by Lauren Layne
“I do not smile at my phone.”
She takes a long sip and stares me down, and because I’ve never been able to weather that particular look, I relent.
“Okay,” I take a drink. “There’s sort of a guy. Who I haven’t met. And could be a pervert.”
I’ve told enough people about Sir now to brace for the usual warnings, but sometimes even I forget that May is May and has her own rule book.
“Oh, you’ve got yourself an Alfred Kralik.”
“A who now?”
“A very handsome James Stewart writing very romantic letters to a very beautiful Margaret Sullivan. Do your homework, but do it later. Tell me about your man. Have you seen his package yet?”
I choke on my martini. “May!”
“Clutch your pearls all you want, dick pics are commonplace nowadays.”
“In what world?”
“Hmm, either you haven’t mustered up the courage to see the proof in the pudding or his thing’s crooked.”
“I’m not interested in his thing! We’re just friends. He’s a confidant.”
“Honey, I’m a confidant. Your sister is a confidant. This is a Situation.” She draws out each syllable of the word.
“It’s… something,” I admit.
“Oh yes,” she says inhaling deeply. “I’ve had a couple romantic pen pals myself.”
“Really?” I lean forward, always marveling that I’ve known May most of my life, yet I feel like I’m nowhere close to uncovering all her secrets.
“Mm-hmm. One during Vietnam, though he went home and married some proper girl and moved to Jersey.” She gives me a thumbs down and makes a splat noise. “Another was from San Francisco. This was when I was in my late teens. His letter was meant for Janet next door—horrid girl. They’d met at summer camp. He seemed too good for her, so I wrote him back, and he became my pen pal instead.”
“What happened?” I slide the olive off its pick with my teeth.
“He died. Boating accident.”
I blink. “Neither of those are good stories, May.”
“Sure they are. Just not happy ones. Because here’s the thing, young lady. Those sort of long-distance flirtations are all well and good, they’re memorable, but they aren’t the real deal. And if you’ve started telling yourself this is the real deal, it’s time to nip that in the bud, because that’s a fantasy. And fantasies do not warm the bed at night, nor do they help shoulder the burden of what’s going on with your business right now—Oh shit! I forgot to take the foil off the lasagna.”
May pulls on hot mitts that look like shark heads and tends to her eggplant lasagna.
I sigh. She’s right. And I don’t love that she’s right. This thing with Sir isn’t out of control, so to speak, but I’m no longer sure it’s harmless. I spend a little too much time thinking about him. I’m starting to wonder if it’s closed me off to looking at other men. I’ve gotten a handful of invitations to meet from other guys on the MysteryMate app, but they all seem so flat compared to him.
Other than customers and the vile Sebastian Andrews, I can’t even remember the last meaningful conversation I’ve had with a man.
I’m saved from my own thoughts by the old-fashioned buzzer connected to the doorman downstairs.
“Let your sister and brother up,” May orders as she begins mixing the second batch of martinis for the latecomers.
I do as she says, and a couple of minutes after I tell John downstairs to let them up, I’m opening May’s front door to Lily and Alec. Lily’s dressed as impeccably as ever in skinny black jeans and a cute twisty top with bows at the shoulder. Though she smiles, there are circles under her eyes. I squeeze her extra tight before turning toward Alec.
My brother-in-law’s a good-looking guy. Not particularly tall, but he’s religious about his daily workouts, and his lack of height is made up for with broad shoulders, a quietly commanding presence, and kind brown eyes.
I extend a hand. “Hi, I’m Gracie. You look sort of familiar, but I can’t put my finger on how I know you…”
He rolls his eyes and hauls me in for a hug. “I know I’ve been a little absent lately, message received loud and clear.”
I hug him extra tight too, because I sense he needs it as much as Lily does. When I pull back and look at the two of them, my heart sinks as I realize there really is a stiffness between them.
