To Sir, with Love

by Lauren Layne

  Sebastian’s scanning my tiny, slightly messy apartment curiously, focusing on my in-progress painting before turning back to me. He must have come straight from the office, because as usual, he’s wearing a suit. Dark charcoal this time, with a dark purple tie.

  I start with the most pressing question.

  “How do you know where I live?”

  “I walked you home that night after Central Park, remember?”

  “I do.” Too well. “But you left me at the front door, how do you know which unit I lived in?”

  He scratches just behind his ear, looking slightly guilty. “We have your info in the system. I broke company policy, and probably a few laws, by looking it up.”

  “Why?” I ask plainly.

  He reaches into the inner pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out an envelope. “I wanted to give you this. Normally we’d mail it, but…”

  He shrugs, looking embarrassed.

  I take the envelope, noting the now-familiar logo of his family’s company. I don’t open it. Raising my eyes, I look him straight in the eye. “Last time I got an envelope from you that looked like this, my life turned upside down.”

  To his credit, he doesn’t look away. “I know.”

  The straightforward honesty catches me off guard. Who am I kidding, this entire situation has caught me off guard. He’s close enough that I can see his eyelashes—black and spiky, the exact color of his five o’clock shadow.

  Unsettled, I glance down, then use the envelope as an excuse to turn away slightly, my thumb sliding under the flap. There’s a check inside.

  “Wow,” I say after a moment, staring down at it. “That is… a lot of money.”

  “It’s the agreed-upon amount,” he says quietly.

  I knew it was coming. And of course, it’s not all mine. It’s made out to the business. But still. Holy crap.

  I give Sebastian a wry smile. “I’m guessing my very humble abode reaffirms your suspicion that I needed this money sooner rather than later.”

  I expect him to look around my apartment, note its small size, the tired couch, the outdated kitchen. Instead, he holds my gaze. “That’s not why I came.”

  My breath catches. “No? Then why?”

  His aqua eyes lock on mine a second longer before he steps around me and goes to the easel. He studies it for a long minute.

  He looks back at me. “It didn’t occur to me that you used pencil first.”

  “I don’t always,” I say, sliding the check back into the envelope and setting it on the kitchen table. “And when I do, it’s usually only on a practice run, not the final.”

  “How many versions of each painting do you do?”

  “Usually not more than two unless I goof up. But I almost always plan out what I’m going to do in my sketchbook before it makes it to this stage.”

  “What’s this one?” he asks, leaning forward to look closer. My pencil strokes are light, more guidelines than actual sketch.

  “Central Park. A picnic. I haven’t decided yet if it’ll be a couple or a family. Maybe a girls’ day or just a lone woman reading with her dog.”

  As though in protest at the word dog, Cannoli comes strolling out from wherever he’s been hiding with a long meow and hops up onto the arm of the couch, tail twitching as he gives Sebastian what can only be described as a skeptical once-over.

  The cat meows again, a little more friendly this time, and Sebastian steps toward him, extending a finger and rubbing the side of the cat’s face. Cannoli’s eyes close, and he pushes his entire head against Sebastian’s hand, pressing his face into the large palm.

  I’m not going to lie, it’s pretty heart melting.

  “Boy or girl?” he asks, still petting the cat.

  “Boy. Cannoli.”

  He gives me a sharp look, and I shrug with a smile. “What? I like dessert.”

  His eyes narrow just slightly. “What’s your favorite kind of dessert?”

  “I’m not terribly picky. If it’s sweet and delicious, I love it. Though I do think it’s hard to beat really good ice cream.”

  “Gelato,” he guesses, though it’s more statement than question.

  “Totally,” I smile, thinking of Sir. “Give me a pint of pistachio gelato, and there’s basically zero chance that I won’t finish the entire thing. By myself. In one sitting.”

  He frowns. “That night in the park. We stopped at the ice cream truck, but you didn’t get ice cream. You got lemon sorbet.”

