Книга - The Next Best Thing

The Next Best Thing
Kristan Higgins


Lucy Lang isn't looking for fireworks… She's looking for a nice, decent man. Someone who'll mow the lawn, flip chicken on the barbeque, teach their future children to play soccer. But most important… someone who won't inspire the slightest stirring in her heart…or anywhere else.A young widow, Lucy can't risk that kind of loss again. But sharing her life with a cat named Fat Mikey and the Black Widows at the family bakery isn't enough either. So it's goodbye to Ethan, her hot but entirely inappropriate "friend with privileges" and hello to a man she can marry.Too bad Ethan Mirabelli isn't going anywhere. As far as he's concerned, what she needs might be right under her nose. But can he convince her that the next best thing can really be forever?THE PERFECT MATCH will be included in a romance shortlist column written by New York Times bestselling author Sarah Maclean.










Praise for the novels of award—winning author

kristan higgins

‘Cheeky, cute, and satisfying…perfect entertainment for a girl’s night in’

-Booklist

‘Kristan Higgins proves that she is emerging as one of the most creative and honest voices in contemporary romance. Too Good to be True is simply delightful storytelling!’ -Romance Junkies

‘Higgins provides an amiable romp that ends with a satisfying lump in the throat.’

-Publishers Weekly

“A true masterpiece”-Dee & Dee Dish on Books

‘Smart, fresh and fun! A Kristan Higgins book is not to be missed!’

-New York Times bestselling author Carly Phillips

‘A touching story brimming with smart dialogue, sympathetic characters, an engaging narrative and the amusing, often self—deprecating observations of the heroine. It’s a novel with depth and a great deal of heart.’

-RT Book Reviews, 4½ stars Top Pick

‘Higgins is a talented writer who will make you want to search high and low for anything that she has written’

-Chicklit Romance Writers


Dear Reader,

The Next Best Thing is Lucy and Ethan’s story. It’s about second chances. After the death of her husband shattered her heart, Lucy’s positive that she doesn’t want to fall in love again…She’d rather find some safe, slightly boring guy who’d be more of a companion than the new love of her life. But Ethan, her faithful neighbour, is determined to bust out of the role of ‘friend with privileges’ and get Lucy to see him as a lot more.

As with all of my books, I hope you’ll have a lot of laughs and shed a few satisfying tears as well. There’s something new this time…a cat! Fat Mikey is a nod to my own regal pet, Cinnamon…as for Fat Mikey’s name, I ‘borrowed’ it from my neighbours down the street. I hope you’ll bond with the curmudgeonly kitty.

Growing up, I was blessed with a large Hungarian family centred around babies, laughter and food—especially desserts, so it was great fun to set this story in a bakery. There’s a lot of great food described in this book…I’ll post a few recipes on my website if you’re interested. And while the Black Widows in the story are fictional, they were inspired by my own three great—aunts, Anne, Mimi, Marguerite, and my grandmother, Helen, whose nickname was Bunny. Our family tradition of baking is firmly embraced by my lovely and loving aunts—Rita, whose cakes are the stuff of legend; Hilary, who makes the best apple pie this side of the Mississippi; and Teresa, who doesn’t bake but was smart enough to marry a man who does, and does so incredibly well.

Let me know how you enjoyed the book! It’s always such a pleasure to hear from readers.

All the best,

Kristan




About the Author


KRISTAN HIGGINS divides her time between home in Connecticut and summers on Cape Cod. She is the mother of two lovely kids, the wife of a brave firefighter, and a devoted Ben & Jerry’s fan. Previously a copywriter, Kristan began writing fiction when her children graced her life with simultaneous naps…so much more satisfying than folding laundry. She holds a BA in English, which enables her to identify dangling participles and quote many great novels. She loves to connect with readers on her website www.kristanhiggins.com and her Facebook page www.facebook.com/KristanHigginsBooks.


The Next Best Thing

Kristan Higgins






www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


This book is dedicated—finally!-to my patient, funny,

generous and lovely mother, Noël Kristan Higgins.

Thank you, Mom, for everything. I love you so.




CHAPTER ONE


“YOU HAVE A WHISKER.”

Though I hear the loudly whispered comment, it doesn’t quite register, as I am rapt with adoration, staring at the wonder that is my hour—old niece. Her face still glows red from the effort of being born, her dark blue eyes are as wide and calm as a tortoise’s. I probably shouldn’t tell my sister that her baby reminds me of a reptile. Well. The baby is astonishingly beautiful. Miraculous.

“She’s amazing,” I murmur. Corinne beams, then shifts the baby the slightest bit away from me. “Can I hold her, Cory?” My two aunts mutter darkly—only Mom has held the baby so far, and clearly, I’m breaking rank.

My sister hesitates. “Um…well…”

“Let her, Cory,” Chris encourages, and my sister reluctantly hands over the little bundle.

She’s warm and precious, and my eyes fill with tears. “Hi there,” I whisper. “I’m your auntie.” I can’t believe how much I love this baby…she’s fifty—five minutes old, and I’m ready to throw myself in front of a bus for her, should the need arise.

“Pssst. Lucy.” It’s Iris’s voice again. “Lucy. You have a whisker.” My seventy—six—year—old aunt taps her upper lip. “Right there. Plus, you’re holding her wrong. Give her to me.”

“Oh, gee, I don’t know about that,” Corinne protests, but Iris deftly takes the baby from me. My arms feel lonely without the sweet weight of my niece. “Whisker,” Iris says, jerking her chin at me.

Almost against my will, my finger goes to my upper lip…gah! Something thick and almost sharp, like a piece of barbed wire, is embedded in my skin. A whisker! Iris is right. I have a whisker.

My tiny aunt Rose sidles up to me. “Let’s take a look here,” she says in her little—girl voice, studying my lip. Then, before I know it, she seizes the offending hair and yanks.

“Youch! Rose! That hurt!” I press a finger against the now smarting hair follicle.

“Don’t worry, honey, I got it. You must be coming into the Change.” She gives me a conspiratorial smile, then holds my whisker up to the light.

“I’m thirty years old, Rose,” I protest weakly. “And come on, stop looking at it.” I brush the whisker from her fingers. The whisker was a fluke. I’m not menopausal. I can’t be. Could I? Granted, I’m feeling a bit…mature today, given that my younger sister has had a baby before I did…Rose scrutinizes my face for another hair. “It can happen. Your second cousin Ilona was thirty—five. I don’t think you’re too young. A mustache is usually the first sign.”

“Electrolysis,” my mother recommends as she tucks the blankets around Corinne’s feet. “Grinelda does it. I’ll have her look at you next time she comes in for a reading.”

“Your psychic also does electrolysis?” Christopher asks.

“She’s a medium. And yes, Grinelda is a very talented woman,” Iris says, smiling down at Emma.

“Don’t I get a turn to hold that child? I seem to remember I’m also her great—aunt,” Rose peeps. “And personally, I bleach. Once I shaved, and three days later, I looked like Uncle Zoltan after a bender.” She accepts my niece from Iris and her wrinkled, sweet face morphs into a smile.

“Oh, shaving. Never shave, Lucy,” Iris says. “You get stubbly.”

“Um…okay,” I say, shooting a glance at my sister. Surely this is not normal conversation in a labor and delivery room. “So how are you feeling now, Corinne?”

“I’m wonderful,” she says. “Can I please hold my daughter again?”

“I just got her!” Rose protests.

“Hand her over,” Christopher orders. With a martyred sigh, Rose obeys.

My sister gazes down at the baby, then looks up at her husband. “Do you think we should put some Purell on her?” she asks, her brow wrinkling in worry.

“Nah,” Chris answers. “You girls scrubbed in, right?”

“Absolutely. Don’t want Emma to catch the polio,” Iris says, not a trace of sarcasm in her voice. I suppress a smile.

“Chris, honey, how are you feeling, sweetie?” Corinne asks her husband.

“A lot better than you, honey. I didn’t just give birth, after all.”

Corinne waves away his protest. “Lucy, he was so wonderful. Really. You should’ve seen him! So calm, so helpful. He was amazing.”

“I didn’t do a thing, Lucy,” my brother—in—law assures me. He reaches out to touch the baby’s cheek. “Your sister…she’s incredible.” The new parents gaze at each other with sappy adoration, and I feel the familiar, wistful lump in my throat.

Jimmy and I might’ve looked at each other like that.

“Hello! I’m Tania, your lactation coach!” A booming voice makes us all jump. “Well, well! Quite a turnout, I see! Do you want an audience, Mother?”

“Corinne, we’ll go,” I say, though it’s quite possible that my mother and aunts would like to stay and offer a running commentary. “We’ll see you later. I’m so proud of you.” I kiss my sister, touch the baby’s cheek once more and try not to notice as Corinne wipes her baby’s face. “Bye, Emma,” I whisper, my eyes filling yet again. “I love you, honey.” My niece. I have a niece! Visions of tea parties and jump rope fill my head.

My sister smiles at me. “See you later, Lucy. Love you.” She risks a pat to my arm with one hand, already instinctively adept at handling the baby.

“Let’s take a look at those nipples,” Tania the lactation coach barks. “Husband, take the baby, won’t you? I need to see your wife’s breasts.”

Like a well—trained border collie, I herd Mom, Rose and Iris out of the room. In the hallway, I notice something. My mother, aunts and I all seem to be wearing black today. My step falters. Mom is clad in a chic black wraparound sweater, something that wouldn’t look out of place on Audrey Hepburn; Iris wears a shapeless black turtleneck and Rose a black cardigan over a white shirt. My T—shirt of the day happens to be black—I get up at 4:00 a.m. and don’t spend a lot of time on clothing choices…this one just happened to be on the top of the pile.

By an ironic and unfortunate twist of fate, my mother, Iris and Rose bear the maiden name Black, translated from Fekete when my grandfather immigrated from Hungary. By an even more ironic and unfortunate twist of fate, all three were widowed before the age of fifty, so it’s only natural that they’re called the Black Widows. And on this happiest of days, somehow we’re all wearing black. It dawns on me that today I, also widowed young, am more like a Black Widow than like my radiant sister. That today I found my first whisker and was advised on facial hair management.

That I’m a long way off from having a baby of my own, a thought that’s been on my mind more and more recently. It’s been five years since Jimmy died, after all. Five and a half. Five years, four months, two weeks and three days, to be precise.

These thoughts override the chatter of my aunts and mother as we drive over the short bridge to Mackerly, back to the bakery where the four of us work.

“We’re going to the cemetery,” Mom announces as they pile out of the car, first Iris, then Rose, then my mother. “I have to tell your father about the baby.”

“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile. “See you in a while, then.”

“You sure you don’t want to come?” Rose asks. All three of them tilt their heads looking at me.

“Oh, gosh, I don’t think so.”

“You know she’s got a thing about that,” Mom says patiently. “Let’s go. See you later, hon.”

“Yup. Have fun.” They will, I know. I watch as they walk down the street toward the cemetery where their husbands—and mine—are buried.

The sun shines, the birds sing, my niece is healthy. It’s a happy, happy day, whisker or no whisker. Widowed or not. “A happy day,” I say aloud, heading inside.

The warm, timeless smell of Bunny’s Hungarian Bakery wraps around me like a security blanket, sugar and yeast and steam, and I inhale deeply. Jorge is cleaning up in back. He looks up as I come in. “She’s gorgeous,” I say. He nods, smiles, then goes back to scraping dough from the counters.

Jorge doesn’t speak. He’s worked at Bunny’s for years. Somewhere between fifty and seventy, bald, with beautiful light brown skin and a tattoo on his arm depicting Jesus’ agony on the cross, Jorge helps with cleanup and bread delivery, as Bunny’s supplies bread-my bread, the best bread in the state—to several Rhode Island restaurants.

“I’ll deliver to Gianni’s tonight, Jorge,” I say as he starts loading up the bread. He nods, heads for the back door and stands for a second, his way of saying goodbye. “Have a great afternoon,” I say. He smiles, flashing his gold tooth, then leaves.

The freezer hums, the malfunctioning fluorescent light over the work area buzzes, the cooling ovens tick. Otherwise, there’s just the sound of my own breathing.

Bunny’s has been in my family for fifty—seven years. Founded by my grandmother just after my grandfather died at the age of forty—eight, it has been run by women ever since. Men don’t tend to fare that well in my family, as you might have noticed. After my own father died when I was eight, Mom started working at Bunny’s, too, alongside Iris and Rose. And after Jimmy’s car accident, I came on board as well.

I love the bakery, and the bread I create is proof of a beneficent God, but it’s fair to say that if circumstances were different, I wouldn’t work here. Bread, while deeply rewarding, is not my true passion. I was trained to be a pastry chef at the great Johnson & Wales Culinary Institute in Providence, just about a half hour from Mackerly, a tiny island south of Newport. Upon graduation, I snagged a job at one of the posher hotels in the area. But after Jimmy died, I couldn’t keep it up. The pressure, the noise, the hours…the people. And so I joined the Black Widows at Bunny’s. Unfortunately for me, the division of labor had been decided years ago—Rose on cakes and cookies, Iris on danishes and doughnuts, Mom on management. That left bread.

Bread—baking is a Zenlike art, not fully grasped by much of the world, and an art that I’ve come to love. I arrive at four—thirty each day to mix the dough, measure it out, let it rise and get it in the oven, head home for a nap around ten, then return in the afternoon to bake the loaves we supply to the restaurants. Most days, I’m home by four. It’s a schedule suited to the erratic sleep patterns that came home to roost when my husband died.

I find that I’m feeling for another whisker. If there was one, after all, there might be others. Nope. I seem to be smooth, but I check the mirror in the bathroom just in case. No more whiskers, thank God. I look normal enough…strawberry—blond hair pulled into a ponytail, light brown eyes—whiskey eyes, Jimmy used to call them—a few freckles. It’s a friendly face. I think I’d make someone a very cute mom.

I’ve always wanted a family, a few kids. Despite one errant whisker, most of the evidence still indicates that I’m still young. Or not. What if Aunt Rose is right, and menopause is lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce? One whisker today—a few months from now, I may need to start shaving. My voice may change. I’ll dry up like a loaf of bread left to rise too long in a warm oven; that which was once light and full of promise, left alone too long, now a hard, tasteless lump. That whisker was a warning. Crikey! A whisker!

I risk a quick squeeze to my breasts. Phew. The girls seem to be in good shape, no drooping or sagging yet. I’m still young. Fairly ripe. But yes, perhaps my shelf life isn’t as long as I like to pretend it is. Dang whisker.

Jimmy would want me to move on, to be happy. Of course he would. “What do you think, Jimmy?” I say out loud, my voice echoing off the industrial—size Hobart mixer, the walk—in oven. “I think it’s time for me to start dating. Okay with you, honey?”

I wait for an answer. Since his death, there have been signs. At least I think so. In the first year or so after his death, dimes would turn up in odd places, for example. Sometimes I’d catch a whiff of his smell—garlic, red wine and rosemary…he was head chef at Gianni’s, the restaurant owned by his parents. Once in a while, I dream about him. But today, on the issue of my love life, there’s nothing.

The back door opens, and my aunts and mom come in. “The cemetery was beautiful!” Iris announces. “Beautiful! Although if I catch those mowers cutting it so close to my Pete’s grave, I will strangle them with my bare hands.”

“I know it. I told the committee the same thing,” Rose cheeps. “Last year, they mowed right over the geraniums I planted for Larry. I thought I’d cry!”

“You did cry,” Iris reminds her.

Mom comes over to me in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. “That baby sure is beautiful, isn’t she?” she says, smiling.

I grin up at her. “She sure is. Congratulations, Grammy.”

“Mmm. Grammy. I like the sound of that,” she says smugly.

Iris nods in agreement—she’s already a grandmother, courtesy of the two kids her son, Neddy, and his ex—wife produced. Rose, meanwhile, pouts.

It’s not fair,” she says. “You’re so much younger, Daisy. I should’ve been a grandmother first.” Rose and Iris are well into their seventies; my mother is sixty—five, and Rose’s only son has failed to reproduce (which is probably a good thing, given Stevie’s propensity for stupid acts).

“Oh, Stevie will get some girl pregnant, don’t worry,” my mom says mildly. “I wonder, though, if he manages to find someone who’d marry him, if she’d die young, too.” Then, aware perhaps that this is a sensitive subject, the Black Widows turn as one to look at me.

You see, in my generation, the Black Widow curse has only struck me (so far). My sister lives in constant fear that Chris will die young, but so far, so good. Iris’s daughter, Anne, is gay, and for some reason, the Black Widows are confident that Laura, Anne’s partner of fifteen years, will be spared due to sexual orientation. Neddy’s ex—wife is also deemed safe. Both Ned and Stevie are healthy, though Stevie’s on the dim side (he once ate poison ivy on a dare. When he was twenty—two). The biological men in our family are spared…it’s just the husbands who seem to meet an early death. My grandfather, my great—uncles, my own dad, my aunts’ husbands…all died young.

