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“Ah yes. The girlfriend I’m not allowed to talk about.”
“You’re allowed to talk about her, just not to her.”
“Hey, for the record, I think it’s completely normal for older sisters to go through their little brother’s phones looking for their new girlfriend’s number.”
“For the record, it’s completely not. Do I harass you about your love life?”
“No. You never even ask.”
He wrinkles his nose. “Do you want me to ask?”
“I want you to care,” I say a little quietly, pulling at the corner of the beer bottle label.
Caleb puts down his beer with a thunk and straightens. “You did not just say that.”
I laugh. “I know, I know. You care.”
“I care. I care a hell of a lot. I just don’t really want to know who you’re boning unless he’s a creep I need to beat up.” He narrows his eyes. “Is he?”
“No. Mostly because I’m not boning anyone.”
“Thank God.”
We sip our beers in silence for a second, and I look up. “We never did really talk about it though. Why you moved, I mean.”
He sighs. “To be honest, it was something I’d wanted to do for a while. I like New York fine, but I don’t love it the way you and Lily do. Even as a kid, I only ever wanted to go camping on spring break, remember?”
“I do. And when you got your way, it was the worst.”
Caleb smiles. “Anyway, I mentioned it to Dad once—just that I was thinking about it—and I got some big lecture about family and loyalty and how he wasn’t going to be around forever…”
“He did give a mean guilt trip,” I say.
“Totally.” Caleb looks thoughtful. “That why you took over the shop? Guilt trip?”
“A little, I suppose. I take responsibility for my decisions though. On some level I must have wanted to run Bubbles.”
Or was too scared to pursue something that might matter more.
“I still feel like a shit for leaving it to you, all while making a bunch of noise about keeping the family business alive.”
“Water, bridge,” I say, making a sweeping motion with my beer bottle. “I’m just happy you’re happy. I’m hoping to get in on some of that myself.”
There’s a knock at the door, and since I haven’t bothered to lock it, someone walks in.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” I call out. “We’re no longer open for business.”
“Yeah, I’m sure the completely empty space didn’t spell that out,” Caleb says.
I swat his head as I pass by to see who’s just entered the shop, thinking it might be a lost tourist or a former customer who didn’t get the memo.
It’s neither. A man I don’t recognize is studying the empty space with a curious, assessing eye, and he continues to stroll around the room as though he’s supposed to be there.
“May I help you?” I ask.
He turns, and I’m certain I’ve never met him. He’s tall and reed thin, with a receding hairline, wire-frame glasses, and an intensity that’s not aggressive or unfriendly, but very purposeful.
He tilts his head, brown eyes looking at me for a long moment. “Gracie Cooper?”
“Yes? Do I know you?”
“About to,” he says, reaching into the jacket of his purple tweed blazer over a black turtleneck and coming out with a deep purple business card.
“Hugh Wheeler,” he says as he hands it over.
I look down at the card, which has his name and beneath it the words Wheeler Art Gallery. I’m not familiar with it, but the address indicates it’s in Chelsea.
“Have we met? If you’re looking for champagne, I’m no longer in that business, but I’d be happy to give you the name—”
“No, thank you. My husband and I visit the Champagne region every spring and rent a wine locker in West SoHo specifically to store it.”
“That’s great.” I smile. “So, what can I help you with?”
“I’d like to see your art.”
My smile freezes. “I’m sorry?”
“You’re an artist,” he says.
“I… no. I mean, I paint sometimes, but… how did you know that?”
“I like to call them spies, though I suppose sources is the socially appropriate term.”
He pulls out his cell phone, taps it, then turns it around so I’m looking at a photo of my art corner here in the store before I took everything down.
“Is that your work?”
My head is spinning. “Yes, but—”
“Do you have any here?” He looks around, disappointment plain on his face as he takes in the blank walls, the empty shelves.
“No—”
“Yes she does,” Caleb says, coming up behind me. He reaches out a hand toward Hugh, who looks torn between dismay at Caleb’s less than urbane clothing and admiration for his obvious good looks.
“Did you forget, sis?” he says, grinning down at me, unabashed. “This big thing over here by the door. You lectured me not to bend it because it had your art in it.” He gives me a wide grin as he easily tears open the packing tape.