May bustles into the room with her tray of martinis, bacon appetizers, and mixed nuts and orders everyone to sit. We’ve been to May’s dozens of time over the years, and we each have our spots. Caleb and I on the long floral couch next to my dad, Lily and Alec on the matching love seat, and May in what she calls her throne, an ugly brown wing chair.
Tonight, Lily sits beside me on the couch.
I want to believe it’s because she doesn’t want to remind me that Dad’s gone and Caleb’s in another state, and I’m sure that’s partially it. But the way she carefully avoids looking at Alec when he sits on the love seat—alone—makes me think there’s more to it.
May’s eyes narrow, telling me she sees it too, but for once, she seems to decide to bite her tongue.
“So, Gracie,” Alec says, leaning forward and grabbing a handful of nuts. “I hear you guys have some new ideas for the store?”
“Yes!” I gush in my best cheerful, middle-child, smooth-the-waters tone. “We’re starting off with a champagne tasting next Thursday. Robyn’s convinced one of her sommelier friends who has a New York food blog to cover it. We’ve got reps from two different wineries hosting tables, and one of my friends just started dating a jazz pianist who’s going to bring his trio for some live music.”
Alec smiles. “Sounds amazing.”
“It will be,” I say confidently. “You should come.”
“He can’t,” Lily interjects, not looking up from the bacon-wrapped ricotta she’s studying intently. “He’s traveling. Again.”
Nervously, I glance back at Alec, expecting to see irritation or anger at his wife’s thinly veiled feelings about his schedule. Instead, he’s staring at Lily with a look of longing and dismay that is so raw I feel a lump in my throat.
Lily, still studying her appetizer, sees none of this.
When her blue eyes do finally sneak over to him, he’s reaching for his martini, his expression shut down.
On second thought, maybe I’ll cling to my online fantasy just a little bit longer. It looks a lot less painful than this.
Ten
“I love so much that you’re here,” I wrap my arm around Lily’s shoulders and kiss her cheek.
She smiles. “I should have been here long before this. It was unfair of Caleb and me to let this all rest on your shoulders. I’m sorry.”
“Forgiven,” I say, in too good a mood to even think about holding a grudge.
Lily has been setting out the rented champagne flutes, and wordlessly we begin working together, her taking them out of the plastic crate, me setting them on the table.
The theme for the tasting party tonight is la reentrée, a French term for the return to “real life” after the summer holiday. Considering it’s early October, we’re a little late for the theme, but since the summer humidity’s just now relented, everyone seems to be in a cheerful welcome fall! mood this week.
Everyone except my sister, who despite dutifully helping with whatever I’ve asked, hasn’t made a single comment on the pretty glass-blown pumpkins or the glittery fall leaves on the table, and she normally loves all things autumn.
“Plus,” she says distractedly, “it’s nice to have something to keep me busy.”
I reach out and begin lining the glasses into tidy rows. “Where’s Alec again?”
“Chicago. Oh wait, no. Boston? I can’t remember.” Her voice is completely checked out, as though she really doesn’t know when he gets back and doesn’t care one way or the other.
“Any fun plans for the weekend?” I ask, trying to get a little spark out of her.
“Not really. I’ve got a fe
w things to do around the house.”
“You and Alec should go somewhere,” I say casually, continuing to straighten the glasses. “What about the Hamptons? Off-season you shouldn’t have trouble finding a place. Or even just a day trip up to the Hudson Valley to one of the farmer’s markets?”
She stops pulling glasses out, and there’s genuine confusion on her face, as though I’ve just suggested she shave her head or take up needlework.
I think about May’s assessment: they’ve forgotten how to be in love.
I’m afraid she’s right, and I have no idea what to do about it. I probably shouldn’t do anything about it. It’s not my relationship, and it’s not my business.
Yet when I think of Lily and Alec, I don’t see them as they’ve been recently—tired. Tense. I see them on their prom night. The morning after they’d gotten engaged. Their wedding day. The day they bought their place.