  I smile, remembering. “A whim. A… friend of mine swears by it. I think it’s an affront to dessert, but I realized I couldn’t really say that when I hadn’t given it a chance.”

  “What’s the verdict?”

  “I still think it’s an affront to dessert,” I say with a grin.

  Sebastian doesn’t grin back but studies me with a strange expression. Then I realize that he’d ordered lemon sorbet with me, and maybe I’d just insulted his dessert of choice. I shake my head. What is it with the men in my life liking frozen lemon nonsense?

  Perhaps more important: When did I start counting Sebastian Andrews as a man in my life?

  Cannoli grows bored and ambles off to my bedroom, and Sebastian nods toward the stack of finished paintings against the wall. “May I?”

  “Um…” I hesitate, remembering the one of the man with the aqua eyes. It doesn’t look like Sebastian. It doesn’t look like anyone, really. It’s more shadow than features. Still, those eyes…

  “Sure,” I say, because I can’t think of a way to say no that wouldn’t be rude.

  I expect him to flip through them quickly, but he takes his time, holding each painting and studying it thoroughly before moving on to the next. I hold my breath when he gets to the one of the man.

  He looks at it the same way he did the others, then sets it aside without a word and moves onto the next, seemingly without noticing the unusual eye color. I slowly exhale.

  Finally, he gets to the last one—there are eleven in that stack, the ones I think are my best, though I’m still working to get twenty I feel are good enough to take to Mr. Wheeler.

  Sebastian turns around to face me once more. “They’re charming, and no, I don’t mean that to be the least bit condescending. Hugh’s going to be thrilled.”

  “Thank you,” I say, pleasure rushing over me. “I’ve been—wait… Hugh? Hugh Wheeler?”

  He shrugs, then nods once.

  I stare at him in confusion. “How did you know that a Chelsea art gallery was—”

  Dismay settles low in my stomach as I realize there’s only one way he’d know about Hugh Wheeler approaching me. “It was you.”

  Sebastian blinks, looking taken aback by the sharpness in my tone.

  “You were his source,” I say. “You were the one who told him how to find me.”

  “Yes, I went to school with his brother. He’s a friend. I thought—”

  “Oh my God.” I dig my fingers into my hair and tug. “I’m one of your projects.”

  “My what?”

  “Another Jesse. Another Avis. You all but told me that this is what you do—push people out of business and then fix them up with some other venture so you don’t have to feel guilty. The new restaurant with Jesse. Setting Avis up in Florida. With me, it’s buying me lamb gyros, sucking up to my cat, and calling in a favor with a friend to get my art displayed. It’s pity.”

  His eyes flash in anger. “That’s not what’s going on here.”

  I squeeze my eyes shut and press my thumbs against my eyelids as it all clicks into place. Every kind gesture, every moment, was merely him trying to assuage his conscience for his role in the failure of Bubbles.

  I nod toward the kitchen table. “Did you bring Jesse and Avis their checks in person too?”

  He says nothing.

  “Did you?” I’m shouting now.

  “Yes.”

  He says it calmly, and all of my shock and hurt fade into the background, replaced by aching disappointment. No, somethin
g a lot worse than disappointment.

  Hurt. A hurt so deep it feels awfully close to heartbreak.

  I let out a shaky laugh. “I can’t believe I actually thought…” I shake my head.

  He steps closer. “You thought what?” His voice is rough, his eyes seeming to plead with mine, and for an insane moment, I want to tell him.

  I want to tell him to choose me, to feel about me the way I feel about him.

  “Gracie—”

  His use of my first name sends something warm curling through me, but I shove it aside.

  “No.” I shake my head. “I’m not going to stand here and become another one of your projects, another example you can rattle off to the next person you put out of business as proof that you’re some sort of corporate savior who somehow improves people’s lives when actually you ruin them—”

  His eyes flash in anger. “What exactly have I ruined? I didn’t put you out of business. I didn’t sabotage your store. In fact, I supported your efforts. I showed up at your tasting and bought a case of sparkling wine. I showed up at your cooking class, paid full price. I’m being scorned, for what, exactly? For making a sound financial offer that you chose to accept? For mentioning your art to a friend? What’s my crime here, Ms. Cooper?”

