To Sir, with Love

by Lauren Layne

  “Oh, she tried. But though she’d die for her grandkids, she’s not big on diapers, so all it took was a casual mention of eruptive poops to secure some Auntie Gracie time.” She gives a slight sniff. “Joke’s on me though. I think he’s just backed up my lie with a very real diaper situation that needs to be addressed.”

  “You want to change him at the shop?” I ask, gathering up the remnants of our lunch as she straps Matteo to her chest in some fancy-looking sling thing.

  One of the best things about the champagne shop I own and run is that it’s just across the street from Central Park.

  Rachel gives me an apologetic look, and I shake my head before she can speak. “You need to get back. Don’t worry about it.

  “I do. Ugh. I’ve become one of those moms, huh? Can’t be apart from her Littles for more than two hours.”

  “Those are the good kind of moms,” I reassure her as we begin making our way toward the west side of the park.

  Rachel tosses our garbage into the green trash can and links her arm in mine, careful not to jostle Matteo. “You don’t have to walk this way with me,” she says, checking her watch. “Doesn’t the shop open at noon?”

  “Josh and May are there. Plus, I need to get flowers for the counter, and Carlos on Seventy-Fourth and Broadway always has the best ones.”

  “Damn, I miss those pop-up Manhattan flower carts. Almost as much as I miss May. Give her a squeeze for me, it’s been way too long. And wait, who’s Josh?”

  “Newish hire. Mostly helps with inventory and stocking, but it’s sweet to watch him overcome his shyness customer by customer.”

  “I’m surprised you even know what shyness looks like. Have you ever met a human being who didn’t instantly adore you?”

  “Blake Hansel, fifth grade.”

  “No, he just really adored you, in the pull-her-pigtail kind of way,” Rachel says as we exit the park and step onto the bustling Central Park West sidewalk. We embrace, careful not to smoosh the baby between us.

  I pull back and give Matteo a proper goodbye, unapologetically inhaling his sweet baby smell, mingled with—yep, there’s the eruptive poop. “Goodbye, handsome. You sure you don’t want to run away with me?”

  “You, young lady, will text me more often,” Rachel orders with a pointing finger as she begins walking backward uptown toward her parents’ place in Morningside Heights.

  I salute in acknowledgment and wave goodbye.

  The second my best friend’s back is turned, I pull out my phone to see if I have more messages from him.

  Okay, fine. So maybe I’m a tiny bit in love with a man I haven’t met.

  My dear Lady,

  Pistachio gelato, you say. That’s my mother’s favorite, on the very rare occasions she lets herself eat food with actual flavor or calories. Alas, I confess the often-added green food coloring creeps me out.

  Yours in renewed devotion to sorbet,

  Sir

  * * *

  To Sir, with alarm,

  Did you just compare me to your mother? Not sure how I feel about that…

  Lady

  * * *

  My dear Lady,

  I hear it now. I take it back and reassure you that in no way do I think of you as my mother.

  Yours in apology,

  Sir

  Two

  Okay, a little bit about me.

  My name is Gracie Cooper and I’m thirty-three years old, middle child, New Yorker by birth and choice, proud owner of a champagne shop called Bubbles & More, and I love my life.

  Now, let’s be clear. I can’t quite claim it’s the life I’d envisioned as a kid, and let me tell you, my best subject in school was daydreaming, so I did a lot of envisioning my future life. And no. Thirty-three does not look like I thought it would.

  I don’t have the husband or the kids. I live in a cramped one-bedroom walkup, not the tastefully renovated brownstone. In my daydreams, my parents were happily running their champagne shop together, and I was a world-famous artist (hey, if you don’t dream big, why bother!). My brother and sister lived close by, happily married with their own kids, and noisy family dinners would ensue every Sunday like clockwork. It’s also worth mentioning that in my daydreams, adult Gracie’s hair and boobs were a lot less flat.

  Alas. Destiny served up something a little different.

