To Sir, with Love

by Lauren Layne

  “Thank you.” My voice is quiet. Not a whisper, but close.

  “You’re welcome.” His voice is quiet too, and for a moment, his gaze drops to my mouth.

  He finishes the rest of his glass with a large swallow that probably has my dad rolling in his grave. “I should probably go. Let you finish up here.”

  “Sure, yeah. Thanks for the food. Your spidey sense was right. I did need it.”

  Or maybe I needed you.

  I shove that thought away.

  “Thanks for sharing your right moment champagne with a guy who put you out of business.”

  “What can I say, I guess I’m a sucker for irony,” I say with a little smile, unlocking the door to let him out.

  “Yes,” he sounds distracted as he steps outside, but then he turns back at the last minute so we’re standing nearly toe to toe, and I have to tilt my head all the way back to look at him.

  “This guy of yours, the complicated one,” he says, eyes latching on to mine. “He’s the one?”

  My breath catches at the question. I want to look away, but his eyes seem to hold me still. “I don’t know,” I admit quietly, to myself for the first time. “I thought so, but now… I’m not so sure.”

  His eyes gleam with something that looks like satisfaction, and his response knocks everything inside me off balance.

  “Good.”

  Nineteen

  “I still can’t believe you came. And you didn’t tell me,” I say, hugging my little brother for what’s probably the hundredth time since he knocked on the front door of Bubbles—or what was Bubbles—earlier that afternoon.

  “What can I say, I thrive on surprises,” Caleb says, picking up the box I slide across the counter and carrying it to the small stack near the front door.

  It’s two days after we closed, two days after my night, or whatever that was, with Sebastian. Technically, we have the space for a couple of more days—through the end of the month. But now that we’re done, I’m ready to be… done.

  After doing a walk-through with an uptight Andrews Corporation woman in a pantsuit and a severe bun, I just needed to gather the last odds and ends and check the drawers for forgotten items—where I’ve found four of May’s earrings, one of which I’m fairly sure is a testicle.

  I was holding it when my brother walked through the front door, and he confirmed, 100 percent: testicle.

  “What’s left?” he asks.

  “Just the fridge,” I say, nodding toward the cave. “I don’t even know if it’s ours or if it came with the building. It’s just always been there.”

  “Anything in it?”

  I shrug. “A couple of beers. I’m not sure where they came from.”

  He strolls toward the door to the cave, in his work boots and faded jeans and a long-sleeve green Henley. He returns with two bottles of beer and uses the side of the counter to expertly pop the caps off.

  “Can we drink beer in a champagne shop?” I whisper.

  “Dad?” Caleb says, glancing toward the ceiling. “Mom?”

  He looks over at me with a rueful expression. “Damn. They said it’s not appropriate.”

  Then he hands me one and clinks the neck to mine before taking a long drink.

  I smile. “I thought our parents said no?”

  “They’re parents. They’re supposed to say no, and we kids are supposed to do the opposite of whatever they say.”

  “I don’t think that’s how it works.”

  He leans his elbows on the counter. “That’s because you never went through a rebellious stage. Lily either.”

  “You went through enough for the three of us.”

  “You’re welcome. Drink your beer. It’s the champagne of the people.”

  “Is that a saying in New Hampshire?” I take a sip of the beer. Not my favorite, but not bad.

  “Nope, just a fact. Lily text you back about dinner?”

  I pick up my phone. “She did. She made reservations at some place in the West Village for seven thirty. She also sent about four other texts regarding your disregard for schedules and your lack of concern for other people’s lives. Also, she’s excited to see you. And she said not to tell you she cried when I told her you were in town.”

  He smiles but looks a little guilty. “Damn. I didn’t realize I was the pillar of the family.”

  “Hardly. We just miss you. A lot. And I’m not lecturing.” I lift my hand to reassure him. “But you did basically vanish into the night. We barely had a chance to register you were leaving, and then you were… gone.”