  “I didn’t need any of that! I didn’t want it. I was fine before that day I ran into you on the sidewalk, before you showed up in my shop, before you stalked me at my house.”

  “Stalked you,” he repeats. “Stalked you?” He stares at me a moment, then shakes his head. “Unbelievable.”

  Sebastian heads toward my front door, jerking it open, then turns back. “Don’t worry, Ms. Cooper. This is the last you’ll see or hear from me. Have a nice life.”

  The door slams shut as he walks out of my apartment. Out of my life.

  I should feel relieved. Instead, I sit on my couch and cry.

  To Sir, with a touch of melancholy,

  I have a bit of a confession. I miss my dad every day—both my parents. Of course I do. But lately I’m a tiny bit glad that they passed on before seeing what a mess I’ve made of my life. Have you ever felt that with your dad? Relieved that he can’t see you at your less than fine moments? Not that you have those, of course…

  Lady

  * * *

  My dear Lady,

  Oh, I most definitely have those “less than fine” moments. More, I think, than I even realized until they’ve been recently pointed out to me. And while I wasn’t close enough to my father to feel that same pang you’re feeling, I do know there’s no worse feeling than realizing you’ve hurt the last person on earth you would have wanted to.

  Yours in shared regrets,

  Sir

  * * *

  Oh man, I so hear that. I’ve been reflecting on some of my childlike behavior in recent days. I’ve treated someone unkindly who, in hindsight, I’m not confident deserved it.

  * * *

  There is plenty I don’t know about you, to be sure. But I do know that you’re kind.

  Twenty-One

  Two days after my fight with Sebastian, Caleb’s gone back to New Hampshire, and I find myself wanting the closest thing I have to a mother.

  I don’t call first. I should have, but… I didn’t think.

  It doesn’t matter. May opens the door to me, takes one look at my limp ponytail, shadowed eyes, and mismatched clothes and brings me in for a long, tight hug that smells like rose perfume and comfort.

  She draws back, studies my face, then points at the purple couch. “Sit. I’ll make tea.”

  I do as she says, kicking off my shoes and pulling my knees up to my chin as I hear the quiet, soothing noises of the water, the kettle, mugs on the counter.

  I hear her voice, not quite hushed, but deliberately quiet as she speaks on the phone. I wince as I realize she’s rescheduling something.

  “You had plans tonight,” I say when she comes back into the living room carrying an old-fashioned tea tray. I’m already putting my shoes back on, but she shakes her head sternly.

  “A date with a man with good hands,” she says happily, pouring the tea. “Who happens to be free tomorrow night, and more importantly, who understands the importance of family.”

  I don’t drink tea very often, but May knows my coffee habits well enough to add two sugar cubes and a generous dash of cream before handing me the teacup.

  “This is pretty,” I say, tracing the delicate floral pattern on the rim of the saucer with my nail.

  “My first love’s grandmother gave it to us as a wedding gift. I don’t use it often enough,” she says, lifting the cup and gazing at it fondly. “I confess I’ve been committing the ultimate crime by keeping something so dear on a shelf rather than enjoying it. But,” she says, taking a sip of the tea and setting it back on the table. Her earrings are ladybugs today, and they sway as she sits back in her chair. “You’re not here to talk about my mistakes, are you?”

  I wince. “So you think I’ve made mistakes?”

  “I think you think you’ve made some.”

  I pull my knees up once more, resting the saucer carefully atop them as I stare down at the tea, which is more cream colored than tea colored, exactly as I like it.

  May sips her tea in silence for a while, letting me gather my thoughts, and I’m grateful for it. As much as I adore my sister and my girlfriends, they’re always so eager to help that they start offering advice before I even know what I’m asking.