Also, no Black Widow has ever remarried. The late husbands became saints, the wives became proud widows. The idea of finding another man is traditionally scoffed at, as in, “Bah! What do I need a man for? I already had my Larry/Pete/Robbie. He was the Love of My Life.”

Back before I was a widow, I thought that maybe the Black Widows almost liked being alone. That they were independent women, proud of how they’d coped. Maybe their disdain of remarrying was more a statement about their own security, independence, power, even. When I became a widow myself, I understood. It’s fairly impossible to imagine falling in love again when your husband’s life ends decades before you expect it.

The back door opens again. “Friday night happy hour has arrived!” calls a familiar voice.

“Ethan!” the Black Widows chorus, flattered and feigning surprise over his arrival.

“I hear from my sources that it’s a girl,” he says. “Congratulations, ladies.”

Ethan Mirabelli, my late husband’s younger brother, comes in through the back door, an insulated bag in hand. He kisses each Black Widow, with an extra—long hug and some murmured words for my mother, who beams and pats him on the cheek. Then Ethan glances at me. “Hey, Luce. Congratulations on being an auntie again.”

“Thanks, Ethan,” I answer, smiling. “I guess it’s not quite a cousin for Nicky, but close enough, right?” Nicky is Ethan’s son. Then I wince, realizing I may have just hit a sore spot. Nicky’s cousins would have to have been Jimmy’s kids…Jimmy’s and mine.

“Absolutely,” he answers, letting me off the hook.

“And how is Nicky?” asks Aunt Iris.

“He’s handsome, brilliant and has a way with the ladies. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Nicky is four, but everything Ethan says is true. My brother—in—law smiles at me, then unpacks his bag, something he found God knows where—a minibar, complete with martini shaker, small knife, shot glass and a few bottles of alcohol. “I thought French martinis today, girls,” he says, pouring the vodka. “They’re pink, in honor of the baby. I can only hope she’s as gorgeous as the rest of the Black women.”

As expected, the Black Widows coo and giggle in response. Ethan has them wrapped around his little finger.

“Is it too early for drinking?” Rose asks in her sweet voice, glancing at the clock and holding out her glass. Four—thirty. No earlier than any Friday.

“You don’t have to have one,” Ethan says, just as he’s about to pour the martini into her glass.

“Don’t be fresh,” Rose says, swatting his hand. “Fill ‘er up.” He grins and obeys. “Ethan,” Rose continues, “what I want to know is, how could you get that nice girl pregnant?”

Ethan lifts an eyebrow in his trademark bad—boy look. “Want to step into the office? I’ll be happy to show you.”

Aunt Rose whoops with mock horror and sincere appreciation. “What I mean is, why didn’t you marry her? That nice Parker?” Like they haven’t heard this a million times.

Ethan winks at me. “I asked, if you remember. She wouldn’t have me. She knew I was secretly in love with the Black Widows and my heart would never be hers.” He turns to me. “Here you go, Lucy.”

“Thanks, Eth,” I say.

Friday afternoon cocktail hour is a tradition here at the bakery. Ethan, who travels throughout the country for his work, comes home to Mackerly each weekend to see his son…and to check on me, I admit. Since Jimmy died, Ethan’s been very loyal. A great friend. But he starts most weekends off by coming to the bakery for happy hour and flirting with my mother and aunts, and they think he pretty much walks on water.

“So how’s the baby?” Ethan asks the Black Widows, then sits back and grins as they regale him with her loveliness.

I take a token sip from my glass, listening and smiling. Though they’ve all been widows most of their lives, the Black Widows are more full of life than most people I know.

Then I glance at my watch and set my drink aside. “I have to make the bread run to Gianni’s, guys. Ethan, want to come?”

“Hell, no,” he answers with great cheer. “Why on earth would I visit my parents when I can drink with these Hungarian beauties instead?”

More tuts, more feigned disapproval at Ethan’s casual dismissal of his parents, more deep appreciation and secret consent from the Black Widows.

“Does being a gigolo pay well?” I ask.

Ethan laughs. “Maybe I’ll see you later, Luce.” We both live in the Boatworks, an old sailboat factory turned condominiums.

I go in the back and load up the bread for Gianni’s delivery. Much of it is still warm. My breathing slows, my movements gentle and efficient with practice as I bag each loaf, setting it in the large bakery box. The scent of fresh bread is what heaven must smell like, comforting and homey. When the box is full, I heft it up, push open the back door and head outside to the street and bright sunshine.

To my consternation, Starbucks, which is located just around the corner from Bunny’s, is full, even at this hour. Bunny’s could use some of those customers, I think. For years, I’ve been urging the Black Widows, each of whom owns thirty percent of the bakery, to shift our emphasis from bakery to café. Of course, that would mean changing, and the Black Widows don’t like change. I own ten percent of the bakery, so I could never outvote them. I can’t even filibuster.

Around the corner from Starbucks is Gianni’s Ristorante Italiano, owned by Gianni and Marie, my in—laws. “Lucy!” they cry in delight as I struggle through the back door.

“Hi, Marie, hi, Gianni,” I say, stopping to receive my kisses. Paolo, the sous chef and a vague relation from Rome, takes the loaves from me, as Micki, a prep chef, calls out a hello as she chops garlic and parsley. Kelly, a longtime waitress who went to school with me, waves as she talks on the phone.

“How are you? The baby? Everyone healthy, please God?” Marie asks. I’d called them before going to the hospital—we’re very close.

“She’s so beautiful,” I tell them, beaming. “My sister was a champ, too. Seventeen hours.”

“Any tearing?” Marie asks, causing Gianni to wince.

“Um, we didn’t cover that just yet,” I murmur.

“We’ll send some food,” Gianni says. “A new baby’s such a blessing.”

For a second, we fall silent. My eyes go to the shrine above the twelve—burner stove. Two candles, the red bandana Jimmy always wore while cooking and a photo of him taken on our wedding day. His broad, genial face grins at me, those amazing eyes sparkling. He favored the northern Italian side of the family…curly, dirty blond hair, eyes like the Mediterranean Sea and a smile that could power a small town. A big man, broad—shouldered and tall with a booming laugh, he made me feel protected and safe and utterly, completely loved.

Dang it. My eyes seem to be filling with tears. Well. The Mirabellis don’t mind. Marie strokes my arm, her dark eyes filling, too, and Gianni pats my shoulder with a beefy hand.

“Is Ethan coming home this weekend, do you know?” Marie asks me, wiping her eyes.

I hesitate. “Um, I think so.” Knowing their son was down the street with my family would only hurt them.

“That job of his,” Gianni mutters. “Foolishness. Ah!” He flaps his hands in disgust while I suppress a grin.

Though Ethan once studied to be a chef at the same school I myself attended, he dropped out just before his senior year to work for a large food corporation. A company most famous for making Instead, a hugely popular drink that contains all the nutrition of a well—balanced meal without the inconvenience of actually having to eat. I think my in—laws would’ve preferred it if Ethan had become a drug dealer or porn star, frankly. After all, his company’s mission is basically to discourage sit—down dining, and they own a restaurant.

My eyes go back to Jimmy’s picture. Now is not the time to tell the Mirabellis about my decision to get back on the horse. It can wait. Why ruin their weekend? Because while they wouldn’t begrudge me the comfort of husband and children, I know it won’t be easy to hear. Besides, I have some housekeeping to take care of first.

Around nine that night, I’m playing a lively game of Scrabble with my computer, seventeen pounds of purring pet on my lap—my cat, Fat Mikey. A knock sounds on the door. “Come on in,” I call, knowing who it is.

“Hey, Lucy,” Ethan says, opening the door. I rarely bother locking up—the building has a coded security system in the lobby, and Mackerly’s crime rate is practically nonexixtent.

“Hi, Eth. How’s it going?” I tear myself away from the computer…was just about to play zenith, which would totally slay Maven, my archenemy computer foe, but humans come first. Or they should. I play the word discreetly, then close the lid of my computer. Take that, Maven!

“Everything’s great.” Ethan, who has logged many hours in my apartment over the past five years, makes himself at home by opening the fridge. “Can I have one of these?” he calls.

I swallow. “Sure. I made them for you.” Earlier in the evening, I did what I often do—created a fabulous dessert. Inside the fridge are six ramekins of pineapple mango mousse, each one topped with a raspberry glaze. I figured Ethan will eat at least three, and I need to be on his good side.

“You want one?” he calls. I can tell he’s already eating.

“No, thanks. They’re all yours.” I don’t eat my own desserts. Haven’t in years.

“This is fantastic,” he says, coming into the living room.

“Glad you like it,” I say, not meeting his eyes.

“Hey, thanks for e—mailing those pictures of Nick,” he says, already scraping the ramekin clean.

“Oh, you’re welcome. He sure looked cute.” Ethan and I grin at each other in a moment of mutual Nick adoration. On Wednesday, the nursery school put on a play about the life cycle of the butterfly. Nicky was a milkweed seed. It’s become my habit to photograph Nicky and e—mail pictures to Ethan while he’s traveling, since Parker, Nick’s mother, never seems to remember her camera.

“Um, listen, Ethan, we need to talk,” I say, cringing a little.

“Sure. Let me grab another one of these. They’re incredible.” He goes back into the kitchen, and I hear the fridge open again. “Actually I have something to tell you, too.” He returns to the living room “But ladies first.” Sitting in the easy chair, he smiles at me.

Ethan looks nothing like his brother, which is both a comfort and a sorrow. Unlike Jimmy, Ethan is a bit…well, average. Nice—looking, but kind of unremarkable. Medium brown eyes, somewhat disheveled brown hair, average height, average weight. Kind of a vanilla type of guy. He has a neat little beard, the kind so many baseball players favor—three days of stubble, basically, which gives him an attractive edginess, but he’s…well, he’s Ethan. He looks a bit like an elf in some ways—not the squeaky North Pole elves, but like a cool elf, a Tolkien elf, mischievous eyebrows and sly grin.

He regards me patiently. I swallow. Swallow again. It’s a nervous habit of mine. Fat Mikey jumps into Ethan’s lap and head butts him until Ethan obliges the bossy animal by scratching his chin. Ethan rescued him from the pound a few years back, saying no one would take the ugly beast, and gave him to me. Fat Mikey has never forgotten just who sprung him from prison, and now favors Ethan with a rusty purr.

I clear my throat. “Well, listen. You know, ever since Jimmy died, you’ve been, just…well. Incredible. Such a good friend, Ethan.” It’s true. I don’t have the words to voice my gratitude.

His mouth pulls up on one side. “Well. You’ve been great, too.”

I force a smile. “Right. Um…well, here’s the thing, Ethan. You know that Corinne had a baby, of course. And it got me thinking that, well…” I clear my throat. “Well, I’d like to have a baby, too.” Gah! This isn’t coming out the way I want it to.

His right eyebrow raises. “Really.”

“Yeah. I’ve always wanted kids. You know. So, um…” Why am I so nervous? It’s just Ethan. He’ll understand. “So I guess I’m ready to…start dating. I want to get married again. Have a family.”

Ethan leans forward, causing Fat Mikey to jump off his lap. “I see,” he says.

I look at the floor for a second. “Right.” Risking a peek at Ethan, I add, “So we should probably stop sleeping together.”




CHAPTER TWO


ETHAN BLINKS. HIS EXPRESSION doesn’t change. “Okay,” he says after a beat.

I open my mouth to brook his argument, then realize he hasn’t made one. “Okay. Great,” I mumble.

Ethan sits back and looks toward the kitchen. “So seeing your new niece really got to you, huh?”

“Yes. I guess so. I mean, I’ve always wanted…well, you know. Husband, kids, all that. I’ve been thinking about it lately, and then today-” I opt not to describe my whisker. “I guess it’s time.”

“So is this theoretical, or do you have someone in mind?” he asks. Fat Mikey lets out a squeaky meow, then lifts his leg and starts licking.

I clear my throat. “It’s theoretical. I just…I just figured we should make a clean break of it first, you know? Can’t have a friend with privileges if I’m trying to find a husband.” A nervous bleat of laughter bursts from my throat.

Ethan starts to say something, then seems to change his mind. “Sure. Most boyfriends wouldn’t like to find out that you’ve got a standing arrangement with someone else.” His tone is mild.

“Right,” I say after a pause.

“Is that door still sticking?” He nods to the slider, which leads to the tiny balcony.

“Don’t worry about it,” I mutter. My face feels hot.

“Oh, hell, Luce, don’t worry. I’ll fix it. You’re still my sister—in—law.” For a second, he just stares at the glass door.

“Are you mad?” I whisper.

“Nah.” He stands up, then comes over to me and drops a kiss on the top of my head. “I will, of course, miss the smokin’ sex, but you’re probably right. I’ll drop in tomorrow to fix the door.”

That’s it? “Okay. Um, thanks, Ethan.”

And with that, he’s gone, and I have to say, it feels odd. Empty and quiet.

I’d thought he might have been a little more…well…I don’t know what. After all, we’ve been sleeping together for two years. Granted, he travels all week, and on the weekends when he had Nicky, obviously we didn’t do anything, but still. I guess I didn’t expect him to be so…blasé.

“What are we complaining about?” I ask myself out loud. “It couldn’t have gone any better.” Fat Mikey rubs against my ankles as if in agreement, and I reach down to pet his silky fur.

The evening stretches in front of me. I have seven hours until I head for the bakery. A normal person would go to bed, but my schedule is erratic at best. Another thing Ethan and I have in common: the man only sleeps four or five hours a night. I wonder if we’ll still play Scrabble or Guitar Hero late at night, now that we’re not…well, we were never really a couple. Just friends, and sort of relatives, linked forever by Jimmy. And lovers, though my mind bounces away from that word. Friends with privileges sounds much more benign.

In the first year after Jimmy died, Ethan had been one of the few people whose company I could stand. My friends—well, it was hard for both them and me. I’d married and buried a husband when most of my peers weren’t even thinking about a serious relationship. A lot of them just sort of…faded away, not knowing what to say or do for a woman widowed at twenty—four after eight months and six days of marriage.

Corinne ached for me, but seeing her eyes well up every time she saw me didn’t do much for my emotional state. My mom had a grim resignation to Jimmy’s death, almost a been there, done that, own that crappy T—shirt attitude as she patted my hand and shook her head. My aunts, forget it. To them, it was my destiny…Poor Lucy, well, at least she got it over with. Not that they were heartless enough to say that, but there was sort of a maudlin welcome feeling when I was around them, as if my widowhood was simply a fact of life. As for Gianni and Marie, I could hardly bear to be around them. Jimmy was their firstborn son, the chef in their restaurant, the heir apparent, the crown prince, and of course, the Mirabellis were absolutely ruined. Though we saw each other often, it was agony for all three of us.

But Ethan…maybe because we were almost the same age, maybe because we’d been pals at Johnson & Wales before he fixed me up with Jimmy, but whatever the reason, he was the only one who didn’t make me feel worse.

In those first few black months, Ethan was a rock. He found this very apartment, right below his. He bought me a PlayStation and we spent far too many hours racing cars and shooting each other on the screen. He cooked for me, knowing I’d eat Sno—Balls and Ring Dings if left to my own devices, coming down with a pan of eggplant parmigiana, chicken marsala, meat loaf. We’d watch movies, and he didn’t care if I’d forgotten to shower for the past couple of days. If I cried in front of him, Ethan would patiently take me in his arms, stroke my hair and tell me that someday, we were both going to be okay and if I didn’t stop blubbering on his shirt, he was going to fit me with a shock collar and start using it.

Then he’d head out for another week of traveling and schmoozing, which seemed to be what he was paid so handsomely to do. He’d e—mail me dirty jokes, bring me tacky little souvenirs from whatever city he was in, send pictures of himself doing those stupid daredevil things he did—helicopter skiing in Utah, sail—surfing in Costa Rica. It was part of Ethan’s job to show the demographic of Instead’s consumers that eating a real meal was a waste of time when such fun awaited them. Which was ironic, given that Ethan loved to both eat and cook.

After the first six months or so, when I wasn’t quite so soggy, Ethan backed off a little, started doing the things normal guys do. For about two months, he dated Parker Welles, one of the rich summer folks, and to me, they seemed quite nice together. I liked Parker, who was irreverent and blunt, and assumed Ethan had found his match, so I was quite surprised when Ethan told me they’d broken up amicably. Then Parker found out she was pregnant, informed Ethan and politely declined his marriage proposal. She stayed in Mackerly, living in her father’s sprawling mansion out on Ocean View Avenue, where all the rich folks live, and gave birth to Nick. Why she passed on Ethan is a mystery—she’s told me time and again she thinks he’s a great guy, just not the one for her.

