* * *
To Sir,
No offense taken, though I would have to note that this is one area where you and I will not agree. I too am a traditionalist, which is why I would argue that there’s something lovely about two souls connecting over words alone. Though, that being said, it could be argued that you have the stronger case, actually being in a relationship with someone you met in person, whereas I haven’t had any luck finding love on this blasted thing.
Lady
* * *
My dear Lady,
Not so much as an advantage as you may think. The relationship you reference has run its course. And the fact that you haven’t had any luck finding love, well, I’ll confess to finding that regrettable.
Sir
Twelve
My love life may be a hot mess, but professionally, things have never been better. Or more hectic. In the weeks following the champagne tasting (which Robyn’s blogger friend had described as “a welcome touch of old-world charm”), I’ve launched a weekly raffle where customers can drop off a business card or jot their name and number down for a chance to win a gift basket.
We’ve had a guess that grape happy hour, where we open a bottle of something fun and let people try to identify the grapes in exchange for little gift items.
Even Robyn’s gotten into the innovative spirit and is taking the lead on a champagne trivia night. But it’s Lily’s original idea, a cooking class, that has required the most planning, and that I’m most excited about.
We decided to cater to couples for the first version in the hopes that there’s a market for fresh date-night ideas. There’s no chance I could have pulled it off if I didn’t happen to have a best friend and neighbor who works at a catering company. Without Keva and Grady graciously lending me some of their equipment—for free—and donating their time, also for free, I’m pretty sure it would be a financial loss.
Instead, the only things Bubbles is paying for outright are employees—May, Josh, and Robyn are all working tonight—and the grocery bill, which may I just say is… not cheap.
But then, neither were the tickets. Which worried me at first. In order to cover the food and the champagne and make a profit, I’d had to charge three hundred per couple.
May’s been managing the reservations, and not only did we fill all twelve seats, but there was a wait list of people asking to be called if there were any cancellations, which so far there haven’t been.
It feels a bit like a miracle, though not as much a miracle as the fact that Keva and Robyn, two people who strike me as oil and water, have become instafriends over the process of planning the menu and wine pairings.
Ten minutes before the class is set to begin, I’m checking to make sure all the stations have the right glassware when I glance over to see Keva with something in her hand, going for Robyn’s face.
“Oh, I don’t think so,” Robyn is saying, shaking her head rapidly as she grabs Keva’s wrist. “Gracie, tell her I can’t pull that off.”
Closer now, I can see the object in hand: Keva’s trademark Dior red lip lacquer.
“Tell her she has to wear it,” Keva insists. “I can’t take one more minute of looking at that dead brown.”
“It’s matte black cherry,” Robyn says stubbornly, defending her own signature lip look.
“It’s terrible,” Keva insists. “Gracie, tell her.”
I will do no such thing, though I agree that Robyn’s black cherry isn’t exactly a look I can get excited about.
“Keva, leave her alone. Also, I’ve been begging you to let me try your lip color, and you’re forcing it on her?”
“Honey, no. This is all wrong for you,” Keva tells me, still focused on Robyn’s mouth as though plotting how to sneak attack her.
Robyn nods in agreement. “Definitely all wrong. It’d wash you out.”
“Really?” I ask her. “I just defended you against Keva’s lipstick bullying.”
“Just try it,” Keva says, her attention still on Robyn. “If you hate it, I’ve got makeup remover wipes in my purse and you can go back to looking like a corpse from the nineties.”
A skeptical-looking Robyn narrows her eyes on the sleek black tube, then sighs and holds out her hand. “Fine.”
“No, no.” Keva bats her hand away and steps forward, grabbing Robyn’s chin and forcing her mouth into a pucker. She applies the red lacquer and steps back.
I blink. In the span of ten seconds, Robyn looks like an entirely different person.
Keva tilts her head. “What do we think, Gracie? It’s a little orange, but I’m into it.”
“You look…” Alive. Friendly. Nice. “It looks really good on you,” I tell Robyn.
She looks doubtful, and when she opens the compact Keva hands her to inspect her look, her expression betrays nothing. She snaps the compact shut and hands it back. “I like it.”
“I know,” Keva says with a shrug.
“So glad that’s sorted,” I say. “Now about the fact that we have twelve people arriving any minute—”
“Uh-uh.” Keva lifts a finger. “Remember what I told you? No fussing. I’ve taught dozens of cooking classes, so a simple three-course meal is no biggie. And Rob’s got the wine notes covered. The English sparkling wine she’s paired with the crab cakes is going to blow your mind. Now”—she waggles her fingers in dismissal—“I have to practice my opener.”
“You have an opener?”
“I’m an entertainer.”
Robyn nods in solidarity, and I shake my head, unsure if I’m annoyed or delighted by their alliance.
The couples start to trickle in, quiet and a little unsure at first, but the noise level slowly rises as the welcome sparkling wine Robyn’s selected begins to work its magic and couples claim their stations.
The supplies may have been loaned for free, but setup hadn’t exactly been a breeze. In order to make room for six wheeled chef counters topped with induction burners and cutting boards, we’d had to move several racks, and some of our floor inventory had to be placed temporarily in the cave. Still, Bubbles is good-sized for a Manhattan brick and mortar, so with a little creativity, not only did we get all six stations to fit, we were also able to space them out so each couple would have their own little section.
It’s a pretty fantastic date night, if I do say so myself. Not that I can, because I haven’t had one in forever.
Also? Sir is single.
I repeat. Sir. Is. Single.
I’m torn between elation and disappointment that he hasn’t expressed any interest in meeting, or transitioning our relationship from whatever we are to something a little more intimate.
Then there’s also the annoying fact that I’m a tiny bit relieved, because I can’t seem to get a certain aqua-eyed businessman out of my head.
“All good?” I ask May, who’s been handling check-in on the store’s iPad. Her earrings are shaped like gummy worms tonight, one red and yellow, the other green and yellow.
“All good. Though, station six is a half show,” she says, pointing in the direction of the art corner. My watercolors are always carefully wrapped in plastic, but I’d moved them all out of reach to the upper shelves tonight, just in case.