  My mom died young—a hit-and-run accident a few blocks from our home in Brooklyn when I was seven. Four years ago, I was gearing up to tell my family I’d been accepted into art school in Italy, only to be blindsided by my dad’s Stage IV cancer diagnosis and his bluntly stated dying wish that Bubbles stay in the Cooper family.

  My sister and brother hadn’t exactly leapt at the chance to take over, and I was already Dad’s de facto protégée in the wine business, so no art school.

  Instead, I’m a shop owner who paints only as a hobby. And considering my sister and I have drifted apart and my brother moved to New Hampshire on a whim… no weekly family dinners either.

  Not the life I imagined, but it is a good life. And I’d be lying if I didn’t take a lot of pride in what I think of as my personal superpower: the ability to accept and embrace things as they are, not as I wish they could be.

  Which is why it’s so darn frustrating that there’s one dream I can’t seem to let go of, one area in my life where my heart refuses to settle for anything less than the daydream:

  The guy.

  No matter how many times I put myself out there, no matter how many dates I go on—and believe me, there have been plenty—I can’t let go of the sense that when I see him, I’ll know.

  Rachel calls it my Cinderella mode. I call it having high standards.

  Okay fine, really high standards.

  But why should I settle for less than a stomach-flipping meet-cute or the kind of romance you see in old movies and listen to in Frank Sinatra songs?

  My Sagittarius musician with the floppy brown hair, crooked smile, and dad bod is out there. I’m positive.

  Which brings us full circle back to SirNYC.

  It’s crazy, even in my own head, but messaging with him is the closest I’ve ever felt to it. Which is why I can’t quite give up our unusual friendship, because until Prince Charming shows up? Sir is really good company.

  Turning onto Amsterdam Avenue, I head toward Carlos’s flower stand, taking my time and letting myself enjoy the energy of New York City coming out of summer hibernation. Two taxis narrowly avoid a fender bender, communicating their dislike with that classic blaring NYC horn. Two old ladies gripe about Zabar’s raising the price of smoked fish. An ambulance siren wails in the distance. A lanky man in headphones sings a pitch-perfect rendition of “Wait for It” from Broadway’s Hamilton.

  I smile at the city’s soundtrack. Home.

  I was born in Brooklyn, but I’ve lived in Manhattan since I was eight. And I mean no disrespect to the fine residents of Prospect Heights, but this bustling rush of the city, with skyscrapers and people way too close together… this is my New York.

  After my mom was killed, my dad moved us to Morningside Heights, a West Harlem neighborhood right on the Upper West Side border. Manhattan represented a fresh start for all of us. A chance to navigate life without my mom in an apartment that didn’t have her stamp all over it. A new school district for me and my siblings, plus an easier commute for my dad to the Midtown shop.

  None of it was easy. I still remember the horror of having to ask my dad to pick up pads on his run to the bodega while my older sister was at summer camp. And of course I missed my mom like crazy. I still do.

  But something weird happened when my dad drove the U-Haul over the Brooklyn Bridge and we were instantly surrounded by skyscrapers. Something inside me seemed to click—a sense of rightness.

  I once went on a date with a guy from Toledo (who by the way did not have that click of rightness) who said Manhattan either got into your blood or made your blood run cold. It’s a little graphic and gross, but he’s not wrong. I
was in the first category.

  On Amsterdam, the crosswalk signal is red, but like any true New Yorker, I pay attention to actual traffic, not signals, giving a friendly, semiapologetic wave to the NYPD officers who either missed, or more likely, turned a blind eye to my jaywalking.

  The flower cart is right where it always is, and I smile at the short man currently rearranging bouquets in their little buckets of water.

  “Good morning, Carlos!”

  “You are late.” He scowls at me.

  “I know, I know. I had a hot date with a beautiful baby.” My gaze is skimming over my options, and I’m disappointed, but not surprised, to see fewer choices than usual. Typically I get here as early as I can on Monday mornings to get first pick of the arrangements, but today it’s well after lunch. I reach for a bouquet of cheerful yellow roses, but Carlos swats my hand and bends to lift something out of what seems to be a secret stash tucked behind the cart.