After Nicky came into the world, Ethan and I found ourselves hanging out once more. I guess the privileges part was bound to happen eventually, though neither of us planned on it. In fact, you could say that I was stunned the first time he—well. More on that later. I should think about something other than Ethan.

Looking around my apartment, I sigh. It’s a nice place—two bedrooms, a living room, big sunny kitchen with ample counter space for baking. Prints hang on the walls as well as a large photo of Jimmy and me on our wedding day. The furniture is comfortable, the TV state—of—the—art. My balcony overlooks a salt marsh. Jimmy and I were in the process of moving into a house when he died. Obviously I hadn’t wanted to live there without him, so I sold it and moved here, Ethan’s proximity a great comfort.

I had imagined that Ethan and I would spend more than ten minutes breaking up, and I find myself at a bit of a loss for what to do. It’s nine—thirty on a Friday night. Some nights, Ash, the Goth teen who lives down the hall, comes over to play video games or catch a movie, but there’s a high school dance tonight, and her mother forced her to go. I could go over the syllabus for the pastry class I teach at the community college, but I’d just be guilding the lily, since I planned that out last week. My gaze goes to the TV.

“Fat Mikey, would you like to see a pretty wedding?” I ask my cat, hefting him up for a nuzzle, which he tolerates gamely. “You would? Good boy.”

The DVD is already in. I know, I know, I shouldn’t watch it so much. But I do. Now, though, if I really am moving on, if I’m going to find someone else, I really do need to stop. I pause, think about scrubbing the kitchen floor instead, decide against it and hit Play.

I fast—forward through me getting ready, watching in amusement the jerky, sped—up movements of Corinne pinning the veil into my hair, my mother dabbing her eyes.

Bingo. Jimmy and Ethan standing on the altar of St. Bonaventure’s. Ethan, the best man, is cracking a joke, no doubt, because the brothers are laughing. And then Jimmy looks up and sees me coming down the aisle. His smile fades, his wide, generous mouth drops open a little and he looks almost shocked with love. Love for me.

I hit Pause, and Jimmy’s face freezes on the television screen. His eyes were so lovely, his lashes long and ridiculously pretty. A muscular physique despite cooking and eating all day, the longish blond hair that curled in the humidity, the way his eyes would half close when he looked at me…

I swallow, feeling that old, familiar tightness in my throat, as if there’s a pebble lodged in there. It started after Jimmy died—I’d actually asked my cousin Anne, who’s a doctor, to see if I had a tumor in there, but she said it was just a classic symptom of anxiety. And now it’s back, I suppose, because I’m about to, er…move on. Or something.

The last part of becoming fully alive again—because when Jimmy died, he took a huge part of me with him—would be to find someone new. I want to get married and have babies. I really do. I grew up without a dad, and I wouldn’t willingly take on single motherhood. And though I’ll always miss Jimmy, it’s time to move on. Finding another husband…it’s a good idea. Sure it is.

It’s just that I’ll never love anyone the way I loved Jimmy. That’s the truth. And given how I was ripped apart when he died, it’s probably a good thing. I never want to feel anything like that again. Ever.




CHAPTER THREE


ON WEDNESDAY, I RIDE MY BIKE around Ellington Park. It’s a gorgeous day in early September, the breeze off the ocean spicing the salty air with a hint of autumn leaves, just beginning to turn at the tips. My spirits are bright as I pedal along the park. One would be hard—pressed to feel glum on such a sparkling day as this.

Mackerly, Rhode Island, is as charming and tiny a town as they come in New England. Roughly two hundred yards off mainland Rhode Island, we boast two thousand year—rounders, five hundred more summer folk and a lot of pretty views of the ocean. A tidal river bisects the island, and all traffic, foot and otherwise, must cross that river.

James Mackerly, a Mayflower descendant, planned our fair town around a massive chunk of land—Ellington Park, named after his mother’s family. On the far end of the park is the town green, notable for a flagpole, a memorial to the Mackerly natives who died in foreign wars and a statue of our founding father. The green bleeds south into Memorial Cemetery, which in turn leads to the park proper—gravel paths, flowering trees, the aforementioned tidal river, a playground, soccer field and baseball diamond. The park is dotted with elm and maple trees and enclosed by a beautiful brownstone wall. Farther up Narragansett Bay are Jamestown and Newport, and so Mackerly, being a little too tiny, is often overlooked by tourists. Which is fine with most of us.

The Boatworks, where Ethan and I both live, is directly across from the south entrance of the park. Bunny’s is across from the north entrance, in view of the town green and the statue of James Mackerly sitting astride Trigger (well, the horse’s name wasn’t known, but we all call him Trigger). If I were a normal person, I’d head over the little arched footbridge, enjoy the gorgeous paths through the park, walk through the cemetery and emerge onto the green in front of the bakery and all the other little stores in the tiny downtown—Zippy’s Sports Memorabilia the building right next to and owned by Bunny’s, Lenny’s Bar, Starbucks and Gianni’s Ristorante Italiano. If I went that way, my route to work would only be a half mile. But I’m not normal, and so each day, I circumnavigate the park, stretching a half—mile route to three miles, heading west down Park Street so I can cross the river on Bridge Street, then turn again onto Main.

I don’t like the cemetery. I love the park, but I can’t go into the cemetery. Instead I ride around it. Every day, which is a great excuse for exercise.

I duck to avoid smacking my head on a low—hanging branch as I cruise along the cemetery wall. Underneath a generous chestnut tree and very close to the street is my father’s grave. Robert Stephen Lang, age 42, Beloved Husband and Father. “Hi, Daddy,” I call as I pass.

Even before my dad died, and long before Jimmy, I’d hated the cemetery, and for good reason. When I was four, Iris’s husband, Uncle Pete died (esophageal cancer after a lifetime of Camels Unfiltered). I hadn’t been allowed to see him in the hospital—the hospice ward is no place for a kid—and so I didn’t realize how thin and wasted he’d become. The casket was closed at the wake, and pictures of a younger, healthier Pete had adorned the funeral home.

At any rate, we all went to the cemetery, the men somber in their suits, black umbrellas provided by the funeral home hovering above the mourners. It had been a wet spring, and the ground was soft, saturated with rain. Our heels sank into the earth, and rainwater seeped into our shoes. I was sad, of course…all those grown—ups crying quite unnerved four—year—old me. I was about to become considerably more upset.

Cousin Stevie, future eater of poison ivy, was eight at the time. We all stood around the grave as the priest began the traditional funeral prayers. Stevie was bored…his own dad was still alive (to die three years later in a railroad accident). Everything was boring to Stevie at that age. He’d been good until now, thanks to Rose’s threats of his own imminent death if he didn’t behave, but he couldn’t hold out any longer.

As I said, it had been a rainy spring. The night before had seen a nor’easter that dumped an additional two inches into the earth, I found out later at the many retellings of this awful tale. All I knew was that it was muddy, my mother was crying and Stevie was more fun to look at than my sad mommy.

And Stevie was bored. So, being Stevie, he started doing something. Something ill—advised. Something stupid, one might say. He dug his toe into the muddy earth, and a clump of soil fell into the grave, landing with a wet splat. Stevie was fascinated. Could he get another clot of earth to fall? Without his mother noticing? He could. How about another? Yes, another. Bigger this time. Splat. What a neat sound.

The adults were droning their way through the Lord’s Prayer. Stevie looked up, saw that I was watching and decided to show off for his little cousin. He dug his toe in up to his ankle, wriggled it, and suddenly, the earth under Stevie crumpled away in a mud slide into the grave. Stevie staggered back, arms flailing, fell against the casket, causing it to slide just an inch or two toward the compromised edge of the grave. Then, in slow motion, Uncle Pete’s casket slid slowly, then listed into the yawning earth. One corner hit the other side of the grave. The casket tipped…and opened.

Uncle Pete’s body—oh, gosh, it’s hard just to remember this story—Uncle Pete’s decimated body tipped out, fell almost all the way out of the casket and dangled there for a second before falling with a horrifying squelch into the sodden grave.

The screams that followed still echo in my mind. Aunt Rose shrieking. Uncle Larry, knowing instinctively that his son had caused this, repeatedly smacking Stevie on the bottom as Stevie wailed. Iris fainting. Neddy and Anne screaming and sobbing. My father hauled my pregnant and awkward mother away from the terrible sight. As for me, I stood frozen, staring down at that thing that didn’t even look like Uncle Pete, facedown in the muck.

Four years later, dehydrated from crying and terrified that he would meet a fate similar to Uncle Pete’s, I’d fainted at the cemetery during my own dad’s funeral and, according to family legend, nearly fell into the grave myself.

So. I’d say I have just cause to be phobic about cemeteries. The only thing I remember about Jimmy’s graveside service was that I was shaking so hard that I wouldn’t have been able to stand were it not for Ethan’s arm around me.

The truth is, not all cemeteries freak me out. In grammar school I went on a field trip to a Colonial cemetery not far from Mackerly, and I did just fine. Once, Jimmy and I spent the weekend in Orleans on Cape Cod and found a beautiful cemetery with wide expanses of shade, and we actually had a picnic amid the granite stones and sad stories from long ago. But this one, where so many of my menfolk lie…this one I just can’t go in. Aside from the funeral, I’ve never been to Jimmy’s grave. I’m not proud of this. It makes me feel like a bad widow, but I just can’t seem to walk down that path, go through those gates.

It’s okay, I rationalize. I get my cardio workout this way. I reach the intersection of Bridge and Main Streets, ring my bicycle bell and then cross, cruising into the bakery parking lot. My sister’s car is here. Oh, goody!

Jorge comes out as I head in. “Did you see the baby?” I ask. He grins and nods. “Isn’t she pretty?”

He nods again, his dark eyes crinkling.

“See you later, Jorge.” He’ll be back for the afternoon deliveries.

“Hi, Cory!” I say, gently twisting past the Black Widows to see the baby. “Oh. Oh, wow. Oh, Corinne.” I saw Emma yesterday at my sister’s house, but the thrill has yet to fade. The baby is sleeping in my sister’s arms, pink and white skin, eyelids so new and transparent I can see the veins. Her lips purse adorably as she sucks in her sleep.

“She has eyelashes!” I exclaim softly.

“Not so close, Lucy,” Corinne murmurs, fishing a travel bottle of Purell out of her pocket. “You have germs.”

I glance at my sister. Her eyes are wet. “You okay, Cor?” I ask.

“I’m great,” she whispers. “It’s Chris I’m worried about. He woke up twice last night when the baby cried. He needs his sleep.”

“Well, so do you,” I point out, obediently slathering my hands.

“He needs it more.” Corinne tucks the blanket more firmly around Emma. “He can’t get worn—out. He might get sick.”

My aunt Iris bustles over, wearing her customary man’s flannel shirt. She holds her hands out for inspection. “Completely sterilized, Corinne, honey. Let me hold the baby. You sit.”

“I’ll hold the baby,” my mother states, gliding over like a queen. Today she’s wearing red patent—leather shoes with three—inch heels and a red and white silk dress (Mom doesn’t do any baking—strictly management). She sets down a cup of coffee and some cookies for Corinne and holds out her arms. Corinne, looking tense, reluctantly passes the baby to our mom.

Mom’s face softens with love as she gazes at her only grandchild. “Oh, you are just perfect. Yes, you are. Lucy, take care of Mr. Dombrowski.”

“Hi, Mr. D.,” I say to the ninety—seven—year—old man who comes in to the bakery every afternoon.

“Good day, my dear,” he murmurs, peering at our display case. “Now, that one’s interesting. What would you call that?”

“That’s a cherry tart,” I say, suppressing a little shudder. Iris makes those by glopping a spoonful of canned cherry filling onto some frozen pastry. Not quite what I would do. No, I’d go for some of those beautiful Paonia cherries from Colorado—there’s a market in Providence that has them flown in. A little lemon curd, some heavy cream, cinnamon, maybe a splash of balsamic vinegar to break up the sweetness, though maybe with the lemon, I wouldn’t need—

“And this? What’s this, dear?”

“That one’s apricot.” Also from a can, but I don’t mention that. It’s odd—my aunts are incredible bakers, but they save those efforts for our family gatherings. For the non—Hungarian, not—related—by—blood population, canned is plenty good enough. Frozen (and refrozen, and re—refrozen) is just fine for the masses, who wouldn’t know good barak zserbo if it bit them.

Mr. Dombrowski shuffles along the case, surveying every single thing we have in there. He never buys anything other than a cheese danish, but the sweet old man doesn’t have a lot to do. Coming in to buy his danish—half of which he’ll eat with his tea, half with tomorrow’s breakfast—gives a little structure to his day. He creeps along, murmuring, asking questions as if he’s about to decide just how to split up Germany after World War II. I well understand the division of hours. Mr. D.’s alone, too.

As I ring up Mr. D’s meager sale, Corinne picks up the phone and punches a number. “Chris? Hi, honey, how are you? How are you feeling? You okay?” She pauses. “I know. I just thought you might be a little tired. Oh, I’m fine, of course! I’m great. Oh, she’s fine! Wonderful! She’s perfect! She is. I love you, too. So much. You’re a wonderful father, you know that? I love you! Bye! Love you! Call you later!”

As I mentioned, Corinne lives in terror that her seemingly healthy husband is on the brink of death. Growing up, Corinne and I didn’t give much thought to what seemed to be a family curse. Sure, Mom and the aunts were widows…unlucky, sure, but that didn’t have anything to do with us. Still, when I met Jimmy, it crossed my mind that I had the smarts to fall in love with a strapping man, six foot two of burly machismo and low cholesterol (yes, I insisted on a physical when we got our blood tests done). And maybe taking out a hefty life insurance policy on your fiancé isn’t what most brides have on their lists, but it was a move that turned out to be horribly prescient.

Anyway, when Jimmy died, it kind of cemented the idea in Corinne’s brain that she, too, was destined to be widowed young. She managed to marry Christopher, though he had to ask her seven times before she caved. She cooks him low—fat, low—salt food, sits next to their elliptical with a stopwatch every day to make sure he gets his forty—five minutes of cardio and tends to hyperventilate if he orders bacon when they go out for breakfast. She calls him about ten times a day to ensure that he’s still breathing and remind him of her lasting and abiding love. In any other family, Corinne would be gently urged to take medication or see a counselor. In ours, well, we just think Corinne is smart.

“So what’s new with you, Lucy?” my sister asks, frowning. Her eyes are on her baby, her fists clenched, mentally counting the seconds before she can get Emma back.

I take a deep breath. Time to face the music, now that I’ve had a few days to think on it. “Well, I think I’m ready to start dating again,” I say loudly, then swallow—there’s that pebble feeling—and brace myself.

My announcement falls like an undercooked angel food cake. Iris’s and Rose’s eyes are wide with shock, their mouths hanging open. Mom gives me a puzzled glance, then looks back at her grandchild.

But Corinne claps her hands together. “Oh, Lucy! That’s wonderful!” Tears leap into her eyes, spilling out. “That’s…it’s…Oh, honey, I hope you’ll find someone wonderful and perfect like Chris and be just as happy as I am!” With that, she bursts into sobs and races into the bathroom.

“The hormones,” Iris murmurs, looking after her.

“I cried for weeks after Stevie was born,” Rose seconds. “Of course, he was ten pounds, six ounces, the little devil. I was stitched up worse than a quilt.”

“I bled for months. The doctors, they lie,” Iris adds. “And my kebels, hard as rocks. I couldn’t sleep on my stomach for weeks.” It is tradition to refer to girl parts in Hungarian, for some reason.

My reprieve is short—lived. The Black Widows turn to me. “You really want another husband?” Iris demands.

“Oh, Lucy, are you sure?” Rose cheeps, wringing her hands.

“Um…I think so,” I answer.

“Well, good for you,” Mom says with brisk insincerity.

“After my Larry died, I never wanted another man,” Rose declares in a singsong voice.

“Me, neither,” Iris huffs. “No one could fill Pete’s shoes. He was the Love of My Life. I couldn’t imagine being with someone else.” She glances at me. “Not that there’s anything wrong with you wanting someone else, honey,” she adds belatedly.

The bell over the front door opens, and in comes Captain Bob, an old friend of my father’s. Bob owns a forty—foot boat in which he takes groups for a one—hour cruise around Mackerly, complete with colorful narrative and irregular history. I know, because I often pilot his boat as a part—time job.

“Hello there, Daisy. A beautiful day, isn’t it?” His ruddy face, the result of too much sun and Irish coffee, flushes redder still. He’s been in love with my mother for decades. “And who’ve you got there?” Captain Bob adds, his voice softening. He takes another step toward Mom.

Mom turns away. “My granddaughter. Don’t breathe on her. She’s only five days old.”