  “Yeah. I’m not proud of that,” he says on an exhale. “Amanda gave me hell when I told her that story.”

  “Ah yes. The girlfriend I’m not allowed to talk about.”

  “You’re allowed to talk about her, just not to her.”

  “Hey, for the record, I think it’s completely normal for older sisters to go through their little brother’s phones looking for their new girlfriend’s number.”

  “For the record, it’s completely not. Do I harass you about your love life?”

  “No. You never even ask.”

  He wrinkles his nose. “Do you want me to ask?”

  “I want you to care,” I say a little quietly, pulling at the corner of the beer bottle label.

  Caleb puts down his beer with a thunk and straightens. “You did not just say that.”

  I laugh. “I know, I know. You care.”

  “I care. I care a hell of a lot. I just don’t really want to know who you’re boning unless he’s a creep I need to beat up.” He narrows his eyes. “Is he?”

  “No. Mostly because I’m not boning anyone.”

  “Thank God.”

  We sip our beers in silence for a second, and I look up. “We never did really talk about it though. Why you moved, I mean.”

  He sighs. “To be honest, it was something I’d wanted to do for a while. I like New York fine, but I don’t love it the way you and Lily do. Even as a kid, I only ever wanted to go camping on spring break, remember?”

  “I do. And when you got your way, it was the worst.”

  Caleb smiles. “Anyway, I mentioned it to Dad once—just that I was thinking about it—and I got some big lecture about family and loyalty and how he wasn’t going to be around forever…”

  “He did give a mean guilt trip,” I say.

  “Totally.” Caleb looks thoughtful. “That why you took over the shop? Guilt trip?”

  “A little, I suppose. I take responsibility for my decisions though. On some level I must have wanted to run Bubbles.”

  Or was too scared to pursue something that might matter more.

  “I still feel like a shit for leaving it to you, all while making a bunch of noise about keeping the family business alive.”

  “Water, bridge,” I say, making a sweeping motion with my beer bottle. “I’m just happy you’re happy. I’m hoping to get in on some of that myself.”

  There’s a knock at the door, and since I haven’t bothered to lock it, someone walks in.

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” I call out. “We’re no longer open for business.”

  “Yeah, I’m sure the completely empty space didn’t spell that out,” Caleb says.

  I swat his head as I pass by to see who’s just entered the shop, thinking it might be a lost tourist or a former customer who didn’t get the memo.

  It’s neither. A man I don’t recognize is studying the empty space with a curious, assessing eye, and he continues to stroll around the room as though he’s supposed to be there.

  “May I help you?” I ask.

  He turns, and I’m certain I’ve never met him. He’s tall and reed thin, with a receding hairline, wire-frame glasses, and an intensity that’s not aggressive or unfriendly, but very purposeful.

  He tilts his head, brown eyes looking at me for a long moment. “Gracie Cooper?”

  “Yes? Do I know you?”

  “About to,” he says, reaching into the jacket of his purple tweed blazer over
a black turtleneck and coming out with a deep purple business card.

  “Hugh Wheeler,” he says as he hands it over.

  I look down at the card, which has his name and beneath it the words Wheeler Art Gallery. I’m not familiar with it, but the address indicates it’s in Chelsea.

  “Have we met? If you’re looking for champagne, I’m no longer in that business, but I’d be happy to give you the name—”

  “No, thank you. My husband and I visit the Champagne region every spring and rent a wine locker in West SoHo specifically to store it.”

  “That’s great.” I smile. “So, what can I help you with?”

  “I’d like to see your art.”

  My smile freezes. “I’m sorry?”

  “You’re an artist,” he says.

  “I… no. I mean, I paint sometimes, but… how did you know that?”

  “I like to call them spies, though I suppose sources is the socially appropriate term.”

  He pulls out his cell phone, taps it, then turns it around so I’m looking at a photo of my art corner here in the store before I took everything down.

  “Is that your work?”

  My head is spinning. “Yes, but—”

  “Do you have any here?” He looks around, disappointment plain on his face as he takes in the blank walls, the empty shelves.

