The Next Best Thing (13 page)

“T
HE DOCTOR WILL SEE YOU NOW
,” the receptionist says, earning me the baleful glare of a roomful of women in varying degrees of ripeness.

“She’s my cousin,” I explain. “I’ll only be a minute. I’m sorry.” No one deigns to answer.

I walk through the frosted glass door down the hall to my cousin’s office.

“Hey, Anne,” I say, giving a little knock. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“Sure, kid! How’s it going?” Anne asks.

Cousin Anne ushers me into a seat. Her office is in Newport, and as Newport is the stylish city mouse to Mackerly’s more humble offerings, so Anne is to me. She’s ten years older, extremely gorgeous and wicked smart, as indicated by the diplomas from Harvard and Johns Hopkins that hang on her wall. Her graying hair is short and funky, and her skin is a testimony to sunscreen and good genetics. She dresses in comfortable, stylish clothes in soothing colors and wears great jewelry. Her office is likewise wicked cool…glass desk, green leather chairs, a gorgeous view of the graceful span that is the Newport Bridge. A bookcase holds dozens of medical books, a nice picture of Anne and Laura, and a beautiful glass sculpture of a baby in utero.

“I’m not pregnant,” I say, just to get that out of the way. “And I brought you blueberry cream scones as a bribe.” I set the string-wrapped white box on her desk

“I love bribes,” she says amiably, peeking under a flap. “Yummy.”

“How’s Laura?” I ask, stalling.

“Oh, she’s great,” Anne answers. “Busy with the new school year and all that. We’re heading up to Bar Harbor for the weekend.”

“Sounds fun,” I say.

“It should be,” she agrees. Waits a little more. They must’ve taught that in med school. Sit silently till the patient can’t stand it anymore and blurts it all out.

“So. Things good with the lesbian doctor practice?” I say, swallowing hard.

She laughs. “Can you work on that? I’d really love to hear my mom say, ‘My daughter, the obstetrician’ just once.”

I smile. “Well, she’s very proud. Drops your credentials whenever she can.”

I do have a regular doctor. It’s just that I used to babysit Dr. Ianelli’s kids. And Mrs. Farthing is the receptionist there, and she’s the mother of my old high school classmate. The nurse, Michelle, is a bakery regular (two cheese danishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, and the pounds are starting to pile on, frankly). The physician’s assistant, Caroline, was in Girl Scouts with Corinne. The usual.

Anne nods. “So what brings you here, Lucy?”

I hesitate. “Doctor patient confidentiality?” I suggest.

“You bet,” she answers.

“I’m having anxiety attacks again.” Anne nods. “I mean, I had a few after Jimmy died, of course, hyperventilating, heart pounding, stuff like that, but I haven’t had any for a couple of years. Until a few weeks ago, actually.”

“Had anything changed in your life lately?” Anne asks.

“Well, my in-laws finally left yesterday,” I answer.

She nods and waits.

“And I’m…um, I’m starting to date again. Sort of.” I swallow sickly.

“That’s pretty big, hon,” she says with a kind smile.

My sinuses prickle with tears. “Mmm-hmm,” I murmur.

“How’s it going?” she asks.

“Not awful, not great.” I sniffle, and Anne passes me a tissue box without comment.

“How are you sleeping?” she asks.

“I haven’t slept that well since the accident,” I admit. “A few hours at night, a few in the morning after I’m done at the bakery.”

“Sleep has a lot to do with your mental state, Goose,” she says, reverting to her childhood nickname for me. “How about exercising? Any of that?”

“I ride my bike a lot. Around the island. I rode here today. At my last check-up, the doctor said I was perfectly healthy.”

She nods, then opens her desk drawer and takes out a prescription pad. “This is a scrip for a mild antianxiety medication,” she says, scribbling something down. “Give it a try, see if it helps. It should help you sleep, too. The first time you take it, you should probably be home and not near hot ovens and all that, okay?” She rips off the paper and hands it to me, then stands up and comes round her desk.

“You hang in there, honey,” she says, folding me into a hug. “Change sucks, and of course you’re going to freak out a little, starting to date again after all this time. What’s it been, five years?”

“And a half,” I say.

