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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.”
“Honey, I’m a confidant. Your sister is a confidant. This is a Situation.” She draws out each syllable of the word.
“It’s… something,” I admit.
“Oh yes,” she says inhaling deeply. “I’ve had a couple romantic pen pals myself.”
“Really?” I lean forward, always marveling that I’ve known May most of my life, yet I feel like I’m nowhere close to uncovering all her secrets.
“Mm-hmm. One during Vietnam, though he went home and married some proper girl and moved to Jersey.” She gives me a thumbs down and makes a splat noise. “Another was from San Francisco. This was when I was in my late teens. His letter was meant for Janet next door—horrid girl. They’d met at summer camp. He seemed too good for her, so I wrote him back, and he became my pen pal instead.”
“What happened?” I slide the olive off its pick with my teeth.
“He died. Boating accident.”
I blink. “Neither of those are good stories, May.”
“Sure they are. Just not happy ones. Because here’s the thing, young lady. Those sort of long-distance flirtations are all well and good, they’re memorable, but they aren’t the real deal. And if you’ve started telling yourself this is the real deal, it’s time to nip that in the bud, because that’s a fantasy. And fantasies do not warm the bed at night, nor do they help shoulder the burden of what’s going on with your business right now—Oh shit! I forgot to take the foil off the lasagna.”
May pulls on hot mitts that look like shark heads and tends to her eggplant lasagna.
I sigh. She’s right. And I don’t love that she’s right. This thing with Sir isn’t out of control, so to speak, but I’m no longer sure it’s harmless. I spend a little too much time thinking about him. I’m starting to wonder if it’s closed me off to looking at other men. I’ve gotten a handful of invitations to meet from other guys on the MysteryMate app, but they all seem so flat compared to him.