I believe in my very core that theirs is a happily-ever-after ending. They’ve just hit the poison-apple stage of their story.
She looks down and reaches for the base of another glass, and I gently touch the back of her hand. “Lil, what’s going on?”
I hear her swallow, then see her long eyelashes bat repeatedly against her cheeks, and I know she’s blinking away tears.
“We have faulty junk,” she says on a watery voice.
I let out a startled laugh. “What?”
She discreetly uses her sleeve to dab at her nose. “IVF didn’t take. The fertility specialist told us a couple months ago that while it wasn’t impossible for us to conceive, we may want to consider alternative methods of starting a family.”
“Oh, Lily.” I immediately move to hug her, but she gives a quick shake of her head. I know she’s trying desperately to hold it together, so instead I squeeze her arm.
“I thought I’d made peace with it. We talked about a surrogate, adoption, but then we just sort of… stopped talking.”
“Why, do you think?”
She squeezes her eyes shut. “I’m so mad at him. I wanted to start a family years ago, but he kept saying he wanted to build his career first. At the time, I loved him all the more for it. Both because he wanted to make sure he could support me and a baby, and because he said he wanted to put in the long hours then so that when we started a family, he could be the sort of dad who was around. And of course, you always hear that women’s fertility decreases as they age, but I just… I really thought it would happen for us.”
“Maybe it still can. Or like you said, there are other ways to become a mom, and you’d make such a great one.”
“I know,” she says with such Lily-like confidence I smile in spite of the heartache I feel for my sister—and for Alec too.
“Have you guys thought about therapy?”
She snorts. “He’d have to actually be around for that. I’ve been distant—I’ll admit that. But his way of dealing with it is to work more than ever. Now we hardly see each other, and when we do, there’s just this… distance.”
Lily sighs. “I don’t know what to do, Gracie. I genuinely don’t. Maybe you’re the smart one, steering clear of men. Why do they have to be so difficult?”
For some reason, my first thought is Sebastian Andrews. Difficult doesn’t begin to explain the man. Or what I feel when I’m around him.
To say nothing of the mysterious Sir.
Both of whom are taken.
Difficult indeed.
“You know I’m here. If you want to talk,” I say softly.
“I know,” she says, pulling me in for a hug. “I forget sometimes that my little sister no longer needs my help to put her hair in a bun for ballet class and can actually be a pretty good listener.”
We wrap our arms around each other, and I squeeze her tight. “What are the chances you could help me with my hair just one more time?”
She pulls back and gives me a critical once-over that doesn’t bother me as much as it usually might, because it means that for now, at least, her attention is on something other than her heartache. “You’re not wearing that, right?”
I do a sexy sway in my frumpy clothes and tennis shoes. “Of course I am. A journalist is covering the tasting tonight. What if they want my picture to go with the article? I must look my best!”
She shakes her head, and I push her to the back of the store and into the small staff bathroom, pulling the garment bag off the small hook on the door. I hear her turn on the small space heater, then unzip the bag and let out an un-Lily-like squeal, “Oh, I love this dress! I haven’t seen you wear it in forever.”
“I rediscovered it the other day,” I say as she takes the dress off the hanger and hands it to me. It’s the same blue dress I wore to Sebastian’s office, and even though that meeting didn’t quite go as planned, I’d liked the way I felt when I wore it.
Plus, if I’m honest, my closet is sort of slim pickings since my wardrobe budget really only has room for underwear and bulk buys of men’s undershirts.
“Please tell me you brought something to fix your hair too,” she says as I change, rummaging through the free tote bag I got from a book fair in Brooklyn. “Aha!” she says in triumph, pulling out a curling iron and plugging it in.
I slip on tan flats with a leather bow across the toe—no chance the pink heels would have made it all night.
Lily pulls the elastic out of my hair, freeing it from its limp ponytail, and then begins winding sections of my hair around the wide barrel, twisting each strand in a different direction than the last to avoid what she informs me would be “Shirley Temple curls.”