“Shit.” She sighs, then messes up my hair. “You’re normal, Lucy.” I give her a smile to show that I’m spunky
and super-brave, and she smiles back. “Listen, the lesbian doctor has to get back to her patients. These pregnant women get mighty testy if I keep them waiting. Call me if you need anything else. And hey, come for dinner one of these days. Maybe Laura and I can think of some guy for you.”

“Thanks, Anne,” I say sincerely. Good old Anne. She and Laura almost make me wish I were gay, too.

A
FTER
I
FILL THE PRESCRIPTION
, I swing by High Hopes Convalescent Center to see Great-Aunt Boggy. I made a ton of scones last night, and the staff loves when I bring stuff in. Maybe Boggy will eat one, too. They’re nice and soft…I’m guessing they don’t need much tooth action, which is good, since Boggy doesn’t have teeth anymore.

You have of course noticed that I don’t eat my own desserts. It’s a shame, since judging by the smell of them, they’re fantastically stupendously wonderful. Not eating them probably keeps me from being an even better baker, because obviously, it’d help to know what things tasted like.

But the night Jimmy died, you see, I’d baked a beautiful dessert in my newlywed fervor. Jimmy and I hadn’t spent a day apart since our wedding, and that whole day, I’d been missing him, the heat of young love throbbing most pleasantly. Despite the fact that I’d been at work at the fancy Newport hotel where I was slaving, I came home and decided to bake for Jimmy. Pictured him coming through the door late that night, weary but wired, full of stories about his day in New York. I’d present him the most beautiful dessert ever, smile and listen until he was sufficiently relaxed to go to bed, where my plan was to shag him senseless and make him unspeakably grateful that he had such a hot wife.

And so I pulled out all the stops to show him how much
I’d missed him. To let him know how I adored him. To show off a little, too, because despite my mother-in-law being a wonderful dessert maker, I really wanted to be Gianni’s pastry chef someday.

I spent the next few happy hours dipping golden peaches in a boiling water bath, slipping off the peels, slicing the succulent fruit wafer-thin. On a whim, I grilled them lightly, drizzling a sweet white wine over them as I did so. I toasted half a pound of pistachios, then ground them into rubble with some carmelized ginger, then cut that into unsalted butter for the crust. Rather than make one big tart, I made four little ones—baked the crusts, and when they were cool, added a generous layer of crème fraîche and lemon zest, topped with the thin-sliced peaches, their deep golden color darkening to a seductive red at the center. I arranged the slices to look like flower petals, then poached some blueberries in the wine and added them as the center of the flower. When I was finished, I had what was quite possibly the prettiest dessert ever made. And because I felt I couldn’t possibly wait till Jimmy got home, I ate one. Right after Jimmy called to tell me he was just passing New Haven, I ate another, then saved the last two for my honey.

Well, obviously, Jimmy never got to try one, and ever since that horrible night, the desserts I’ve baked have lost their taste for me. I still love to make them…I just can’t seem to eat them. Whenever I take a bite of a cake or a tart or a pudding or even just a chocolate chip cookie, it tastes like dust—meaningless, empty and gray. If I try to swallow, I gag. It’s pretty clear why.

And so I’ve resorted to the products of Hostess…Twinkies are my favorite, that slight tang of chemical preservative that gives the beloved icon its impressive shelf
life, the spongy, sticky cake, the little tunnel of white through the middle. Hostess Cupcakes, too—the peel-away frosting with the cheery little swirl of white on top, the nondairy cream filling that I like to dig out with my tongue. Those pink Sno-Balls, like something from a science fiction movie. The Ho Hos, the Ding Dongs…sigh. My teachers from Johnson & Wales would have my name burned off the alumni register if they knew.

“Hello, dear,” says the receptionist at High Hopes as I walk through the door.

“Hello,” I answer, smiling as I set the second box of scones on the counter. “How’s my aunt doing today?”

“Oh, she’s just as sweet as can be,” Alice lies kindly. What else is she going to say?
Well, she’s been drooling really well today…dozing. A little napping here and there, between the bouts of deeper sleep…

“Well, I brought a few treats,” I say. “Let me just grab one for Boggy, and you can divvy up the rest.”

“Thank you, dear!” Alice says. “Aren’t you nice to think of us.”

I really am, I acknowledge with a modest bow of the head. Then I snag the biggest scone for my aunty and head down the hall.

As usual, Boggy’s in bed, sleeping.

