The Next Best Thing (21 page)

I
T’S MUCH COLDER WHEN WE HEAD BACK
…the sky clouded up while we were in the cabin, the ocean turning slate and choppy. We don’t talk much; Ethan is fairly busy negotiating the rough waves around Point Judith and adjusts the sail frequently. We keep a fast clip, bouncing over the waves, and I watch my captain warily as I grip a cleat, spray stinging my face, and worry that my grim fantasies of Ethan’s death will come true as we whisk and smack through the water.

Everything’s gonna be all right, everything’s gonna be all right…Everything’s gonna be all right…
It’s not lost on me that this snippet of Bob Marley was my mantra after Jimmy died. But every time Ethan looks at me, so damn happy, fear strikes my heart.
Don’t let me hurt him, Jimmy,
I pray. Abruptly the thought comes to me that maybe Jimmy isn’t all that happy that my heart has opened to someone else. That maybe he wants to be the first, the best, the most.
Forsaking all others, all the days of my life,
that’s how the marriage vows went. And being widowed…that’s not like Jimmy betrayed me. He didn’t ruin my love for him. He just died.

I try to imagine how it would be if my soul had to watch Jimmy struggle through life without me. Of course I’d want him to find someone wonderful. But, I admit, clutch
ing my stomach as we bounce over the wake of a lobster boat, I’d also want to be the love of his life. To be the one by which all others were measured.

“Doing okay?” Ethan calls over the rush of wind.

“I’m great,” I answer, determined to make it true.

When we finally make it back to the marina, I can’t wait to be on solid land again. Ethan looks at me as he wraps the line around a cleat. “You look a little green,” he says, taking my hand as I rise. “Want me to drive you home?”

“I’d kind of like to walk,” I say honestly.

“Okay,” he says, climbing off the boat and helping me disembark. We stand there on the wooden dock, which bobs unpleasantly. Rain clouds darken the sky in the west, and leaves shower down from the trees.

“Come over later,” I say.

“Okay,” he agrees instantly, and again my heart clutches at the smile in his eyes.

“See you later, alligator,” I say, turning to head for solid ground.

“Lucy?” I turn back. His face is serious now. “Thank you,” he says.

My heart softens dangerously. “Thank you, too, Ethan,” I answer unsteadily. Then, bowing my head against the sharp breeze, I head for home.

Ethan seems to know I need a little time alone—either that, or he has his own stuff to do. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t come by until about nine. Fat Mikey, distressed that he’s seen so little of his favorite person, yowls until Ethan picks him up and scratches his battered ears vigorously. “How you doin’, Fat Mikey?” Ethan asks, doing a fair impression of a mobster. “How’s our friend here?”

I’ve been in the kitchen, baking since I walked through the door to see if the cake was a fluke. It’s not, thank God,
and that has to be a sign that Ethan is good for me. My melancholy lifted as I started with crème brûlée…satiny and rich, the hard shell of sugar burned to perfection. After that, a batch of
pots de crème au chocolat
, the dark chocolate giving the sweet creaminess the perfect bite. Then a quick batch of bananas Foster, so simple and fun and delicious. I laughed as I lit them on fire, though tasting it a few moments later, I admitted I put in a little too much nutmeg. I’ve since moved on to a carrot cake, which is baking right now as the mixer churns a batch of cream cheese icing on the counter.

“I see we’ve been busy,” Ethan says, raising an eyebrow at my kitchen. Every mixing bowl I own is on the counter, flour spatters the dark granite countertops, dishes are heaped in the sink and the place smells like heaven. Like a pastry shop.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. I give him a crème brûlée
and
a healthy serving of bananas Foster. I watch as he eats, and when he offers me a spoonful, I open my mouth obediently. “Nice that you can eat your own desserts again,” he says, wiping a bit of cream off the corner of my mouth.

“More than nice,” I agree.

He doesn’t ask when that changed. Maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe he knows what it means. “This is incredible” is all he says, gesturing to his plate.

I smile. “Thanks.”

Then I wash my hands and take off my apron. I ruffle Ethan’s hair as I pass his chair, and he grabs my hand and pulls me in for a kiss, and after the briefest hesitation, I kiss him back. It’s just going to take a little getting used to, I assure myself.

We go into the living room and sit, looking at each
other. I swallow, then smile. He smiles back. “Want to play Scrabble?” I ask, lust and nervousness rolling through me in tingling waves.

“Sure,” he says with a knowing grin. “Hey, what’s this?”

