The Next Best Thing (31 page)

Three things are clear. One, Jimmy wasn’t perfect. He knew how Ethan felt, and it didn’t stop him.

And, two, Jimmy had loved me with all his heart.

And three…oh, number three. Ethan loved me, too. He still does. Or he did, before I ground it out of him.

Fat Mikey is crouched on the kitchen counter, eating the remains of the crappy chicken. “I have to go,” I call to him.
Check the toast.
My hands are shaking so hard I can barely open my closet, but I manage, shove my feet in some shoes and race out the door. I pound upstairs, but God, it takes so long, my feet feel like they’re made of lead. I explode onto the fifth floor and run down the hall to Ethan’s, bang on his door. “Eth! Ethan, open up!” I yell. “Ethan, it’s me!”

And my God, I love him, too. The idea of living without him suddenly seems breathtakingly stupid and absolutely unbearable. Ethan Mirabelli is, simply put, the best person I know. The only one I want.

Oh, dang it, the party, the Mirabellis’ anniversary party. Down the stairs I run, swinging around each landing, jumping the last few steps. Then I burst into the foyer and onto the street. The air is sharp and cold, and my breath fogs the air.

Without another thought, I run across the street, into Ellington Park.

Toward the cemetery.

It’s time.

T
HERE ARE A LOT OF WAYS TO LOSE
someone.

As I run down the path, my mind is in the past, on Ethan’s steady friendship, the comfort of his company in those dark days…months…years after Jimmy died, when all my other friends felt I should really have moved on by now. When we started sleeping together, his irreverence toward the two of us…it was the only way I could handle being with him. Even when I pulled away and started to look for someone else, he let me. Ethan has always done…and been…exactly what I needed at the time. And he asked for nothing in return.

I can’t lose him.

My feet pound on the gravel in a steady beat. I remember when I told him a couple of months ago that I wanted to get married, have kids, that look on his face…he thought, for one second there, that I’d meant him. Instead I told him we needed to break up…ah, damn it. Damn
me,
for being so cruel and blind. In the hospital, when he was bleeding and bruised, I did it again. And then just two days ago, he told me everything, and all I did was cling to my image of St. Jimmy.

There’s the cemetery, the stone pillars that flank the entrance offering a perpetual and somehow sinister welcome. Almost against my will, I slow to a walk, my breath coming in gasps. My hands are blocks of ice.

The trees are bare, the branches jagged black fingers scraping the November sky. Thin clouds hide the moon, but it’s there somewhere, offering a feeble, diffuse light that makes the headstones seem to glow.

I’m surprised at how familiar the cemetery is to me. Over there, under the big beech tree with the wide spread of branches, lies my uncle Pete, who rolled out of his coffin twenty-six years ago. Not far away, right in the middle of one of these rows, is Uncle Larry, Rose’s husband. My mother’s parents…I can see their headstone from here.

Instead of racing, my heart seems to slow as I approach Jimmy’s grave. Despite having been to it only once, I know exactly where it is. My knees are weak, but they haven’t buckled. My steps grow slower, my eyes skimming over the other names without really seeing them. I’m only here for one tonight.

There it is.

I stop.

Giacomo “Jimmy” Mirabelli, age 27.

Beloved husband, son and brother.

And you were, Jimmy. You were beloved. By all of us, but maybe especially by Ethan. Ethan, who forgave you.

My legs are shaking badly, but I force myself to take a step. And another. Another. Then I crouch down and put my hand on the cold granite of Jimmy’s headstone.

“Hi, honey,” I whisper, and my eyes flood with hot tears. For a few minutes, I just let them slip down my cold cheeks. The wind rustles the branches as I stare at my husband’s grave.

“I’m here, Jimmy,” I say, my face scrunching. “I’m sorry it took so long.”

Memories flood my heart—Jimmy’s amazing eyes, his huge laugh, the strength of his arms. He was my world, and my future. He was the love of my life. My old life.

“Guess what?” I whisper. “I checked the toast, Jimmy. I saw his face. And yours, too, honey. I know everything.”

I smooth my hand over the cold granite of his gravestone, trace the “J” of his name. Far away, an owl calls, and the fallen leaves rustle in the breeze.

It’s so hard to say goodbye to someone you love, even if he’s already gone. Even if he left you first. For so long, I’ve been Jimmy’s widow. Maybe being widowed again wasn’t the thing I so feared. Maybe it was being
more
than a widow. Maybe it was this exact moment.

“I’ll always love you, Jimmy,” I whisper. “But I need to leave you now.”

Those words burn like a brand pressed to my heart. I bow my head and let the wave of sorrow wash over me…and recede. And after a minute, the pain in my heart fades, too.

I press a kiss to my fingers and hold them against his name. I’ll come back, I know I will, but it will be different. Tonight is the goodbye that has been so long in coming. I whisper one more thing, the last thing I need to say to my dead husband.