“Of course. She’s beautiful,” Bob says, looking at the floor.

“What can I get you, Captain Bob?” I ask. Other than a date with my mom.

“Oh, I’ll have a cheese danish, if that’s okay,” he says with a grateful smile.

“Of course it’s okay.” I smile while fetching his order. The poor guy comes in every day to stare at my mother, who takes great delight in snubbing him. Perhaps this should be my first lesson in dating—treat men badly, and they’ll love you forever. Then again, I never had to treat Jimmy badly. Just one look, as the song says. That’s all it took.

My sister emerges from the bathroom, her eyes red. “I need to feed her,” she announces. “My boobs are about to explode. Oh, hi, Captain Bob.”

Bob flinches and murmurs congratulations, then takes his danish and change.

“Is nursing hygienic?” Rose wonders.

“Of course it is. Best thing for the baby.” Iris turns to Captain Bob. “My daughter’s a lesbian doctor. An obstetrician. She says nursing’s best.” It is true that my cousin Anne is a lesbian and an obstetrician…not a doctor to lesbians (or not solely lesbians) as Iris’s description always causes me to think. Bob murmurs something, then slinks out the door with another look of longing for my mother, which she pretends to ignore.

“I never nursed,” Rose muses. “In my day, only the hippies nursed. They don’t bathe every day, you know. The hippies.”

Corinne takes the baby to the only table in Bunny’s—the Black Widows don’t encourage people to linger. “This is not the Starbucks,” they like to announce. “We don’t ship food in from a truck. Get your fancy—shmancy coffee somewhere else. This is a bakery.” My aunts are one of the many reasons the Starbucks down the street does such a brisk business.

Corinne lifts up her shirt discreetly, fumbles at her bra, then moves the baby into position. She winces, gasps and then, seeing me watch, immediately slaps a smile on her face.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

“Oh, no,” she lies. “It’s…a little…it’s fine. I’ll get used to it.” Sweat breaks out on her forehead, and her eyelids flutter in pain, but that smile doesn’t drop.

The bell rings again, announcing another visitor. Two, in this case. Parker and Nicky.

“Nicky!” the Black Widows cry, falling on the lad like vultures on fresh roadkill. The boy is kissed and hugged and worshipped. He grins at me, and I wave, my heart swelling with love. He is a beautiful boy, the image of Ethan.

“Is there frosting?” he asks, and my mother and aunts lead him to the back to sugar him up.

“Frosting’s not good for him, Parker,” my sister points out, wiping the nursing—induced sweat from her forehead. “It’s all sugar. You shouldn’t let them give Nicky sugar.”

“Well, given that my aunts taught me how to throw up after meals,” Parker replies calmly, “a little frosting therapy seems pretty benign.” She smiles at me. “Hi, Luce.”

“Hi, Parker,” I return, smiling back.

Maybe it’s because she was the first friend I made after being widowed, one of the few people in town who hadn’t known me before, maybe it’s because I generously ignore the fact that she’s tall, slim, gorgeous and rich, but Parker and I are friends. The first thing she ever said to me upon learning that I was Ethan’s brother’s widow, was “Jesus! That just sucks!” No platitudes, no awkward expressions of sympathy. I found that quite refreshing. I was rather flattered when she called me after her breakup with Ethan, and even more when she included me on the details of her pregnancy. At the time, everyone else was still doing the kid—gloves thing. Don’t mention babies…she’s a widow. Don’t talk about your love life…she’s a widow. To Parker, I was just me—a widow, yes, but a person first. You’d be surprised how rare that take on things can be.

“So this is the baby,” Parker says now, leaning over to gaze on Emma, who is glugging away like a frat boy at a kegger. “Wow. She really is beautiful, Corinne.”

“Thanks,” Corinne says, shifting the baby away so as to avoid any ebola or tuberculosis Parker may be carrying. “Lucy, can you just reach into my bag and dial Chris’s number? I just want to check in.”

“You just called him,” I remind her.

“I know,” she says, a tear slipping down her cheek.

“You okay, honey?” I ask. “Is this just hormonal?”

“I’m wonderful,” she says, smiling through her tears.

I do as instructed. Corinne takes the phone and stands, the baby still firmly attached, and wanders into the corner to talk with her husband once more.

“Your sister has issues,” Parker states, glancing into the kitchen to ensure that her son is eating enough frosting. She takes Corinne’s seat and smiles.

“True enough. How was your weekend?”

“It was great. Ethan came over, and we all watched Tarzan, and then he rigged up a rope in the dining room so Nicky could swing around like the Ape Man. Wait till my dad sees that.” She smiles fondly. The dining room at Grayhurst (yes, the house has a name, which I always thought was so cool) probably could seat a couple dozen.

“Sounds fun.” I pause. “Um, so, guess what? I’m going to start dating again.”

“Oh, yeah? You and Ethan gonna be a real couple?”

Parker knows about Ethan and me and our, er, arrangement. I told her one night, over too many mojitos and not enough food. Parker never seemed to have a problem with it. It was long after they’d broken up, after all.

“No. Not Ethan. He’s just…no.”

“He’s just what?” Parker asks, picking up one of Corinne’s ignored cookies and taking a bite. “He’s great in bed, as I dimly recall. Of course, it was almost five years ago, and we were only together a little while, but I remember this thing he did—”

“Shh!” I glance around, praying that the Black Widows haven’t overheard. “Please, Parker!”

“What?”

“What? Well, Ethan’s my brother—in—law,” I whisper. “And just for the record—again—no one else knows that we’ve been…um…intimate. I’d like to keep it that way, okay?”

“Well, aside from him being Jimmy’s brother, why?” Parker says in a lower voice. “He’s a great dad, which I’m sure is number one on your list of priorities.”

I blink. “How did you know there was a list?”

“Please. Of course there’s a list. Probably a color—coded list.”

There is a list, of course, and yes, Strong Fatherhood Potential is indeed in the top three (in red, for nonnegotiable). I bite my lip. “Well, Ethan’s not, um…the right type.”

“Except in bed?” Parker suggests with an evil smile.

“Shh, Parker! Come on!” She chuckles, and I sigh. “He’s just not…well, first of all, I want a husband who’s not going to die anytime soon. And Ethan’s always jumping out of things and driving a motorcycle and stuff like that.”

“He wears a helmet,” Parker says.

“Not good enough.”

“So is immortality also on the list, then?” She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“Of course not. I’m not unrealistic. But yes, Low Risk for Early Death is on the list.” Number one in fact. Parker grins, and I continue. “The fact remains that Ethan, while a great guy, is just not for me, okay? And you know exactly what I’m talking about, because you’ve told me the same thing, even though you’d make a beautiful family and could have more little Nickys running around.”

Parker smiles. “Did you know he moved back to Mackerly?”

I pause. “Ethan?”

“Yes, dummy.”

“What do you mean?”

Parker takes another bite of cookie. “He took a job with International Food’s headquarters in Providence so he could be closer to Nick. Around all the time, not just on weekends.”

“Oh,” I say, mildly hurt that I don’t know this already. Right…he mentioned something Friday night about having something to tell me, but must’ve forgotten. “Wow. That’s big news.”

“Mmm. Anyway. He’ll be back permanently as of this weekend.”

“Well. That’s good.” I pause. “Good for Nicky, certainly.”

“Mommy! I ate blue frosting!” Speaking of Nick, the little guy charges out of the kitchen, the lower half of his face stained with blue from the hideous fondant Rose uses to frost her cakes (I’d only use butter cream, but Rose is the cake decorator at Bunny’s, no matter how superior my frosting might be).

“That’s great, buddy!” Parker says. “Give me a blue kiss, okay?” She leans over and puckers, and Nicky laughingly obeys.

“Want one, Aunt Wucy?” he asks. Though he’s lately mastered his L sound, he still calls me “Wucy,” which I find utterly irresistible.

“I sure do, honey,” I answer. He climbs onto my lap and obliges, and I breathe in his smell, salt and shampoo and sugar and hug him tight for second, relishing his perfect little form, before he wriggles down to play with his Matchbox cars.

“I gotta get going. Books to write.” She sighs dramatically.

Parker is the author of a successful children’s series—The Holy Rollers, child—angels who come down from heaven, don roller—skates and help mortal kids make good choices. Parker hates the Holy Rollers with a mighty passion and wrote the first one as a farce…stories so sticky—sweet that they made her teeth ache. However, her sarcasm was lost on an old Harvard chum who ran the children’s division of a huge publishing company, and The Holy Rollers are now published in fourteen languages.

“What’s this one about?” I ask, grinning.

She smiles. “The Holy Rollers and the Big Mean Bully, in which the God Squad descends to beat the shit out of Jason, the seventh—grade thug who steals lunch money.”

“Beat the shit out of Jason!” Nicky echoes, zipping his car along the window.

“Oops. Don’t tell Daddy I said that, okay?” Parker asks her son, who agrees amiably.

“Want me to keep an eye out?” Parker asks, scooping up Nicky’s little cars into her buttery leather pocketbook.

“For what?” I ask.

“For your new husband?”

“Oh. Sure. I guess,” I say.

“Now there’s a can—do attitude!” she says with a wink, then takes my nephew by the hand and breezes out, her blond hair fluttering in the wind.




CHAPTER FOUR


ETHAN WAS TWO YEARS BEHIND ME at Johnson & Wales. I didn’t know him until my junior year—while I’d grown up in Mackerly, the Mirabelli family had moved to town and opened Gianni’s my second year of college. They heralded from Federal Hill, the Italian section of Providence, and their restaurant was an instant success. I’d eaten there a time or two, but I hadn’t met any of the family until Ethan approached me one day as I was lounging on the grass at school, sketching out my final project for Advanced Cake Decorating.

“Aren’t you one of those bakery babes from Mackerly?” he asked. I grinned and affirmed that indeed I was.

“I’m Ethan Mirabelli,” he said. “My family owns Gianni’s. Do you know it?”

“I sure do,” I said. “Best food this side of Providence.” I shaded my eyes and took a better look at young Ethan Mirabelli. Fairly cute. Lively brown eyes, mischievous smile, the kind that curled up at the corners in a most adorable way. “Do you work there?”

“Not yet. My brother and dad are the chefs now, but maybe someday. What about you? Are you in the chef program, too?” he asked, sitting on the grass next to me.

“Pastry chef. I’m a sucker for dessert,” I answered.

“She loves sweet things,” Ethan murmured, lifting an eyebrow and giving me a sidelong glance. Flirt. I grinned again. “You’ll have to come in and try my mom’s tiramisu,” he said. “It’s the best in four states. Including New York.”

Ethan and I became instant pals. We hung out together, met for lunch a couple times a week, sat together on the old couches at the Cable Car theater and watched foreign movies, snickering inappropriately at the love scenes. “Sex in German,” Ethan murmured. “How awful.” The couple next to us glared, then muttered to each other—in German—sending us into gales of silent, wheezing laughter.

We didn’t date, but we were compadres. He was a sophomore, I was a senior, and we were at the age where that still sort of mattered…my almost twenty—two felt much older than his still nineteen. He couldn’t go out for a beer—not legally, anyway—and I was interviewing with hotels and restaurants while he was years away from graduation. And though he was pretty cute and very fun, it wasn’t, as we girls liked to say, that way. We never held hands or kissed or anything. We were just friends.

A few months after we met, Ethan and I shared the short ride home to Mackerly, and he brought me to Gianni’s.

“Hey, guys,” he called as we went into the kitchen.

“Hey, college boy, nice of you to drop by and visit the working class” came a voice, and Jimmy turned around, and that was that.

His eyes got me first…blue—green, ridiculously pretty. The rest of his face was awfully nice, too. Gorgeous cheekbones, generous lips, a little smile tugging at one corner. Time seemed to stop; I noticed everything…the golden hair on his muscular forearms, a healing burn on the inside of one wrist. The pulse in his neck, which was tan and smooth and seemed to urge me to bury my face there. Jimmy Mirabelli was tall and strong and smiling, and I didn’t realize I was staring at him—and he at me—until Ethan cleared his throat.

“This is my brother, Jimmy,” Ethan said. “Jim, this is Lucy Lang. Her family owns Bunny’s Bakery.”

Jimmy took a few steps over, and rather than offer me his hand, he just looked at me, and that little crooked grin grew into a slow smile that spread across his face. “Hi, Lucy Lang,” he murmured as I blushed. Ethan said something, but I didn’t hear. For the first time in my young life, I’d been hit hard with lust. Sure, I’d had a couple of boyfriends here and there, but this…this was indeed that way. A warm squeeze wrapped around my stomach, my mouth went dry, my cheeks burned. Then Jimmy Mirabelli did take my hand, and I almost swooned.

Hours after I left the restaurant, Jimmy called the bakery and asked me out. I said yes. Of course I did. And when Ethan and I drove back to school that Sunday night, I thanked him for introducing me to his brother. “He’s a great guy,” Ethan said mildly, then listened as I gushed some more.

Jimmy Mirabelli was, I quickly learned, the missing link in my life—a man.

It hadn’t been easy for Mom, raising Corinne and me alone. She’d done her best—we had enough money, with Dad’s life insurance policy and Mom’s small but regular income from the bakery. Mom wasn’t a bad mother, but she was a little distant, not the type to ask where we were going or with whom—she said she trusted us to make smart decisions, and then she’d turn back to her crossword puzzle or true—crime novel, her parenting done for the night.

I grew up in a constant state of father—envy. I adored my friends’ dads…the approval, the affection, the strictness, the rules. I remember Debbie Keating, my BFF from grade school, getting absolutely chewed out for wearing a trashy tank top and blue eye shadow to our seventh—grade dance. Boy, did I ever want a dad to make sure I wasn’t trashy! To protect me and adore me the way only Dad could. My small and precious cache of memories told me my dad had been a very good father, and a good father loves his daughter like no one else. He adores her, protects her, bails her out when she gets in trouble, defends her from her mother’s chastisement. He urges her to be whatever she wants (president, astronaut, princess), and later in life, advises on which boy is good enough for her (none) and when she can start dating (never).

But, given the Black Widow curse, men were scarce in my life. I had no uncles, no grandfathers, no brothers…my closest male relation was Stevie, and you already know about him. Corinne and I used to try to summon our father, sitting in the closet where my mom still kept a few of his clothes, holding a coat or a sweater against our faces, chanting, “Daddy, Daddy, talk to us, Daddy.”

Mom never even considered dating, but I enjoyed picturing her with another guy, marrying him, some gentle, kind soul who would love Corinne and me as his own and indulge us in ways our mother didn’t. One summer, I waitressed at a nice restaurant in Newport, and Joe Torre, then manager of the New York Yankees, came in for dinner with his wife. Though Rhode Island is part of Red Sox nation and we’re raised to hate all things New York, I thought Mr. Torre was a very nice man. Dinner cost $112 that night; he left $500 and a signed napkin that said “The service was very special. Thank you so much. Joe Torre.” Whenever I pictured a stepfather, it was always Joe Torre’s dolorous, bulldog face that came to mind.

It was fair to say that I was hungry for men…not in the sexual way necessarily, but in the way a vegetarian yearns for a steak when the scent of roasting meat is in the air. The way a Midwesterner can yearn for the ocean, even if they’ve only seen it once. When a man came into the bakery, I hustled to be the one waiting on him, regardless of his age, and soaked up all that fascinating masculinity—how he moved, spoke, stood. How his eyes crinkled when he smiled at me, how decisively he’d ask for whatever it was he wanted. The blunt fingers, the hair on the back of the hands, the shadow of beard.

At the time I met Jimmy, Ethan was probably my closest male friend, but he was all fun, no gravitas. A boy, in other words, not a man. Not then.

Jimmy…he was a man. Strong, solid, tall, three years older than I was, he was so commanding and capable. He’d never worked anywhere but in a kitchen, and he knew what he was doing. Quick, sure movements, the ability to make a decision in a heartbeat, confident and secure and talented, he was dazzling.

I started coming home from school more and more, because Jimmy’s job didn’t give him much wiggle room on the weekends. Gianni worked in the kitchen alongside his son, yelling at the sous chef and prep chefs, and whenever he saw me, he’d give me a kiss on the cheek and call me Jimmy’s Girl. Marie, who served as hostess of the patrons and terror of the waitstaff, would seat me at the family table, urging me to eat more so I wouldn’t be “so thin.” She’d grill me about if I wanted children (yes), how many did I think I wanted (three or four) and did I ever want to move away from the area (absolutely not). Then she’d smile and, I imagined, do the math as to how much longer she’d have to wait for a grandchild.

And then Jimmy would come out of the kitchen, schmooze a little with the diners, always hearty and friendly. His eyes would seek me out, and he’d look at me a beat too long, letting me know I was the one he wanted to be with. He’d walk past, back to the kitchen, stopping for a kiss, squeezing me on the shoulder with his strong hands, leaving me in a wake of garlic and lust.