Leaning against the couch is a rectangular package, still in brown paper. Shoot. Forgot about that thing. Ash had signed for it and left me a note. “Um…actually, it’s for you,” I say, nibbling my thumbnail.

Ethan’s eyebrows bounce up. “Really?”

I swallow. “Yes. Uh, I didn’t realize it would be done so soon. I thought it would take a little longer…”

“Can I open it?” he asks, smiling happily at me. It dawns on me that maybe today isn’t the best time for this particular gift. Then again, maybe it is.

“Sure.”

Ethan sits in the easy chair and takes the present. He pulls the paper off, unwraps the tissue paper protecting the frame and turns it over to see the picture. His face freezes. I wait for his reaction. It doesn’t come. He just sits in the chair, staring at the gift, frozen.

I got the top photo from Marie when they were packing up the house a few weeks ago—Jimmy and Ethan at the beach. Jimmy was twelve in the picture, Ethan seven. The two boys are standing in front of the surf, Jimmy’s arm slung around his much smaller brother’s shoulders. Already, you can see that Jimmy’s going to be tall—his shoulders have started to broaden, and his face has that amiable, open appeal it held all his brief life. His hair is sun-streaked, and freckles dot his nose. Ethan, on the other hand, is a scrawny little guy, dark as a gypsy, thin enough that you can see his ribs. He’s laughing in the picture, both his top front teeth missing. His hair is wet, his skin sandy.

The lower picture is also of Jimmy and Ethan. That
one’s from our wedding day, and once again, Jimmy has his arm around Ethan’s shoulders. Jimmy beams; Ethan looks a bit more sardonic, his elvish eyebrows raised as if to say,
Get a load of the big dope here.
I love that picture. Jimmy had loved it, too.

Ethan still hasn’t said anything.

“Ethan?” I whisper. He looks up, then clears his throat.

“Thank you,” he says in a rather perfunctory manner.

“I…you didn’t have any. Pictures, that is. Of Jimmy.” Dismay sits heavily in my stomach, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t eaten three desserts tonight.

“Right. Well. This is very nice of you, Lucy.” His voice is oddly formal. He looks back at the picture, then rubs his forehead.

The timer dings in the kitchen, and I excuse myself, glad for the interruption. The cake is done. Smells incredible. Can’t wait to eat the stupid thing, stomachache be damned.

I don’t realize tears are leaking out of my eyes until one hisses on the oven door. I dash a pot holder across my eyes and take the cake out, setting it gently on the cooling rack. Ethan comes up behind me and slips his arms around my waist.

“I’m sorry,” I squeak.

“No, honey.” He lowers his forehead to rest against my shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Bad timing,” I acknowledge.

He turns me around and looks at me. Rain patters against the window, and the wind howls under the bridge a block away. I have plenty of time to hear the elements, since Ethan doesn’t speak right away. “You don’t need to remind me that he was here first, Lucy.”

I swallow painfully. “I
was
married to him. He
was
here first. That can’t be erased, Eth. I wouldn’t want it to be.”

Ethan nods. “Maybe he doesn’t have to be here all the time.”

He’s asking the impossible. Jimmy
is
with me all the time. His memory is constantly with me, and I don’t think that will ever change. “The bread guy looks a lot like him,” I say abruptly.

“Which bread guy?”

“The one from NatureMade,” I say.

Ethan raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Yes. Very much like Jimmy.”

“Thanks for the warning.” He slides his hands down my arms, then lets go of me.

I notice that Fat Mikey is crouched on the table, eating the last ramekin of crème brûlée, and decide to let my cat live a little. Another sheet of rain slaps the windows. The muscle jumps under Ethan’s eye, and not for the first time, I wonder how much he’s holding in.

“Ethan,” I say slowly, “I wasn’t trying to make a statement.” My throat grows tight. “I just wanted you to have a picture of him, and it happened to come today. I should’ve held it a few days. I’m sorry.”

He nods and takes my hand, examining a smear of batter across the back. “Thank you.”

“Want something else to eat?” I whisper.

His mouth tugs. “No,” he says, not looking up from my hand.

“How about that Scrabble game?” I offer a bit desperately.

“Maybe later,” he answers, and then he kisses me, there amid the ravaged kitchen, the smell of fresh cake and cream in the air, and my heart sings with relief. And rather than counting out tiles and checking dubious spellings in the dictionary, we end up in bed, Fat Mikey regarding us with disgust as we mess up his favorite place to sleep.

