To Sir, with Love

by Lauren Layne

  “Sebastian Andrews.” She blinks. “The insanely good-looking businessman with the good butt?”

  “That’s him,” I say grumpily, draining my tea and setting it back on the table. “Apparently, this is all part of his MO. He shuts down businesses, then tries to make himself feel better by inserting himself in his victims’ lives.”

  I regret my words instantly. They sound petty. They feel untrue.

  “So, just so I’m understanding the whole story,” May says slowly, reaching for my saucer and beginning to fix me another perfectly sweetened cup. “A very handsome man came into your life. Offered means and opportunity to finally detach yourself from a legacy you never really wanted. Then he introduced you to someone who could turn those daydreams you’re so fond of into reality. And we hate him?”

  I accept the cup she hands me and stare blindly down at the tea. “Oh hell. When you put it that way, I’m the bad guy.”

  “Well, if you didn’t like hearing that, you’re definitely not going to like this,” she says, sitting back in her chair and crossing her legs.

  I look at her warily. “It gets worse?”

  “You said yourself the best parts of your life are your daydreams,” May says gently. “I imagine this includes your mysterious pen pal? The fantasy of what he could be?”

  I nod.

  “Would you say that the fantasy of one man is keeping you from seeing the reality of another man?”

  I narrow my eyes, already knowing where she’s going with this and not liking it one bit.

  Or maybe… maybe I like it too much.

  Maybe I like him too much.

  All of a sudden, I know what comes next—what May means by embracing the uncertainty of the future.

  I scowl down at my tea, then up at May. “Any chance you’ve got something stronger?”

  She’s already on the move toward the kitchen. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Twenty-Two

  Hugh Wheeler’s partner is the complete opposite of the lanky, irritable art dealer. Short, round, friendly, and flamboyantly dressed, Myron Evans has gone from being a complete stranger a week ago to what feels a bit like my best friend.

  I take the tissue Myron’s waving at me. “Thanks. How’d you know?”

  “Honey. I’ve witnessed lots of debut artists seeing their art displayed in a gallery for the first time. I’ve yet to see one who didn’t cry, and that includes an impressionist who looks like Thor.”

  “Oh God, he was gorgeous,” Hugh says, coming out from the back room, iPad in hand. “Sold well too. Shame he works so damn slow.”

  Myron wags a finger at his partner—a status that applies both professionally and personally—and chides him gently. “You know the rules. We never judge the artists.”

  “That’s your rule,” Hugh says grumpily. “Shane may be beautiful, but he is a lazy piece of shit.” He looks over at me and grins. “Not like you. You are a delightful firecracker of a workhorse.”

  “Though, I notice I don’t get the gorgeous label like the lazy impressionist,” I tease.

  “Your features are nicely arranged. For a female,” Hugh says distractedly as he notes one of my paintings on the wall is crooked and goes to straighten it.

  I look over at Myron. “I can’t tell if that was a compliment or an insult.”

  “Always a little hard to tell,” Myron said in a loud whisper.

  Ignoring us, Hugh points at the painting directly in front of him. “This. It should be a series. We could do a whole jazz club.”

  I glance at it. It’s one of my more recent works, finished in the flurry of productivity since leaving May’s house a week earlier. At the center is a grand piano—white—to contrast with the woman in the red dress seated on the bench, a glass of red wine set on the side of the piano that would probably make pianists everywhere crap their pants. But it creates a moment. Behind the woman is my usual New York City backdrop—evening this time.

  “I’ve never actually been to a jazz club,” I admit.

  Myron makes a dramatic gasping noise and grabs my arm, as though for balance.

  “Both Myron’s parents were bassists,” Hugh says, and I shrug because that doesn’t really mean much to me.

  Myron lets out a dramatic sigh. “You don’t know what a bassist is, do you?”

  “Um?”

  “All right, that’s it. Hugh, we’re taking Gracie to a jazz club.”

  “Agreed, mainly because I really do want this to be a set,” he says, peering closer. “An old-fashioned on a stool beside the bass player. The drummer holding a Manhattan.”

