shaking her head, scolds me. “It’s not even homemade peanut butter.”
“I don’t know how to get this through your gorgeous head, but not everyone makes their own nut butters.”
“They should.” She helps herself to a bite and licks jelly off her thumb. “Okay, I’ve got a boring train ride with my irritable boss ahead of me. To get me through, tell me the latest on your sexy pen pal, and if it hasn’t evolved to the point of cybersex yet, lie to me and pretend it has.”
