The Next Best Thing (9 page)

“What, Marie?” I ask, the pebble already stuck in my throat.

“That goddamn Angelo,” Gianni explodes, shoving away from the table. He tends to leave at emotional times. I swear, he spent half of Jimmy’s wake outside the funeral home, advising the valets on where to park cars.

“Ma. Why now?” Ethan asks.

“The restaurant is too much for your father,” she says, not looking at either of us. “His blood pressure. And it’s just…it’s not the same without Jimmy. And now that you’re
moving on, Lucy, honey, and you’re back to raise your son, Ethan, well…we’re just not needed anymore.”

“You’re needed!” Ethan barks. “Nicky loves you! When are you planning on seeing him? Did you even think about your only grandson?”

“Ethan,” I interject in a low voice, but he ignores me.

“We’ll have him visit,” Marie says. “You, too, Lucy, sweetheart. And we’ll come back from time to time. It’s just…we just don’t want to stay around anymore.”

“Part of the reason I took this job in Providence was to be closer to you and Dad, Ma,” Ethan says.

“So? You don’t need us. You’re doing fine. We’re very, uh, proud,” she says, tearing a piece of bread to bits. “I’d better check on your father.” With that, she, too, hurtles away from the table, leaving me with Ethan.

I shift in my chair to look at him better. His jaw is tight, and a muscle jumps underneath his left eye. I reach out and give him a tentative pat on the leg.

“Would you please stop touching my leg?” he bites out.

My hand slinks back to my own lap. “Sorry! Sorry, Eth,” I say. “But listen, your parents deserve to retire. Why are you so mad, buddy?”

He gives me a look that could cut glass. “Lucy, you’re so obtuse sometimes,” he says.

“What? What am I missing?”

He continues to gaze at me dispassionately, like a teacher with a not-very-bright student. “If Jimmy were alive, they’d never leave. They’d die in that kitchen.” He jerks his chin in the direction of his parents’ escape.

“Well, Jimmy did die,” I murmur. My hand wants to pat him again, but we know better.

“I’m aware of that, Lucy,” he says, his voice unfamiliar in its hardness.

“And they really should retire. They’re in their seventies, aren’t they?”

“Yes. And I don’t begrudge them retirement. But why not Newport or the Cape or something? Why Arizona? It’s a little far, don’t you think? I just moved back here, and I was hoping…”

“Hoping to be closer with them?” I ask.

Ethan shrugs. “I guess.” He pauses, pushing the food around on his plate. I sneak another mouthful, feeling somehow that I’m being unsympathetic by eating when my friend is distressed. Chewing without moving my mouth proves difficult, however, so I just go for it, letting Ethan brood next to me. It works.

“Did you know that Jimmy was named for our grandfathers?” he asks after a few minutes “They were both Giacomo.”

I smile. I did know that little fact, learning only when it was time to do our wedding invitation that Jimmy’s name wasn’t James, as I’d assumed. “What’s your point?” I ask gently.

Ethan straightens his fork. “Do you know who I’m named for?” he asks.

“He’s named for the doctor,” Marie announces loudly. Apparently, Angelo has been thoroughly chastised, because both my in-laws have returned to the table. They sit now, Marie smiling, Gianni glowering. “We were so sure you were a girl, honey,” Marie says to her younger son. “Lucy, we didn’t even have a boy’s name picked out, we were so sure! You were supposed to be Francesca. Isn’t that a lovely name?”

“It is,” I agree, grinning at Ethan.

“Even when the doctor said you were a boy, I didn’t believe it. I was convinced you were a girl!”

“What every man wants to hear, Ma,” Ethan says, but Marie continues, undaunted.

“So then he shows me your tiny little parts—” Ethan closes his eyes and I giggle “—and we were just stumped! Then your father here—” Marie elbows Gianni “—your father says, ‘So what do we call the little bugger?’ And my mind, it goes completely blank, so I look at Dr. Tavendish and I say, ‘What’s your first name, Dr. T.?’ And he says, ‘Ethan.’ And that was that!” She and Gianni smile at each other fondly, warmed by the memory.

“And that’s how this little
paesan
got a WASP name,” Ethan says. Then he gives his parents a smile that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. “So tell us more about Valle de Muerte.”

A
FTER DINNER
, E
THAN AND
I
WALK HOME
. The street is quiet, as sidewalks tend to roll up before nine after Labor Day. Ethan knows how I feel about the cemetery, and it’s nice not to have someone trying to coax me through like they’re cajoling a reluctant dog out of a crate. The stars gleam bright above, and salt flavors the air, putting me in mind of sourdough bread.