  “With what, his third hand?” Myron asks skeptically.

  “That’s for Gracie to figure out,” Hugh says, waving his hand. Then he turns around. “Of course, that’s assuming you want to paint that. I would never presume to tell one of my artists what to work on.”

  Myron snorts. “Since when?”

  Hugh makes a face at his partner, then turns to me, giving me a rare smile. “You should be very proud. I couldn’t be more pleased.”

  My eyes start watering again. “Can I hug you?”

  He opens his arms and makes the slightest beckoning motion with one hand.

  I wrap my arms around him and squeeze him tight. “Thank you for this. You have no idea what a dream come true this is.”

  My daydream. My reality. A studio currently showcasing my art.

  The day after I met with May, I’d gone back to work, painting with an almost feverish obsession. The paint on my twentieth work wasn’t even dry when I’d texted Hugh as instructed. A day later, I’d arrived with sweaty palms and a portfolio of my best work at his Chelsea Gallery and held my breath as Myron had set each of my watercolors against the wall.

  Hugh had paced back and forth, taking in every painting for what felt like an hour before turning to me and telling me he could offer me a better commission if I agreed to sell exclusively with him.

  I always imagined that when my dreams came true, there’d be fireworks, champagne, and maybe some glitter.

  There was none of that, of course, but the moment was still one of the best of my entire life. And yet I hadn’t shared it with anyone. Mainly because the person I want to share it with hasn’t been in touch since I basically ordered him out of my apartment and out of my life.

  He hasn’t returned my calls, and I can’t blame him.

  “Thanks so much for inviting me down here,” I say, pushing aside the melancholy thought of never seeing Sebastian again. “I’d imagined, of course, what it would be like to see my art displayed, but actually seeing it…”

  Hugh points at Myron. “His idea.”

  “Thank you,” I say, turning to Myron, whose hot pink suit and yellow bow tie are somehow the perfect complement to Hugh’s blue-and-white-striped ensemble. I hug him too.

  “Thank me by learning what a bassist is,” he says, patting my back. “Now, you said you had another piece to show us?”

  Hugh whirls around, pushing his wire-frame glasses higher on his nose. “A new piece? Since yesterday?”

  “Two, actually. I’ve been playing around with them for a while,” I say. “They’re both a bit different from my usual work. I wasn’t sure if they would fit with the collection—”

  “Show me.” He waves at the black canvas carrying bag leaning against my calf.

  I take out both pieces and set them against the blank white wall.

  I bite my lip as both Hugh and Myron examine them, one the critical eye of a potential seller, the other the mostly curious examination of a man who I’ve quickly discovered is an over-the-top romantic like myself. I find I want both their approval, for different reasons.

  Myron turns away first and draws a heart shape over the left side of his chest, mouthing love it. Hugh says nothing, continuing to stare at them, until he suddenly pivots on his heel. “The only thing I don’t like about them is that I can’t decide which I like more. They’re unexpected, yes, but I think two of your best.”
<
br />   I exhale in relief.

  “Agree,” Myron says. “There’s a certain longing to each of them—as though you’ve captured the crackle of two pivotal moments in time. What inspired them?”

  I glance down at the right painting first—a woman on a pink-and-white polka-dot couch, her denim-clad legs and pink stilettos propped up on a marble coffee table. In one hand, a champagne flute. In her other, a cell phone. On her face? A secret smile, as though whatever she’s looking at on her phone holds the key to her heart.

  The other is a couple. A man and a woman on a park bench at night, the trees behind them shadowy. They’re turned toward each other, almost reluctantly, as though pulled together by a force neither wants, and neither can resist. Adding a bit of realism to the otherwise dreamy painting is a flash of silver in each hand that any New Yorker would recognize as a spontaneous late-night snack from a food cart.

  “My life,” I answer quietly. “My life inspired them.”

  One of them inspired by my fantasy life.

  The other by my real life.

  It’s time to choose.

  * * *

  Sebastian’s assistant, Noel, glances up as I step off the elevator.