“Hi, Boggy!” I say. “I brought you a scone. Blueberry and cream. I think it’s a winner, if I do say so myself.”

I press the button to raise the bed to an upright position—Boggy won’t wake unless she’s sitting up and she’s hungry.

“Doesn’t that smell great?” I ask, holding out the treat.

She opens her eyes. Good old Boggy. How nice that she never lost the urge to eat.

“Who are you?” she asks.

I jump about a mile into the air, dropping the scone on her lap. Her voice is creaky, the words running together, but my God! She spoke! I haven’t heard her speak in fifteen years!

“I’m…uh…I’m your grand-niece. Lucy. Lucy Lang. Daisy’s daughter.” My heart races, my hands are shaking. “Your niece, Daisy Black.”

“Daisy?” The old lady squints, her face creasing into a thousand wrinkles.

“She’s your sister’s daughter.”

“My sister Margaret?”

“Yes!” I exclaim. “Boggy! It’s so…How are you feeling? Are you okay? You’ve been kind of…out of it for a while.” I dig in my pocket for my cell phone. “I’m just gonna call my mom, okay? Let her know you’re, um, awake.”

“Can I eat this?” Boggy asks, then coughs a little. She picks up the scone and gives it a suspicious sniff.

“Well, sure! It’s a scone. Uh, go ahead.”

She takes a gummy bite, then smiles up at me, innocent and happy as a puppy.

“Bunny’s,” my mother sighs into the phone.

“Mom! I’m at High Hopes. Boggy’s awake and talking!”

“What?”

“Get over here right now! She’s sitting up in bed, eating a scone, and she…well, just come! Hurry!”

Six minutes later (a new land-speed record), the Black Widows come into the room, their faces hopeful and suspicious at the same time. I’m shaking with excitement. “Aunt Boggy,” I say, my voice thick with happy tears, “do you remember Iris, Rose and Daisy?”

My mother and aunts approach cautiously. They are holding hands, which touches me more than I can say.

Boggy studies them carefully. “Well,” she creaks. “I hope you girls don’t expect me to cook.”

And with that, the three nieces burst into tears at the sights and sounds of Boggy, awake after so, so long. They swarm around her, petting her, taking her gnarled hands into theirs, kissing her, all talking at once to their beloved aunt, whom they have so faithfully visited all these years.

I take a hitching, happy breath, then step out into the hall to call Corinne. I only get her voice mail, though, and leave a message to come to High Hopes as soon as she can.

Then, peeking in once more at the four women, I call Ethan. He’ll love this. He’ll want to hear all about it, maybe even will leave work early. He doesn’t know Aunt Boggy, but he sure loves the Black Widows.

He answers on the fourth ring. “Ethan, you’ll never guess what!” I exclaim.

“Hi, Lucy. Everything okay?”

“Aunt Boggy woke up! And she’s talking!”

“One second, Luce.” His voice grows muffled. “Sorry, this will only take a minute,” he says to someone. “Lucy, I’m in a meeting, I’m really sorry. That’s great about your aunt.”

“I know! I brought her a scone, and there she was—”

“Luce, I’m sorry. I can’t talk now. I’ll have to catch up later.”

“Oh,” I say, deflating like a popped balloon.

“Sorry,” he repeats. “I’m really glad about your aunt. Talk to you soon.”

And with that, he clicks off.

Well. He’s busy, of course. The new job is all about meetings, from the little I’ve heard. Still. It seems to me that a month ago, he would’ve stepped out of whatever he was doing to hear more of this incredible news.

By now, the word has spread that Boggy is a chatter-box after nearly two decades in a partial coma. Three
doctors and two nurses are in her room, checking vitals and asking questions.

“Are there any more scones?” she asks, craning her skinny neck, and with a big smile, I run down the hall to the reception desk to get her some more.

L
ATER THAT EVENING
, I’
M BACK
in the apartment, getting ready for a date, slapping on mascara as Fat Mikey watches from his perch on the back of the toilet. Actually I almost forgot the whole thing, given the excitement of the day. I would’ve bowed out, but I got home at six, and we were supposed to meet at seven. Didn’t seem nice to cancel an hour before.

I’d spent most of the day at the nursing home, filling in my cousins and phoning my sister about the Miracle of the Scone, as I’m calling it. I should sell these at the bakery. Lazarus Scones.

