To Sir, with Love - Lauren Layne Page 0,28

the love seat—alone—makes me think there’s more to it.

May’s eyes narrow, telling me she sees it too, but for once, she seems to decide to bite her tongue.

“So, Gracie,” Alec says, leaning forward and grabbing a handful of nuts. “I hear you guys have some new ideas for the store?”

“Yes!” I gush in my best cheerful, middle-child, smooth-the-waters tone. “We’re starting off with a champagne tasting next Thursday. Robyn’s convinced one of her sommelier friends who has a New York food blog to cover it. We’ve got reps from two different wineries hosting tables, and one of my friends just started dating a jazz pianist who’s going to bring his trio for some live music.”

Alec smiles. “Sounds amazing.”

“It will be,” I say confidently. “You should come.”

“He can’t,” Lily interjects, not looking up from the bacon-wrapped ricotta she’s studying intently. “He’s traveling. Again.”

Nervously, I glance back at Alec, expecting to see irritation or anger at his wife’s thinly veiled feelings about his schedule. Instead, he’s staring at Lily with a look of longing and dismay that is so raw I feel a lump in my throat.

Lily, still studying her appetizer, sees none of this.

When her blue eyes do finally sneak over to him, he’s reaching for his martini, his expression shut down.

On second thought, maybe I’ll cling to my online fantasy just a little bit longer. It looks a lot less painful than this.

Ten

“I love so much that you’re here,” I wrap my arm around Lily’s shoulders and kiss her cheek.

She smiles. “I should have been here long before this. It was unfair of Caleb and me to let this all rest on your shoulders. I’m sorry.”

“Forgiven,” I say, in too good a mood to even think about holding a grudge.

Lily has been setting out the rented champagne flutes, and wordlessly we begin working together, her taking them out of the plastic crate, me setting them on the table.

The theme for the tasting party tonight is la reentrée, a French term for the return to “real life” after the summer holiday. Considering it’s early October, we’re a little late for the theme, but since the summer humidity’s just now relented, everyone seems to be in a cheerful welcome fall! mood this week.

Everyone except my sister, who despite dutifully helping with whatever I’ve asked, hasn’t made a single comment on the pretty glass-blown pumpkins or the glittery fall leaves on the table, and she normally loves all things autumn.

“Plus,” she says distractedly, “it’s nice to have something to keep me busy.”

I reach out and begin lining the glasses into tidy rows. “Where’s Alec again?”

“Chicago. Oh wait, no. Boston? I can’t remember.” Her voice is completely checked out, as though she really doesn’t know when he gets back and doesn’t care one way or the other.

“Any fun plans for the weekend?” I ask, trying to get a little spark out of her.

“Not really. I’ve got a few things to do around the house.”

“You and Alec should go somewhere,” I say casually, continuing to straighten the glasses. “What about the Hamptons? Off-season you shouldn’t have trouble finding a place. Or even just a day trip up to the Hudson Valley to one of the farmer’s markets?”

She stops pulling glasses out, and there’s genuine confusion on her face, as though I’ve just suggested she shave her head or take up needlework.

I think about May’s assessment: they’ve forgotten how to be in love.

I’m afraid she’s right, and I have no idea what to do about it. I probably shouldn’t do anything about it. It’s not my relationship, and it’s not my business.

Yet when I think of Lily and Alec, I don’t see them as they’ve been recently—tired. Tense. I see them on their prom night. The morning after they’d gotten engaged. Their wedding day. The day they bought their place.

I believe in my very core that theirs is a happily-ever-after ending. They’ve just hit the poison-apple stage of their story.

She looks down and reaches for the base of another glass, and I gently touch the back of her hand. “Lil, what’s going on?”

I hear her swallow, then see her long eyelashes bat repeatedly against her cheeks, and I know she’s blinking away tears.

“We have faulty junk,” she says on a watery voice.

I let out a startled laugh. “What?”

She discreetly uses her sleeve to dab at her nose. “IVF didn’t take. The fertility specialist told us a couple months ago that while it wasn’t impossible for us to conceive, we may want to consider alternative methods of