The Next Best Thing (28 page)

I haven’t seen Ethan. Not at all. Marie told me he’s away on business. His absence is a hole in my heart.

On Friday afternoon, I find myself alone in the bakery. Without the promise of happy hour, the Black Widows left at three, and Jorge took care of the evening deliveries. The cooler hums. The cases have been cleared, Rose’s sad cookies refrozen for a more hopeful day. The kitchen is clean, though maybe I could find a few things to do. Empty the grease from the Frialator. “What an exciting life you lead, Lucy Lang,” I say out loud. My voice echoes.

I go out the front door and lean against the lamppost, looking over at the town green. Yet another sunny October day, the sky a deep and aching blue, the last few leaves of the beech trees clinging precariously. Over the sounds of the wind and a distant soccer game comes the sound of Canada geese. I look up and sure enough, a ragged V formation flies right over the cemetery, the geese squawking and talking as they head south for the winter.
Good luck,
I think.
Be careful. Don’t get shot. Mind the airplanes.

A bright flash of color rounds the corner—yellow skirt, orange winter boots, purple coat, orange poncho.

“Grinelda!” I bark.

She shuffles to a halt. “Hello,” she says, pulling down her blue-tinted, Bono-style sunglasses to peer at me.

“Hey, have you got a minute?” I ask. She doesn’t answer immediately. “I can pay,” I add.

“Sure,” she replies. “Got any cookies?”

“They’re all in the freezer, but come on in. I’ll find something.”

Ten minutes later, Grinelda is drinking an overly sweetened cup of coffee and eating a Ding-Dong I had in my purse.

“So,” she says, a clot of chocolate dropping from her mouth. “You want a reading?”

I hesitate, then plunge in. “Yes, please.”

“You’re a believer now?” she says, grinning like Fat Mikey when he’s slain a rodent.

“Well,” I murmur, “I was wondering if maybe Jimmy had more for me than toast advice.”

She shoves the last half of the Ding-Dong into her mouth, her cheeks bulging, then swallows like a cormorant trying to get down a particularly bony fish. “Let’s find out,” she says. She closes her eyes and lets out a low hum. “Uuuunnnnnnhhhh. Uuuunnnnnnhhhh.” This is new. She must’ve seen it on TV or something. “Uuuunnnnnnhhhh.”

I sigh. It’s come to this. I’m an official Black Widow.

“Okay, I’m getting someone. Name starts with a J.”

“I’m guessing that would be Jimmy,” I say neutrally

“Don’t speak.” She breathes again. “Uuuunnnnnnhhhh. Yes. J. It’s a man. Tall. He’s holding a frying pan. Is it Jimmy? Yes! It’s Jimmy.”

I roll my eyes. “Hi, Jimmy.”

“Uuuunnnnnnhhhh. Uhn—What’s this? He’s surrounded by food. Tomatoes, garlic, chicken—”

“Okay, Grinelda, you know Jimmy was a chef. That’s no secret—”

“Shush. I’m getting something.” She opens one eye a slit. “Got any more of those Ding-Dongs?”

“You know what, Grinelda? Never mind. I’ll just—”

“Shh! Okay. He’s showing me something. Bread. No, toast. He says…yes. Toast.”

“Right,” I mutter, more disgusted with myself than Grinelda. “Check the toast. Got it, Jimmy. Anything else?”

“He’s showing me something else. A wedding? Yes. A wedding. Marriage.”

Ah. Now we have something, I think. Of course, we probably don’t, given that it’s Grinelda and all, but still. I’m desperate.

Grinelda peeks at me again. “Does this mean anything to you?”

At that moment, my cell phone rings.

“Cell phone usage is strongly discouraged during communication from the other side,” Grinelda intones.

I hit Mute and glance at the screen. It’s Matt DeSalvo.

Matt DeSalvo. The bread man. Who could get my bread to thousands of people, who could then make toast with it. My mother and aunts felt that Jimmy was pushing me to the bread man. Now there’s a wedding in the picture. And Matt just happens to call.

“He’s going,” Grinelda says, and though it’s been almost six years and though I don’t have a lot of faith in Grinelda’s special gifts, I feel a lump rise in my throat just the same.

“Bye, Jimmy,” I can’t help saying. It’s no use. I’ll never stop missing him.

T
HAT NIGHT
, I
DECIDE THAT
I
CAN’T
avoid Ethan forever. I go upstairs, empty-handed, no cake, no custard, no
cookies, and knock firmly. There’s no answer. Right. He’s away. I just assumed he’d be back—

The elevator bell dings behind me, the doors slide open and there he is, towing his suitcase. His eyebrows bounce up at the sight of me.

“Hi,” I say. My stomach cramps with nervousness.

“Hi,” he says, taking out his keys. “How are you?”

“I’m good!” I chirrup. “I came to see how you were doing!” I sound like the amped-up host of a children’s show, all cutesy and super-duper friendly. “Feeling okay?”

