The Next Best Thing (16 page)

“Well, funny you should ask, Debbie. My husband died five years ago. I know you were quite sad. But guess what? So was I. It would’ve been nice if you called me
even once
. Since you were supposedly my friend and all.”

She stares at me, her face twitching in surprise. Her mouth opens wordlessly, but whatever she may or may not have to say, I don’t want to hear it. Instead I step aside to let her scuttle past. My breath comes hard and fast, and I look around for a hiding place, knowing I’m irritatingly close to tears.

The coat room. Great. No one’s in there. I step in and close the door behind me, take a deep breath and cross my arms over my chest. Three large racks of coats surround
me, the empty metal hangers clanging softly in the wind current caused by my arrival.

“Lucy? You in there?” It’s Ethan. Of course.

I don’t answer. The coat room door doesn’t have a lock. Ethan comes in and shuts the door quietly behind him.

“First you make out with Charley Spirito, then you tell off Debbie Keating,” he muses. “Busy night.”

“Please don’t,” I whisper.

He nods and looks at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he says. “The scones comment was in poor taste. Forgive me?”

I nod, my throat too tight to speak.

“Come on back out, then. Your mom is looking for you.”

“Ethan,” I attempt, my voice cracking. My mouth wobbles and I clamp my lips together.

“Hey,” Ethan says, his eyebrows rising in surprise. He steps closer, erasing the small space between us, and takes my upper arms, his hands warm and strong. “What’s going on, sweetheart?”

Tears slop out of my eyes, and I find that my face is suddenly pressed against Ethan’s shoulder, my arms around his lean waist, and I’m crying. Rather hard. “I was so proud, Ethan,” I choke. “To be the first face she saw after all this time. That maybe something I said, or those damn scones…maybe I triggered something. She was talking and smiling and everything, and it was like the old days, you know? The Black Widows were so happy, and it was like a party and everyone was so amazed, and then…it’s so stupid, but why does everyone have to die?” I hiccup on another sob.

“Honey, she was a hundred and four,” Ethan says against my hair. His arms are around me, and one hand is rubbing between my shoulder blades, where there are knots the size of acorns. He feels so good. Smells so good. “She
just…wound down. That’s all. And you had this incredible day with her, this one last day where she was back to her old self.” His voice is gentle. “You should be happy, sweetheart. That was a gift. You got to talk to her one last time. I can’t tell you what I’d give—”

His words stop abruptly. It doesn’t matter. I know what he was about to say.

I pull back a little to look at him, and his eyes, those smiley eyes, are so sad.

In all my times with Ethan, I have never seen him cry, not at Jimmy’s funeral, not in the horrible days immediately thereafter, not ever. I wonder now what warehouse of emotion he’s got bottled up in his heart.

Ethan pulls back, too. Very gently, he runs his thumbs under my eyes, wiping away my tears. “Don’t cry, honey. I can’t take it,” he whispers.

And then I kiss him. His lovely, full mouth is so warm, so familiar. For about three entire heartbeats, he doesn’t move a millimeter. Then he kisses me back, just a little, his lips barely moving, and I slide my fingers through his hair and pull him a little closer, and oh, God, I’ve missed him. Missed this.

His arms tighten around me, and the hangers rattle again as we knock against them, and now his lips are on my neck, the gentle scrape of his beard contrasting with the warm silkiness of his mouth. My knees soften in an almost painful rush. Then his mouth finds mine again, and the kiss is not so gentle this time…desperate, hungry, hot and forbidden and utterly welcome. His tongue brushes mine, and molten heat leaps through my veins. My hands move to his chest, and his skin is hot, practically burning me through the cotton, and I can feel the hard thudding of his heart. Without thinking, I tug his shirt and slip my hands underneath.

“Lucy,” he mutters against my mouth. “Honey, wait.” But I just kiss him again and slide my hands against the smooth skin of his back, his ribs, and pull him closer, wanting him against me. He shifts so we’re closer, his mouth hot and hard. Waiting is forgotten.

Suddenly the door opens, and I release Ethan so fast that I stagger into the hangers once more. He catches my arm, and we turn to see who’s there.

“Jesus, you guys, can’t you do it in the backseat of a limo like everyone else?”

It’s Parker. She grins and puts her hands on her slim hips, raising an eyebrow. My face is on fire, guilt fanning the flames of lust, and I nearly choke on the sudden clamping of my throat.