“Does it really bother you, being named after the doctor?” I ask.

“Not really. It’s just…well, it doesn’t matter.” Ethan says mildly. I suspect it does, but now that we’re away from his parents, he’s not going to reopen the subject.

“How’s the new job going?” I ask.

“It’s okay.”

“What do you do all day?”

He sighs. “Meetings. Long-range planning, research on new markets.”

It’s a far cry from what he used to do…schmoozing, basically. He was head of North American sales, rather astonishing, given that he’s only twenty-seven. Instead of working at Gianni’s during college, Ethan took a summer internship at International, and his employers so liked him that they offered him a job. I know from Parker that the new position is a promotion and Ethan’s making even more money now, but I also know that long-range planning and research are not Ethan’s thing. Certainly, though, it’s safer than flying all around the country and doing all those adventure sports things.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

“Not especially.”

“Then why’d you take it?”

We’ve reached the bridge and stop for a minute, looking down at the Mackerly River, which flows from the ocean side of the island to the bay. The lights of the much more upscale Newport twinkle in the distance, but here on our little lump of land, it’s quiet save for the murmuring rush of the tidal river and the occasional night bird. A breeze ruffles Ethan’s perpetually rumpled hair.

He glances at me. “Figured I should be around more for Nicky,” he says, dropping his gaze to the water.

“Right,” I answer. “That’s a good reason.”

“The best.” He smiles at the thought of his son, and, as always, my heart gives an almost painful twist. Ethan is such a good dad, and little is more appealing than a father who so obviously loves his child.

“So come on, tell me. What’s the deal with being named after the obstetrician?” I ask, watching as the river rushes past the reedy banks.

“It’s nothing. Just that Jimmy got the grandfathers’ name, and they hadn’t even bothered to pick one out for me.”

“Sure they did. You just decided to be difficult and come out a boy.”

“Right.”

“So?”

He turns to look at me. “Well, a person could say that I disappointed my parents right from the get-go by being me. They already had a son. They wanted a daughter. They got me, and I wasn’t as good as Jimmy.” He says it as if he’s presenting a paper on the history of dirt—these are the facts, and while they’re true, they’re not all that interesting.

“Oh, Ethan, buddy, no one thinks that!” I protest.

His eyes crinkle in genuine amusement. “Anyone ever told you, Lucy, that you’re awfully naive?” I don’t answer, and Ethan continues. “I’ve pretty much spent my life being Not-Jimmy. He was the heir apparent. He was older, taller, funnier, better-looking, better in the kitchen. He got Dad’s eyes, Mom’s heart, the grandfathers’ name. He got the restaurant, he got the family recipes, he got—well. Whatever I do in my life, it won’t measure up to Jimmy.” He shoots me a sidelong glance. “In my parents’ eyes, anyway.”

My urge is to hug him, but I probably shouldn’t. “Does it bother you?” I ask quietly.

“Not so much anymore. I’m used to it. And my parents lost a child, so I try to cut them some slack. If anything ever happened to Nick, I don’t know what I’d do, and I hope to God never to find out.”

I swallow, not willing to think such thoughts. “You’re just as good as Jimmy, Ethan,” I say sincerely. “You’re different, that’s all.”

He looks at me a beat, and I get the feeling there’s something more he wants to say. But he doesn’t. “Come on, it’s getting cold” is all he offers, and we start walking once more, leaving the river behind, not talking until we
reach the Boatworks. We stop at the entrance, which is one of the lovely touches of this building. Instead of an overhang, half a Herreshoff sailboat juts out from the brick. The building’s front doors were taken from a shipwreck and restored. Obviously we each know the code to get into the building, but we just stand there a moment, sheltered by the old wooden boat.

“You want to come up?” I ask. “I made profiteroles. And not just that…they’re served with a warm hazelnut mocha sauce.” He doesn’t answer. “We could play Guitar Hero, maybe?” There’s a desperate note to my voice, and I don’t imagine Ethan misses it. “Sound good, Eth?”

“Sounds great,” he replies with a considerable lack of enthusiasm. “But I don’t think I should come over, Lucy. Thanks, though.”

“Why? You don’t like my desserts anymore?” I ask. “Trying to drop a few, are you?” My joke falls flat…A) Ethan is as lean as a greyhound; and B) I know the real reason and don’t want it to be true. “You don’t have to eat,” I add. “We could watch a movie.” My heart is fluttering like a sick bird in my chest, and I feel dangerously close to tears.