“All better,” he lies. I can see a shadow of a bruise along his temple.

“Great!” I bleat, apparently unable to sound normal. “Welp—” yes, I say
welp
“—I just wanted to say hi. Hey, is it true you’re going international? International sales, I mean? With International Foods?”
Shut up, Lucy.

He leans against the door frame. “I’m not sure,” he says.

“I was thinking of trying to buy a house, you know?” I say. “Time to be a grownup and all that.”
You don’t have to leave, Ethan. I’ll move.

“Sounds good, Luce.” He waits for me to say something else.

“Right. Well, I just wanted to make sure you were okay, Ethan.” It’s when I say his name that my voice cracks. My face grows hot.

“Thanks for checking in,” he says, putting the key in the lock.

“Good night,” I say. “Have a great weekend.” Then, head aching, pebble swelling, I head for the stairs. The sound of his door closing is horribly final.

T
HE NEXT WEEK
, I
ONCE AGAIN GET DRESSED UP
to meet Matt DeSalvo to sign the papers. It’ll be good, I assure myself as I brush my hair. It’ll save the bakery. I’ll have a career as well as something for the alumni magazine. All good.

At last, the beautiful October weather has given way to November’s bleak promise. Daylight saving time makes November the harbinger of darkness, of cold winds whipping off the water, October’s golden light replaced by something harder and meaner. The sky is a thin, pale blue, the branches skeletal against the sky. Add to that the fact that my dad died in November, and the month just can’t win. Halloween came and went—I went to Nicky’s school for the Halloween parade—Ethan wasn’t there—and had coffee with my nephew and Parker afterward. On Saturday, Ash came over and we watched the
Bourne
trilogy and ate Ben & Jerry’s. I haven’t wanted to bake anything for a while now.

As I come into Bunny’s, Captain Bob is stealing looks at Mom, and Enid Crosby is pointing to hard rolls. “That one, Rose. No, not that one. Move over one. Yes, that one.” You’d think she was choosing a child from an orphanage. “I hear you’re selling the bakery,” she says to me.

“No, we’re not,” I correct gently. “Our bread will be sold statewide, that’s all. Bunny’s will stay Bunny’s.” Alas. I
suppress a sigh, looking at the paltry array of goodies in the case. God knows how many times they’ve been in and out of the freezer. Some of them are probably older than I am. Mrs. Crosby hands me a five, and I make change.

“Hello, ladies,” Matt says, coming in the front door. “What a great day this is for NatureMade.” He smiles broadly, a dimple showing in his cheek.

“Come in back,” my mother says grandly. “We have champagne.”

“It’s eleven o’clock, Mom,” I say.

“So?” She winks.

“Out you go, people,” Iris booms. “Come back later. We have business to do here. Out with you.” She herds our two entire customers out the door, then flips the sign to Closed, and we all head to the kitchen. Jorge is there, too, and starts to head out the back door.

“Jorge, please stay, buddy,” I call. “This affects you, too.”

Matt lays out the contract on the wooden counter. I’ve read the dang thing a hundred times…there’s no downside. There just isn’t.

“I need all four of you to sign, since you’re all part owners,” Matt says, “right here—” he points “—and here…initials there, and finally, here.” He fishes a Cross pen from the pocket of his suit. “Iris, would you like to go first?” Nice, being that Iris is oldest and all that.

My aunts and mother sign, Rose giggling as she can’t seem to find all the spots to sign without Matt standing very close to her and pointing. I think she’s got a crush. Matt seems to read my mind and tosses me a wink.

Low Risk of Early Death.
Matt seems healthy. He does have to travel, but it’s all fairly local. Also, he has a Volvo, and we all know that Volvos are basically tanks with slightly better gas mileage.
Strong Fatherhood Potential.
He likes kids. He said so, anyway.
Good heart.
Seems to.
Not too good-looking.
Well, Matt
is
pretty attractive. Not quite as gorgeous as Jimmy, and lacking Ethan’s naughty appeal (my brain jumps away from the thought of that), but attractive nonetheless.
Steady, recession-proof job.
I guess so. He’s been with the company for nine years.
Nice to my family.
Check.
Not-too-good sense of humor.
Seems like another check mark.

“Lucy? Your turn,” Mom says, jolting me out of my daze. I look up at their expectant faces, glance back at Jorge, who raises an eyebrow.

“Right.” I take the pen, look at the contract. Bunny’s three majority owners have all signed their full names and the titles they gave themselves years ago.
Iris Black Sandor, Chief Executive Officer. Rose Black Thompson, President. Daisy Black Lang, Manager-at-Large.
All that’s left is me.

Lucy Lang Mirabelli. Bread baker.

The image of a patisserie flashes across my mind like heat lightning…the tarts I’d like to bake, the cakes and pastries and pies. All the desserts I’ve taught in class or made for Ethan over the years—zabaglione, raisin bread pudding, crème brûlée. And in their place, bread. Loaves and loaves and years and years of bread.

