The Next Best Thing (17 page)

“Oh, Mom, I wouldn’t say that,” I say.

She gives me a smile, then looks back down. “The thing is, when you lose someone like we have…it’s like part of
your heart is cut out. And you always worry about how much more you can afford to lose. It can make a person sort of…stunted.”

I don’t say anything. She has, of course, just voiced my deepest fear. The pebble swells.

“I just…I just don’t want you to be disappointed, honey. Maybe you can find someone…you’re younger than I was, and without kids, maybe you’ll have an easier time of it. But don’t be surprised if it doesn’t work the way you picture it.” She sighs gustily. “Well. Good talk. Let me know what you decide about the bread.”

Then she squeezes my hand and bustles off to the front.

When my work at the bakery is done, I decide to go for a bike ride and head north on Newport Road. The brisk wind stings, and my hair whips around my face. Salt is heavy in the air, as well as the smell of the autumn leaves, sharp and sad and lovely. I turn inland on Mickes Street. There’s Doral-Anne’s old house. It’s still the hovel it was in grammar school, a seedy little ranch with three rusted-out cars in the yard. The grass is long and thick with weeds.

Doral-Anne and I were on the same school bus, her stop about ten minutes before mine. Once, when I was about seven, she’d trudged down the bus steps and turned to look back, something like loneliness on her thin face. Surprised, I waved to her. She flipped me the bird in response. I can still remember the way heat flared across my cheeks, how I wish I hadn’t offered that stupid, naive wave that was so instantly and graphically rejected. It was the first time Doral-Anne had singled me out, though it wouldn’t be the last.

Ah, well. A mist is starting to fall, and I need to pay attention to the road, since it’s a little slick. After about a mile, I turn onto Grimley Farm Road, the wind in front of me now, slowing me, almost warning me off.

When I reach my destination, I lean my bike against the telephone pole and walk down toward number 73. The driveway is still unpaved, the sand softened by recent rains. My footsteps make a pleasant scraping sound as I approach the house where Jimmy and I never got to live.

It’s painted white now, our little Cape. It was gray when Jimmy and I bought it, but the white looks nice. The shutters are still green. I’d painted them myself.

Jimmy had surprised me with this house. Told me we were going on a picnic, came up here, said he knew the owners. I wondered why we were going to eat in someone’s yard; the house didn’t have a view of the water, and the property was fairly unremarkable. But Jimmy wouldn’t answer my questions. Instead he just grinned, took my hand and led me through the front door. The house was empty of furniture except for one small table in the living room. On the table was a jewelry box, and in the box was the key to the front door.

It might not have been the house I’d have picked out, but it was affordable, and the cost of real estate on Mackerly definitely limited our choices. While I’d felt a prickle of alarm that I now owned a house I’d had no part in choosing, Jimmy’s pride and excitement had swept that away. It was a grand gesture, and he loved making those. This was the guy, after all, who’d sent four dozen roses to my dorm room the night after our first date. Who surprised me with a honeymoon to Hawaii when I thought we were going to Bar Harbor, Maine. Who couldn’t spend one night away from me, even if it meant driving all the way home after a long day.

I’m not sure why I’m here now. I’ve visited a few times over the years, unable to ignore it completely, this little place that was going to be ours. It sold quickly enough…a
family bought it, which was nice. A swing set adorns the backyard, and a little plastic car sits in the driveway.

I turn around and head back for home. The mist has turned to rain, and I’ll be soaked by the time I get there. My pastry class starts at five, and I decide to bring Ethan home some of the amaretto zabaglione that we’re scheduled to make, rather than letting the class eat it all, as I usually do. I guess I’m feeling a little guilty, mooning over Jimmy after nearly fainting at the sight of his doppelganger. Yes. Ethan more than deserves a little sweetness from me.

W
HEN CLASS IS OVER
, I
RETURN
to my apartment. Ethan’s not home yet, even though it’s eight-thirty. I try to quash the worry and click on my computer. When Google comes up, I type in “NatureMade” and sit back to read.

NatureMade is a sound company, from all accounts. Expanding slowly, holding tight when the economy’s been rough, good to its employees. Matt DeSalvo is mentioned a couple of times, in promotion announcements and as a contact person, stuff like that. After a moment’s hesitation, I try an image search on him, wondering if he really did look that much like Jimmy, but nothing comes up.