“Lucy,” Ethan begins, looking down the street. “Look. You know I think you’re great and all, but maybe we should put some distance between us.”

“Why?” I squeak.

“Well, you want a new husband. He’s not going to appreciate you having an ex-lover hanging around, being your best friend forever.”

“But, you
are
my best friend, aren’t you?” I say around the pebble in my throat.

He hesitates, and that hideous bird in my chest goes into death spasm. “Sure. But I don’t want to be a substitute for what’s missing in your life, either.”

“You’re not a substitute!” I protest.

“Whatever you say, Luce.”

“Eth,” I attempt, “aren’t we still friends?”

“Lucy, you asked for some distance. I’m giving it to you.” There’s an edge to his voice now, and that little muscle under his eye ticks again.

“Well, forgive me, then,” I say, my voice brittle. “I thought we were friends. I guess we could be friends when we were sleeping together, but not now, huh?”

“No, Lucy!” he snaps. “You’re moving on, good for you, you should and all that crap. But you can’t have me filling in whenever you get lonely. Not if you’re about to dump me for a husband one of these days.”

“Dump you? We didn’t…we weren’t…” My voice trails off.

“No. We didn’t and we weren’t. So fine. Go out with Charley Spirito. Find a new guy, but leave me out of this.”

“But—”

“Lucy,” he says tightly. “You can’t have everything, okay? So back off.”

“I’m not asking for everything! I just want you to…to be my friend. Like you were.” At his dark look, I hastily amend that statement. “Well, without the sleeping together part. Just for us to be…buddies.”

“Buddies.” He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, buddy. I’m tired and I have an early meeting, so let’s call it a night.”

And with that, he punches in our code, holds the door open for me. When we get in the elevator, he pushes four for my floor, and five for his. Aside from “Good night,” we don’t say anything else.

“H
OW WAS YOUR DATE WITH
C
HARLEY
Spirito the other night?” Parker asks. “Nicky, not so high, honey.”

I watch as Nicky pumps his little legs harder, trying to make the swing wrap around the bar from which the chains dangle. Seems like he inherited Ethan’s thrill-seeker gene.

Corinne, wee Emma, Parker, Nicky and I are at Ellington Park, a safe two hundred yards from the cemetery entrance. It’s one of those perfect September days, the sky so brilliantly blue it makes your heart ache. The yeasty, welcoming smell of Bunny’s morning bread still flavors the air. I have forty-one minutes until the next batch is due out, but for now, I’m on my midday break. Emma smacks contentedly away at Corinne’s breast. My sister wears the serene face of pain that I’m coming to recognize as “nursing mother.” Or “saint dying a martyr’s death.” Same idea.

“You went out with Charley Spirito?” Corinne asks, snapping out of her haze to give me a dubious look. “No sir!”

“Mmm,” I say. “It was…well. Charley. You know.”

“Didn’t he put gum in your hair once?” Corinne asks.

“Wow, good memory,” I comment. “It was fine. I don’t know.”

“Just a whole lot of nothing?” Parker guesses.

“That’s about it,” I agree, tilting my face to the sunshine.

“Which is what you want,” my friend adds. “Nick, no,
don’t jump. You’re too high. Good boy. Thanks.” Nicky waves, then jumps. Parker sighs as her son comes running over. “Nick, what would I tell Daddy if you snapped both your little ankles, huh? You want to go to the E.R.?”

“You shouldn’t scare children with the thought of getting health care,” Corinne advises in the singsong voice she uses whenever lecturing those of us who don’t have all of life’s answers. Parker rolls her eyes.

“Can we go to the E.R., Mommy?” Nicky asks. “I love the E.R.”

Parker tries to suppress a grin. “You were hurt when we went there, remember? When they sewed your hand?”

“It was fun,” Nicky insists. “I got a balloon, Wucy.”

“I remember,” I say, reaching out to tap his adorable nose with my index finger.

“Wucy, did you see me jump off the swing?”

“I sure did, honey,” I say, looking into his gorgeous brown eyes. Honestly, the boys always get the lashes, don’t they? “You looked like you were flying, but you know, Mommy’s right. That could hurt, if you landed wrong.”

“I didn’t land wrong. I landed up! Bye!” He canters over to the slide.

“He’s so beautiful,” I say. Jimmy’s nephew. Sad that Nicky is the closest thing to Jimmy’s child I’ll ever have. I think we would’ve made such gorgeous kids. The thought is a reflex by now, the pain worn to a nub with overuse.