Boggy’s return really is quite a miracle. The doctors are stumped and pleased, and other than a
these things happen sometimes
explanation, they had nothing to add. A local news crew dropped in, thanks to a call from Stevie, who figured he could get some free publicity (he’s planning to use his skateboard to jump over five cows and feels the world should know). Grinelda the Gypsy dropped in, too, claiming that just last night, she’d received a message that the Black Widows would be visited by someone they thought was long gone.

Finally we were all herded out. Boggy was tired. I’d run back home and got her another six scones, since she’d eaten three that afternoon. With promises to make whatever
she liked, I kissed her withered cheek and bid her goodbye. Not sure if she remembers me, but it hardly matters.

I check my purse to make sure I have my cell phone. My date sounded pretty nice, though we’ve only spoken via e-mail and once on the phone. Has a steady job. Never been married. Seems terrifyingly normal.

At the notion of sitting in Lenny’s with yet another candidate for husband, the pebble in my throat seems to swell. And hey…Here’s the bag from the pharmacy. My new prescription. Ah, yes. Anne said they were mild…maybe I should take one. Thinking of my recent panic attacks, I decide to give it a try. I read the instructions on the bottle, take a pill, eat a Twinkie in order to obey the “take with food” requirement. Then I check my upper lip for whiskers, blow my cat a kiss and promise to return soon, and leave.

As I wait for the elevator, I wonder how Ethan’s doing. He didn’t swing by High Hopes. Nor did he call me back. Nor have we seen each other since the Mirabellis’ going-away party, as I’d bowed out of the actual physical departure of my in-laws. Gianni, Marie and I had a big tear fest the day before they left, and that was as much as we could handle.

Outside, it’s a little chilly, a stiff breeze knifing off the water. October is just around the corner. It’s my favorite month…the shorter days seem more forgiving, gentler somehow, encouraging people to go inside and eat something warm. The smell of ocean is thick in the air as I head down Park Street, skirting the cemetery, noting that the maples are red and gold, the beeches a cheery yellow.

As I pass the spot where my father’s buried, I stop for a second and peek over the wall. Convenient, that he’s so close to the edge…I don’t have to suffer the same guilt I feel over not visiting Jimmy’s grave. “Hey, Dad,” I say. For a second, I pull my father’s image to mind, trying to find
a real memory and not just something from a home movie or photograph. Ah. Here we go. An old favorite, worn but not diminished from the many times I’ve summoned it. Daddy pushing me on the swing, his big hands propelling me through the air, the giddy tickle in my stomach, the wind in my hair, my father’s big laugh behind me.

A little melancholy descends like a damp fog. If only my Lazarus scones could bring back my dad. Just for a day. Just an hour, even. Ten minutes, hey. I’m not greedy. If I could ask him how I’m doing, or what I should be doing. If I could feel his arms around me, smell his comforting Dad smell, which I swear I can almost catch sometimes. If my father would just tell me everything would be okay, I’d have a much easier time believing it.

Ah, well. Enough maudlin self-pity for the day. Besides, maybe my pill is starting to take effect. I feel a little…light. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it before a date, but then again, what better time?

I get to Lenny’s and wave. There’s Tommy Malloy, shooting pool with Obie Chisholm. Carly Espinosa is here—she and her husband, Ted or Todd, I can never remember—have a standing date on Thursdays.

I look around the bar…hmm. That’s odd. Seems like my head is still moving, even though it’s not. What’s my date’s name again? Something weird. Oh, yes. Corbin, as in Corbin Dallas, the Bruce Willis character from
The Fifth Element
. I love that movie. “Corbin Dallas,” I say aloud. Oops. Yes, it’s fair to say the pill has definitely kicked in. Kind of a nice feeling, really, like I’ve just had a big glass of Chardonnay.

Well, he doesn’t seem to be here. I take a seat at an empty booth, only to be joined immediately by Stevie.

“Can you fucking believe Aunt Boggy?” he asks. He
holds a martini glass filled with purple liquid. A haze of smoke hovers over it, and I wince. God knows what’s in there. Could be anything from dry ice to formaldehyde, knowing Stevie.

“It’s pretty amazing,” I say.

“Hey, you’re gonna come to my thing, right?” he asks. “When I break the record?”

“Is there really a cow-jumping record to break, Stevie?” I ask.

“I dunno,” he grunts, taking another slug of whatever’s in his glass. “If not, I can set it.”