  I gasp at the lavish bouquet. “Oh, it’s stunning.”

  “Pauline, she made this late last night, told me not to give it to nobody but Ms. Gracie.”

  “You saved it for me?” I inhale the fragrant blooms. I’d have never thought to combine freesia, sunflowers, and hot pink roses—which is exactly why I’m not a florist.

  “Wasn’t easy,” he grumbles good-naturedly.

  “I definitely don’t deserve you,” I say, shifting the bouquet to the crook of my left arm, and with my right, fish around in my back pocket for the cash I’d shoved in there specifically for this purpose.

  I hand over the bills to Carlos, making him promise to keep the change and thank Pauline.

  Just as I’m putting my remaining twenty back into my pocket, the wind picks up, and it escapes.

  “Oh damn.” I don’t usually curse, but much as I love this city, its busy streets aren’t exactly an ideal place to drop a twenty-dollar bill on a breezy day. I make an awkward lunge for it, but miss as the wind picks up again, taking it farther down the sidewalk, only to be stopped by the toe of an expensive-looking male dress shoe.

  I reach for the fluttering bill, but the owner of the shoe beats me to it, bending and plucking up the twenty with long fingers.

  I smile in relief, already reaching for the money as my gaze travels up the tall length of a navy suit, conservative maroon tie—

  Our eyes lock, and I freeze. Aqua eyes—yes, that’s a thing—stare back at me, his surprised expression matching my own shock.

  All that noise I mentioned? The New York City soundtrack? It all fades away until it’s just me, him, and Frank Sinatra singing “Summer Wind.”

  Well, whatever, it’s almost October, but close enough.

  “You,” I say, my voice quiet.

  I’ve never met the man. I’ve never even seen him before. And yet I know him. My heart knows him. This is my Prince Charming, my love at first sight.

  Turns out, he’s not an average-height, musically inclined Sagittarian, with long brown hair, brown eyes, and a dad bod after all. He’s tall, lean, and serious, with black hair, sharp features, and Tiffany-blue eyes.

  The man has his phone in his hand, but slowly he slips it into his suit pocket, all of his attention on me. He doesn’t take his eyes away from my face, and when our fingers brush as he hands me the twenty, his eyes narrow ever so slightly, as though in puzzlement. “Who are—”

  “Sorry, babe. Thanks for waiting.” A tall woman with thick honey-colored hair appears by Prince Charming’s side. She holds up a Stuart Weitzman bag. “They had over-the-knee boots in dove gray. I couldn’t resist.”

  He blinks and looks her way, and the Frank Sinatra record playing in my head scratches and cuts off midtrack. Moment over.

  The woman glances my way and gives a curious smile. She’s pretty. A perfect blend of approachable, wholesome, and Manhattan chic, all freckles and big white teeth, in a dress that looks like it was custom made for her statuesque, curvy frame.

  Of course. Of course a man like that would be with a woman like this, pure sophistication and polish.

  Not a five-two shop owner who names pigeons, who had eggs with mustard for breakfast, and who probably has… I glance down. Yup. Baby spit on my shirt.

  I check their fourth fingers. No ring—yet—but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.

  The woman’s gaze drops to the flowers in my arm, and her smile grows even prettier. “Those are gorgeous. Where did you get them?”

  I snap back to reality and go into autopilot, smiling back at her. “Carlos here has the best flowers,” I say, turning and gesturing to the stand where he’s helping an older man pick out what I like to imagine are flowers for his longtime lady love. Ooh, or maybe a new lady love—a second chance for both of them as they help each other heal after losing beloved spouses.

  Frank Sinatra starts to sing in my head again, albeit faintly. Whew. Still got it.

  “Look at those hydrangeas,” the pretty woman is gushing. “I need those in my life.”

  She walks past me without a second glance, thick hair and Stuart Weitzman bag swaying as she begins perusing Carlos’s wares.

  I glance once more at The Guy and find he’s studying me as though I’m a puzzle he can’t quite figure out.