  “No—”

  “Yes she does,” Caleb says, coming up behind me. He reaches out a hand toward Hugh, who looks torn between dismay at Caleb’s less than urbane clothing and admiration for his obvious good looks.

  “Did you forget, sis?” he says, grinning down at me, unabashed. “This big thing over here by the door. You lectured me not to bend it because it had your art in it.” He gives me a wide grin as he easily tears open the packing tape.

  “Caleb,” I say in a warning voice.

  The mysterious Hugh Wheeler is already pulling out the pieces. There are only three there. Two that didn’t sell, and one—of the man with the aqua eyes—that I never put out on the floor.

  Hugh pulls them all out and lines them against the front window, staring down at them for what must be half my life span, not moving, not making a sound.

  Even Caleb starts to look a little unsure, and I have to bite my tongue not to say, See, this is why I didn’t want to show him; I’d rather not know if I have no talent.

  Hugh slowly turns toward me. “I like these. They make me smile.”

  Caleb lets out a laugh but quickly hides it behind a cough. This man hasn’t produced anything close to a smile since he walked through the door. Still, he’s not unfriendly. Just a little awkward and intense.

  “Um. Thank you?” I say.

  “Do you have more?” he asks.

  “One more finished at home. Another in progress.”

  He nods. “Good. If you can pull together at least ten—twenty is better—I’d like to discuss the possibility of showing your work in my gallery.”

  “I—what? My work’s just for fun, it’s not… art gallery.”

  “Maybe not all art galleries. Not the pretentious ones that think it’s only art if it looks like a blob and requires a PhD to decipher. But I show art that people like. That they want on their walls, that they want to give their friends. Specifically, art that people will buy.”

  He reaches out and flicks the card in my hand. “Text me when the pieces are done. Don’t call. I won’t pick up, and I never check voice mail.”

  Stunned, I manage a nod, and Hugh moves toward the door—I say moves, not walks, because he just sort of whispers along like the wind.

  Hugh pauses one last time and looks down at the paintings. “Your signature. What is that?”

  “Oh, it’s a shoe. Glass slipper. You know… Cinderella. I was sort of a fairy tale nut when I was younger.”

  Caleb gives me an oh come on… when you were younger? look that Hugh either ignores or misses, because he’s still looking at the paintings.

  “Huh.” He stares a moment longer, and this time when he looks back at me, there’s an actual smile on his face. “Guess that makes me your fairy godmother.”

  I get the feeling that if he had a wand, he’d use it. Instead, he winks, then he’s gone.

  “Well, well. Looks like your fairy tale’s the real deal after all,” my brother says as the door clicks closed.

  I don’t respond.

  I’m too busy trying to figure out what the hell just happened.

  Twenty

  “You need to order more razor blades!”

  I look up from the palette where I’ve been trying to get the exact right shade of green I have in my mind’s eye, but the darn thing keeps skewing toward mint when I want moss. “What?”

  My brother sticks his head out of my bathroom door, lower face covered in shaving cream. He holds up my pink razor. “I just put on your last fresh blade. You’ll need to order more.”

  “Use your own razor!”

  “Forgot it.” He pops back into the bathroom, and I shake my head and go back to my mixing.

  I love Caleb, and I’m glad he’s staying with me while he’s in town. I’m also a little glad that he’s spending his last night before going back to New Hampshire with his friends.

  “Where are you guys headed?” I ask.

  “Some new bar down in the East Village. Fred’s girlfriend’s the bartender, so hopefully we’ll get a few drinks out of it.” I hear the swish of water in the sink. “You sure don’t want to come?”

  “Positive,” I say as he comes out of the bathroom with a towel in hand, drying his face. “Also, put on some clothes.”

  “Adrian will be there,” he says, looping the towel around his neck and tugging on both ends.

  “Who?” I ask distractedly.

  “My friend Adrian. He thinks you’re cute. Come with. Meet him. It could be good for you.”

