Slices of Life (11 page)

It was very possible she was going to lose her business.

Soon.

This year.

The front door locked and the closed sign facing out, Dorian stood in the glass door and watched the street outside. It was a good location. Frankly, that’s probably what kept her afloat for this long. Lots of foot traffic, lots of shoppers from other nearby stores made for spontaneous pop-in customers. A gourmet ice cream parlor was lit up across the street in pink and blue neon, people bustling about, despite the beginnings of fall in the air. A coffee shop next to it housed young urban professionals, college students, and gay couples. Soft strains of piano music could be heard through the wall of her shop coming from the upscale restaurant next door. It was a great street that was only improving as time went on. Her father had chosen the spot well.

Owning the building was also a blessing. There was no way she’d be able to afford the rent in this neighborhood, not for the storefront she had now, all big windows right in the center of the action. Her financial advisor suggested she could collect a nice chunk of change in rent if she were to close the wine shop and rent the storefront out to another business…and she knew he was right. But the thought of letting go of something that her father had built from the ground up, something he’d put his heart and soul into, was too much to bear right now. No, she was determined to hold on as long as she possibly could.

Besides, she loved wine.
Loved
it. She loved the color, the smell, the taste, the personality of it, the way each bottle told a story of its maker, of the land it came from, of the soil in which the grapes grew. Nothing was more mysterious, more romantic, than a good bottle of wine as far as Dorian was concerned, and people either got that or they didn’t.

Her last girlfriend didn’t.

The woman she was dating now—it was much too early in the relationship to call her a girlfriend—didn’t either.

Letting out a tired breath, Dorian turned away from the front of the darkened store. On the way past the shelves, she slid down a bottle of the Pinot Noir she’d sent home with Geri Scott, and took it with her to the door in the back corner of the store. The door was painted the same color as the wall and if you didn’t know it was there, you’d probably miss it. Behind it was a narrow flight of stairs that led up to the surprisingly roomy apartment that Dorian called home.

“Hi, Spike,” she said affectionately to the white cat that wound itself around her ankles, meowing plaintively, telling her in cat-speak that it was well past his dinner time. She jotted a quick note to herself to remember to take the bottle of Pinot into account when tallying inventory in the morning, and left it on the round bistro table tucked into the corner of the small kitchen. Yes, she loved wine, but she was not so irresponsible that she just helped herself to the store’s inventory without docking herself for it. Her father would have laughed at her being such a stickler, but she was determined. If her business was going to go under, it wasn’t going to be because the owner was helping herself to the goods and not keeping track.

The open windows in the living room let in a wonderfully tepid evening breeze, carrying with it the smell of autumn and the sound of the people on the street below, and for a short moment, her brain began to calculate sales if only two of every ten people came in and bought a bottle of wine. Quickly, she shook the thoughts free. Before they could make her crazy, which they would. And had in the past. Yes, she could stay open later. In fact, she used to stay open until 9:00 every weeknight as well as Saturdays, but not without consequence: complete and utter exhaustion on her part.

No, it was infinitely smarter for her to close early a couple of nights a week. Not as profitable, but smarter, at least until she could afford to hire back the two assistants she had to lay off three months ago. Or hire people like them, as she was reasonably sure they weren’t sitting at home twiddling their thumbs and waiting for her call. She hated having to let them go. They were good workers, friends, one of them having been with her father for ten years prior to Dorian’s taking over the shop. But financially, she just couldn’t justify keeping them on. It broke her heart and the guilt still ate at her if she dwelled too long. She did what she had to do to keep the business alive. And it sucked.

Dorian made short work of the cork in the Pinot and poured herself a glass. She swirled it around, watched the rich crimson leave legs on the glass, catch the light, and throw it back. Her dad used to tell her that the simple act of watching wine in a decent wine glass would calm his nerves and ease his soul. Dorian would laugh at him, tell him he’d obviously consumed too much of his product…until the day of his funeral.

It was the first time in her life she’d felt the weight of utter devastation.