A
FEW DAYS LATER
, E
THAN HAS TO TRAVEL
to Atlanta, where the International Food Products manufacturing plant is headquartered, so I have plenty of time to contemplate the state of my life. Things have been okay between Ethan and me, though we’re still pretty careful with each other, especially about the subject of Jimmy.

The other day, I packed Nicky into his car seat and drove into Providence to surprise Ethan at work. As Nicky was spoiled by the staff, repeatedly summoned the elevator, photocopied his hands and took cup after cup from the dispenser by the water cooler, Ethan introduced me around—no title, just “This is Lucy,” but I held his hand the whole time, hoping he’d see that as a sign that I was in this. He was so happy, so proud to show off his son, and I got more than a few speculative looks, which made me blush constantly.

“This meant a lot,” Ethan said to me when we were waiting for the elevator, Nicky pressing the button over and over. I smiled and kissed him goodbye full on the mouth, my hands buzzing.

We’re getting there. Since he left for Georgia, we’ve been e-mailing a couple times a day, with long phone conversations at night. When I hear his voice, my heart jumps, and if it feels like a panic attack, maybe it’s something else.
And blessedly, I’m still gorging myself on my rather incredible baking.

And baking is on my mind, as next weekend is the Taste of Mackerly, which is a chance for the town to draw in a few tourists before the season is officially done. Lenny’s, Bunny’s, Catering by Eva, Cakes by Kim, and of course, Starbucks will be there along with contributions from the Lions Club, the Exchange Club and the Polish Ladies Auxiliary, who hawk their pierogies like the end of days is nigh.

In the past, Bunny’s has trotted out the same tired, pumpkin-shaped cookies with frosting so hard that, three years ago, little Katie Rose Tinker chipped a tooth. Last year we had four dozen at the beginning of the evening. At the end, we had forty-six, and only because Ethan bought one for himself and one for Nicky. Nicky’s little teeth weren’t up for the task of gnawing through the icing, so Ethan had discreetly tossed it into the trash, but he’d soldiered on through his own, grinning at me as I offered sympathy for his culinary choice.

On Wednesday, the staff of Bunny’s sits down for a rare meeting. Jorge lingers in the back, drinking the sludge he calls coffee, and runs his hand over his bald head, mentally preparing himself for the ordeal ahead.

“Okay,” I say. “We have the Taste of Mackerly coming up on Columbus Day, so—”

“I have a skin tag,” Rose announces, leaning forward. “Right under my bra line. Here.” She hefts up her right breast and points. “Carmella Bronson said I could just snip it right off with toenail clippers, but I’m scared it won’t stop bleeding.”

“Go to a plastic surgeon,” Mom says. “I’m thinking of Botox, myself.”

“Okay, about the weekend,” I say. “I think we should really go whole hog this year. I’ve been baking these—”

“Botox? That’s spider venom,” Iris says. “You’d have to be an idiot to put spider venom in your face.”

“It’s a bacteria. Botulism bacteria. It’s not venom,” I say. “Anyway, I thought we could—”

“I know what it is, Miss Smarty-Pants,” Iris says, waving her hand dismissively. “My daughter is a lesbian doctor, after all.” She turns to my mother. “Why would you stick a needle full of bacteria in your face, Daisy? Did you turn stupid overnight?”

“I want to look my best,” my mother says, adjusting her scarf.

“We also need to discuss that offer from NatureMade,” I try again. Jorge grins.

“Vanity is a sin,” Iris says, adjusting her shirt, which, from the look of it, belonged to her long-dead Pete.

“What about my skin tag? Am I supposed to go around looking like a goat with wattles all over my body?” Rose asks querulously. “Or get Ebola by cutting off my own skin?”

“That would be tetanus, Rose,” I say. “Don’t cut them off yourself. See a doctor, okay? Now, back to the—”

“Did you get your flu shots, speaking of injections?” Mom asks her older sisters.

With a sigh, I slump down in my chair and wait them out. After twenty minutes or so, I eventually manage to steer the conversation back to the Taste of Mackerly and am outvoted, as usual, on the burning issue of the pumpkin cookies, which, according to Iris, everyone loved.

Then I give them the details on NatureMade’s official offer…number of loaves we’d be able to supply, how the schedule would change at Bunny’s, a bit more oversight from the company to ensure that our bread was consistent.

“So what do you think?” I ask when I’m done.

Mom studies her manicure, as ever seeming detached
from the bakery where she’s worked most of her life. Iris and Rose, on the other hand, sit like disgruntled trolls, dour expressions on their faces, arms folded across their ample bosoms. Jorge, still lurking in the back, purely for entertainment purposes, laughs silently and pours himself more coffee.