  “Good afternoon, Ms. Cooper. Lovely to see you again.” He smiles widely, looking genuinely welcoming, which tells me Sebastian must not have confided in his assistant about the antagonistic nature of our last meeting. “How can I help you? Was something amiss with the payment check? I’d be happy to have someone from accounting—”

  “No, no problems,” I cut in. Then, to stall and hopefully calm my nerves, I point at the glorious bouquets flanking either side of the wide desk. “These are from Carlos and Pauline, aren’t they?”

  His grin widens. “Yes! You know them?”

  “I do. How are they? I don’t get up there as regularly anymore.” I make a mental note to fix that. Just because I don’t need fresh flowers for the shop doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy fresh flowers in my apartment.

  “They’re great. Considering expanding, maybe offering delivery. Some of the floors in the building liked the arrangements so much that they started ordering from them as well.”

  “Oh, I’m so happy for them,” I say, touching a light pink rose petal.

  “So, what can I help you with?”

  I glance in the direction of Sebastian’s closed door. “I was curious if Mr. Andrews might be available. I know I don’t have an appointment, but since it’s close to five, I thought I’d try my luck.”

  Noel studies me a moment, his curious expression turning slightly speculative.

  “Sure,” he says with a grin.

  I blink. “Don’t you need to check?”

  “Hmm,” he says, mostly to himself. “Better if I don’t, I think. Go on in.”

  I give him a skeptical look, but I also know if I don’t do this now, I’ll chicken out.

  I take a deep breath and give a quick knock.

  “Yeah.” Sebastian’s voice is clipped, and I wince. Not a great start, and he doesn’t even know it’s me yet.

  I step into the office and shut the door.

  He doesn’t look toward me right away, his attention on his computer screen as he types. His eyes cut my way, almost absently, then he stiffens.

  Slowly his hands slide away from the keyboard.

  “Hi,” I say nervously.

  He says nothing as he leans back in his chair.

  I swallow, pointing back toward the door. “Noel said I could come in, but if I’m interrupting…”

  Still nothing, but I gather my courage and walk toward him.

  He looks serious and untouchable. And disinterested. Very, very disinterested.

  My heart sinks.

  I walk to the chair opposite his, and instead of sitting, I set my hands on the back of it, forcing myself to look into his cold aqua eyes.

  “I owe you an apology,” I say, my voice quiet but steady.

  His eyes flash, and his fingers interlock lightly as he sets them against his mouth and watches me.

  “I’m sorry for—” I laugh a little. “Well, for a lot of things. For the things I said to you. For assuming the worst about your motives. For getting angry with you for mentioning my name to Hugh, when really I should have been thanking you.”

  I glance down at my hands on the back of the chair. My knuckles are white. This is hard. Much harder than I realized. But I force myself to meet his eyes once more and continue.

  “You’re kind. I didn’t want you to be. I wanted to hate you for making me see all the things that were wrong with my life. The nature of your job affects the lives of other people, and you don’t take that responsibility lightly. I wanted to believe you were acting out of guilt or obligation, because it fit with my initial image of you as a heartless businessman. You aren’t that. And I’m genuinely sorry.”

  Sebastian continues to say nothing, and my heart sinks further.

  “Anyway,” I say, clearing my throat awkwardly. “I just wanted you to know I don’t feel good about the things I said to you, and they don’t reflect how I really feel.”

  “Which is?”

  I swallow, wondering how much to reveal. How brave to be.

  I like you. I like you very much.

  But the expression on his face is so cold that I take the safe route. “I’m grateful. For the fresh start your company’s afforded me. And for the chance to pursue a career in art.”

  Something that looks a bit like disappointment flits across his face at my response. “I see. Well. You’re welcome. And I appreciate the apology. And, for my part, I regret my high-handedness. Coming by your apartment was an invasion of privacy. Giving your information to Hugh without asking you first presumed to know too much about your… wants.”

  “But you presumed correctly. And I didn’t mind you coming by my apartment.”