It was also the first time she’d actually, honestly understood her father’s connection to wine. She’d survived the day—she still wasn’t quite sure how—and once alone, she’d opened a bottle of his favorite Zin. As she poured it into one of his crystal glasses, she felt as if somebody was also pouring peace into her aching heart. It sounded so incredibly corny that she’d never shared it with anybody. Ever. But that didn’t keep it from being true. Since that moment, she’d felt as if, somehow, her father was still with her, still keeping an eye on her, still loving her, and she’d vowed to do everything in her power to keep his legacy alive.

Only now it was failing.
She
was failing, and it was crushing her.

“I miss you, Daddy,” she whispered to the empty room, holding up her wine in salute.

A quiet buzz indicated an incoming text and Dorian grabbed her iPhone.

Know it’s your early nite. Feel like company?

“Oh, Gina,” Dorian sighed.

Torn. That’s how she felt so often—too often—when it came to Gina.

The thought of her now, all dark hair, olive skin, and soft eyes, gently soothed Dorian. All she had to do was text back and tell her to come over. She’d be there in under twenty minutes. She’d sit on the couch and coax Dorian’s head into her lap, and she’d stroke her forehead, scratch her scalp, smooth away all the stress and worry. Gina’s mere presence could be a balm for Dorian’s aching existence. Who cared if they didn’t have a ton in common or if Gina—despite being Italian—didn’t like wine? She was good company and Dorian didn’t have to be alone.

So why couldn’t she just send the text?

Since she could no longer afford to continue paying, she’d stopped seeing her therapist for the time being, but Dorian knew what she’d say. Guilt, first and foremost. Dorian felt guilty for not being able to keep her father’s business as successful as he had. She felt like she was failing his memory and herself and because of that, she felt she didn’t deserve anything good. Like Gina. So she would punish herself by not seeing Gina as often as she could, as often as she wanted to, as often as she
needed
to. But there was also an element of being picky—or too picky, as her best friend continually pointed out. Was that really so bad, though? Why was it a bad thing to know exactly what she wanted and to be willing to wait for it, even when something—acceptable—was within reach?

A chuckle escaped Dorian’s throat as she realized it was a good thing she wasn’t trying to pay her therapist because she obviously didn’t need one. The chuckle died as she remembered the one thing she did need, at least for a while.

“Shit. I forgot to get my prescription filled.” Spike looked up from his perch on the window sill, his big, green eyes boring into her as if he understood everything she said. Dorian crossed to him and scratched behind his ears, about the only place she was allowed to scratch without him scratching her back. And not in a good way. “I’ll be right back. Okay, big guy?”

Bag slung across her body, she descended the back staircase and was out onto the street and into the noise and moving bodies, the complete opposite of the peace of her little apartment.

Dorian Garrison was well-known in the neighborhood, first as the daughter of David Garrison, the wine-shop owner, then as the owner herself. People nodded their greetings as she passed; everybody had a smile for her and she did her best to smile back. Three blocks down the street was Joe’s Drugs, another privately-owned shop that had been on the street for decades. Dorian wondered if Joe went through the same issues she did, wondered if the Walgreen’s and Rite Aids of the country were keeping him awake at night, questioning the survival of his business. She patronized Joe’s for that exact reason: Why should she expect anybody to buy from her small business if she didn’t do the same for other small businesses?

Joe’s was fairly busy for a weeknight. Busier than her shop was, that’s for sure. A half-dozen customers milled around, browsing shelves, as Dorian walked to the back counter where the pharmacy lived.

“Hi, Ms. Garrison.” Liv, one of the two pharmacists Joe employed, smiled at Dorian and this time, Dorian smiled back with a completely genuine expression. Liv was adorable and sweet, and she was another reason Dorian preferred to visit Joe’s for her prescriptions. She hated being on anti-anxiety meds, but she loved that she had an excuse to see Liv once a month. “How’s the wine business?”

“Eh. It’s there. Doing the best I can in this crappy economy.”

“I know exactly what you mean. They say an upturn is on its way.” She held up her hand and intertwined her first two fingers. “Fingers crossed.”

Dorian did the same. “Mine too.” Pulling her pill bottle out of her bag, she said, “I need a refill, please.”