“Hello, Parker,” Ethan murmurs calmly, not letting go of my arm.

“Tsk, tsk,” Parker says. “Making out at a wake? Shame on the both of you!” Glancing over her shoulder, she smiles. “I found them, Mrs. Lang.” My stomach rises in abrupt horror, and I clap a hand over my mouth. Then Parker looks back at us. “Just kidding, guys,” she says with a flashing smile. “You’re safe for the moment. But seriously, straighten up and get out of there, you wicked children, you.”

With that, she closes the coat room door and, I presume, leaves.

Which leaves me with Ethan. I take a wobbly step away from him. His hair is rumpled, his cheeks are flushed, his shirttails hanging out. I swallow convulsively. So classy, making out in a funeral home. Quite the aphrodisiac, apparently, to those of us pervs who enjoy shagging our brothers-in-law.

“Lucy.” Ethan hasn’t moved. His voice is low.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, looking at the carpet. My hands are clenched into fists.

“Look at me.”

I nod and force myself to obey.

Ethan’s face is calm. He tips my chin up a little farther, and man, it’s hard to look into those gentle brown eyes. But I do. “Give me a chance,” he says quietly. A cold fist squeezes my heart. “Give me a chance to be with you. The right way this time.”

I open my mouth, then shut it, then try again. “Ethan, you know I…”

“You have to.” His gaze is steady and sure.

My heart, which wasn’t too regular a few minutes ago, knocks wildly around in my chest. I do have to. I know it. It’s just…

“Okay,” I whisper.

He cups my face in his hands, and just looks at me. Then he smiles, and my dopey heart surges out to him, even as my stomach churns. “It’ll be all right. You’ll see.”

My knees buzz painfully, and numbness seems to have gloved my hands. The pebble in my throat is more like a fist right now.

Ethan kisses my forehead, and I close my eyes and put my hand over his heart for a second, then step back and adjust his collar. He grins, tucks his shirt back in and then opens the door and peeks out. “All clear,” he says, looking like his old mischievous self.

“See you around, cowboy,” I mutter, then totter down the hall on wooden legs to rejoin my family. For the rest of the night, I can barely hear. I feel slightly ill.

I believe I’m in deep trouble.

I
WALK HOME AFTER THE WAKE
, hoping to settle down. My stomach’s been a wreck since Ethan kissed me—well, since I kissed him, to be fair.

I don’t know what I’m doing. Ethan is not the type I want. He’s much too…too…lovable. I swallow sickly and head off down the street. Past Nubey’s Hardware, past Zippy’s Sports Memorabilia. Haven’t seen a customer go in there in months, and I wonder idly when Zippy will give up the ghost, if the Black Widows will be able to find another tenant. It’s eight-thirty, and Mackerly is quiet, Aunt Boggy’s wake being about the extent of socializing in this town tonight. And here’s Bunny’s.
See you in a little while,
I think, looking forward to the quiet balm that is bread baking, the sweet yeast smell of the dough, the warmth of the oven. Odd, to be so fond of a place, but I do love the bakery. I just wish it wasn’t slowly dying.

I head around the park, trailing my hand along the brownstone wall, its rough surface scraping against my fingertips. The temperature is dropping, and the tips of my ears grow cold. A seabird cries, mournful and shrill, and the smell of low tide sharpens the air. The wind catches the hollow spot under the bridge, and a lonely, soft howl comes from below. Or maybe it’s Captain Cook’s wife, like Bob said.

I go straight to Ethan’s. He answers on the first knock.

“Hey,” he says. His suit jacket is off, his shirt unbuttoned a couple. He smiles, then stands back to let me in. I don’t move, as my head is in the emotional equivalent of a spin cycle. “Come on in, Lucy. Want a glass of wine?”

“Sure,” I answer, obeying abruptly. “Thanks.”

As Ethan goes to the kitchen to pour me a drink, I look around the living room. His apartment’s layout is identical to mine, but being one story higher, his view is better. Now, though, there’s nothing but a few lights sprinkling the town, the deep black of the ocean beyond that. A tiny glow flickers on the horizon—a fishing boat. Someone’s out tonight, rocking on the sea, checking lines. It seems so cozy out there, far away from shore. A blue glow from the Aronsons’ house indicates they’re watching TV. Rose made a cake for their fiftieth anniversary party last month. Fifty years.