“Where’s your hairspray?” she demands.
“Um…”
She sighs. “Without it, these curls won’t last more than an hour, but it’s better than the pony. I guess.”
“Stop with the effusive compliments. I’m getting embarrassed!”
“Stay,” she says, holding up a finger in command.
A moment later she returns with a folding chair and her own purse and pulls out a makeup bag. She opens the chair and points. “Let me fix your face.”
“I didn’t realize it needed fixing,” I grumble, but I sit.
“It doesn’t,” she says, adding bronzer to my temples. “You’re perfect. But tonight, we need to take all the girl-next-door cuteness and channel woman-next-door success. Turn.” She twirls her finger, and I turn to the mirror.
“Wow! Not bad! You’ve come a long way since the blue eye shadow and red blush of my recital days,” I say.
“Hey, I stand by that look,” Lily says. She lifts one of my curls and moves it to the other side of my head. “There. Now it has some more body.” She smiles. “You look beautiful, and I am a genius.”
I roll my eyes and check my watch. “Oh crap! People are already arriving!”
“May’s got it,” she says soothingly. “Tonight’s going to be really great. I know Dad used to do the occasional tasting, but not like this, not at night, with live music and super cute pumpkin decorations.”
“You did notice them!” I say, delighted. “I knew you’d love those. Let’s just hope everyone else does. Actually, I just hope they show up.”
The nervousness I’d been carefully avoiding hits me all at once, because despite the fact that I’d handed out flyers to my fellow local businesses, called every friend I’ve ever made, and posted the event on social media, I have no idea if people will show.
Lily holds my hand as I open the door to the cave, and immediately the nervousness dissipates into happiness. The event only started ten minutes ago, and while it’s not exactly a packed house, there are enough people milling around to make it feel like an actual party.
I smile as I look around. The band is seriously good, and people—even Robyn—are smiling, the vendors sponsoring the tasting have an engaged audience, May seems delighted by the man delighted by her amply displayed cleavage, and…
Across the room, a pretty freckled blonde in a pristine white dress listens with rapt attention as the ve
ndor from a Napa winery explains the nuances of her blanc de blanc. Her male companion isn’t paying attention at all.
He’s too busy glaring at me, and when his aqua eyes lock with mine, he lifts his glass in a silent, mocking toast.
* * *
Though we don’t exchange a single word, by silent agreement, Sebastian Andrews and I find ourselves alone in a secluded corner of the shop where we can bicker in private. The art corner. My art corner, not that I’ll ever let him in on that little fact.
He’s holding two glasses, and I’m thrown off guard when he hands one to me. I blink in surprise, and he shrugs. “It’s from the California label. A blanc de pinot noir.”
It rolls off his tongue, the way it would for someone effortlessly familiar with sparkling wine, not someone who’d just learned the term at a tasting. Another surprise. Irritating.
“What are you doing here?” I ask.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” he says, clearly not the least bit sorry. “Was it invitation only?”
“No, but—”
His head dips forward so he can speak softly into my ear. “Maybe I just like to support small local businesses.”
I try to come up with a witty response, but his closeness is annoyingly distracting.
When he pulls back and meets my eyes, there’s a slight playfulness to his expression I’ve never seen before. Along with last week’s revelation about Avis and Jesse, and his clear affection for his parents, the man is turning out to have layers.
A development that is highly annoying.
His eyes move away from mine, slowly, almost reluctantly, as he seems to realize where we are. His gaze flits from painting to painting. “Fairies.”
“Cutesy Tinker Bell,” I correct. Then, because I can’t help but want to defend my range as an artist, I point out, “And they’re not all fairies.”
“No, they’re not. This one in particular is clever.” He points his glass to the purple cocktail with a whimsical violet Manhattan skyline in the background. I’d added it just this afternoon after working around the clock trying to get it done in time for this party in hopes it would find a new home.
“Genevieve would love it,” he adds. “Purple’s her favorite color.”