  I look up. “Good for me how?”

  He sighs. “Sis. I’m thrilled that the art thing is happening for you. But you’ve barely left the apartment in days, you’ve only talked to me and Keva, and Lily told me that the closest thing you’ve had to a boyfriend is some dude you’ve never met who probably collects hair.”

  “He does not collect hair,” I say. “And I knew it was a mistake to send you and Lily to lunch without supervision.”

  Turning away, I swatch the paint on my test canvas. Mossy green. Perfect for the springtime Central Park picnic piece I’ve sketched out.

  “G,” Caleb says a bit impatiently.

  I glance over and see his look of concern. “What?”

  He sighs. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I miss the old Gracie—the one who always thought true love was just around the corner.”

  I set my brush down. “Hold on. Are you calling me cynical?”

  He purses his lips. “I’m saying that it’s going to be awfully hard to find that Prince Charming you always used to talk about if you don’t even try.”

  I heave out a sigh. “Okay. You’re right. You are. But I’m really on a roll here, and this thing with Hugh Wheeler feels like a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. So how about this: I rain check tonight but promise to go out with your friend Adrian some other time.”

  “Deal,” Caleb says, and I feel instant regret.

  I don’t want to go out with some random guy. I want…

  A knock at the door scatters my thoughts.

  “It’s probably Keva,” I tell Caleb, turning back to my painting. “Can you let her in?”

  My brother opens the door, and there’s a pause.

  “Um, hello. I’m looking for Gracie Cooper?”

  I whirl around from my easel at the masculine voice. One I never expected to hear at my front door.

  “And you are?” Caleb asks, his tone protective.

  I set my paint brush aside and wipe my hand on my smock as I walk toward the door. “Caleb, this is Sebastian Andrews.”

  “The dude who put Bubbles out of business?”

  Sebastian flinches. Almost impercepti
bly, but it’s there.

  “Hi,” I say. Is my voice breathless? Crap. My brother is still blocking the door, and I shove him aside.

  “I didn’t mean to interrupt your evening,” Sebastian says a little stiffly.

  “Really?” Caleb says. “What would you call dropping by unannounced at seven o’clock on a Friday?”

  “Oh my God,” I mutter, pushing him toward the bathroom. “Go get dressed.”

  Caleb gives Sebastian one last warning look, followed by a what the hell? glance in my direction.

  I ignore it. Mainly because I don’t have a clue what Sebastian Andrews is doing at my front door.

  “Come on in,” I say, standing to the side.

  He shakes his head. “I don’t want to interrupt your… date.”

  I blink. My what now? Gross.

  Then I see the scene from his eyes—a half-naked man with a proprietary glower has just answered my front door.

  I tilt my head in the direction of Caleb as he comes out of the bathroom, the towel thankfully replaced with jeans and a blue checked dress shirt. “My brother. He’s staying with me a few days while he’s in town.”

  Sebastian’s aqua eyes snap to Caleb, his expression showing a blink-and-you-miss-it flicker of… relief?

  “Nice to meet you,” Sebastian says.

  “Uh-huh.” My brother is buttoning the cuff of his sleeve, still scowling.

  “Caleb,” I say on a sigh. “Be polite.”

  “Compared to our first meeting,” Sebastian says to me, “I’d say this is an improvement.”

  “Hey! I was polite.”

  Sebastian lifts an eyebrow. Were you?

  Caleb’s scowl has lessened considerably as he gives Sebastian and me a curious look. “Nice to put a face with the name,” Caleb says to Sebastian.

  “Which I imagine frequently goes hand in hand with profanity?”

  My brother grins as he steps out into the hallway. “I’ll never tell. See you later. G, I’ll probably be late. I’ll try to be quiet if you remind your cat I’ve called dibs on the couch.”

  “You’re never quiet,” I grumble.

  “Be good,” Caleb calls as he jogs down the stairs. “Don’t forget about the cat.”

  “Sorry about him,” I say, shutting the door.