“I’m sorry,” I say, putting the pen down. “I…I don’t want to do this.” Matt’s usually genial expression turns to a frown. “It’s just that I’m supposed to be a pastry chef.” I look at the Black Widows. “I want to do more,” I say, my voice shaking. “I want to own a café with the best pastries and cookies and cakes around. I don’t want to be run out of business by Starbucks, and I don’t want to bake bread for the rest of my life. I’ll give you all my recipes, but I…I quit.”

A
FTER HALF AN HOUR OF FROWNING
, rereading the contract and finally deciding that he has to run this by corporate, Matt DeSalvo leaves, disappointed and even a bit reproachful.

“Well, there goes the future!” Iris barks as the door closes behind him.

“I’ll give you the recipes,” I repeat for the fifth time.

“Oh, hush, you! You can’t quit! That’s ridiculous!” she returns.

Rose is sobbing into a hankie, and my mother just stares at me like I’m a hair in her salad. “I’m taking a walk,” I announce.

“Fine! Shoo! Out with you!” Iris says, waving her hands. “What a mess. I don’t believe this!”

I grab my coat and head out the back, then feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn.

“Hey, Jorge,” I say. “Sorry.” The idea of not working with Jorge brings a lump to my throat.

He puts his hands on my shoulders and looks at me. Really looks. Wrinkles fan out from the corners of his eyes, and the light gleams off his bald head. His eyes are dark, almost black. I feel my own eyes sting. Then Jorge nods once, slowly and gravely, and gives my shoulders a hard squeeze.

I put my arms around him and hug him hard. “Thank you,” I whisper, then go out into the brisk air.

Twenty minutes later I find myself at the playground. I sit on a swing, the kind with the rubber seat that squashes you in tight. I’ve really screwed the pooch, as the saying goes. I don’t have a job. I won’t have any structure to my days. I have no game plan. I won’t be surrounded by the Black Widows, and however they may have driven me nuts over the years, I love them with all my heart.

I’ve done the right thing nonetheless. I can’t bake bread anymore. I just can’t.

When my hands are practically frozen to the metal chains of the swing, I pry them open, stand up and head back, all the way around the cemetery, to face the music.

The music is not what I think. “Get in here, you,” Iris says, dragging me over to the table. “Such a drama queen, flouncing out the door like that!”

“I didn’t flounce,” I reply.

“Your hands are so cold!” Rose exclaims, patting me. “Last week, seventy degrees. This week, winter.”

“Lucy, we completely respect your decision not to bake bread anymore,” Mom says formally.

“Even if you’re the best bread maker around,” Iris mutters.

“But here’s the thing. You can’t leave Bunny’s,” Mom continues.

“Of course you can’t,” Rose seconds.

“Well, actually, I—” I attempt.

“Hush, you! We’re talking!” Iris says.

“Lucy, we’d like to compromise,” Mom says.

I open my mouth, shut it, then open it again. “I didn’t think we did that in this family,” I say.

“Oh, you. So fresh.” My mother rolls her eyes. “We’ll make a deal. Stay and train the bread person—we just asked Jorge if he wanted to do it, and he said no.”

“Jorge speaks now?” I ask, looking around. He waves to me and grins, in the background as ever.

“No, smart-ass,” my mother continues. “He made himself clear anyway. So hire a bread baker, and we’ll expand. You know we own Zippy’s—” the failing sports memorabilia store adjacent to Bunny’s “—and we can just kick him out in December when the lease is up. He’ll be grateful. Then you can have your café over there.”

My body breaks into goose bumps. “Are you serious?” I breathe.

“With your fancy-shmancy pastries,” Iris grumbles.

“You could sell hot chocolate,” Rose suggests hopefully. “We could steal Starbucks’s recipe.”

“No, we can’t,” I say. “Really? Are you serious? You’ll do this for me?”

“You’re a part owner of this place,” Mom says, looking pointedly at her sisters. “It’s time for a change.”

B
ACK AT MY APARTMENT A FEW HOURS
later, when the Black Widows and I have nailed down a tentative plan, I call Matt DeSalvo and apologize again. “I’m so sorry about this,” I tell him. “I’m not trying to drive you crazy, I promise.”

“Oh, I know,” he says. He pauses a minute or two. “All right, I think we can work it out. I’m glad. Sounds like you’re really happy with the decision, Lucy.”

“Thanks, Matt. I am,” I say. Fat Mikey begins clawing the back of my couch, signaling his displeasure with my lack of worshipfulness. I rub his nose with my index finger, and he forgives me, emitting his rusty, diesel engine purr. “I hope I didn’t completely screw up your day,” I tell Matt.

“Not at all. You’re a challenge, that’s all.” He seems to realize that sounds less than flattering. “I meant, getting your bread is a challenge. Well worth it, though.”

My eyes find the wedding picture on the wall: Jimmy and me, laughing. So happy. So long ago.

“Matt,” I say slowly. “Would you like to go on a date with me?”