Turning away, I almost jump at the sight of Ethan, standing there with two glasses of wine in his hands. “Here you go,” he says, offering me a glass. Our fingers brush, mine cold against the warmth of his skin. “To Aunt Boggy,” he adds, clinking my glass.

“To Boggy,” I return, then chug the wine. It’s red, a cabernet, I think, and it might have a nice body and an intricate web of flavors, but I can’t really tell, as I’ve glugged it all down. I let out a breath. Ethan’s eyebrow raises.

“Liquid courage?” he suggests, the corner of his mouth rising.

“Maybe,” I agree, taking a seat on his couch. It’s a nice couch. Brown leather. Ethan furnished his apartment in one mighty swoop at Restoration Hardware. Manly dark furniture, very nice, very solid. Aside from the many photos of Nicky (and a few of Nicky and Parker, and even one of
the three of them), his place looks like a catalog. He takes a seat in the matching club chair adjacent to me.

“You don’t have any pictures of Jimmy,” I observe. I’ve noticed it in the past, commented on it, even.

“I’ll have to ask my mom for one. Now that I’m here full-time.”

“You must miss him.”

Ethan looks at me a beat or two. “I do.” He sets his wine-glass down on the coffee table and links his hands loosely in front of him. “Do you want to talk about Jimmy? Or would you like to talk about you and me?”

My heart does a slow, sickening slide. “They’re kind of intertwined, aren’t they?” I ask.

Ethan nods. “I guess they are.”

“I’m your brother’s wife, Ethan. Are you sure you want to be with me? There’s a lot of baggage, obviously.”

“You’re my brother’s widow, Lucy,” he corrects, and his voice is a little sharp. “We’re not committing adultery here.”

“I
know
, Ethan,” I return, just as sharply. “But this is not your normal situation, either.”

He doesn’t move for a second, then comes to sit next to me, angling himself so he can see my face, though I can’t look at him just right now. He slides his hand across my neck. “How do you want this to be, this thing between us?” he asks, his voice gentle.

I don’t want it to be at all, Ethan, I’m petrified.
I risk a glance at him, those gentle brown eyes. “You have to swear,” I whisper, “that we’ll still be friends, Ethan. No matter what happens. If we work out, great. But if we don’t…I can’t…I’ve missed you these past few weeks.” My eyes fill. It’s an unreasonable demand, but I can’t help it.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “I’ve missed you, too.” He drops a kiss on my shoulder, and I swallow hard. “What else?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. His hand stays on my neck, and I’m not sure if I like it or if I want a little space. “I don’t want to tell your parents right away. Or my family, either. Not till there’s something…definite. Okay?”

Something flickers in Ethan’s eyes. “Okay.”

“And maybe we should wait to…you know. Sleep together.”

He nods once. “Okay. That’s probably a good idea.”

“That’s it?” I ask, perversely irritated that he’s so damn agreeable. “Just ‘okay’ to everything? Anything you’d like to add?”

“Thank you,” he says, tilting his head, that damnably appealing smile curling on his lovely mouth.

I blink. “What for?”

“For giving me a chance. I know you’re scared, and I know you’re not a hundred percent sure, and I’m grateful. That’s all.”

“Dang it, Ethan,” I whisper. “You’re such a prince.”

I can’t help it, I kiss him, soft and slow, and I feel like I’m falling, falling and the only solid thing to hang on to is Ethan. His arms slip around me, one hand cups the back of my head, and he feels so strong and safe, and he smells so good and tastes like wine. And just like before, I’m suddenly starving for him, a junkie getting her fix. I pull him down with me so that I’m half lying on the couch, and wrap my arms around him, bringing him closer, and God, he feels so good. His hand slides under my sweater, burning my skin, and I suck in a breath. The prickle of his beard, the softness of his lips, the heat of his mouth…

Then he breaks the kiss and pulls back, flushed, breathing hard, his eyes smoky and dark, and it’s like I was drowning and didn’t want to come to the surface.

He touches my cheek with one finger. “No sleeping together,” he murmurs. “So who’s hungry?”

And with that, he rolls off me, leaving me limp and horny, and staggers into the kitchen.

“S
O YOU’RE GOOD, SWEETHEART
? You’re happy?”

“I’m doing pretty well, Mom,” I say into my cell phone, earning a glare from my own mother. She never liked it that I occasionally called Marie Mirabelli the same thing I called her. “How is it out there?”