Being with him was being with a local celebrity—someone who was better looking than first remembered, who smelled better, who, when he wrapped his arms around me and lifted me off my feet, made me dizzy with love. Everyone knew Jimmy, despite the fact that he’d just moved to town a year or so before, and he remembered everyone’s names, sent over complimentary appetizers, asked after children. Everyone adored him.

He was a wonderful boyfriend, bringing me flowers, hiding notes in my dorm room on the rare occasions he made it to Providence, calling a couple of times a day. He constantly told me I was beautiful, and with him, I felt it like never before. He’d gaze at me as we lay in the grass in Ellington Park as the tidal river flowed past, the smell of brine and flowers mingling as the sun beat down on us, and he’d forget what he was saying, breaking off midsen—tence to reach out and touch my face with his fingertips or kiss my hand, or even better, lay his head in my lap and say, “This is all I’ll ever need. This and a little food.”

It was Jimmy who gave Bunny’s a boost when he suggested that Gianni’s buy their bread from us. He recommended us to other restaurants, too, and that side of the business mushroomed. My mother and aunts thought he just about walked on water because of it. “That Jimmy,” they’d say, shaking their heads, their dormant love of men peeking through the snows of their widowhood. “He’s something, that Jimmy. He’s a keeper, Lucy.”

They didn’t have to tell me.

Jimmy waited till I was done with college to propose. He asked me to have a late dinner with him at Gianni’s one night, after everyone else had left. It was something we did once in a while, the restaurant only lit by a few candles. I still remember the taste of everything he made that night…the sweetness of the tomatoes, the yeasty tug of the bread, the smooth vodka sauce on the perfectly cooked pasta, the tender, buttery chicken.

When it came time for dessert, Jimmy went into the kitchen and returned with two dishes of Marie’s famous tiramisu, a cool, rich combination of chocolate cream, sponge cake and coffee liqueur topped with the creamy mascarpone. He set my dish down in front of me. I glanced down, saw the engagement ring perched on top of the cream. Without missing a beat, I picked it up, licked it off and put it on my finger as Jimmy laughed, low and dirty. Then I looked into Jimmy’s confident, smiling, utterly handsome face and knew I’d spend the rest of my life crazy in love with this guy.

Obviously things didn’t turn out quite that way.

When we’d been married for eight months, Jimmy drove down to New York for a chef supply show. He’d gotten up at 5:00 a.m. to get there early, spent the whole day learning about new oven technologies, hearing how remodeling a restaurant kitchen could save time and money, looking at hundreds of new or redesigned tools for the chef. Then he and a bunch of other chefs headed out for dinner.

It was past midnight when he called me from outside New Haven, nearly two hours from Mackerly.

“You didn’t have too much to drink, did you?” I asked, cuddled up in our bed. I’d been waiting up for him, and in truth was disappointed that he was still so far away.

“No, baby. One glass of wine at about five, that’s it. You know me.”

I smiled, mollified. “Well, you’re not too tired, are you?”

“I’m a little beat,” he admitted, “but not too bad. I miss you. I just want to get home and see your beautiful face and smell your hair and get laid.”

I laughed. “Now that’s funny,” I said, “because I just want to see your beautiful face and get laid, too.”

I didn’t say, Jimmy, at least pull over and take a nap. I didn’t say, Baby, we have our whole lives together. Get a motel room and go to sleep. Instead, I said, “I love you, honey. Can’t wait to see you.” And he said the same thing, and that was the last thing he ever did say.

About a hundred minutes after we hung up, Jimmy fell asleep at the wheel, crashed into an oak tree six miles from home and died instantly, and the rest of my life was rewritten.

“HOW’S THE CAKE?” I ask Ash, my seventeen—year—old Goth neighbor from down the hall.

“It’s fantastic. You sure you don’t want any?”

“I’m sure. I taught this one in class, remember? You can make it yourself.” Ash, who doesn’t have a lot of friends her own age, helps out at my six—week pastry class from time to time.

“Why bake for myself when I, like, have my own bakery right down the hall?” She takes another huge bite. “Anyway, stop stalling, Lucy. Get this done.”

Feeling the need for a little company, I’d bribed Ash with bittersweet chocolate cake and the latest James Bond DVD. Tonight, I’m registering on a dating Web site, and while it seems like the perfect way for me to find someone, my stomach jumps nonetheless. I drain my wineglass, then drop a kiss on Fat Mikey’s head. He blinks fondly at me, then, fickle as only a cat can be, pricks my knee with his claws and jumps down.

“Lucy, I’m, like, aging rapidly here,” Ash reminds me. “I do have school tomorrow, and my stupid mother wants me home at like, eleven.”

“Sorry, sorry,” I mutter. I need to do this. Aside from hitting a sperm bank, this is the way to get what I want. Find a husband. I glance at my young friend, who could also do with a boyfriend. As always, her hair is Magic—Marker black, her eyes ringed with eyeliner, her eyebrows painfully overplucked. Because she’s been eating, some of her black lipstick has been dislodged, revealing a Cupid’s bow mouth in the prettiest imaginable shade of pink.

“What are you staring at?” she asks. “Get your butt in gear. The movie’s two hours long.”

I obey, entering my pertinent information, then click to the next screen and begin the questionnaire.

“Heard from Ethan lately?” Ash asks with careful nonchalance. She’s had a crush on him for years.

“Um, not really. I saw him on the water today, though,” I say, looking at her again. “He was sailing.” The truth is, I haven’t really talked to Ethan since that night.

“So cool.” She blushes, then picks at the sole of her engineer boot to hide her love.

I hide a smile and look back at the computer. I’m only halfway done. It’s really too bad that I don’t live in a society of arranged marriages. The Black Widows could pick someone out for me…a nice enough man who didn’t have expectations of romantic love. That being fond of each other would be sufficient…he’d take care of me, I’d take care of him, we’d be the parents of the same children, rather than two people crazy in love.

Fat Mikey heads over to the slider to gaze into the night. If I open the door, he’ll take the fire escape down to the street, then kill something and bring it back to me. His way of showing love, his soul as romantic as Tony Soprano’s. “Not tonight, buddy,” I tell him, clicking “maple” for the If you were a tree question. Finally I get to the screen that offers the available men in a twenty—mile radius. “And here they are,” I say. Ash lurches off the couch and peers over my shoulder.

“Hey, there’s Paulie Smith,” she says. Paulie and I play in the baseball league.

“I wonder if his wife knows he’s looking,” I murmur, clicking on the next choice. “Oh, it’s Captain Bob. Nice that he’s at least trying to score with someone other than my mom.”

“Totally gross,” Ash mutters. “Hey, look at this one.” She taps the screen with her stubby black nail. “He’s cute.”

I look. Soxfan212. Nice eyes, lawyer, single, no kids.

“Oops,” Ash says at the next bullet point. “That’s a deal breaker, isn’t it?”

Soxfan212 likes to sail. Immediately, I picture him clinging to an overturned boat in high seas, rain pelting down, sharks circling, the rescue helicopter waving regretfully as they fly off, unable to make the save.

“Sorry, Soxfan,” I say.

This afternoon, the same images of death and drowning were strong in my mind when I saw Ethan as I was piloting for Captain Bob. The wind was much too fierce in my opinion, and Ethan’s sailboat, a two—masted sixteen—footer, sliced through the water, tilting with speed, sails taut. Ethan waved, grinning, and it was all I could do not to radio the Coast Guard so they could tell Ethan to slow down. He’s a good sailor—won a few races and whatnot—but it just seems crazy, going out in the ocean over your head, alone, on a boat, in the wind. Though I guess that is the point of sailing.

“Okay, let’s move on,” Ash says firmly. “Here. Type in your little message.”

“Right.” I type dutifully. Thirty years old, no kids, widowed five years ago. Seeking long—term relationship, hoping to meet someone I won’t love a whole heck of a lot but won’t hate, either. Good teeth a plus.

“What do you think?” I ask my friend. “Will they be lining up for me?” Ash just shakes her head. Fat Mikey rolls his eyes (I swear), then begins licking his privates.

“You have three minutes,” Ash says, “and I’m starting the movie. And you can’t watch it if you don’t finish this.”

“Yes, Mother,” I say. I call to mind my tiny niece, the indescribable look on my sister’s face when she looks at her child, the wonder and pride and protectiveness. I remember Nicky’s wriggly hugs, how he danced in excitement yesterday when telling me about finding a woolly bear caterpillar. I look at Ash, the nicest kid I know, though she tries desperately to hide it in her hideous clothes and makeup.

And so I delete what I’ve written and type something a bit more palatable.

“Good for you, Lucy,” Ash affirms. “Now grab a Twinkie and come watch the wonder that is Daniel Craig.”




CHAPTER FIVE


“SO? YOU WANT TO DATE HER? She’s perfectly nice. A widow. Sure, she was sad when her husband, bless his heart, crashed into that tree, but none of the Prozac, you know what I’m saying? And as you can see, she has a nice figure.”

Aunt Iris has just dragged me from the kitchen, where I was taking out fifteen loaves of rye. A man in his forties, short, plump, balding, stands in front of the counter, frozen in terror. Was I wishing that the Black Widows would fix me up? I take it back.

“Sorry about this,” I said. “Can I help you?”

“Um…I just…I wanted a danish.”

“And you got a danish,” Iris says pointedly. She jerks her head toward me. “So what do you think?”

“I need some change,” the man whispers to me.

“Sure.” I snatch the twenty from where it’s being held hostage in Iris’s hand and hit a key on the cash register. “Just one danish? Anything else?”

“Nothing else! Uh, I mean, no thanks.” He looks warily at Iris, then back at me. “I’m sorry.”

Iris bristles, swelling like an indignant and regal toad. “Oh, she’s not good enough for you, is that it? Why? What’s special about you, huh, mister?” She grabs me by my shoulders, gives a brisk shake. “Look at those hips. She was born to have children, and none of this epidural crap. Ask my daughter. She’s a lesbian doctor.” Aunt Iris releases me, folds her arms and stares the man down. “I had two children, not a drop of painkiller for me. Did it hurt? Of course it did. It was childbirth, for heaven’s sake. I made do. I bore it. The tearing…not so bad. It didn’t kill me.”

I hand the man his change. “Have a nice day. Come again.”

The man won’t be coming again, I assure you. He scuttles out the door. I’d be willing to bet he never comes to the island again.

“Iris, maybe you could…tone it down a little?” I suggest.

“What?” Iris asks, wounded. She snatches up a rag and starts polishing the immaculate counter. “Tone what down?”

“Well, parading me out here like a farm animal at an auction.”

“You said you wanted to date someone, so I’m helping, that’s all.”

“That was more along the lines of pimping, with a crash course in obstetrics thrown in.”

“So fussy! I thought beggars couldn’t be choosers,” she huffs.

“I’m not a beggar! I just…I can meet someone on my own. You’re so nice to try, but please don’t harass the customers. Business is bad enough.”

“Business is fine,” she snorts. “Listen to her. Business is bad. Fifty—seven years of bad business, huh? Put you through your fancy—shmancy baking college, didn’t it? Hmm?”

“Yes, Aunt Iris. It did,” I admit. “It’s just that we could do a lot more if we put in some tables, offered coffees and—”

Iris’s magnificent eye roll is interrupted as the bell rings. My aunt’s usually stern face morphs into sycophantic adoration. “Oh, Grinelda! Hello, hello! Come in, dear! So nice of you to visit us.”

I stifle a sigh.

Grinelda is a frequent visitor to Bunny’s. She is a self—proclaimed gypsy, and my aunts and mother revere her. Gypsies have a special place in the hearts of Hungarians, and the Black Widows, devout Catholics all, view Grinelda as second only to the Book of the Apocalypse in terms of prophetic abilities. Like Madonna or Cher, Grinelda has no last name, which means she must be paid in cash. Also like the aforementioned pop stars, Grinelda likes to dress up. Today’s ensemble is sort of “attention deficit disorder meets kindergartner on sugar high.” Long, shiny purple skirt riding higher in the back than in the front, as it must make the long journey over Grinelda’s impressive rump. Red blouse with a piece of duct tape running up one shoulder seam, pilling black shawl, a sliding jingle of cheap bracelets and punishing, clip—on earrings.

Her voice rusted by fifty years of small brown cigars, Grinelda now croaks out a greeting. “Daisy, Iris, Rose…your loved ones await a word.”

“Lucy, honey, don’t just sit there like a lump, get her something to eat!” Aunt Rose trills, bursting from the back of the kitchen from where she was slathering a wedding cake in her special blend of Crisco and confectioner’s sugar. “Go!” She yanks off her apron and smoothes her hair.

I do as I’m told, heaping ten of Bunny’s most garish and colorful cookies on a plate and stirring three teaspoons of sugar into a large mug of “staff—only” coffee.

My mother emerges from her office, applying another coat of lipstick as she does. “Oh, good, she’s here. Lucy, do you want a reading, too? Electrolysis, maybe?”

“No, thanks,” I say, ignoring the mustache crack. “Mom, Grinelda’s about as a psychic as a fern. And a hundred bucks a pop? I just don’t think you should—”

“Shh! She’ll hear you, honey. Quiet down and go in the back if you’re such a cynic. Go! Shoo!” Mom takes the plate of cookies from me, and approaches Grinelda with the reverence of a Wise Man nearing baby Jesus. “Grinelda! Welcome!”

I’ve always found it odd that Mom is as sold as her sisters on Grinelda, since she seems so much more sophisticated, but I guess we all have our weak spots. And though I am indeed cynical about Grinelda’s abilities, I peek from the kitchen. Grinelda may be a fraud, but she’s still fun to watch.

“Daisy, my dear,” the gypsy croaks, cutting her crepey eyes to me, “it’s so good to see you. I’m feeling a bit tired today, but I’ll do my best.”

The three sisters cluck and fuss around Grinelda, who doesn’t waste time, shoving two cookies into her mouth at once. Through a spray of crumbs, she says, “I’m getting a letter…someone’s coming.” My aunts and mother clutch hands, crowding around the little table. “The letter is…L. Yes. It’s a man whose name begins with L. Does one of you know a man whose name begins with L?”

“Doesn’t everyone know a man whose name begins with L?” I ask sweetly. I am ignored.

“Larry,” Aunt Rose breathes. “My Larry.” As if Grinelda didn’t know Rose’s husband’s name. She’s been bilking the Black Widows for years.

“Larry…he wants you to know something…he’s still with you. True love never dies. And whenever you see a yellow flower next to a red flower, it’s a sign from him, a sign that he loves you.”

The fact that Grinelda walks through Ellington Park to get here, and that the park is planted with dozens and dozens of red and yellow chrysanthemums currently in robust bloom and easily visible from this very shop, is lost on little Rose. She clutches her hand to her ample bosom. “Oh, a sign! Larry, honey, I love you, too, sweetheart!”

Well, I can’t help it. My throat feels a little tight. Sure, Grinelda’s full of garbage, but the expression on Rose’s face is probably worth the hundred bucks she just shelled out.

“The man is fading…and now there’s someone else. Another man…tall. Limping. Name starts with a P.”

“Pete! My Pete!” Iris trumpets. “He walked with a limp! Shot in the leg by his idiot brother!”

Grinelda lights a cheroot and sucks on it, nodding wisely, then exhaling a bluish stream of smoke. “Yep. Limping.”

While I don’t believe Grinelda can see the dead, I do believe that those who have died visit us. There are those rogue dimes, for example, found in unusual spots…the exact middle of the kitchen counter, or in my sock drawer. Occasionally I’ll dream that Jimmy’s back on earth for a chat. He always looks gorgeous in those dreams, and is always just checking in. The widows group I’d belonged to assured me that this kind of thing was a fairly common experience.

So it’s not that I don’t believe. I just don’t believe Grinelda.

My latest batch of bread has twenty minutes to go before it’ll be done. A little air would be nice, so I head out for a stroll down Main Street. The trees have lost their deep green summer lushness, and the sunlight has a mellow, golden softness to it. An elderly couple walks slowly across the green, him with a cane, her clinging to his arm. Beautiful. They head into the cemetery, and I look away.

The dark, rich scent of roasting coffee wafts out from Starbucks. I could really use a strong cuppa joe…I was up till 2:00 a.m. this morning watching The Hunt for Red October, and my tired brain yearns for a caffeine fix. I can’t go in, of course. Starbucks is my competitor, and it’s run by the meanest girl in Mackerly—Doral—Anne Driscoll.