“Thank you, Jimmy. I loved every minute of my life with you.”

Then I stand up and wipe my eyes. I take a breath of the cold, clean, salty air, and another.

It’s time to go now, to a new life. To Ethan, the man who has loved me with absolute selflessness for all this time. Who loved me enough to watch me marry someone else, who stood at my side through the darkest moments of my life, who has been waiting for me for so long. The man I’ve loved for years, though I’ve never admitted it till now.

I take one more look at Jimmy’s grave. My breath catches.

At the base of the headstone, something glints in the faint light of the hidden moon.

A dime.

With a shaky laugh, I pick it up and kiss it. Despite the cold November night, the dime is warm, and I know, somehow, that this is the last one I’ll ever find. “Thank you, Jimmy,” I whisper. The pebble in my throat is gone. At last, it’s gone.

Then I tuck the dime in my pocket and start running, my legs strong now, the air pure and cold. Five rows, six, nine. There’s my father’s grave, but tonight, I can’t stop. “Wish me luck, Daddy!” I call.
Good luck, Princess,
I imagine him saying.

And then I’m out of the cemetery, onto the town green, onto Main Street where Ethan was hit. I’m flying now, my feet hardly seeming to touch the ground as they carry me farther away from Jimmy, from my past, and closer to the one I hope will be my future, and I run faster still.

G
IANNI’S IS MOBBED
. Clearly the Mirabellis’ anniversary party has mushroomed into a huge event. Every table is occupied, and more people stand near the bar, drinks in hands, laughing, talking as Tony Bennett’s mellow voice drifts out from the speakers. Waiters buzz around with trays of food, bottles of wine, baskets of bread. There’s my mom at a table with Corinne and Chris. Mom holds Emma and tilts her head up to say something to Captain Bob, who stands there, clearly waiting to be asked to join them.

I don’t see Ethan anywhere. I’m still panting from the run, adrenaline zinging through my joints.

“Hi, Wucy!”

I look down “Nicky! Hi, sweetie,” I say. “Where’s your daddy?”

“Guess what?”

“Can I guess later? I need your daddy.”

“I can burp whenever I want to,” my nephew informs me, then demonstrates his new talent.

“Is Daddy here?” I ask a little more loudly.

“Lucy? What are you doing here? I thought you weren’t coming.” It’s Parker, emerging from the ladies’ room.

“Is Ethan here? I need to…I have to see him.” I stand on tiptoe to see the far side of the restaurant, but I can’t find Ethan.

“Why?” she says, her eyes narrowing.

“Is he here? Please, Parker.”

Something in her expression softens. “Is everything okay?” she asks, putting her hand on my arm. I nod. “He’s in the kitchen. Gianni hired some bozo to cook tonight, and he didn’t show, so Ethan took over.”

“Really?” I say. To the best of my knowledge, Ethan has never cooked for his folks…for me, sure. Yet another sign I’d so willfully ignored these many years.

Wishing I’d come in through the kitchen door—sure would’ve made life easier—I twist my way through the sea of tables, waving, saying hi, trying not to look like a desperate animal. It is, after all, the Mirabellis’ anniversary dinner.

“Yo, Luce,” says Stevie. “You look like something the cat dragged in.”

“Hi, Stevie,” I say distantly, not stopping. I’m almost to the kitchen, then nearly get run over by a waiter. As I lurch out of the way, I bump into Marie.

“Oh, hello, sweetheart!” she exclaims. “You came after all! Did you hear the news?” My mother-in-law puts a plump hand on my arm.

“Hi, Marie, I just need to find Ethan and—”

“He’s taking over the restaurant! Isn’t it wonderful?
He’s in the kitchen now, and he told Gianni he wants to buy the restaurant!”

My mouth falls open. “Ethan wants to work here?”

“Yes!”

“Are you serious?” I ask. “What about Atlanta? You said—”

“He wants to be near the little guy,” Gianni says, joining us. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi, Gianni,” I say. “So Ethan’s staying? I—”

“Told me he doesn’t want a partner, either—he wants to own it outright, the little bastard,” Gianni growls, though he seems rather proud, too. “Already he’s telling me it won’t be the same. Says he’ll change it from the name on down, if you can believe it.”

“Oh, hush, you old fart,” Marie says. “Your son is buying you out. Stop complaining.”

“He’s buying the restaurant?” I ask.

“Are you all right, honey? Where’s that nice young man you’re seeing?” Marie seems to notice my disheveled state for the first time. “Your shoes don’t match, dear.”

“I have to talk to Ethan,” I say.

“He’s awfully busy,” Gianni grumbles. “Not doing too badly in there, but still. Service is a little behind.”

I dodge a busboy, then shove my way through the swinging doors of the kitchen.

“Service for table ten,” calls Micki, one of the long-time sous chefs, sliding a dish onto the heating rack. “Hurry up, Louie!”