“Sure, I’ll be there,” I answer. “Sounds fun.”

“Watch this, Luce.” Stevie tips his head back and balances the martini glass on his forehead. “Cool, huh?” he asks.

“Wicked cool, Stevie,” I agree.

“Okay, gotta run.” Stevie removes the martini, sloshing a little liquid into his hair. “There’s Craig Owens. See ya, cuz.” Stevie, never the most focused lad, wanders off to his oldest friend—the one who once dared him to eat poison ivy.

“Lucy?” I look up.

“Yes. Are you Corbin?” He nods, smiles and sits down.

Corbin and I have not met face-to-face, though I saw his picture on eCommitment. A rather plain guy, classic New England face—light brown hair, small blue eyes, straight teeth, the short nose of the Boston Irish. He meets many of the criteria for my next husband: He is an executive at an insurance company and enjoys running and golf (the desk job and frequent physical exercise meeting the Low Risk of Early Death requirement). His job is with an old, well-established company (about as recession-proof as you can get in this day and age). He volunteers with troubled youths at a camp for two weeks each summer, so his Fa
therhood Potential is high. And he’s not making the blood thrill in my veins. Another plus.

Still, I fail to feel as pleased as perhaps I should. Also, my eyes feel cold. That’s weird. “So,” I say.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he says. “Have you ordered yet?”

Lenny lumbers over to take our order. “So, Luce, you playing the field again?”

“Not exactly, Len, not exactly. Lenny, This is Corbin…um, sorry, Corbin, I didn’t get your last name.”

“Wojoczieski,” he answers.

“Huh. I thought you looked Irish,” I said.

“My mother’s Irish,” he answers, seeming pleased.

Wojo-something. Now that’s a name that will take a little studying. Wojo-et cetera. Hmm. Lucy Wojo…nah. Lucy Lang, that sounded the best. Even better than Lucy Mirabelli. Maybe I should go back to Lang. Maybe I could make up a new name, even. When I was a little girl, I wanted to change my last name to Ingalls Wilder, for obvious reasons. Maybe I can do that now.

“Luce? You want something?” Lenny asks, giving me a nudge.

“Chicken salad and seltzer, okay, Len?” I say. Even in my present state, I’m quite aware I shouldn’t drink even one drop of alcohol tonight. Because it’s clear that I’m a little…well, I hesitate to say
stoned
, since it implies illicit drug use, but
affected
by this medicine. However, and I have to give Anne credit here, I am not feeling anxious at all. Kind of floaty, kind of fun, really.

“The most amazing thing happened today,” I tell old Corbin as Lenny leaves. “My great-aunt Boggy woke up from the dead. Well, almost dead. Woke up from the near dead. She’s a hundred and four.”

“Isn’t that incredible!” Corbin says with a beaming smile. “My goodness! Amazing!”

“It was amazing, Corbin, it was indeed,” I agree. I wonder what would happen if my eyes froze like ice. Would I still be able to see? Move my eyes? Would they crack like an ice cube? “Wojoczieski? Did I get it right?”

“Yes, you did! Well done,” he says, beaming proudly. It
is
quite an accomplishment, after all. “So tell me more about this amazing woman.”

“Sure. Well, it was the scone or something.” I launch into the story, and Corbin is quite delighted.

“Isn’t that a marvel,” he murmurs, pausing as Lenny sets down our drinks.

“It is. It really is. Hey, do your eyes ever feel cold?”

“I can’t say that they do,” he answers amiably. “Cheers.”

We clink glasses. Boy, the bubbles in my seltzer water are so pretty. So floaty and pretty and round.

“You’re a baker, right?” Corbin says.

“That’s correct, Corbin Dallas,” I say. “I bake bread. Lots of kinds. Honey wheat, rye, marble, Italian, French, cinnamon raisin. It’s really good bread.” I tilt my head and smile, but it feels like my head keeps moving.
Is
my head still moving? I reach up to check. Nope.
Head is stable, Houston. All systems go.
Hey, that’s funny. Houston and Dallas in the same thought bubble. Cool.

“And I know you said you were a widow,” Corbin prompts. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, his little piggy blue eyes filled with compassion. I squeeze back.

“That’s nice of you, Corbin,” I answer. “You have nice manners.” I nod, and there goes that
head still moving
feeling. “Um, listen, Corbin. I took some medicine before we came here,” I add. “I’m feeling kind of strange.”