Well, she’s not the meanest girl anymore. That’s not fair. She’s the meanest woman. I’ve known her all my life, and she basically lived the cliché of Tough Townie…multiple piercings in her ears, eyebrows, nose and tongue, jeans so tight you could count her pocket change, a surly sneer perpetually spreading across her thin and usually cursing mouth. Tattooed by the time she was fourteen, smoking, drinking, sleeping around…the woiks, as Bugs Bunny would say. And then there was the utter contempt she had for me, a rather meek and shy child who lived to please teachers and sang in St. Bonaventure’s choir.

Unlike most of my graduating class, Doral—Anne never left Mackerly. She sneered and spat with what we all knew was just envy whenever college was mentioned. She waited tables at a diner in Kingstown, and when Gianni’s opened in Mackerly, she got a job there.

Well before I met Ethan or Jimmy, Doral—Anne was talking about Gianni’s. Every time I ran into her when home for the weekend, she’d bring it up. How great it was working there. How much money she made. How fantastic the owners were. College—especially my college—was for pussies. She was in the restaurant business. Probably Gianni’s was going to train her to be manager.

In my “try to be nice to everyone” way, I’d tell her that sounded great, which seemed to make her nastier than ever. “‘That sounds great,’” she’d mimic. “Lang, you’re such a stupid little goody—good.”

When I met Jimmy, Doral—Anne was still a waitress, no management position in sight. She didn’t dare take potshots at me at Gianni’s, not when the chef himself was in love with me, not when the owners treated me like gold, and man, did she hate it. Narrowed eyes every time I came in. Jerky, hard movements. Overly loud laughter to show how much fun she was having.

A month after Ethan introduced Jimmy and me, Doral—Anne got caught stealing and was fired. And because I’d seen her in action there, heard her claims of being groomed for manager and because I now held a place of honor in the Mirabelli family, she hated me all the more.

Doral—Anne’s hostility toward me didn’t waver after I became a widow. Once, four or five months after Jimmy died, I saw her at the gas station; she was obviously pregnant. I’d heard through the gossip that floated into the bakery that the father was some biker dude who’d passed through town.

“Congratulations, Doral—Anne,” I said dutifully.

She turned to me, eyes narrowed with malicious glee, she stuck out her pregnant belly, rubbed it with both hands and said, “Yeah. Nothing like a baby. I’m so happy. Bet you wish you could have one, too, huh? Too bad Jimmy didn’t get you pregnant before he died.”

Wordlessly I’d stopped pumping, though my tank was far from full, got into my car and drove home, my hands shaking, my stomach ice—cold.

Doral—Anne had her baby—Leo—and a couple of years later, popped out another one. Kate. Rumor had it the father was Cutty, the married owner of Cutty’s Bait & Boat Rental, and though Cutty’s wife left him, he never publicly acknowledged paternity. Doral—Anne bounced from waitressing job to waitressing job. Then a year ago, Starbucks opened in our tiny little town, and Doral—Anne was hired as manager. From the way she acts, Starbucks has found the cure for cancer, AIDS and the common cold.

Speak of the devil. Doral—Anne appears in the doorway, broom in hand. Seeing me standing across the street, she shoves the broom behind her, the ropy muscles of her thin arms snaking and lean. “What’s up, Lang?” she calls, the edge in her voice carrying easily across the quiet street.

“Hi, Doral—Anne,” I answer. “How’s it going?” Then I bite my tongue, wishing I hadn’t asked.

“It’s great! Business is booming. I guess you know that, since so many of your customers come here now. Guess your fancy cooking school didn’t help so much after all. Welp, see ya!” She flips back her lank, overly long bangs and goes back inside.

Gritting my teeth, I chastise myself for giving her the opening. I need to get back to the bakery, anyway. My internal timer says there are only five minutes till perfection.

As always, the smell of bread comforts me, not that Doral—Anne did any real damage…she’s nasty, that’s all. The comforting murmur of the Black Widows communing with the dead floats into the kitchen, though I can’t make out actual words. I open the oven door. Ah. Five dozen loaves of Italian, baked to hot, golden perfection. “Hello, little ones,” I say. Flipping them off the sheets so they won’t overcook on the bottom, I leave them to cool, then head for the proofer, the glass warming cupboard where the loaves rise before going into the oven. This batch contains a dozen loaves of pumpernickel for a German restaurant in Providence, some sourdough for a fusion place, and three dozen loaves of French for the local customers who just love my bread (as well they should). I set the temperature a little higher, since our oven tends to lose oomph around this time of day, then take a warm loaf of Italian and just hold it, savoring the warmth, the rub of the cornmeal that coats the bottom, the crisp and flaky crust.

It occurs to me that I’m cradling the warm loaf as one would hold an infant. Really need to get cracking on that new husband.eCommitment has yielded nothing so far, so I may need to try another venue. But first, lunch. I’m starving.

Putting the loaf gently in the slicer, I press the button, still as charmed by the machine as I was as a child, then open the fridge to see what offerings it holds. Tuna salad, no celery…perfect. I pop two slices of the fresh bread into the toaster, then open a bottle of coffee milk and wait.

While I love the bakery and love working with my aunts, I can’t help wishing Bunny’s was different. More tables, more refined pastries than just danish and doughnuts. If we sold biscotti, for example. (“Biscotti? That’s Italian,” my aunts said the last time I broached the subject. “We’re not the Italians.”) If we sold cakes by the slice—not Rose’s wedding cakes, but the kind that people might actually like to eat. Coconut lime, for example. Sour cream pecan. Chocolate with mocha frosting and a hazelnut filling. If we sold coffee and cappuccino, even, heaven protect us, lattes.

“Lucy, honey, can you get Grinelda some more coffee?” Aunt Rose calls.

“Sure,” I answer. My toast is still browning. I grab the pot and sugar bowl and, heading into the front, note that my mother is wiping her eyes. “How’s Dad?” I can’t help asking.

“He thinks Emma is just beautiful,” Mom answers. “It’s amazing, Grinelda. You have such a gift.”

“Such a gift,” I murmur with a dubious glance at the gypsy, who is chewing on another cookie. An eleven—by—seventeen—inch piece of paper is taped to Bunny’s front door…the door through which Grinelda entered. Daisy Is A Grandmother!!! the sign says, right above the picture of my niece. Emma Jane Duvall, September 8, 7 lbs. 3 oz.

The readings are over. My aunts wander back to the kitchen to get a box for Grinelda’s loot as my mother fills the medium in on Corinne’s nursing issues. As I pour Grinelda some more coffee, she cuts her pale blue eyes to me.

“I have a message for you, too,” she says, a chunk of sugar cookie falling from her mouth onto her sequined lap.

“That’s okay, Grinelda. I’m fine,” I answer.

“He wants you to check the toast. Your husband.” She pops the fallen cookie bit back into her mouth and regards me impassively. My mother quivers with attention.

“Lucy! Your toast is about to burn back here, honey!” Iris calls.

Mom’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “Oh. My. God!”

“Thanks, Iris,” I call.

“What else?” my mother breathes, reaching out to clutch Grinelda’s age—spotted hand.

“Check the toast. That’s his message,” she says, taking a slurp of coffee.

“Got it. Thanks.” I look up at the ceiling. “Thanks, Jimmy! My sandwich would’ve been ruined without your divine intervention.”

“A cynic. That’s what she is,” Rose says, hurrying to pat Grinelda’s shoulder. “She’ll come around.” Rose looks outside. Across the street, the chrysanthemums planted around the statue of James Mackerly glow with good health. “Oh, my word,” she whispers. “Yellow flowers next to red! Oh, Larry!”

I RACE FOR SECOND, SLIDE AT THE LAST second, and bang! I’m in.

“Safe!” calls Sal, the umpire at second.

My teammates cheer. “Of course I’m safe, Ethan,” I say to my brother—in—law, who missed the tag. “You’re no match for my incredible speed.”

“Apparently not,” he murmurs, a smile curling up the corners of his mouth. Something tugs in my stomach, and I look over at third base. May need to steal that, too.

“Nice try, Ethan!” Ash calls from the stands.

“Thanks, Ash!” he says, tossing her a little salute. She blushes so fiercely we can practically feel the heat. Poor Ash…she really needs friends her own age.

Just about every able—bodied adult under the age of seventy plays on the Mackerly Softball League, and every one of the six downtown businesses sponsors a team. So does International Food Products, Ethan’s company, the team Bunny’s Bakery is playing tonight.

Not only am I the organizer of our little baseball club, spending hours and hours each winter on team assignments, scheduling, equipment maintenance and so on, but I’m one of the league’s best players, I’m proud to say. My batting average this year is .513. (Crazy, I know!). As pitcher, I lead the league in strikeouts, and I have more stolen bases than all my teammates combined. It’s fair to say I absolutely love playing softball.

Ellen Ripling is up and takes a strike. She hasn’t been on base since June 22, and given that it’s now mid—September, my hopes are not high that she’ll get me to third. However, it’s 4-1 Bunny’s, and it’s the bottom of the eighth. I watch and bide my time. Ball two. I glance at Ethan, who’s smart enough to stand close to the base in case I bolt. “How’s your new job?” I ask. Aside from a few chance meetings in the lobby of our building, Ethan and I haven’t really talked since he moved back to Mackerly permanently.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Lots of meetings.”

“You haven’t really told me about it,” I prod.

“Mmm. Well, I’ve been busy. Settling in, all that crap.”

I take another look at Ethan. His brown eyes flick to me, and he smiles automatically, that elvish smile that curls so appealingly at the corners. “Want to come over later?” I ask. “Tell me about it?”

His gaze flicks back to the batter as Ellen strikes out. Inning over. “Not sure about that,” he says.

Charley Spirito, Bunny’s right—fielder, ambles over as Ethan and I make our way off the infield. “Hey, Luce,” he says, “what’s this I hear about you looking for a man? Your aunts were saying you’re gettin’ back in the game. True?”

I wince. My aunts may not fully approve of my efforts to remarry, but that hasn’t kept them from advertising my wares to every male who comes in the bakery. Iris’s method of not handing over change until I have been viewed has caught on. This morning, Rose presented me to Al Sykes and asked him if he wanted to date me. Given that he was my social studies teacher in sixth grade and roughly forty years my senior, I was grateful when he declined.

“So?” Charley prods.

“It’s true,” I admit. “Why? You know any men?”

He grins, hitches up his pants and looks at my chest. “I’m a man, Luce. You wanna go out with me? I could show you a good time, you know what I’m saying?”

Ethan cuts him a glance but says nothing.

A Del’s Lemonade truck pulls into the parking lot, and I find myself wishing I was sipping a frozen drink—or driving the truck—or lying underneath its wheels—rather than talking about my love life on the infield. I’ve known Charley my whole life. The idea of kissing him…getting naked with him…I suppress a shudder.

“Then again, a date with you is basically signing my own death warrant, right, Luce?” Charley says, apparently irked at my hesitation. “I mean, who’d want to do a Black Widow?”

My mouth falls open in surprise, but before I can do anything, Charley is lying on the field, clutching his face.

“Fuck, Ethan! You hit me!”

“Get up,” Ethan growls.

“Ethan,” I say, putting my hand on his arm. He shakes it off.

“Get up.” He stands over Charley, waiting.

I grab Ethan’s arm a little harder this time. “Ethan, he’s not gonna fight you. You know that. Leave him alone.” Charley, whose eye is rapidly swelling, shoots me a watery and grateful glance. Ethan did some boxing for a while, one of his many hobbies that involve physical harm to his person. Charley, though he’s the middle school gym teacher and seems as physically fit as the next guy, would be an idiot to fight Ethan Mirabelli. And though it could be said that Charley is indeed an idiot, he’s not that dumb.

“Lucy, I’m sorry for what I said,” Charley announces loudly enough for all to hear. “I’m a fuck—up, and that was a shitty thing to say. Okay?”

“Thank you for the beautiful apology, Charley,” I say just as loudly, turning to Ethan. His jaw is tight, his eyes hot. “Good enough, Ethan?”

“Good enough,” he mutters, then goes to his dugout.

Paulie Smith is our closer and makes short work of International’s final three batters. I wonder if he has a date…but no, there’s his wife. My teammates and I touch knuckles and pack up our gear, exchanging insults and compliments in our dugout.

“You coming to Lenny’s, Lucy?” Carly Espinosa, our catcher, asks, slinging her bag over her shoulder, then wincing as it hits her in the leg.

“Um, no, I have something I need to do,” I say.

“See you around, then,” she answers, sauntering after the rest of the team as they head toward the park.

I walk over to the other dugout, where Ethan stuffs his gear into his bag with considerable force. His temper, though rarely unsheathed, takes a while to fade.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, not meeting my eyes.

I sit on the bench next to him. “Charley’s a dope, that’s all,” I say.

“Yup.” He shoves his glove into the bag, then sits for a second, staring at the concrete floor of the dugout. “So what kind of guy are you looking for, anyway, Lucy?” he asks.

I take a quick breath. “I don’t know. Someone decent. Someone who’d be good to me.” Someone who won’t die young. “You want to grab dinner, Ethan? I’m heading over to see your folks.”

“Have you told them about your plan yet?” he asks knowingly. I haven’t, and a little moral support would be appreciated.

“Um, no, not yet. I figured I would tonight.” Please come.

Ethan tightens the drawstring on his bag and gives me a sidelong glance. “Sorry. I’m having dinner with Parker and Nicky.” He reaches out, ruffles my hair and is gone, leaving me to sit in the dugout alone. He stops and says something to Ash, who is lingering, hoping for just this interaction.

“Have fun,” I call belatedly. Dinner with the nuclear family. How nice.

I wonder for a minute if, now that he’s in Mackerly all the time now, Parker and he will get together. If their fondness for each other will blossom into something deeper. If they’ll end up married after all this time. I kind of hope so. They’re both great people, and they already have Nicky, who’s about as wonderful a child as a child can be. Ethan says something to Ash, earning a smile, then continues toward home.

My sentiments about Ethan and Parker are echoed by my mother—in—law an hour later as we sit in the owners’ booth at Gianni’s.

“That Ethan,” Marie begins, her traditional opening when talking about her younger son. “He’s working in Providence at that horrible company, he’s here, he makes a decent living. He should marry that Parker. Be a father to Nicky.”

“He is a father to Nicky,” I say mildly, looking at the mural of Venice above our table. “A wonderful father.”

“A full—time father,” Gianni corrects. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he adds as Kelly serves our dinner. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, where’s the parsley? Ivan, for the love of God!” Gianni lurches up from the table to go yell at his latest chef, which has happened roughly every six minutes since I’ve been here, and probably happens more often when I’m not.

My father—in—law had bypass surgery last year, and he just can’t take the stress of running the kitchen himself. That being said, he goes through chefs like tissues. No one, of course, was as good as Jimmy. No one knew the family recipes, the traditions. No one could ever fill Jimmy’s shoes, either as a son or a chef. And so Gianni suffers, his knees increasingly stiff, his temper increasingly short.

“Eat, sweetheart. You’re too thin.” Marie, who is wider than she is tall, spears a tortellini from her own plate and holds it out for me. I eat it obediently, smiling. Marie always loved two things about me—I adored her son, and I ate well. I’m not thin, let me assure you, but to an Italian family who owns a restaurant, I look like I just staggered back from forty days in the desert.

Gianni returns from the kitchen, his face flushed, blood pressure up, no doubt, and sits heavily. “Eat, sweetheart,” he urges me, shoving my plate closer.

“It’s wonderful,” I say, and it is…eggplant rolatini, one of my favorites. The sauce is a little too acidic, granted, not like when Ethan made it last month at his place. For a vice president of a company whose sole purpose is to get people to avoid eating, Ethan is a fantastic cook. I wonder if he has to hide this fact from his bosses.

“It’s not as good as Jimmy’s,” Marie declares, putting her fork down with an abrupt clatter.

“Of course not,” I murmur, patting her hand and swallowing. Now or never. “Listen, speaking of Jimmy…” My in—laws regard me somberly from across the table, waiting. “Well,” I begin, “um…you know that my sister had a baby, of course.”

“Did she get our eggplant?” Gianni asks.

“Oh, yes, she did. And it was wonderful. She was so grateful.”

“She called, dummy, remember? You talked to her yesterday.” Marie elbows her husband in the side.

“Anyway,” I attempt.

“She’s nursing, I hear,” Marie interrupts.

“Um, yes. Anyway—”

“Should I send veal next time? You know what they say about new mothers and red meat,” Gianni says thoughtfully.

“Actually…well, Corinne doesn’t eat veal. But getting back to—”

“Not eat veal? But why?” Marie frowns.

Rather than launch into the story of Halo, a calf whose birth Corinne witnessed during a field trip in third grade and her resultant “no—beef” policy, I sit back and fold my hands on the table. “I need to tell you something,” I say firmly. My mother—in—law takes Gianni’s arm protectively. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately about Jimmy,” I say more quietly. “And I think I’m ready to…maybe…start dating.”