“I don’t like some out-of-towners telling us how to do things,” Iris eventually says.

“I have to agree with Iris,” Rose cheeps, plucking the fabric above her skin tag.

I nod. “Well, we could do nothing, too, and continue to ignore the fact that we make less every month.” Iris harrumphs. “And eventually, we’ll just go broke and close the bakery and sell the property to McDonald’s. How does that sound? Everyone on board?”

“Sarcasm causes wrinkles,” Rose says.

“Mom,” I attempt, “you thought it was a good offer, right?”

But the bell over the front door tinkles, and Mom’s head snaps around like a Labrador scenting a pheasant. “Grinelda’s here!” she announces in the same tone a five-year-old might say,
Santa came!
“Lucy, do you want your mustache taken care of?”

“I don’t have a mustache!” I protest, my fingers flying up to double-check. No whiskers. So there.

The Black Widows have already stampeded away from the table, practically trampling each other to get to the psychic. “What about the offer?” I call after them.

Iris pokes her head back through the swinging door. “If you want to be bossed around by some chain store, you go ahead. The bread’s your responsibility.” Her head disappears, and I hear her booming voice welcome Grinelda to the bakery.

“Wasn’t that fun?” I ask Jorge. He winks and starts stacking the trays from this morning’s pastries.

I take a deep breath, then place a call to Matt DeSalvo at NatureMade. “Hi, Matt, it’s Lucy Mirabelli from Bunny’s,” I say when he says hello.

“Hi, Lucy!” he answers warmly. “I was just thinking about you. Have you had a chance to look at our offer?”

“Yes,” I say. “We have a few questions—” well,
I
have a few questions, my relatives couldn’t care less “—but things are looking pretty good to me.”

“Want to meet for dinner tonight?” he asks. “I’d be happy to come back to Mackerly. It’s such a pretty town.”

“Okay,” I agree tentatively. “Sure. Um, there’s a place right around the corner from the bakery called Lenny’s.” For some reason, I don’t want to go to Gianni’s, even with my in-laws in Arizona. It doesn’t seem right to take Matt there.

“Seven o’clock work for you?”

“Seven’s great,” I answer.

“I can’t wait,” he says, and he sounds sincere.

When I hang up, there’s an uncomfortable feeling wriggling around in my gut, and it takes me a minute to put my finger on it. Guilt, I realize. I feel guilty because I’m meeting Matt for dinner. Even if it’s just business. I look over at Jorge to see if he’s staring at me in dismay and disappointment. Nope. He’s washing pans.

I glance at my watch: 2:00 p.m. Ethan’s still in Atlanta, probably in a meeting right now, but he’s flying home this evening. I decide to text him.
Am meeting the bread guy at Lenny’s, 7:00 p.m. Drop by if you can, okay?
After a moment’s hesitation, I add,
xox, Lucy,
and a sudden, sweet warmth causes my heart to expand in my chest. Ethan will appreciate that, the hugs and kisses.

In the front, Grinelda is powering through a day-old
brownie and spraying the Black Widows with crumbs. “I’m getting someone who’s name starts with an L…Is it Larry?” She stuffs a neon pink cookie in her mouth. “It’s Larry.”

“Oh, Larry,” Rose breathes.

“Larry wants you to be happy. Go ahead and date someone, he says. Share your light with the world.”

I have to hand it to Grinelda. She knows her audience well, because Rose’s eyes mist over, and her face turns pink with pleasure.

“What about me?” Iris demands. “Does Pete want me to find someone else?”

Grinelda takes a drag on her little brown cigar. “Hmm. Let me see. Give me a minute.” She exhales slowly, then slurps her coffee. “Someone’s coming through. A man. His name starts with…let’s see now…his name starts with P. Does anyone know a man whose name starts with P?”

I sigh and, as usual, am ignored.

Grinelda takes another bite of brownie. “Pete says do what you need to do. But don’t do anything you
don’t
need to do.”

“Huh,” Iris grunts. “You know, that makes sense. The truth is, I don’t really want to date anyone.”

I sigh again, more loudly, and throw in an eye roll for emphasis.

Iris spares me a glance. “What else, Grinelda? Don’t mind the youngster here.”

But Grinelda is looking at me through the acrid smoke of her cigar. “You,” she says, frowning. “Jimmy’s telling you to check the toast.” She frowns, her face cracking into a hundred folds of age-spotted skin. My aunts frown as well, clearly displeased that I haven’t heeded my otherworldly message.