“I need two bisques and a mozz special,” the waiter answers, grabbing the plates and placing them on a tray. “Chef, any more veal?”

“I got three more,” Ethan says. His back is to me as he stands at the stove. He flips something, gives another frying
pan a shake, adds some liquid, causing flames to leap up. The smells of garlic and meat are rich in the air.

It’s like an amped-up circus in here. Two people are on salads and prep, someone’s checking something in the oven, and Ethan is stirring, flipping, banging. The dishwasher’s up to his elbows in suds, the cousin’s husband’s brother is pulling something out of the freezer, and there are about ten things cooking on the stove at once. Servers buzz in and out, calling out orders, barely noticing me, just milling around me like I’m a sack of potatoes.

Not the best time, in other words.

But.

I can’t exactly stop now.

“Ethan?” I say. He doesn’t hear me.

“Get me two crème brûlées and two tiramisus,” barks Kelly, the waitress who went to school with me. She does a double-take when she sees me. “Hi, Lucy.”

“Table four wants to know if you can do a chicken marsala without the wine,” Louie says.

“Sure. It won’t be marsala, but sure,” Ethan says, tossing some chicken into a frying pan.

“Ethan?” I say again.

He hears me this time, and his head snaps around. “Lucy. What’s up?”

“Do you have a minute?”

An eyebrow raises. “Not really.”

“Chef, table five says their meat’s not cooked enough,” a waiter says, shoving a plate across the warming area. Ethan looks at it. “It’s medium rare,” he says to the server.

“Tell me about it. He wants it darker,” the waiter grunts in disgust. Ethan nods and shoves the plate back under the broiler.

“Ethan, I really need to talk to you,” I say loudly. Micki gives me a look and continues chopping parsley.

“Lucy, there are fifty people out there who want to eat, and my dad’s chef didn’t show,” he says, sliding some vegetables from a frying pan onto two plates. He adds a veal chop onto one, chicken onto another, then grabs a bowl and fills it with ravioli, covering the pasta with sauce. Micki grabs the plates, sprinkles them with parsley, adds the garnish and puts the plates on the warmer. “Service for table eight!” she yells.

Ethan’s back at the stove, and more flames flare briefly. “Carlo, can you get some more filet from the cooler?” he calls.

“You betcha, Chef,” Carlo calls.

I sigh. Okay, it’s a bad time. Whatever momentum carried me here is gone, I guess. I turn to leave, shoving my hands in my pockets.

There’s the dime.

I look back at Ethan. Since he’s working at the twelve-burner stove, he’s standing right in front of Jimmy’s shrine. As ever, the candles are lit, Jimmy’s bandana neatly folded, his picture smiling out at me.

It’s time. I don’t care how busy the restaurant is. It’s time, damn it. “Ethan?” I say again. He doesn’t answer. “Eth?” Nothing. “Ethan, I need to talk to you now!” I yell.

Ethan gives me a quick glare, then says, “Micki, can you take over for one minute? The steak and eggplant are together, and the chicken parm and ravioli go to six.”

“Got it, Chef,” she says, grabbing a pan.

Ethan maneuvers past the young man ladling soup into bowls and the girl who’s on salads.

“What, Lucy?” he demands.

“Can we go outside for a second?” I ask.

“No!” he barks, running a hand through his hair. He
takes a breath, then folds his arms in front of him. “Tell what’s so important it can’t wait.”

I swallow—still no pebble, just nerves this time, and it occurs to me I haven’t planned what to say. “I—um, I went to the cemetery today. Tonight. To see Jimmy’s grave.” I bite my lip.

“That’s great, Lucy,” Ethan says, glancing over to the soup boy.

“Chef, we got a shellfish allergy on that eggplant parm, so be extra careful,” Kelly calls, grabbing a plate from the warmer.

Then Marie comes into the kitchen. “Ethan, sweetheart, Mrs. Gianelli wants to know if you can make her that pasta with the—”

“Excuse me, I’m talking here!” I say sharply, looking at my mother-in-law. My breath is coming fast and hard, and suddenly, Ethan’s attention is laser sharp.

“So talk,” Marie says, clearly wounded. “Pretend I’m not here. I’m just the mother.”

I look back at Ethan, who’s grown very still. “Ethan…on the wedding video…when you gave your speech. Um…I saw it, Ethan.”

He blinks. “Saw what?” His voice is very low.

Another waiter bursts into the kitchen. “Chef, we need two more filets and one tilapia special,” he says.

Ethan doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even turn. “Saw what, Lucy?”

It’s beginning to dawn on the kitchen staff that Something’s Happening. Though the food still cooks and the knives still cut, it’s suddenly much quieter in here.

“I saw that…” My voice drops to a whisper. “Jimmy knew.”

Something flickers in Ethan’s eyes.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Ethan, I’m so sorry for everything I put you through. Tonight when I was watching the toast—”