They don’t move a muscle.

I take a deep breath. “I want to get married again. Have kids. There will never be another Jimmy…he’ll always be my first love.” I swallow. “But I don’t want to grow old alone, either.”

“Of course not,” Gianni says, rubbing his chest, Italian sign language for Look what you’ve done to me. “You should be happy.”

“Of course,” Marie says, knotting her napkin in her hands. Then she bursts into tears. Gianni puts his arm around her, murmurs in Italian, and they’re so dang loving and so joined that I start crying, too.

“You deserve happiness,” Marie sobs.

“You’re a wonderful girl. You’ll always be like a daughter to us,” Gianni says, wiping his eyes.

“And you’ll always be my family,” I hiccup. “I love you both so much.”

Then we clutch hands and indulge in a good old—fashioned crying jag.




CHAPTER SIX


“TRUST ME, IT WORKS WONDERS.” Parker surveys me through narrowed green eyes.

“You can’t be more than a size six,” I say, looking at the…thing…in Parker’s hand. “I’ll never trust you.”

We’re in my room, and to my chagrin, I seem to have put on a few pounds recently. Too many Twinkies, too many Ho Hos, my substitute for the desserts I bake myself, which I can’t seem to eat. Corinne, nursing Emma, watches as Parker turns back to my closet, which is one of those fabulous California thingies—shelves, drawers, racks. The woiks.

“Why haven’t I ever seen you in any of this stuff?” Parker asks, taking out a pair stiletto heels. Oh, I remember those! My first pair of Stuart Weitzman shoes. So pretty. “Do you ever wear these?”

“Well…I’m a baker,” I say. “Those bad boys would kill me. But I like them, sure. I’m a woman, after all.”

“These all have tags on them!” Parker exclaims, falling upon my sweater section.

“Right,” I murmur.

“You shouldn’t spend money if you aren’t going to wear them,” Corinne lectures.

“Well, I don’t want to be like Mom,” I say in my own defense. My mother, after all, dresses more like Coco Chanel than a woman who works in a tiny bakery. But yes, I have a secret weakness for clothes, and looking in my closet, I see Corinne’s point. Clothes, shoes, belts and scarves bulge out toward the room as if imploring me to wear them. So many pretty colors, so much gorgeous fabric—the seductive smoothness of leather, the shimmering silk, the soft comfort of cashmere. Most of that stuff has never been worn. Which, yes, seems pretty dumb.

“Is this La Perla?” Parker demands, yanking a bra out of a drawer.

“Isn’t it the prettiest?” I ask.

Parker, whose trust fund could fund erase the government deficit, glances at the price tag and her eyes widen, and a faint tingle of panic runs through my joints. Okay. Maybe I have a little indulgence issue. Maybe I shouldn’t be spending Jimmy’s life insurance on, er, underwear. But hey! I’m a tragic widow. I deserve pretty underwear. And Nordstrom’s in Providence is so lovely, so soothing. The clerks are always delighted to see me.

Parker gently (reverently?) replaces the La Perla bra. “Okay, we’ll discuss this later. For now, try this. Trust me, it’ll work.”

“I don’t want to put it on. I’m scared,” I answer, grinning at my sister, who’s trying to detach her little parasite by sticking a finger in Emma’s mouth. She yanks up her shirt, exposing the unoccupied breast, and Parker and I flinch simultaneously. The…er…breast looks more like a missile than a mammary gland—rock—hard, the skin taut, white and veined. What really gets me is…poor Corinne…the cracked, engorged nipple, which looks from here to be the size of a dessert plate.

“How the hell did it crack? It can’t be good for you, bleeding nipples,” Parker says, reading my mind. “Let alone Emma. What if she drinks blood, like some little vampire baby?”

“It’s fine,” Corinne says, though her forehead is dotted with sweat. “The air helps it heal. It’s not really bleeding anymore. Mostly healed. Very common. Don’t you remember?”

“Nicky was a formula baby,” Parker murmurs. Corinne’s eyes widen in horror, and to allay another lecture on What’s Best For Baby, I intervene.

“Okay. I’ll try it on. Spanx, huh?” I ask. “It looks evil.”

“Don’t be a sissy,” Parker says. “Honestly, you’re such a weenie, Lucy.”

“I think you’re perfect,” Corinne murmurs automatically.

“Help me get this on, then,” I say, bravely pulling the undergarment over one toe. My circulation is instantly impaired, and I wiggle my toes to make sure I still can. I tug. The Spanx doesn’t budge. “Jeez, Parker! It’s like putting on a garden hose.”

Parker comes over and grabs, yanking so hard I stagger back. “Work with me!” Parker laughs. We try again. The Spanx advances to my calf. Parker gives another savage tug, and I fall into the wall. Corinne laughs merrily, then gasps as Emma pops off.

“We need a couple of firemen, that’s all,” Parker grunts, frowning at the evil Spanx.

“I’d rather set fire to my kitchen,” I say. “This can’t be right, Parker. It doesn’t fit.”

“It does! Trust me, once it’s on, you’ll love how you look. The men will be salivating. You’ll definitely find someone tonight.”

My sister, both huge breasts now fully exposed, smiles. “So where are you two heading?” she asks.

I can’t answer, as Parker has managed to get the Spanx up to my midriff and all breathing is cut off. “A singles thing,” my friend answers.

Corinne shoots me a wary glance. “Singles thing? Oh, dear. Christopher might know someone. I’ll ask.” Emma fusses, and my sister, looking as if she’s about to be executed, shifts her to the other breast. Parker and I quickly avert our eyes as the baby, who apparently has razor blades in place of gums, latches on. Corinne whimpers, then assures the baby that she’s deeply loved.

One more savage yank, and the Spanx is in place. My left leg is asleep, as I imagine the femoral artery was cut off when the Spanx grabbed onto my thigh like a furious pit bull.

“How’s that?” Parker asks.

“Get it off me,” I wheeze. “I’m serious, Parker.”

“Chris, hi, honey!” Corinne squeaks from behind us. “How are you, hon?” She listens for a second, then shifts the phone away from her face. “He’s fine,” she informs us.

“I’ll stop the prayer vigil, then,” Parker murmurs, yanking the Spanx back down.

I dig in the back of the closet and find some jeans that aren’t too painful and vow to limit my Twinkie consumption to two per day.

“Okay, we’re off,” I say to my sister. “Lock up when you’re done.”

“Have a great time!” Corinne says, looking just a little lonely. “I’m sure you’ll have so much fun.”

If “fun” means feeling somewhat like I’m a prisoner of war, then yes, I guess you could say I’m having fun. Not to be a bad sport or anything. Parker may have been having fun in the more traditional sense of the word, but personally, I’m wondering when the Coalition of the Willing plans to free me.

“Yes!” The man in front of me smiles. A man who smells like Aunt Iris’s cellar, dank and moldering. His eye twitch doesn’t advance the cause, either, I’m afraid. Neither does that belch he just barely suppressed. Gah!

“No,” I say as gently as possible. “Thanks, though. I’m sure you’re very nice. But…no. It’s nothing personal. I’m a widow, see, it’s just—”

“Change!” Lemminglike, I step left, my need to make everyone happy mercifully cut off. The next man is extremely thin with a desperate, hungry look about his red—rimmed eyes. “Yes,” he says.

“No. Sorry. It’s not you. It’s me. I’m a widow. No one will ever measure up, you understand. Good luck, though.”

“Jesus Christ, Lucy,” Parker mutters next to me, then eyeballs the guy in front of her. “Yes.”

It cost seventy—five dollars to get into LoveLines tonight. Well, it cost Parker a hundred and fifty dollars to get in tonight, as she paid for my admission. For that sum, we stand in a line, shoulder to shoulder with about forty other women. Facing us is the men’s line. Every ten seconds, we take a step left. The idea is to see if there’s instant chemistry. Simply put, you look at each other and say only “yes” or “no.” If each of you says yes, you exchange cards and, in the next phase of LoveLines, meet for a ten—minute chat. If one or both of you says no, you simply move on.

I had no idea ten seconds could last so long. I quickly learn to hesitate as if torn, then drop my “no” at the last possible second, so as to minimize the hurt feelings.

So far, Parker has seventeen cards. I have none. “Stop saying no,” Parker hisses. “You’re standing there, arms crossed, big, sad eyes, looking like an orphan.”

“Prisoner of war, I was thinking.”

“I thought you wanted to find someone,” she says. “You don’t have to marry them, for God’s sake. Just say yes. The next guy is pretty cute. Say yes to him.”

“Change!” bellows the moderator. Like members of a chain gang, we all shuffle sideways, advancing to the next man. Parker’s right, I need to try. It just seems so…impossible. So stupid, also. Is this what dating is like in your thirties? As always, I’m grateful for Jimmy, the adorable way we met, that long, heart—squeezing, life—changing moment in Gianni’s kitchen. Good old Ethan, knowing I’d like his big brother.

I take a breath and smile gamely at the person in front of me. Average—looking, blond, brown eyes. Be brave, angel, I imagine Jimmy saying. What the heck. I smile, trying not to look like Oliver Twist.

“Yes,” I say.

“No,” he replies.

“Change!”

By the end of the Chain Gang Shuffle, I have collected four cards; Parker, twenty—one. We women go to our designated tables and sit, waiting for our suitors to visit.

My first Yes is just what the doctor ordered. He’s rather bland but wears a nice suit. He has a serious, thoughtful face that bodes well for commitment and wise choices, unlike (for example) Ethan’s devilish eyebrows and delicious smile. Even his tie bespeaks stability. Navy blue, no pattern, very unthreatening. The kind of tie an accountant might wear.

“Hello,” I say as he sits down. “I’m Lucy Mirabelli.”

“Hi,” he replies. “I’m Todd Smith.” Perfect. A nice boring name. Todd Smith simply could not be a dangerous man, not with a name and a tie like that.

“What do you do for a living, Todd?” I ask.

“I’m an accountant.”

My smiles grows more genuine. “I’m a baker,” I say.

“Interesting.”

“Mmm,” I murmur. “Yup.” We look at each other. My smile starts to feel a little stiff. I look at my hands, primly folded in front of me. Todd has a similarly wooden smile on his face. Or maybe it’s his normal smile. I picture seeing that smile across the kitchen table for the next fifty years. Suppress a sigh.

Next to me, Parker is howling with laughter over something her guy said. She tosses her hair, and he leans forward, grinning. Across from me, Todd blinks and cocks his head. I’m reminded of a lizard. Blink, blink. Perhaps his tongue will shoot out and he’ll catch a fly.

“So. An accountant,” I say.

“Yes. That’s right.”

My toes curl in my shoes. Granted, I wanted boring. Reliable, my conscience corrects in a chastising voice. Yes, yes, reliable. Someone who didn’t love me so much he tried to stay awake for twenty straight hours. Someone with the sense to pull over, no matter what his smitten wife might’ve said.

“Do you like movies?” I ask, searching my brain for something to talk about. “I’m a big movie watcher. I watched Star Wars last night.” Surely everyone on earth has seen Star Wars.

“I don’t watch movies, no.” Todd replies. His face is so impassive it could be carved from wood. “I tend to watch CNN more than anything. Their financial reporting is top—notch.”

“And that Anderson Cooper sure is a hottie,” I add without thinking. Oopsy. Todd’s face doesn’t change. He doesn’t seem to mind. Then again, he doesn’t seem to be alive, either. I forge on, albeit with a creeping certainty that Todd is, in fact, an android. “But you’ve seen Star Wars, right?”

“No.”

“But…I mean, it’s part of Americana. NASA sent Luke Skywalker’s light saber into space.”

“I haven’t seen Star Wars.” He forces a smile and says nothing more.

“Do you like dessert?” I ask with a hint of desperation.

“I love Nilla Wafers,” he answers. “Other than that, I really don’t indulge. It’s a sign of weakness, don’t you agree?”

Okay, he’s out. Mercifully our ten minutes are up. “A pleasure,” Todd says, standing and melting back into the crowd.

“Bye,” I say, but he’s already gone.

Parker’s guy, who looks like Matt Damon, just for the record, smooches her on the cheek. “Can’t wait to read your books,” he says fondly.

“They’re disgusting. Give them only to children you hate.” She smiles and tosses her gorgeous hair back, then looks at me. “So how was your guy?”

“He was a dud,” I answer.

“It’s all good,” Parker says. “There are bound to be duds. You’re here. It’s a big step. Hey, we should ask Ethan to come with us next time. He’s probably looking, too, now that you cut him off.”

“I didn’t cut him off!” I splutter. “It was just time to end our…thing. And he was so fine with it, I wonder if he even noticed.”

Parker turns her attention to the guy in front of her. I wait for my own next Yes to show up, but apparently, he’s morphed into a No, since he’s over with a woman whose blouse is so low—cut I can see areola. I look away. After Corinne’s little peep show in my room earlier, I’ve had all the nipple I can take.

Maybe I should work on Parker. Ethan asked her to marry him. Twice, actually. Once when she told him she was preggers, once a few weeks after Nicky was born. Granted, it was largely because of his Italian sense of family and honor, but still. He didn’t have to.

I’m snapped out of my reverie by a tap on the shoulder. Ah, my third Yes. “Hi,” I say.

“Hi,” he replies. “I’m Kyle.”

“I’m Lucy,” I say. I’m looking for a guy I don’t love too much. Want to give it a shot?

He smiles. It’s a nice grin, but not too nice. Brown hair, hazel eyes. I imagine him coming through the door every night. It’s not horrible. Progress. Kyle takes a seat. “So,” he says amiably. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”

I take a deep breath. “Well, I’m a widow. And my friend thought this would be a good way to start getting out there, you know?”

He nods. “A widow, huh? Awesome.”

I have to say, that’s not the usual response. “Excuse me?”

Kyle leans back in his chair and smiles contentedly. “Well, you’re not some skank nobody wants, you know what I’m saying? Like, some guy already thought you were pretty hot, popped the question, then ran into some bad luck, am I right?” My mouth opens, but no sound comes out. Kyle doesn’t seem to notice. “And you’re not some trashy ho who plows through the dudes, either, I’m guessing, since you look all nice and clean and stuff. So you know…cool. You being a widow and all. You must be pretty horny, too, you know what I’m saying?”

Suddenly I feel the spirit of Attila the Hun, my ancestor, materialize at my shoulder. “You’re right. Being a widow is so cool. No one to mess up my stuff, you know what I’m saying? And you know what else, Kyle? Let me tell you a secret. One day, back when he was still alive, my husband took the last cup of coffee, okay? Didn’t even tell me. So I said to myself, ‘Lucy, do you really want to live like this?’ And I didn’t, so I killed him.” I flutter my eyelashes. “You want to grab dinner sometime?”

Parker and I don’t talk much on the way home. My last Yes turned out to be a firefighter, and though he was attractive, charming and polite, there was no way in hell I was going to marry a man who rushed into burning buildings with a rinky—dink little air pack strapped to his back. Parker took his card, though, and they have a date next week.

“You did good tonight, kid,” Parker says when we reach my place.

“And you did amazingly,” I say. “How many dates do you have for next week?”

“Just three,” she answers.

“Are you really looking for someone, or are you just keeping me company?” I ask.

“Oh, I guess I’d like to find someone. Theoretically. It’s different, though, having a kid. I already belong to someone, you know? It’s just that he’s four years old.”

I smile. “You’re so lucky, Parker.”

She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “I know. Now get out of my car, you.”

“Thanks for driving,” I say. “And thanks for taking me. Sorry you wasted your money.”

“It’s nothing,” she answers. “Talk to you tomorrow. And hey, Luce…” She turns to look at me, and as always, I’m struck by just how gorgeous she is.

“Yes?”

“Jimmy would be proud of you.”

There’s a sudden lump in my throat. “Thanks,” I say, my voice uneven. “Kiss Nicky for me.”

“Will do.”

In the elevator, rather than pressing 4, I hit 5. Ethan’s floor. Maybe he wants a little company. Maybe—I wince, feeling like a person on a diet standing in front of the freezer, knowing she’s about to eat a pint of Ben & Jerry’s—maybe Ethan wouldn’t mind a friendly little tumble. One that means nothing…just a little nooky, a quick shag. Or a longer shag, maybe.

I knock at his door. If he’s home, he’s awake…it’s only ten, and Ethan never goes to bed before 1:00 a.m. Or he didn’t use to, anyway. Whatever the case, there’s no answer. Feeling more deflated than I should, I go back down to my apartment, where Fat Mikey winds himself around my ankles in his traditional attempt to cause my death by tripping me. I pick him up, remind him that he loves me and I live to serve him, and kiss his large head.