“Can’t I get something better than that, Grinelda? Something about true love never dying?” I ask.

Then Rose gasps. “Check the toast…or check the bread!” she squeals. “The bread
man!
The one who looks like Jimmy! Oh! My! God!”

“The bread man! Dear Lord!” Iris trumpets. “That’s what he meant! Check the bread, right, Grinelda?”

Even my mother looks flabbergasted.

Granted, my faith in Grinelda is wafer-thin, but ice seems to be flooding my stomach right now. The Black Widows are beside themselves…
the bread man, yes, yes, the bread man!
…and I have to admit, it’s a little spooky. Matt DeSalvo does look like Jimmy…I’m not the only one who thinks so. And Matt does deal in toast. Sort of.

“It’s a
sign
,” Rose coos. “Jimmy wants you to marry the bread man.”

“I’m not marrying the bread man,” I say firmly, though my voice sounds a little distant.

“Why? You’re the one who wanted a new husband,” Iris says in the same tone that she might say,
You’re the one who wanted to pee in the street.

“The bread man looks like her dead husband,” Rose informs Grinelda.

“Which she’d already know, being psychic and all,” I say automatically. Still, I can’t help but wonder if there’s really something here. If Jimmy’s trying to tell me not to date his brother—

“So? What’s the plan, then?” Iris asks. “Are you going to ask him out?”

“You should, Lucy,” Rose seconds.

Then I give myself a mental shake. “Let’s drop it, okay?”

“But you are meeting the bread man later, aren’t you?” Mom asks. “I heard you on the phone.”

I bite my lip and swallow. It’s time to acknowledge Ethan here, but the words are hard to get out of my throat.
The pebble is back. “The truth is,” I say, and my voice is shaky, “I’ve actually been—”

“I’m getting an R,” Grinelda says in her scraping voice. “Ronnie? No. Robbie.”

“It’s your Robbie!” Iris and Rose chorus, their heads whipping to my mother.

Any interest in me is swept aside as my father reaches out from beyond the grave. “Robbie’s glad you still look so good,” Grinelda tells my mother, who preens noticeably and gives Iris a satisfied smirk.

“Does he think she should get spider venom shot in her face?” Iris asks.

I head back to the kitchen to start the afternoon bread order. “I’m dating Ethan,” I tell Jorge.

He raises his eyebrows, then gives a nod.

“Did you know, Jorge?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

I drum my fingers on the countertop. “What do you think? Me dating my dead husband’s brother?” I ask. “Weird? Maudlin? Gross? Or does it make complete sense to you?”

Jorge shrugs, smiles a little, giving me a flash of his gold tooth. For the millionth time, I wish he’d just write something down if he can’t talk. Then again, he might not be able to write. Jorge’s mysteries go quite deep.

“Well, thanks for your input,” I tell him. He pats me on the shoulder and fires up the oven.

I
ARRIVE AT
L
ENNY’S TWO MINUTES BEFORE
seven. Matt DeSalvo is already there, standing in the doorway, being ignored by the staff, as is traditional.

“Hi, Lucy! Thank you so much for meeting me,” he says the minute he sees me. He bends and kisses my cheek, making me blush furiously. “Sorry,” he says, grinning.
“Here.” He extends his hand and shakes mine firmly. “Good to see you.”

I laugh. “Good to see you, too. Let’s grab a table.”

“The sign says Please Wait To Be Seated,” he observes.

“The sign lies. They’ll just ignore us until we starve to death,” I tell him. I lead him to a table in the back, blushing again as he holds the chair for me.

Roxanne tosses some cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin as we take our seats. “Whaddya want?” she asks.

“Hey there, how are you?” Matt asks, naive as a newborn kitten to the ways of Lenny’s surly staff. When she fails to answer, he asks, “Um, do you have a wine list we could take a look at?”

“No,” she growls. “White, red, pink. Full bar. Whaddya want?”

“How about two dirty martinis?” I suggest, remembering Ethan’s last happy hour with my aunts. It sounds sophisticated, and the truth is, I’m a little nervous. Also, I’m wearing one of my La Perla bra and panty sets (don’t even ask what it cost, it’s just too shameful). But it seemed about time I wore something nicer, even if the lace is a little itchy. And I do feel pretty…I even cut the tags off a beautiful pale pink cashmere cardigan with black buttons, which I’ve paired with a short, swirly black skirt, silver dangly earrings and yes, my Stuart Weitzman kitten heels. I wanted to look like someone with a little business savvy. That’s what I told myself, anyway.