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The woman glances my way and gives a curious smile. She’s pretty. A perfect blend of approachable, wholesome, and Manhattan chic, all freckles and big white teeth, in a dress that looks like it was custom made for her statuesque, curvy frame.
Of course. Of course a man like that would be with a woman like this, pure sophistication and polish.
Not a five-two shop owner who names pigeons, who had eggs with mustard for breakfast, and who probably has… I glance down. Yup. Baby spit on my shirt.
I check their fourth fingers. No ring—yet—but I’m sure it’s only a matter of time.
The woman’s gaze drops to the flowers in my arm, and her smile grows even prettier. “Those are gorgeous. Where did you get them?”
I snap back to reality and go into autopilot, smiling back at her. “Carlos here has the best flowers,” I say, turning and gesturing to the stand where he’s helping an older man pick out what I like to imagine are flowers for his longtime lady love. Ooh, or maybe a new lady love—a second chance for both of them as they help each other heal after losing beloved spouses.
Frank Sinatra starts to sing in my head again, albeit faintly. Whew. Still got it.
“Look at those hydrangeas,” the pretty woman is gushing. “I need those in my life.”
She walks past me without a second glance, thick hair and Stuart Weitzman bag swaying as she begins perusing Carlos’s wares.
I glance once more at The Guy and find he’s studying me as though I’m a puzzle he can’t quite figure out.
Look all you want, buddy. You’re taken.
I smile. A bright, platonic smile that’s the equivalent of a friendly punch on the shoulder. “Thanks for this.” I lift the twenty-dollar bill, which, had things gone differently, I totally would have framed and hung above the mantel of our first home together.
Alas. He’s Prince Charming, all right.
Just somebody else’s.
Huh. I’d been so sure that had been The Moment.
Oh well. I begin humming “New York, New York” to myself and pull out my phone, smiling when I see I have a new message on MysteryMate.
At least I still have Sir.
To Sir, with curiosity,
Do you believe in love at first sight?
Lady
* * *
My dear Lady,
Of course.
Yours in dying of curiosity why you ask…
Sir
Three
By the time I get back to Midtown, I’ve pushed the man in the fancy suit with teal eyes to the back of my mind and heart, where he will sit on the shelf alongside my other perfect, unattainable men, like Prince Eric from The Little Mermaid, Mark Ruffalo’s character from 13 Going on 30, and of course, A.J. from Empire Records.
The bell that’s been on the front door of Bubbles & More for longer than I’ve been alive jingles as I let myself into the shop, and my mood boosts a little when I see we have three customers. It’s not a lot. But it’s better than the zero customers we had three years ago.
The shop’s always been small, the revenue modest. But even though I worked at the shop throughout my twenties, I hadn’t realized how much we’d been struggling—none of us kids had—until I took over after Dad died. Not that it was Dad’s fault. The reality of modern life is simply that people want to be able to order their vodka, their cabernet, and their Prosecco all from one place. They want to be able to do it online. And they want it delivered to their doorman while they’re at work.
For all Dad’s adamancy that customer service, product expertise, and neighborhood loyalty would carry the day, the numbers had said otherwise.
And though I can’t claim that champagne or being a shop owner has ever been my dream the way it was Dad’s, the desire to protect a loved one’s dream and legacy is a powerful motivator. In the months following Dad’s passing, I swapped art school in Italy for business school here in the city, taking all morning classes so I could be here when the shop opened at noon. I changed the store’s name from Bubbles to Bubbles & More and expanded our inventory. In addition to being a champagne store, it’s now also an upscale gift shop—the type of place you pop into on your way to a dinner party, bridal shower, or birthday gathering to get a bottle of celebratory bubbly and a little something fun for the host or guest of honor.
Slowly but surely, the store began making money instead of losing money, but I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t sleep easier if we were just a bit more comfortably in the black. Or if I said I didn’t have flickers of resentment that while my dad had left the shop to all of us—Lily, Caleb, and myself—my siblings have been off busily chasing their dreams, while only I fought to preserve Dad’s.
