To Sir, with Love

Lady

* * *

My dear Lady,

Fair question. At the bachelor party in question, the groom and his fiancée had met on this very dating app. And I hope I don’t cause offense here, but I expressed blunt disbelief that this method of courtship could be effective. I was too much of a traditionalist to believe in falling in love over the Internet, much less with a person whose face I’ve never seen.

I believe the creation of this account without my knowledge was in direct retaliation to my blunt skepticism.

Yours in curiosity, hopefully abated,

Sir

* * *

To Sir,

No offense taken, though I would have to note that this is one area where you and I will not agree. I too am a traditionalist, which is why I would argue that there’s something lovely about two souls connecting over words alone. Though, that being said, it could be argued that you have the stronger case, actually being in a relationship with someone you met in person, whereas I haven’t had any luck finding love on this blasted thing.

Lady

* * *

My dear Lady,

Not so much as an advantage as you may think. The relationship you reference has run its course. And the fact that you haven’t had any luck finding love, well, I’ll confess to finding that regrettable.

Sir

Twelve

My love life may be a hot mess, but professionally, things have never been better. Or more hectic. In the weeks following the champagne tasting (which Robyn’s blogger friend had described as “a welcome touch of old-world charm”), I’ve launched a weekly raffle where customers can drop off a business card or jot their name and number down for a chance to win a gift basket.

We’ve had a guess that grape happy hour, where we open a bottle of something fun and let people try to identify the grapes in exchange for little gift items.

Even Robyn’s gotten into the innovative spirit and is taking the lead on a champagne trivia night. But it’s Lily’s original idea, a cooking class, that has required the most planning, and that I’m most excited about.

We decided to cater to couples for the first version in the hopes that there’s a market for fresh date-night ideas. There’s no chance I could have pulled it off if I didn’t happen to have a best friend and neighbor who works at a catering company. Without Keva and Grady graciously lending me some of their equipment—for free—and donating their time, also for free, I’m pretty sure it would be a financial loss.

Instead, the only things Bubbles is paying for outright are employees—May, Josh, and Robyn are all working tonight—and the grocery bill, which may I just say is… not cheap.

But then, neither were the tickets. Which worried me at first. In order to cover the food and the champagne and make a profit, I’d had to charge three hundred per couple.

May’s been managing the reservations, and not only did we fill all twelve seats, but there was a wait list of people asking to be called if there were any cancellations, which so far there haven’t been.

It feels a bit like a miracle, though not as much a miracle as the fact that Keva and Robyn, two people who strike me as oil and water, have become instafriends over the process of planning the menu and wine pairings.

Ten minutes before the class is set to begin, I’m checking to make sure all the stations have the right glassware when I glance over to see Keva with something in her hand, going for Robyn’s face.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” Robyn is saying, shaking her head rapidly as she grabs Keva’s wrist. “Gracie, tell her I can’t pull that off.”

Closer now, I can see the object in hand: Keva’s trademark Dior red lip lacquer.

“Tell her she has to wear it,” Keva insists. “I can’t take one more minute of looking at that dead brown.”

“It’s matte black cherry,” Robyn says stubbornly, defending her own signature lip look.

“It’s terrible,” Keva insists. “Gracie, tell her.”

I will do no such thing, though I agree that Robyn’s black cherry isn’t exactly a look I can get excited about.

“Keva, leave her alone. Also, I’ve been begging you to let me try your lip color, and you’re forcing it on her?”

“Honey, no. This is all wrong for you,” Keva tells me, still focused on Robyn’s mouth as though plotting how to sneak attack her.

Robyn nods in agreement. “Definitely all wrong. It’d wash you out.”

“Really?” I ask her. “I just defended you against Keva’s lipstick bullying.”

“Just try it,” Keva says, her attention still on Robyn. “If you hate it, I’ve got makeup remover wipes in my purse and you can go back to looking like a corpse from the nineties.”

A skeptical-looking Robyn narrows her eyes on the sleek black tube, then sighs and holds out her hand. “Fine.”