I can almost hear the shrug, perfected by generations of Italians, a sort of
who knows, what can you do, I’m suffering but I won’t complain gesture.
“It’s hot,” she admits.

“It’s Arizona,” I say, opening the oven door to check my beautiful loaves. Two and a half more minutes ought to do it, both with the bread and my mother-in-law. “How’s Gianni? Getting in some golf?”

“Oh, him,” Marie says. “Golf. You’d think maybe he could relax, but instead he’s at the grocery store all day, buying enough food to feed an army. People don’t eat out here, Lucy. They
exercise
.” It’s clearly a dirty word. “It’s shameless! They want me to go to a yoga class. Yoga! Me! Like I want to twist myself around like a snake!”

“It sounds nice,” I answer, smiling. “All the things you’ve been too busy to do.”

She sighs. “Who said I wanted to do yoga?” She pauses. “How’s Nicky? You were an angel to send pictures. Has he grown?”

“He’s great,” I answer. “The sweetest boy in the world.
And yes, he’s sprouting up. Ask him to sing you the Halloween song when you call. So cute.”

“Oh, I miss that little guy.” She sighs again. “And Ethan? How’s he?”

I grimace, wishing Ethan called his parents more often, since I’m often left shoveling them information on their son. “Ethan’s good.”

“Do you think he’s getting back with Parker? The two of them…I don’t understand. A beautiful child together, but they won’t get married. And now with Ethan living there all the time, what’s stopping them?”

I glance at my mother, who continues to eavesdrop shamelessly. “I…I’m not sure,” I fib. This would be the perfect moment to say something.
Actually Ethan and I have been seeing each other a bit…

But I don’t say anything. It’s too soon. Instead I give Marie my love, ask her to hug Gianni for me and tell her how much I miss them both. Then I hang up, avoid my mother’s eyes and check my bread.

Ethan and I had dinner the other night, and it was an agony of discomfort. We’d gone to Lenny’s, and I’m fairly sure no one realized we were on a date. Ethan and I have been out to eat many times before, after all. Less frequently in the past two years, granted, when smokin’ sex was how we spent our time, but I’m sure this dinner didn’t look any different to the untrained eye. But Ethan was practically levitating with energy, talked nonstop, trying—way too hard—to entertain me. I was so nervous I could barely eat. It was beyond tense. I couldn’t think of anything to say—mentioning Jimmy seemed verboten, but avoiding the subject altogether felt unnatural, too. All the little customer stories I had from the bakery evaporated as I tried to think of something—anything—to talk about.
We were reduced to talking about the weather and our food. Pathetic.

When we walked back to the Boatworks, Ethan escorted me to my door, then leaned against the wall, waiting for me to find my keys as Fat Mikey yowled from inside.

“Well, thanks, Eth,” I said, blushing. I didn’t want him to kiss me. I just wanted to be inside, safe with my cat. Oh, I wanted him to kiss me, and if he did, then we all know what would happen…I’d maul him right here in the hallway. Fat Mikey began headbutting the door as if he could break it down. Ethan’s eyes were steady, waiting. I looked at the floor.

“You’re welcome,” he said, then kissed my cheek. “See you soon.”

Before he even disappeared around the corner to the stairs, I missed him.

I ended up knocking on Ash’s door to see if she wanted to practice making pumpkin walnut cheesecake, which is what’s on the menu for our next class, and lucky for me, she did. And the whole time, I couldn’t get my mind off Ethan, and so it’s been. When he’s around, I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. When he’s not, I miss him.

“So what’s eating you, Lucy?” Iris asks now, cocking her head in a concerned manner.

“Oh, nothing. Preoccupied, I guess,” I say, smiling at my starchy aunt. Though Rose is the more affectionate aunt, Iris is a bit more perceptive, despite her bulldozer personality.

“Dating’s not going too well?” she suggests.

“It’s…I don’t know. It’s harder than I thought,” I say.

“I thought I might date a little, too,” Rose says, making me bobble the tray of bread I just took out.

“Oh, yes,” Iris confirms, the sarcasm dripping. “All of a sudden, this one wants to see what’s out there. You
should’ve seen her at the senior center when we got our flu shots. Four men, fanning around her, ignoring me. Just like when we were young. Me the smart one, her the pretty one.”

“I’m smart, too!” Rose cheeps indignantly. “And you’re pretty, Iris. You just don’t know how to flirt.”