“You got it.”

Dorian moved to her right a bit, making a show of studying the over-the-counter cold medicines, but in actuality, she was watching Liv as she worked behind the high counter. Her light brown hair was caught in a simple braid, the end resting just between her shoulder blades, and even under the store’s harsh fluorescent lights, it seemed glossy and soft. Black-rimmed, rectangular glasses framed gentle brown eyes, and she wore very little—if any—makeup. Adorable freckles decorated the pale, smooth skin of her face. Deep dimples punctuated her cheeks. Her white lab coat could be a size smaller, as it seemed to engulf her torso, swallowing what Dorian suspected were some very nice curves. She wasn’t at all overweight, not to Dorian. She was…full-figured?
Would that be the politically correct phrase?
Dorian wondered. Liv was simply larger than the stick figures today’s society deemed perfect.
Hell, aren’t we all?
Dorian thought and almost scoffed aloud. Liv had a beautifully feminine roundness to her—ample hips, full breasts, a nice behind—and Dorian found it all immensely appealing. She suspected Liv was one of those women who had no idea how attractive she really was, maybe even worried about her weight, and that made Dorian a little sad for her. She was an utterly pleasant person, warm and comfortable to be around; Dorian suspected that was a major reason Joe hired her. She drew people to her, made them feel at ease and relaxed.

Liv also patronized the wine shop on several occasions and Dorian really liked that. She seemed to know the basics of wine and was always interested in learning more; she asked questions and took recommendations well.

And she pinged Dorian’s gaydar in a pretty significant way.

As if reading her thoughts, Liv called to her and asked, “Do you remember that Malbec you sold me a couple of weeks ago?”

“The Argentinean one. Did you like it?”

“I loved it. I took it to my cousin’s dinner party and the whole place raved about it.”

“Excellent.”

“We got talking about wine and different varieties and what we each liked and didn’t. My cousin is in marketing and we started batting around ideas about increasing our business if we owned a wine store. He came up with some great suggestions and I thought maybe you and I could sit down and go over them, just for fun.” She stopped suddenly and cleared her throat, as if worried she’d crossed a line. “Um…”

Dorian blinked at her, unable to think of anything other than how adorable Liv looked with her cheeks all flushed pink.

“Like classes,” Liv continued, picking up speed. “You know so much about wine and I know there are a ton of people like me who would like to learn more. So you could charge, like, twenty or thirty bucks a head for a two-hour class in your shop at night or something like that, and I bet you’d bring in a bunch of interested parties.” She took a breath, pressed her lips together and kept them that way.

A grin broke out on Dorian’s face. “I love that idea,” she said, and it was true.

A relieved breath escaped Liv’s lips—her full, incredibly kissable lips—and she let go of a nervous laugh. “Wow. That was really presumptuous of me.” She handed Dorian her pills. “I apologize.”

“Don’t,” Dorian said as she paid. “Please don’t. I’d love to hear more of your ideas.”

“You would?”

“Absolutely.”

“You’re open tomorrow?”

“I’m open all the time,” Dorian said wryly. “The curse of owning a small shop.”

Liv’s smile lit up her entire face, crinkling the corners of her eyes in a way that made Dorian itch to touch them, to smooth them with her thumb. “I don’t work until late tomorrow afternoon. I’ll stop by before?”

“That would be great. I’ve got a new Chardonnay I’d like your opinion on.”

Liv’s grin widened. “You got it.”

For the first time in her life, Dorian completely understood the phrase about your steps being lighter. She felt like she walked on air all the way back to her apartment. Back upstairs, she swooped Spike into her arms, much to his very vocal dismay, and spun him around like a dance partner.

“I think I just asked her out, Spikey.” She stopped twirling and tilted her head like a dog listening to a far-off sound. “Or did she ask me out?” She kissed the cat’s furry white head. “It came out of nowhere. All of a sudden, she just started rambling on. I’ve never seen her do that in all the time I’ve been going there. What if all this time I’ve been checking her out using my peripheral vision, she’s been doing the same? How cool is that?”