I really don’t want to know, but the way Sebastian shoves his hands into his pockets and scowls means he doesn’t want me to hear it either.
I glance his way and grin innocently. “He’s never said! But I love a good story.”
“Well,” his mother continues. “Gen’s mom and I were sorority sisters back in the day, and we became the best of friends. Roommates, maids of honor, the whole deal. We even got pregnant at the same time. Genevieve was born just six days before Sebastian, and in the same hospital. We burped them together, changed them together. They were basically betrothed from birth. We never would have pushed them together if they weren’t interested, of course, but you can imagine our delight when they hit puberty…”
“I got most of my gray hairs during that decade,” Mr. Cooper says, running a hand through his thick head of salt-and-pepper hair that’s a much lighter shade of brown than his son’s.
“That’s adorable,” I gush with a wide grin at Sebastian. “My sister and brother-in-law are high school sweethearts. They’ve been married twenty-one years.”
“You hear that?” Vanessa says playfully, raising her voice and glancing at her son. “Married.”
She drags out the word for emphasis in a way that makes me think it’s not the first time they’ve had that conversation, and while I can’t say I’m not a little curious about the situation, my exit is well overdue.
“Well, I’ll let you get to your lunch,” I say, lifting my hand for a little farewell wave. “It was nice to meet you!”
“Oh, I didn’t get your name, you of the fabulous shoes.”
“This is Gracie Cooper,” Sebastian cuts in.
Vanessa Andrews’s eyes flicker with something that looks like regret, telling me she knows exactly who I am and why I’m here, but I can’t seem to hate her for it.
Maybe because all my hatred has been used up on her son.
“Well, it was lovely to meet you, Gracie.”
“Same.” I smile at her and her husband and wave at Noel.
I ignore Sebastian completely.
To Sir, with polite curiosity,
Do you have any pets? On paper, I’m a dog person. I love all that open affection and loyalty, the excitement they show when you walk in the door. And yet I have a cat. His name is Cannoli, he’s completely indifferent to me, and I love him so. What do you think that’s about?
Lady
* * *
My dear Lady,
Perhaps it’s because the cat is so indifferent that you love him so. There’s something irritatingly irresistible about someone who won’t give you the time of day…
Yours with armchair psychology,
Sir
Nine
As it turns out, Lily hadn’t been exaggerating about Alec’s busy schedule, because Wednesday dinner at May’s got pushed out to Sunday.
“I thought you were going vegetarian,” I say to May, picking up a little wheel of bacon-wrapped ricotta topped with chives and nibbling the salty deliciousness.
She pauses in stirring a pitcher of her legendary martinis. “Why would you think that?”
“Why else would you use eggplant in lasagna instead of beef?”
Her cocktail spoon resumes its stirring. “Because it’s damned delicious.”
May is wearing a printed wrap dress with bright red poppies and enormous grapefruit-slice earrings that somehow manage to look exactly right in her lime-green kitchen. She lives on Eighty-First and Madison in the stately, if dated, prewar apartment she bought with her second husband, and fourth Great Love, who’d died of a heart attack at age forty-seven.
May has had a lot of Great Loves, and while I still firmly adhere to my belief in One True Love, I can’t deny that I’m grateful my dad was her seventh Great Love, because it brought her into my life.
May never really talks about her financial situation, but considering I very rarely see her wear the same clothes—or earrings—twice, and the fact that she lives just off Madison, makes me think one of her Great Loves left her very well off.
Knowing that she doesn’t have to work at Bubbles but continues to anyway makes me love her all the more, as does her taking a paycheck just like everyone else so I never feel like a charity case.
“So, what’s going on with your sister and that boy of hers?” May asks.
I sigh as I chew the bacon and cheese. “You’ve noticed too, huh?”
“That our Lily’s eyes never light up when she talks about Alec anymore?”
“Maybe they’re just fighting.”
May looks down at her cocktail pitcher, and the spoon clanks against the crystal. “Maybe.”
“You’re wise,” I say. “What do you think’s going on?”
“If by wise you mean that I’m old and I’ve been around”—she pulls out the copper spoon and jabs it in my direction—“you’re exactly right.”
She places the spoon on a towel and gestures to the silver tray and four martini glasses on the small built-in wet bar behind me.
I carefully lift the tray and place it in front of her. She uses a strainer to pour two drinks, leaving the other two empty, since Lily texted that she and Alec were caught in traffic and would be a few minutes late.
May skewers olives with silver Samurai sword–shaped cocktail picks she purchased from Bubbles & More and drops one into each glass. She hands me one, and we lift the cocktails in a silent cheers.
“What do I think?” she says before taking a sip of her martini and leaving a coral lipstick mark behind. “I think they’ve forgotten how to be in love. And I think you have more important things to worry about.”
“Like the store,” I say, sipping my drink.
“Sugar, no. I mean, yes, you’ve got your work cut out for you there. But what you have no business fretting over is your sister’s love life. At least she has one.”
“Um, ouch.”
“Oh, tits up,” she says. “Now, tell me who’s got you smiling at your phone all the time.”
“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.”