  “Okay, here’s the thing,” I say on an exhale, taking a sip of tea before setting the saucer carefully on the coffee table. I sit cross-legged, hands folded in my lap. “I feel lost. I used to wake up knowing what each day held. I used to know exactly what I wanted my life to look like—”

  “And what was that?” May interjects. “Tell me old Gracie’s vision.”

  “I was a successful shop owner,” I say. “Not rich, but comfortable, with a steady influx of regular customers. I was married to a man who was friendly, approachable, good with the customers. We’d run Bubbles together, and in our off time, we’d embrace our hobbies. I’d paint. He’d write music, or whatever his passion was. We’d have children, and they’d do their homework at Bubbles just as I did…”

  “It sounds nice,” May says noncommittally.

  I nod.

  “It also sounds familiar…” she says thoughtfully, then snaps her fingers. “Oh yes. You’re describing your father’s life, and from what I understand, your late mother’s as well. With one key difference.”

  “Times have changed, and niche champagne shops are no longer a viable business model?” I say glumly.

  “No. The difference is that that was never your vision. You were trying to live his life, Gracie, and you weren’t meant to.”

  “Maybe so,” I admit. “But that doesn’t change the fact that I seem to have a big gaping hole in my life now. I can barely piece together my present, much less my future.”

  “Why in God’s name would you want to piece together your future?” May asks, sounding aghast. “Half the fun’s in not knowing.”

  I let that soak in a little bit, then squeeze my eyes shut as I speak a truth that’s been dancing around in the back of my mind for months now.

  “May?” I ask, my voice little more than a whisper.

  “Yes, my love?”

  I open my eyes. “I think the best parts of my life so far have been in my daydreams.”

  Saying it aloud is a good kind of pain. Like working out a neglected muscle or stepping into the light after a long sleep.

  She lets out a slow sigh, then slurps her tea. “Perhaps,” she says lightly, refilling her teacup and adding a splash to mine as well, though I’ve barely touched it. “But I’m older, I’m wiser, and so I can tell you with complete confidence that there’s no point with regrets. So, moving right along… what shall we do about it?”

  The we makes me smile.

  “Well.” I pick up the teacup once more, feeling a little stronger for having aired the thou
ght. “I guess I could use some advice on how to get out of the daydream and into real life.”

  “Let’s start by embracing it. Your old daydream is dead—sorry, love, but it is. Bubbles is gone, and I’m going to give it to you straight: your chubby musician hasn’t shown up.”

  “Yet,” I add instinctively.

  She lifts her eyebrows.

  “Right. Daydreams again,” I muse. “I told Caleb I’d go out with his friend. I haven’t had a date in a while, so that’s a start.”

  “It is. A good one, I’d say. Now, how about your professional life? In those daydreams you speak of, how did you spend your days?”

  “Painting,” I say automatically. “I paint all day, every day.”

  “And why is that the daydream instead of reality?”

  “Well…” I think of Hugh Wheeler, who’s still waiting on those twenty paintings, and the fierce inner debate about wanting to take advantage of the opportunity, but wanting it in my own right, not because Sebastian Andrews called in a favor.

  “I’ve got a sabbatical, of sorts, funded by the Andrews Corporation’s blood money. It’s enough to tide me over until I find a new job, but I will need to find a new job.”

  “Painting’s a job,” May points out.

  “Sure, if you’re Botticelli living during the Renaissance. I’m trying to get out of the daydream, not sink further into it.”

  May taps her finger against her cup very gently, studying me. “What about the Chelsea art dealer?”

  I look at her in surprise. I haven’t told anyone about that.

  She grins. “Caleb will tell you just about anything if you feed him a grilled cheese sandwich with tomato and bacon.”

  “Weak-willed traitor,” I mutter.

  “More like a loving brother. But what’s the status with the art guy? Did it fall through?”

  I slouch a little on the couch. “No. I haven’t really pursued it.”

  “Really? Your brother said you were painting around the clock.”

  “I was. Then I found out…” I exhale. “The art dealer only sought me out because Sebastian Andrews told him to.”