To Sir, with Love - Lauren Layne Page 0,15

“Have you talked to Caleb lately?”

“A few texts,” I say casually, knowing it’s always bothered Lily that she and Caleb aren’t as close as he and I. “Hey, let’s set up a video chat with the three of us. I miss his stupid face.”

She smiles. “Me too.”

I pull out my phone to text him, and a half hour later, I hug Lily goodbye, a sibling chat on the calendar for the following week.

Checking my watch, I see it’s a little past closing time and flip the Open sign, trying not to feel despondent that in the entire time Lily was here, not a single customer came in.

I turn back to the shop, and for a moment I take it in as a stranger might—as Sebastian Andrews might. I look around at the well-stocked shelves, lined with bottles that are carefully dusted every other day to disguise the fact that we don’t move all that many. The dark hardwood floors are clean, but scuffed, in a way I hope looks timeless, when in reality, there’s no room in the budget to have the wood refinished.

I head back to my laptop, intending to dig back into the dismal books with the vain hope that I’ve miscalculated something—double counted an expense or miskeyed a sale. Instead of opening my computer, I pick up the framed photo that sits on the shelf behind the register. It was taken on my dad’s birthday, just a couple of weeks before my mom was killed. We’d gone to the Jersey Shore for a beach trip. My dad had splurged on a new camera, and for this tiny moment, he had managed to get the four of us—three kids and Mom—to pause our sandcastle building, Popsicle eating, and beach reading to pose for the photo.

My mom’s blond hair is windswept, and her sunglasses as big as her smile, as she crouches on the sand, gathering the three of us close to her. Lily and I are in matching purple swimsuits and smile obediently at my Dad’s say cheese command. Six-year-old Caleb, armed with a plastic bucket and shovel, is scowling at having his work on the sandcastle moat halted for the ten seconds required for him to stay still.

It’s not a perfect photo, but it is a perfect moment.

I use it as fuel to remember why I’m doing this, why I’m keeping the shop alive, when sometimes it feels blisteringly hard. The photo is a reminder that this space, this store, is not about the numbers on my laptop that are lower than any of us want them to be. It’s about family. The Cooper family.

If Sebastian Andrews has a problem with it, he can bring it to me, not my brother-in-law.

I’m not tipsy—not quite, but I’ve had just enough wine to feel all fired up and ready for war. I reach for one of the letters from Sebastian Andrews—the first one, and the only one I didn’t shred. I reread it, even though I know what it says. They want to buy out our lease and would be interested in a conversation if we could contact them at the below number to set up a time and place that’s convenient for us.

Convenient my ass.

There’s nothing even remotely convenient about someone trying to swipe your job out from under you.

I’ll be contacting them all right, but not for the reason Sebastian Andrews thinks.

I reach for my cell phone and dial the number, but before hitting the call button, I set my phone aside and pull out a ballpoint pen and a yellow legal pad. It’s 9:45 on a Thursday, which means I’ll get voice mail. Best get my talking points ready.

Bubbles is not for sale.

If you have a problem with that, you can bring it up with me, not my brother-in-law.

How can someone with such beautiful eyes have such an ugly soul?

I scratch that one out.

Go to hell.

I circle that one. It’s my thesis.

Maybe I’m a little tipsy after all, but it gives me the courage I need to hit dial, clear my throat, and stand up straight as I prepare to give my little speech.

I’m listening for a generic recording and the beep, so the rough “Sebastian Andrews” catches me off guard.

“Hello?” The gruff male voice says after a moment of silence, clearly impatient.

“Oh crap, is this your cell number?” I blurt out. Okay. Maybe a little tipsy after all.

Now it’s him who’s silent. “Who is this?”

“Gracie Cooper. I’m so sorry to call so late. I thought