Iris rolls her eyes. “I’m seventy-six years old, Rose. And you’re not much younger. Flirting. You should be swapping prescription lists and asking if they want the CPR when their hearts stop.”

I laugh as Rose clucks in disapproval, and Jorge, who’s materialized from the back, grins. He and I begin bagging the still-warm bread with practiced efficiency.

“Lucy?” my mother calls from up front, her voice strained. “Someone’s here to see you.”

“Okay,” I call, then turn to Jorge. “Can you get the rest of this?” He nods. “So Jorge, what do you think of Rose? She’s interested in dating again.”

“Oh, pish, Lucy,” Rose giggles. “Jorge’s just a good friend.”

Jorge flashes her a grin, his gold tooth winking.

I push through the swinging doors to the front of the bakery just as Mom comes into the kitchen. “Lucy, honey, wait—”

I lurch to a stop at the sight of the man standing at the counter.

It’s Jimmy.

My knees buckle, and Mom grabs me before I fall.

Of course, it’s not Jimmy. But it’s close, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. Rose is dabbing tears, and Iris’s hand is pressed against her heart.

Matt DeSalvo—he gave us his name at some point—is tall and broad-shouldered. His dirty blond hair is cut short.
He has a wide, straight smile, and his face is angular and strong. Matt has a dimple, and Jimmy did not. Matt’s eyes are blue—not the astonishing blue-green that Jimmy’s were, but a more true blue. And he’s wearing a suit, which Jimmy rarely did.

But still. The resemblance is shocking.

We sit across from each other at the table in the bakery kitchen. Mom fixes tea, clucking, and Rose repeatedly tells me I’m white as a sheet. Which is natural, since I feel like I’ve seen a ghost. My hands are trembling, and I feel a little sweaty.

Since Jimmy died, I’ve seen him around. I know from my aunts and mother, as well as from the widows’ group I’d belonged to, that seeing your dead spouse was not uncommon. Once, when I was driving up from New London, a man crossed the street in front of me, looking so much like Jimmy that I’d done a U-turn and gone back to find him, searching for half an hour, my heart clacking in my throat, tears spurting out of my eyes. Another time, when I was leaving the hospital after Nicky was born, I’d heard Jimmy laugh clear as day…the low, dirty laugh so singular to Jimmy that I was convinced his spirit had dropped down to earth to visit his newborn nephew.

But seeing a Jimmy lookalike across the table from me…it’s overwhelming. At my near faint, Mom had explained the resemblance, and Matt had very nicely helped me into the kitchen, where I melted into a chair and put my head between my knees.

I wipe my eyes and blow my nose once more. “I’m sorry,” I say again.

“It’s completely understandable,” Matt answers kindly. His voice is not like Jimmy’s at all, which helps. Close up, the resemblance isn’t that shocking. Matt’s nose is a little
longer, and his chin is rounder than Jimmy’s, which was square and ridiculously masculine. But still. He looks more like Jimmy than anyone I’ve seen. More like Jimmy’s brother than Ethan does, for that matter.

“How long has it been?” he asks.

“Five and a half years,” I answer, stealing another look at his face.

“It was such a tragedy,” Iris announces.

“So tragic,” Rose cheeps at the same time.

“Why don’t you girls go down to the Starbucks?” Mom suggests sharply. “Lucy could use a coffee. One of those expensive, silly things. Go. Shoo.”

The aunts, looking wounded at being kicked out, do as they’re told, and Matt stands up politely as they cluck and don their cardigans. I take the delay to get myself under control, though my hands are still trembling.

“So how did your husband die?” Matt asks. My mother, feeling that this is too personal a question, rattles the kettle loudly. Though she’s gotten rid of the aunts, there’s no way on God’s green earth that she’s going to leave.

“A car accident,” I say distantly.

“I’m so sorry.” He says it just the right way, looking right into my eyes without flinching. Sympathy, not pity. There’s a huge difference, and we widows appreciate it, let me tell you. “You must’ve been awfully young.”

“Twenty-four,” I murmur.

My mom sets down the tea tray with a clatter. “So what brings you to Bunny’s, Mr. DeSalvo?” she asks, sitting next to me. She tugs on her tailored, cropped jacket, crosses her legs, jiggling her foot so that her high-heeled shoe dangles precariously.

“Well, this may not be the time to discuss it, if you’re still feeling shaky,” Matt answers. “I can certainly come back.”