  His head snaps up, but other than that, he neither moves nor speaks. After a long moment, I force a smile that feels brittle with disappointment.

  What had I expected? That he would swoop me into his arms and tell me he fell madly in love with me the moment he met me, that the other woman doesn’t matter to him anymore?

  “Thanks for seeing me on short notice. Have a nice evening, Mr. Andrews.”

  I walk back to the door, blinking back tears.

  “Gracie.” His voice is rough.

  I turn.

  He’s standing, his expression both cautious and hopeful. “Do you have plans for dinner tonight?”

  Twenty-Three

  “That’s fantastic news,” Sebastian says, refilling both our glasses with the bottle of zinfandel he’s ordered to go with the steaks.

  I’d expected him to suggest a fancy restaurant, one of those with big glass windows and high ceilings and stuffy waiters.

  Instead, he’s led me to a hole-in-the-wall steakhouse with wood walls, dark lighting, and the enthusiastic buzz of people having a good time. We’re seated in the back corner, enjoying delicious steaks and even more delicious mashed potatoes.

  Most pleasurable of all though? The company. I can’t remember the last time I’ve enjoyed a meal so much… ever.

  “So, what happens now?” he asks, picking up his knife and fork, but studying me instead of cutting into his meat. “I know Hugh personally, but I don’t know much about his art world.”

  “He wants to do a gallery opening,” I say, taking a sip of water. “He hung one of my pieces already—just to generate buzz, but he’s saving the rest, wants to do a whole thing with champagne and cocktail dresses.” I laugh a little breathlessly at the sheer excitement of it all. “A gallery opening. I still can’t believe it.”

  I sit back in my chair and smile sheepishly. “Sorry, I’ve been hogging the conversation. I haven’t even really told my family any of this, but I’m glad you’re the first to know.”

  He smiles. In fact, he looks rather pleased. “Do you think your brother will come back to town for it?”

  “I’ll invite him, definitely,
” I say. “But he lives in New Hampshire—about a six-hour drive—and I’d hate to have to ask him to make it twice in a month.”

  “The opening’s happening that soon?” Sebastian says around a bite of steak.

  I shrug. “Hugh said two weekends from now.”

  Sebastian nods, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to invite him. But I hold back, knowing that if he makes some polite excuse, it’ll sting, and I want to hold on to this night.

  I take a bite of steak. “So, this is none of my business, but your parents were so lovely, and I keep thinking about them. How did they take the news that you and Genevieve broke up? Your mother must be disappointed.”

  Okay, fine. My motivations aren’t totally pure. I know he said he and Genevieve were over for good, but it can’t hurt to check…

  He shrugs. “My mom was a bit disappointed. Genevieve is like a daughter to her though, and that doesn’t change just because Gen won’t be her daughter-in-law. Also, it’s helped everyone that Genevieve is pregnant.”

  “Oh.” I blink. “Wow.”

  Don’t ask, don’t ask, don’t ask…

  He smiles. “The father is an anonymous donor.”

  “Hmm.” I take a prim little sip of wine. “Well, good for her.”

  “It is. She’s happy. My mom’s happy about getting a sort of second grandbaby.”

  “Second? You have a sibling?”

  “Stepbrother,” he says, picking up his wineglass. “Gary married my mom when I was seven. He has a son—Jason—from a previous marriage who lived with his mom in DC. Jason and his wife had their first baby last summer.”

  “Oh! I didn’t realize Gary wasn’t your biological father.”

  “He may as well have been. He adopted me. Raised me.”

  Something in the back of my mind flickers, telling me that this information is important somehow, but then he pours more wine, and the thought flits away.

  “What’s it like? Being an uncle?” I ask, scooping up the mashed potatoes. They’ve mixed in bits of fried onions, and it elevates the dish to a whole new level of delicious. I make a note to tell Keva about them.

  “A little strange,” Sebastian admits. “Jason and I are friendly, but not close. I’ve only met his wife once, at the wedding, and I haven’t made it down to DC yet to meet Juliet. Based on the pictures she’s beautiful, and fond of bows.”