“So, back to the date,” Corinne says. “Is Charley a contender?”

I pause. In truth, Charley’s not that bad. Just not the sharpest knife in the drawer. Honestly, he does match a lot of my requirements. Fairly recession-proof job. As a physed teacher, he’s in great shape, which is not only aesthetically pleasing but a huge plus with the Low Risk of Early
Death requirement. Charley seems good-hearted, I guess. He obviously likes kids (though being a gym teacher, one could argue that in fact, he
hates
kids). It’s just that the idea of sex with Charley…

Saturday night, Charley took me to Cuckoo’s Grille in Kingstown. The waitress was the mother of a woman we’d been to school with, so it was a typical Rhode Island two-degrees-of-separation night. When the pleasantries and updates were completed and the order for stuffed clams, or stuffies, as we like to call them, had been placed, Charley and I stared awkwardly at each other across the table. Then he launched into a discussion of the Red Sox, passionately making the case that without Varitek’s “goddamn torn ligament,” there was no way in hell that those “goddamn Yankees” would be in “first goddamn place,” and furthermore, what was wrong with Boston’s new shortstop, the guy was a “goddamn zombie.”

At the word
Yankees
, I recalled my fond fantasy of Joe Torre as my stepfather. If such were the case, I wouldn’t be on a date with Charley…not when dear old Joe would fix up his beloved stepdaughter with a millionaire baseball player who was single, didn’t do steroids, visit prostitutes, date Madonna, throw his helmet, chew tobacco, spit or scratch his groin in public, if such a creature indeed existed.

When our food came, Charley turned his attention to his steak and didn’t lift his head until his plate was clean. It was this sort of thing that made me think I could probably sleep through sex with Charley without him noticing.

The last time Ethan and I, er, had relations, it was roughly ten minutes after he’d returned from a trip to Montreal, and I’d jumped him the second he walked through my door. We’d done it standing up in the hallway, me against the wall, legs wrapped around him and quite
vocal, as I recall. A framed picture fell to the floor, the glass breaking, but we didn’t stop until we, um, stopped.

No one slept through anything.

“Guess what?” Parker interrupts.

“What?” I yelp guiltily. Cripes, am I blushing?

“Ethan dropped by last night,” she says.

My cheeks burn hotter. “So? He’s the father of your child. He drops by a lot.” I look at my hands.

Parker gives me an odd look. “Well, hush and let me finish.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. Corinne pats Emma on the back, eliciting a shockingly loud belch for so tiny a package.

“So he asked if I wanted to go out. On a date. He said that maybe we should try having a real relationship, rather than just be the two parents of our son. Nicky, get down, honey. That’s too high. Good boy.”

“That’s sweet,” Corinne says.

“Sweet,” I echo. My knees tingle with adrenaline, though I don’t know why (the little hallway memory probably has a lot to do with it).
Sober up, Lucy,
I tell myself firmly. I’ve always thought there was more potential to Ethan and Parker than either of them did. “So? Are you gonna try?” I ask.

She grimaces. “I don’t know. It seems good on paper. It’s just not…I don’t know.”

“You should. You should marry him,” I say. God knows I’d
love
to have someone I liked, respected, admired, would father adorable children and who didn’t make my knees weak. And while my voice sounds normal, my heart is convulsing like a striper pulled out of the water.

Parker sighs. “Maybe I should,” she agrees with a considerable lack of enthusiasm. “But—”

At that moment, my sister’s cell phone rings, and she
jumps like it’s the red phone in the Oval Office. “Hello? Chris? Are you okay? Honey?” She’s quiet a minute. “Sure! I’m fine! Oh, she’s wonderful! Beautiful! Perfect! How are you, sweetheart? I love you so much.”

“For Christ’s sake, they have medication for that,” Parker mumbles.

Glad for the change of subject, I feel my shoulders relax a little. “My mother’s last words to my dad were, and I quote here, Parker…‘Get the hell out of the bathroom, Rob, I have my period and I’m bleeding like a stuck pig.’” My friend snorts with horrified laughter, and I grin. “So give poor Cory a break. She’s just a screwball, as are we all.”

“You’re too nice, Lucy.” Parker grins.

“True. More people should be like me. You, for instance.”

Nicky, who seems to have more energy than a herd of ferrets, dangles from the jungle gym by one hand. Corinne, finished assuring Chris that the world is a wonderful,
wonderful
place, hangs up and says, “Parker, shouldn’t you direct his play a little more?”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Parker answers. “He’s a kid, Corinne! He’s having fun.”