Though I know I shouldn’t, I find myself sitting in front of the TV, watching my wedding video once again, Fat Mikey’s comforting bulk at my side. After attempting to find a date tonight, I just need to see Jimmy’s face, see him in motion. Our time together was so brief—so many memories that might’ve been were taken from me the night he died. We have no first anniversary, no birth of our children.

I hit Mute and watch the video in silence, undistracted by the sounds of the music, the laughter, other people talking. Instead I just drink in the sight of Jimmy, frozen in time at age twenty—seven, crazy in love with me.




CHAPTER SEVEN


THE FIRST TIME ETHAN AND I SLEPT together was, um, well…it was memorable.

What brings a woman to sleep with her brother—in—law, after all? I’m going to have to go with honesty here. Sheer horniness.

See, it had been three and a half years. That’s forty—two months of being alone. Things were better, they were. The darkest days were over, when I’d wake up and realize something was wrong but didn’t know what…the desperate, terrifying realization that I’d never see Jimmy again, ever…somehow I’d gotten through that yawning, awful black time. Sure, I still had a few bad moments here and there. But I was trying.

Growing up around widows, I’d seen my mother and aunts embrace widowhood as a defining trait. Before all else, they were Widows, and God help me, I didn’t want that to happen. I wanted to stay myself, the happy, optimistic person Jimmy had loved…not someone who waved the flag of widowhood wherever she went. Granted, I often felt that the best part of me died with Jimmy, but I tried to radiate the idea that yes, it was awful, but I’d be really okay someday. To try to keep positive, I did a little yoga, taught my pastry class, since baking soothed me even though I couldn’t choke down the results, and listened to Bob Marley a lot. A line from “No Woman, No Cry” would run through my head whenever I felt that backward pull toward blackness. Everything’s gonna be all right. Everything’s gonna be all right. Everything’s gonna be all right. Everything’s gonna be all right. I was managing. Everything would be all right, I was determined it would.

And then came my twenty—eighth birthday. And everything was not all right.

Because on that day, suddenly, I was older than my husband ever would be.

As my birthday dawned, I could feel myself sinking into the black hole that had been so hard to crawl out of. I was twenty—eight. Jimmy would never be. I was twenty—eight, widowed, childless, chubbier, paler. My life had been so wonderful with Jimmy and now—I couldn’t avoid the fact today—my life sucked. I was baking bread instead of desserts. I wasn’t featured on the cover of Bon Appetit or a guest judge on Top Chef. I was nobody in the world of pastry chefs, no one’s wife, no one’s mother, and none of that was likely to change anytime soon. While I was surviving, I was no fun. You get the idea.

When the Black Widows came into the bakery that morning, I told them I was leaving early. I’d never taken a day off from Bunny’s, as the last thing I wanted was too much time on my hands. Iris peered anxiously in my mouth, looking for signs of “the Lou Gehrig’s.” Rose offered me one of her “pep pills,” which I declined (not sure if they were Tic Tacs, cold medicine or Prozac). My own mother said nothing, probably knowing just why I wanted to hide.

The aunts clucked around me like worried hens. After much discussion, they accepted my assurance that the chances of me having ALS were probably not as high as feared. I told them I was fine…maybe I just needed a makeover, was just feeling blue. My mother gave me a rare hug, said we’d celebrate my birthday tomorrow, and Iris offered me her lipstick (Coral Glow, which she’d been wearing for fifty years and which bore more resemblance to a nuclear spill than anything that God made). I put a little on—it couldn’t hurt, right?—and walked home.

My mood grew heavier as I skirted the park. In there was Jimmy’s grave, incontrovertible evidence that he was not alive. When he first died, I went through all that magical thinking that widows do, coming up with possible scenarios to prove Jimmy’s death was a mistake. That he had stopped, for example, at a motel. But someone had stolen his car, and it was that poor thief who died, not Jimmy. (The fact that I’d seen Jimmy’s body at the funeral home was something I’d have been happy to overlook, should he come walking through the doors.) Or that Jimmy worked for the CIA and his death was staged, and any day I’d be getting a call from Zimbabwe or Moscow. Or if I just was brave and strong enough, that Jimmy would come back and tell me I’d done a great job and that he’d be alive again, sorry for the inconvenience, and I could just relax and go back to that sweet, happy life we’d once had.

Now, I forced myself to look in the general direction of my husband’s grave, and a little more magical thinking occurred. “Are you really going to let me be older than you?” I asked, aloud. “Jimmy? You sure about this?”

The challenge went unanswered. With a lump in my throat, I continued on my way.

When I got home, my apartment was still dark, as I hadn’t pulled up the shades. I decided to keep them down, too glum for sun. Then I tripped over Fat Mikey in the gloom, earning an outraged hiss. I heaved a sigh: 10:00 a.m. on the day when I’d officially be older than my poor dead husband. Please, God, let this next year be better, I prayed. Let me have a little fun. I hadn’t had much fun since Jimmy died, as God well knew.

Yes. I straightened up. The next year—and all the years thereafter—should be fun. Wicked fun, in fact. Jimmy wasn’t coming back, the selfish jerk. (That would be the anger part of grief—it reared its ugly head every once in a while.) I’d have fun, dang it all. I deserved a little fun, didn’t I? “I deserve some fun, Fat Mikey, don’t you think?” I asked my cat. He twitched his tail in agreement, then yawned.

“You’re right,” I said. “No one deserves fun more than a tragic widow. You are one brilliant cat.”

Thus resolved, I opened my fridge, revealing coffee milk, the Rhode Island state drink, sour cream, lemons and a jar of pickles. My freezer contained six pints of Ben & Jerry’s, a bag of peas and a bottle of Absolut vodka. “Perfect,” I declared to my cat. Vodka and coffee milk…an Ocean State version of a White Russian, which, if analyzed, seemed almost to be a healthy breakfast…a little dairy, a little coffee, a little vodka. The drink went down so smoothly that I made myself another. Delicious. I took a few slugs, then poured a teaspoon of coffee milk into Fat Mikey’s dish (no vodka…didn’t want charges filed against me for getting a cat drunk), and he lapped it up. “Only alcoholics drink alone,” I told him, stroking his silky fur. He turned and gently bit my hand, then continued drinking.

Time to do a little inventory. I would greet my new age armed with a perky attitude, sure I would. Slightly dizzy, I decided to take a good hard look at myself, see what needed to change so I could have more fun. Tripping once more over the large mass of fur and fat that was my pet, I went into my bedroom, stripped naked and stood in front of the full—length mirror on the back of my door.

Gah!

My eyes looked bigger, courtesy of the bluish circles underneath them, which I’d acquired the night the state trooper had come to my door. The skin on my face was white, and a little flaky, especially around my chin. Oh, man! When was the last time I’d exfoliated? Bush’s first term? And my hair! I’d had it cut here and there over the past few years, of course, but when was the last time? I couldn’t remember. Just because it was in a ponytail at work didn’t mean it had to be so flat and lifeless…I chugged the rest of my White Russian, needing a little liquid courage, then continued my self—perusal.

And what was this? Cellulite? I didn’t have cellulite! Well, ten pounds ago, I hadn’t had cellulite. How had this happened? And oh, crap, look at those legs. Had shaving been outlawed? Now, granted, I didn’t go around wearing skirts or shorts, not when I was dealing with four hundred degree ovens, but there was no excuse for this. I needed to go to the beach and get a little sun, too, because my skin was so white that I could’ve modeled for med students studying the circulatory system. Bluish veins ran under my white skin like mold through a wheel of blue cheese. Those legs hadn’t seen the sun for years. Years! How had that happened?

On to the feet…ew. Hey, if Howard Hughes didn’t need to cut his toenails, apparently neither did I. And my God, those heels! So rough and dry! Gah!

In a sudden frenzy, I pulled on Jimmy’s old robe, yanked open my bathroom cupboard and rummaged in the back. Scissors, terrific. Oh, great, a pumice stone. Forgot all about that thing. Hadn’t used it since I was a newlywed. Here was some crusty old mud mask guaranteed to minimize my pores and give me “the radiant glow of the Swiss.” I’d never been to Switzerland, but they couldn’t look worse than I did.

The last thing I unearthed was an unopened bottle of spray—on sunless tanner. I checked the expiration date: 08/2004. Well. It probably wouldn’t work, but it was worth a shot. I had to do something. I couldn’t hit twenty—eight looking like something left in the basement for the past decade or so. Besides, what said fun more than a tan? Nothing.

“This calls for another drink, Fat Mikey,” I said. “And yes, you can have some more. But no vodka for you, my feline friend.” White Russians were fun. Girls who drank them…ditto. Fat Mikey watched me, his eyes slits of appreciation, I thought.

Yes. Things in the mirror were better when I studied myself a long while later, though that might’ve been because my eyes were having trouble focusing. I’d only intended to cut my bangs, but I’d done such a good job that I kept going. I looked cute in a ragged, Japanese animé kind of way, the bangs shorter on one side, falling in little points. Adorable. Elfin, really. My face was shiny clean, though I couldn’t seem to get the dried mud off one ear. Even so, it was an improvement.

The tanner hadn’t worked—I was still fish—belly white—but that was okay. At least my heels had a little color now, pink instead of gray…oops, one seemed to be bleeding a little, maybe got a little too energetic with that pumice stone. And the cherry—red nail polish I’d applied was kind of gummy, being that it was quite elderly, so my toes (and fingernails) were maybe a little smeary, but still and all, better. My legs bled in a few places, since my razor was a little dull, but I was smooth, at least. Much better.

Still wrapped in Jimmy’s bathrobe, I meandered into the living room and flopped on the couch. Fat Mikey jumped up and kneaded my stomach—hopefully, he’d break up some of the cellulite—and then curled next to me. I felt better. I’d greet this new age o’ mine smoother and cuter than I’d left it. All good. “Don’t I look nice?” I asked my cat. He purred in agreement. “That was fun. We’re going to have some fun, Fat Mikey. Look out, world, here comes the fun.”

Within seconds, I was asleep.

I was awakened by a knock on the door. The apartment, which had been dim to begin with, was now fully dark, and I stumbled to the door, hands outstretched, till I hit the light switch. Flipping it on, I squinted in the abrupt brightness, then peered through the peephole. Ethan. That’s right, it was Friday, so Ethan was home. “Hi,” I said, rubbing an eye as I opened the door.

“Hey, Luce, happy birth—” He broke off suddenly. “Jesus, what happened?”

“Nothing,” I frowned. “Why?” His face was slack with horror. “Ethan. What is it?”

“Did you…do something? To your…”

“What?”

His eyes traveled up and down my form. “Lucy…” He started to say something, then stopped. “Oh, Lucy.” He covered his mouth with one hand.

“What?” I asked again.

“Uh…you…um…” He started laughing. Wheezing, really.

That was it. I fled to the bathroom, took a look in the mirror. And screamed.

My face was bright red, imprinted on the left side from the corduroy pillow on the couch. My right eye still had some grayish—green dried mud on the lid, which was preventing me from opening it all the way, sort of a stroke victim look going on there…Apparently, the aging mud mask had caused a rash, because my cheeks were red and bumpy. And my hair! Oh, Lord, my hair! Never cut your own hair while intoxicated…sure, now I remembered that particular rule. Seems so obvious, doesn’t it? Yet I’d done it, and it looked as if I’d run face—first into a lawn mower, my bangs choppy and irregular, the hair on the left side significantly shorter than the hair on the right.

Then I saw my arms. And my legs.

“No!” I wailed.

Brown and orange streaks covered my formerly white, white skin, except for the patches where the spray tanner had missed. I looked filthy, as if I’d been picking crops in the dust bowl. “No!” I moaned, slamming on the hot water and shoving a facecloth under the stream. I scrubbed the streaks violently, but no. Nothing changed, except my skin grew pinker under the fake tan.

That was it. I burst into tears. Pathetic, that’s what I was. A pathetic, drunken, smeary widow with orange skin, insane asylum hair and a rash. Insult to injury. Not only had God taken my Jimmy…He’d let me go on a White Russian bender while armed with scissors and tan—from—a-can! It was enough to make me an atheist.

“Come on, Lucy, it’s not that bad,” Ethan said from the other side of the bathroom door, his voice carefully controlled. “Seems like you just got a little…” He went silent, and I knew too well that he was laughing.

“Don’t,” I said, yanking open the door. Ethan was bent over, wheezing. I smacked him in the shoulder. “Look at me! This is ridiculous! This is what I get for trying to be fun!”

“Oh, I don’t know. This is pretty fun,” he managed to say.

How could he laugh? “You’re so mean, Ethan,” I sniffled.

“It’s just…you…your legs…and your hair…” He staggered back against the wall, rattling a picture, laughing so hard tears brightened his eyes.

“It’s not funny,” I wailed. “I’m older than Jimmy now, Ethan. I’m a widow, and I’m all alone and look at me! I should never have had those White Russians.”

“You think?” he asked, wiping his eyes.

I smacked him again, tears flooding my eyes, then turned away, hiccupping on a coffee—flavored sob. “I hate you.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he said. “Come on, now, honey, don’t cry.” He took my hand and led me to the living room, pulling me down next to him on the couch, where we’d logged so many hours together, watching movies or playing Extreme Racing USA. Fat Mikey jumped up, then, apparently horrified at how I looked, jumped back down and stalked into the kitchen, tail puffy with fear. Ethan patted my shoulder. “I’ll take you into Providence tomorrow for a good haircut. And the tan stuff will fade. Just, um, try a little Brillo. Maybe some Clorox.” That set him off again.

“You don’t get it, Ethan,” I said in a smaller voice. “I just feel so…I’m twenty—eight now. I’m older than Jimmy.” Swallowing, I looked down. For a second, I remembered Jimmy’s blue—green eyes smiling at me, and my heart broke all over again. “No one will ever love me like that again.” Dang, I was really crying now. So much for all fun, all the time.

“Oh, hey,” he said, his voice gentle. “You’ll be loved again, Lucy. The minute you’re ready. You’ll see.”

“I’m orange, Ethan,” I squeaked. “And it looks like my hair got caught in a fan.”

He bit down on a smile. “You’re gorgeous,” he said. “Even now, with all the, er, extras. You’d be gorgeous if you rolled in, I don’t know, pig entrails. Cow manure.” He handed me a tissue from the box on the coffee table.

“That’s so poetic. You should work for Hallmark,” I said, blowing my nose. Still, his words made my heart feel a little bit better.

“It’s true. You’re beautiful.” He smiled and reached out to touch my cheek.

“Thanks, Ethan,” I said, blinking in alcoholic gratitude. “You’re the best.”

“I thought you hated me,” he said, one eyebrow raising in that elvish way, a grin curling the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t. I was lying,” I answered.

“Just checking,” he said.

And then, quite out of the blue, he kissed me.

Ethan had kissed me before, of course. He’d been my friend since college, had been my brother—in—law, my protector and comforter, and he was Italian, and Italians kiss their relatives. So yes, Ethan had kissed me many times, on the cheek, as in Okay, gotta run, see you next weekend. But not like this.

This was just a gentle, warm press of lips. A sweet, almost innocent kiss after a long, long time of nothingness, and it was such a generous thing, that kiss, such an act of kindness, that my heart stopped in near—wonder. Then it was over, and Ethan pulled back an inch or two and looked at me. There were shards of gold in his brown eyes, and somehow I’d never noticed that. We stared at each other for a few heartbeats, barely breathing.

Without quite realizing it, I leaned forward, closing the distance between us. Ethan’s lips were so soft and full and warm, achingly wonderful. There was the soft, bristly scrape of his three—days beard against my face, the cool silkiness of his hair under my fingers.

The kiss deepened, a little less soft, a little more…meaningful. Ethan shifted, cupped my head in his hands. His tongue brushed mine, and that was it. I lurched against him, gripped a fistful of his shirt in one hand, his skin hot through the fabric. A little sound came from the back of my throat, and the way he tasted and felt made me feel dizzy, because it was so, so good to be touched, and held, and kissed again. God, I missed kissing.

And much to my surprise, I found that I liked kissing Ethan. Very much. It could be said, in fact, that (A) I was starving and (B) he was a buffet, because I’d (C) crawled on top of him, had his head clamped between my hands and was kissing the stuffing out him.

Of course, I’d imagined kissing someone since Jimmy died. Someone who was Not—Jimmy…imagined how I’d feel and how difficult and sad it would be. How I’d compare the two men, Jimmy and Not—Jimmy, and I’d find Jimmy so superior and then wallow in self—pity for my poor widowed self.

Somehow, I wasn’t thinking those things now. Later, it would occur to me that I hadn’t thought about Jimmy at all, not in the way I’d imagined I would. I hadn’t forgotten about him, of course…he was part of me, and so thoughts like, Jimmy’s robe is slipping flashed here and there. But they were interspersed with other thoughts…Oh, God, that feels good, don’t stop





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