“Oh, dear,” he says. “Are you okay? Can I do anything?”

“Nah. I’m sure I’ll feel better once I eat something more than a Twinkie.”

Corbin smiles broadly, charmed. And why not? Am I not charming?

Speaking of not charming, the door opens, and in comes the surly Doral-Anne Driscoll. She catches sight of me and sneers. I just barely restrain myself from flipping her off. She heads over to a table, and dang it! There’s Ethan. He stands up, kisses her cheek and they sit down.

Ethan’s
here
. He didn’t call. He didn’t want to hear about Boggy or the Lazarus scones. Instead he’s here with that nasty white trash Doral-Anne. I mean, fine, but still. Can’t he do better than Doral-Anne? What about Parker?

“There’s no accounting for taste,” I say aloud—oops—but apparently my response makes sense to Corbin. Whatever. Nice guy. He keeps talking, smiling away, but I’m having trouble hearing.

Roxanne stomps over to our table with our food, slapping the plates down on the table with her trademark clatter, scowling. “Thank you!” I sing out, suddenly starving. I take a huge bite of sandwich…it’s a little hard to get food to the right spot, but I do feel a bit better after scarfing the thing down. Tasty. Quite tasty. Lenny puts a little curry powder in the chicken, a few red grapes. Very nice touch.

“So, Lucy,” Corbin says. Crikey, I almost forgot he was there. “Forgive me for asking, and you certainly don’t have to discuss it, but…how did your husband die?”

“It was a car accident,” I say around a large mouthful of fries.

“Oh, no,” he murmurs.

“He fell asleep at the wheel. Six miles from home.” I swallow and take another bite of chicken salad.

“Oh, no. You poor thing.” Again with the hand grip. “How old were you?”

“I was twenty-four, and Jimmy was twenty-seven. We’d only been married a little while. Not even a year.”

“So sad.” Those little blue eyes seem wet. I’m not sure if this makes me like or dislike Corbin.

“It really is,” I say, nodding. It sure is. It’s sad. But there’s something wrong with me, like I can’t really compute or something. I look at my hands. The fingers seem very, very long. “Do my hands look big to you, Corbin?” I flex my fingers. They look so odd. Like flippers. Like that Olympic kid who won all those medals—Michael Phelps? Yes, that’s it! Like his feet. He has flipper feet or something, right? And my hands look just like that. Freaky. I look at Corbin to see if he shares my concern.

But Corbin is not looking. No, Corbin has one hand over his eyes. Corbin seems to be crying.

“You okay?” I ask. “Corbin Dallas?”

He’s crying, all right. He puts the napkin down and bridges his hands over his nose. “I’m sorry,” he says, the tears dripping down his face. “It’s just…oh, Lucy, I didn’t realize…I’m so sorry.” He takes a shuddering breath, tries to smile, fails. Lenny gives us an odd look, and heads at the bar are starting to turn. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do this…See, my dog…I have a dog. Biffy. And he was recently…well, he needs surgery. For a cyst over his eye. And I’m worried, I guess, and when you said your husband fell asleep at the wheel, it just brought up all this…emotion. You know, if you love someone, the level of worry is the same. Biffy is so…”

His voice goes on. Surely he is not comparing his dog’s cyst to my husband’s death. But yes, he is. Wow. I’d react, but my fingers seem to be growing. Whoa. I think I should
probably call Anne. Pronto. But my fingers seem too big to fit into my pocketbook. Are they? I fumble with my purse, unable to get the snap undone. Maybe my cold eyes are screwing up my depth perception. I have no idea, really. Meanwhile, Corbin is working up quite a tear-storm.

“Everything okay over here?”

I look up, and there’s Ethan. “Are my fingers growing?” I ask, waving them around. I turn my hands over to see if they look weird from that side. They do. “They’re so big!”

Ethan looks down at Corbin, a slow fury filling his features. He looks…damn. Kind of hot, really, all scowly and protective. I do love that neat little beard on Ethan. Smokes him right up. Mmm-hmm. Too bad Doral-Anne has just joined our little group. I close one cold eye so I don’t have to see her and just drink in the sight of Angry Ethan.

“What did you do?” he growls, reaching out to grab Corbin’s shirt. “What did you give her?”