Corinne gives her a dubious look. “Well, he’s your son, I suppose. Lucy, I’m going to check Dad’s grave. Want to come?”

It’s my sister’s habit to invite me on grave-weeding excursions. Someday, she’s convinced, my little phobia will crack and I’ll come along. She may be right, but today is not that day.

“Oh, no, thanks, Cory. Not today,” I say. “How about if I take my little niece for a stroll while you do your thing over there?”

She hesitates, nervous about letting me, a know-nothing
agent of death, hold her child without supervision. “Please?” I beg. “Pretty please?”

“Well, okay,” she says, unable to find a way out of it. “Just make sure you keep a blanket over her head so she doesn’t burn. She doesn’t like to get sweaty, though, so make sure she can feel the breeze. Also, support her neck. And make sure she can breathe okay.”

“No smothering, Lucy, understand?” Parker quips.

“Got it.” I take the little bundle of love from my sister, who gives a reluctant grin.

“Sorry,” she says. “I know she’s safe with you.”

“Thank you,” I answer, breathing in the sweet and salty scent of infant.

“Nicky looks stuck,” Parker says. “Back in a flash.” She trots over to her child, who is now upside down at the top of the crow’s nest on the jungle gym.

“Want me to water Jimmy’s grave?” my sister offers.

“That would be nice. Thank you.” I smile up at my sister. She’s a sweetheart, despite her neuroses. And I’m in no position to cast stones.

Who will water Jimmy’s grave after his parents move? Ethan, I suppose. Or me. It could happen.

Emma turns her head so her face is tucked against my neck in the sweetest snuggle imaginable. Her slight weight is reassuring against my shoulder, her cheek so soft. I adjust her blanket, making sure she’s protected from the bright sun. She sighs, and my heart swells with love.

Ellington Park’s lovely wide paths are shaded by elm and maple trees. “Isn’t the shade nice?” I ask as we walk, dropping a kiss on her downy head. “And there’s a bird, a crow. They’re pretty. And very smart.” Never too early to start teaching. That’s what I’ve read, anyway. Talk to your baby. Read to them. That’s what I’d do if I were a mommy.

Though I’ve been resisting it, I give in to the temptation, and just for a moment, I pretend that Emma is mine. My daughter. That this miracle of cells grew in me, that it was my tummy that grew round and taut, causing Jimmy and me to just about burst with pride. That I’d grown ripe and glowing, a happy, laughing mother-to-be, never complaining, never swollen, never exhausted. And when the time came, I’d heroically tolerate the pains of childbirth without any drugs. I’d push and push, and when the doctor said, “It’s a girl!” I’d turn to my husband, who’d be smiling down at me, his laughing brown eyes bright with—

Stop.

Jimmy’s eyes were not brown.

Nor was it Jimmy’s face I pictured.

My legs are suddenly weak with terror, watery and useless. Suddenly my teeth are chattering. Dear God, it’s a panic attack, the likes of which I haven’t had since the first year after Jimmy’s death. I’m going to faint. I’m holding a baby and I’m going to faint. A bench waits nearby, and somehow I wobble toward it and sit heavily.
Don’t faint, don’t faint, don’t faint,
I chant silently to myself. I take a deep breath and hold it, then release it slowly, as I was taught in grief group after Jimmy died. My heart shudders and flops.

“I won’t drop you, Emma,” I whisper, and talking to her helps. I’m her auntie. I can’t let anything bad happen. I love her too much. My racing heart slows, my teeth stop chattering.

“Auntie’s okay,” I say, and my voice is stronger now. “Auntie loves you, angel.” She makes a small sound, and my eyes fill with tears. I’m okay now. That image meant nothing. The face I pictured…okay, yes, yes, it was Ethan’s face…that didn’t mean anything. My breath jerks in and out, eventually calming.

I won’t be having children with Ethan, God knows. Let’s be honest. It’s not Ethan’s link to Parker—or Jimmy—that stops me from being with him.

It’s the knowledge that I could really fall in love with Ethan. That I could love him in a way that would rip me in half if anything happened to him. That losing Ethan as I lost Jimmy could ruin me, and that this time, I might not make it back.

And whatever I could maybe feel for Ethan, however much he’s done for me—nothing is worth that kind of pain again.

“Auntie’s fine,” I whisper again, stroking Emma’s head with one hand. “Auntie is just fine.”