  Look all you want, buddy. You’re taken.

  I smile. A bright, platonic smile that’s the equivalent of a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Thanks for this.” I lift the twenty-dollar bill, which, had things gone differently, I totally would have framed and hung above the mantel of our first home together.

  Alas. He’s Prince Charming, all right.

  Just somebody else’s.

  Huh. I’d been so sure that had been The Moment.

  Oh well. I begin humming “New York, New York” to myself and pull out my phone, smiling when I see I have a new message on MysteryMate.

  At least I still have Sir.

  To Sir, with curiosity,

  Do you believe in love at first sight?

  Lady

  * * *

  My dear Lady,

  Of course.

  Yours in dying of curiosity why you ask…

  Sir

  Three

  By the time I get back to Midtown, I’ve pushed the man in the fancy suit with teal eyes to the back of my mind and heart, where he will sit on the shelf alongside my other perfect, unattainable men, like Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid, Mark Ruffalo’s character from 13 Going on 30, and of course, A.J. from Empire Records.

  The bell that’s been on the front door of Bubbles & More for longer than I’ve been alive jingles as I let myself into the shop, and my mood boosts a little when I see we have three customers. It’s not a lot. But it’s better than the zero customers we had three years ago.

  The shop’s always been small, the revenue modest. But even though I worked at the shop throughout my twenties, I hadn’t realized how much we’d been struggling—none of us kids had—until I took over after Dad died. Not that it was Dad’s fault. The reality of modern life is simply that people want to be able to order their vodka, their cabernet, and their Prosecco all from one place. They want to be able to do it online. And they want it delivered to their doorman while they’re at work.

  For all Dad’s adamancy that customer service, product expertise, and neighborhood loyalty would carry the day, the numbers had said otherwise.

  And though I can’t claim that champagne or being a shop owner has ever been my dream the way it was Dad’s, the desire to protect a loved one’s dream and legacy is a powerful motivator. In the months following Dad’s passing, I swapped art school in Italy for business school here in the city, taking all morning classes so I could be here when the shop opened at noon. I changed the store’s name from Bubbles to Bubbles & More and expanded our inventory. In addition to being a champagne store, it’s now also an upscale gift shop—the type of place you pop into on your way to a dinner party, bridal shower, or birthday gathering to get a bottle of celebratory bubbly and a little something fun for the host or
guest of honor.

  Slowly but surely, the store began making money instead of losing money, but I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t sleep easier if we were just a bit more comfortably in the black. Or if I said I didn’t have flickers of resentment that while my dad had left the shop to all of us—Lily, Caleb, and myself—my siblings have been off busily chasing their dreams, while only I fought to preserve Dad’s.

  It grates more than I want it to.

  But I wasn’t the only one who practically grew up here. I wasn’t the only Cooper kid who did homework on the little table in the back corner, who spent early teenage mornings restocking before the store opened, who could recite the difference between dry and extra dry champagne long before I could legally drink it. And all of three of us had been in the hospital room during Dad’s last days when he’d requested that we carry on his and Mom’s legacy.

  But those flickers of regret and resentment are just that—flickers. Like I said, making the best of what I’m handed is my superpower, and I’m proud of what I’ve achieved. Proud most of all that in addition to the pretty journals, rose-gold staplers, and cute cocktail napkins, the most popular items are the paintings we sell in the little “art corner” I set up.

  My paintings.

  In fact, while one of the customers is getting a rundown from my employee Robyn on the nuances of Franciacorta in our Italy section, the other two are in the art corner, gushing over one of my more recent works—a leopard-print martini glass with a sassy red lipstick mark on the rim. Originally, I stuck with mostly champagne-themed prints. But they sold so quickly I decided to try painting all types of wine, not just sparkling. Then cocktails. Then fancy coffee, with the foam shaped into little Empire State Buildings, as many of our customers are tourists looking for NYC souvenirs.

  That each new idea for a painting seems to sell better than the last is a point of pride and frustration, mainly because the operation of the shop leaves me with little time for painting.