“I’d think she’d feel less shaky if you said your business,” Mom retorts. I give her a questioning look. Not like her to be so rude. That’s more Iris’s terrain.

Still, Matt pauses, looking at me, and I have to admit, I like that he’s waiting for my approval. “I’m fine, Matt. Go ahead.”

“I represent NatureMade,” he says, naming an organic chain grocery store that dots our fair state. “Are you familiar with us?”

“Too expensive for real people to shop at, but yes,” my mother says.

He gives a half nod. “Well, yes, organic food is more expensive,” he acknowledges. “We like to think that our customers understand the value of good health—” Mom snorts, and I give her a reprimanding nudge. Matt laughs. “Okay, I’ll save the sales pitch. I’m here because we think Bunny’s bread is the best in the area, and we’d like to be the sole distributor in Rhode Island.”

My mouth drops open. “Wow,” I murmur.

Matt gives me a nutshell idea of the details—NatureMade would sell four types of Bunny’s bread in its baked goods department. We could still supply bread to the restaurants we use now, as long as it didn’t interfere with NatureMade’s quota. If the bread sold well, they’d ask for more varieties, then discuss the possibility of distributing Bunny’s bread in the Connecticut and Massachusetts stores as well.

Matt smiles as he talks, a good salesman. His voice is low and confident, and he holds eye contact well. God, he reminds me of Jimmy! Not just how he looks, but the whole take-charge attitude. He has a plan, it’s a good one, and he knows it.

“What about selling it here?” Mom asks suspiciously. “We’re not going to stop selling here, of course.”

“Well, we would ask that you’d limit the number of loaves and types available here,” he said. “And of course, we’d do an ad campaign in all the Rhode Island newspapers and some radio commercials, too, announcing that we carry Bunny’s bread. I imagine you’d see a bump in customer traffic, thanks to the publicity.” Mom huffs but doesn’t contradict him.

He fishes a card out of his breast pocket and places it on the table. “I know you’ll have a lot to talk about,” he says. “Can I call you in a few days?”

“Sure,” I say. “That would be great.”

He shakes Mom’s hand first, winning points for good manners, then mine, holding on a bit too long. “I’m sorry I startled you,” he says, a half smile on his mouth. My stomach flips, not unpleasantly.

“It’s not your fault,” I answer. I may be blushing.

“Great to meet you both,” Matt says. “And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d love a few of those cheese danishes for the road.”

“I’ll get them,” Mom grumbles, getting up from the table.

Bemused, I sit at the table, my tea cooling next to me, toying with Matt’s card. Statewide bread distribution would be a huge shot in the arm for Bunny’s. Huge.

But it’s not really the bread I’m thinking of.

“I didn’t like him,” Mom announces, bursting through the swinging doors a minute later.

“Why?” I ask.

“Too slick,” she says, brushing a speck of imaginary lint from her lapel. “Did you see that suit? Armani, I’m thinking.”

“You’re the one dressed like Michelle Obama, Mom,” I point out. She doesn’t answer. “He really looked like Jimmy, didn’t he?” I add.

“Oh, not so much.”

“Mom. He looked like Jimmy’s brother.”

“So?”

“So nothing, not really. He just did.” I’m quiet for a minute. “It was kind of…comforting…seeing a face so much like Jimmy’s. That’s all.”

My mother’s eyes fill with tears. She bends and gives me a rare hug. “He did. He looked just like Jimmy.” She sits down and dabs her eyes.

“Was there anyone who ever reminded you of Daddy?” I ask.

She stares over my shoulder, lost in memories. “You know that actor?”

“Which one, Mom?”

“The good-looking one? With brown eyes?”

“George Clooney?” I suggest. My father had lovely brown eyes, something I like to think I inherited.

“Is that him? The crinkly eyes?”

I nod. Only Mom wouldn’t know George Clooney.

“Sometimes I rent movies that he’s in, just to…well.” Mom blushes a little at the confession.

I smile and squeeze her hand, then take a sip of my lukewarm tea. “So what do you think about the offer?”

Mom hesitates, then shrugs. “I don’t know. Mostly up to you, since you’re in charge of bread.”

“I only own ten percent of the bakery,” I remind her.

She stares out the window. “Lucy?”

“Yes?”

Mom sighs, then adjusts her wedding ring…she’s never stopped wearing it. “I know I’m not the best mother in the world,” she offers, still not looking at me.