Mr. Andrews steps back around to the other side of the counter. I stay where I am, and when he puts the latest letter he’s brought with him on the counter between us, it feels like a line in the sand.
He and I engage in a silent battle of wills for what feels like minutes, though I’m sure it’s only seconds.
“Open it,” he commands.
“No, thank you. Not interested.”
His palm resting on the counter twitches, his fingers thrumming one at a time in plain irritation. “You don’t even know what it says.”
“It says that you want to put us out of business.”
He has the nerve to roll his eyes. “Don’t romanticize it.”
“Don’t romanticize it?” I repeat, outraged. “I assure you, my concern for my employees’ livelihood, my own livelihood, is extremely grounded in facts and logic.”
“If that’s the case, you owe it to your employees and yourself to seek the best option for them.”
“Oh, and closing my business will somehow achieve that?”
“We’ve put together a very compelling offer. Something you’d know, had you found a less special place for my letters.”
“Oh, I can think of a less special place,” I say sweetly.
His fingers drum once more, faster this time, more irritated, and it fills me with… something.
I’m a middle child through and through, accustomed to being the peacemaker, to making everyone comfortable, to charming the conflict out of tense situations, but for the first time in my life, I have no desire to remove the tension in this moment. Mr. Andrews can go ahead and choke on it for all I care.
Unfortunately, I’ll be deprived of the pleasure of watching that, because the jingle of the bell indicates a new arrival. I glance at the front door, recognizing one of our regulars, and lift my hand in greeting.
“If you’ll excuse me,” I say. “Paying customers require my attention.”
“Ms. Cooper, all I want is five minutes to discuss a business offer that would be beneficial to both of—”
“Understood,” I pick up the letter. “I’ll be sure to set this aside for review later.”
Holding his gaze, I lean down and feed the letter into the shredder. If our previous standoff had been a silent cold war, the shrill clatter of his offer being diced into a million pieces is a warrior’s cry.
He shakes his head, having the nerve to look disappointed in me.
“If you ever need some help fulfilling your sparkling wine needs,” I say under my breath, “I’d be delighted to point you to one of our competitors on Sixty-Fourth and Columbus.”
As far as parting remarks go, it’s not exactly gold, but I’m fairly pleased to at least have gotten the last word as I round the corner and head toward my customer without so much as a glance his way.
“Nicola, how are you?” I ask.
Nicola Cirillo is a publicist who lives in one of the fancy high-rises nearby and who’s in the shop at least once a week or so. She’s in her midforties, maybe even a very well-maintained fifty, and lives to entertain, frequently buying cases at a time for brunches, trivia nights, watching the Oscars, Super Bowl parties, etc.
Most of our regulars know what they like and buy the same label over and over, much to the chagrin of Robyn. Nicola, on the other hand, is always on the lookout for something new. Robyn’s going to be ticked she missed a chance to sell her Franciacorta.
“How’d your vintage game night go?” I ask, recalling the reason for her last visit.
“It was a huge hit, thanks. Fun fact, tipsy Candy Land is more fun than you’d think. And you were so right on the New Mexico bubbles, by the way. Who knew the Southwest could produce that sort of quality?”
“We just got some more cases. Can I grab you a couple bottles?” I’m increasingly aware that Mr. Andrews missed my hint to leave and is now roaming the shop, pretending to browse.
“No,” Nicola says, running a well-manicured hand through her long blond hair as she surveys the front display of sparkling rosé. “I’ve got sort of a last-day-of-summer itch. I want a fun, pink Monday wine. Just for me.” She says it with a grin.
A lot of customers have the last-day-of-summer itch, which is exactly why I’d set up the summery display Nicola’s currently perusing at the front of the shop. In addition to the pink wines that scream sip me in the sunshine, I’ve also pulled together some summery hosting goodies: pool blue cocktail napkins, glittery fruit wineglass charms, and champagne bottle stops in bright pops of color.
I’m secretly itching to replace the whole thing with my fall display, but when Nicola makes a delighted sound at a corkscrew shaped like big Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, I know I’ve got at least another week to try to move the summer inventory.
“You have this one cold?” she asks, putting a finger to the foil of a Rotari Rosé.
“Pretty sure I do,” I say. “Let me double-check.”
A quick trip to the refrigerated section affirms that I have the bottle cold, and that Sebastian Andrews is still lurking. I glare at his profile, but he’s too busy pretending to study a bottle of Dom to notice.
I return to Nicola, still holding the sunglasses corkscrew as she surreptitiously steals glances at Mr. Andrews.
“Wow,” she mouths silently to me. She fans herself.
I know. But just wait till he opens his mouth and ruins it.
Guess I can have inside thoughts after all.
“Anything else?” I ask, lifting the bottle in question.
“Just that. Oh, and this,” she says, handing me the corkscrew. “I don’t need it, but it’s too cute to pass up.”
I feel a swell of professional pride at her words because the “don’t need it, but too cute to pass up” crowd was exactly the clientele I was banking on when I’d decided to add the & More.
See that, Mr. Andrews? We’re doing just fine.
Sort of.
Nicola absently picks up a little tin of outrageously priced mints and slides them toward me as I ring her up. The mints, wrapped in black and hot pink packaging, are shaped like champagne flutes and taste vaguely like vanilla. I carefully hide another victory smile. Displayed in a crystal bowl at checkout, they’re one of our most popular impulse buys.
I place her bottle of champagne in a sturdy, skinny white paper bag and slip the corkscrew and mints into the sides. That is another of my improvements. We used to use the industry standard brown paper bag slipped into an equally ugly plastic bag. After taking a class on branding at business school, I decided that one way Bubbles & More could differentiate itself was to create an experience of luxury, even after you walked out the door, carrying a sleek, attractive bag that you could carry to happy hour with friends without ruining your outfit.
“Thanks so much,” Nicola says, blowing me a kiss. “You know I’ll be back. I always am.”
She glances in Mr. Andrews’s direction one last time, then I hear the tinkle of the bell, and I’m alone again. With him.
Sebastian takes his time coming around to the counter, and I’m unsurprised to see he has no wine bottle in hand. And it goes without saying he’s not the type to pick up cocktail napkins while he’s here. I lift my eyebrows. “You did see the no loitering sign on the door, yes?”