I wander to the window and look out into the dark. Where’s Ethan? It’s still raining, and with leaves on the road, it could be slick out there. His car is new. That’s good, but what if he’s not used to it enough? What if he had an accident? I left a message on his home phone earlier, announcing that dessert awaited him, if he was so inclined. So far, I’ve resisted the urge to call him on his cell, since I don’t want him to be talking while he’s driving, which is another thing he does that drives me crazy, even if he does use a Bluetooth.

Finally a knock comes on the door, and I start, then vault for the door. Sure enough, it’s Ethan.

“Where have you been?” I demand, my face burning at the sight of him.

“Hi,” he says, frowning. “I had a meeting.”

“Well, isn’t that nice to know,” I sputter. “I thought you were dead.”

His face softens. “Well, I seem to be alive,” he says, smiling just a little.

I almost kiss him. Almost hug him. Then the moment passes when that would be natural, and we’re left just looking at each other, Fat Mikey working on a hairball under the chair.

“I made zabaglione,” I mutter. “Come on in.”

He follows me into the kitchen, taking his usual seat at the table. “Thanks,” he says as I set a bowl in front of him. Then I sit down, too, and watch him eat.

“Want a bite?” he asks, holding out a spoonful.

“Wasted on me,” I answer. I’d tried some at class, actually…the smell of the eggs and cream, the vanilla and lemon zest was so tempting, and I’d tried a spoonful. As usual, it hadn’t tasted like anything.

“How was your day?” Ethan asks, and I tell him about the offer from Matt DeSalvo and NatureMade. For some reason, I don’t mention that Matt looks like Jimmy.

“That’s really something,” Ethan says, scraping his dish. He gets up and helps himself to another one, then rejoins me. “Think you’ll take him up on it?”

I hesitate. “I don’t know. Probably,” I answer slowly. Fat Mikey butts his head against the leg of the table, on the prowl for pudding. Ethan obliges, putting his empty dish on the floor so Fat Mikey can lick it clean.

“Seems like a great way to increase business,” Ethan says.

“I know,” I agree. “I’m just not sure I want to be a bread baker for the rest of my life. Even a really successful bread baker.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Ethan says, still eating. He looks at me expectantly.

I shrug. “I guess I still want to be a pastry chef.”

“And why aren’t you?” He leans over, setting dish number two on the floor for my cat, who purrs in appreciation.

I frown. “I can’t just leave Bunny’s, for one.”

“Why not? Didn’t the Black Widows get by just fine before you?”

“Well, first of all, I’d miss them. I love Bunny’s. And secondly, no. They were going out of business, inch by inch. Jimmy pretty much saved the day by getting the bread orders.”

“Ah, St. Jimmy,” Ethan says, smiling, his eyes slightly mocking. I frown, peevishly glad that I didn’t bring up Jimmy earlier. “But that was all before you started at the bakery, Lucy,” he continues. “They could hire someone else to do the bread. Your recipes, of course. I’m not saying you don’t make incredible bread.”

“So what are you saying?” I ask a bit crossly.

“I’m saying you should do what you want to do, that’s all.”

“Right,” I murmur, still irked. It’s just that…here it comes, the inevitable comparison. Jimmy would’ve sat down with a notepad and mapped out a plan.
Here’s what you should do,
he’d say, and he’d outline the next ten steps with utmost enthusiasm. Ethan…Ethan’s not helping.

Instead he looks at me with a half smile. Then he stands, comes over to me and takes my hand. “Come on,” he says. “Give us a hug, grumpy.”

My cheeks flush as I do what I’m told. God help me, I love the way he smells. His hand plays in my hair, his heart
thumping steadily against mine. I remember that earlier this evening, I wondered if he was hurt, or worse.

Without another thought, I kiss Ethan’s warm neck, slide my hands up his back, the starched cotton of his shirt crisp under my palms, the heat of his skin radiating through the cloth. His beard scrapes gently against my cheek as he turns his head, and then the smooth, warm perfection of his mouth is on mine. Fat Mikey twines between our legs, and I feel Ethan smile, and there it is again, that painful, wonderful squeeze in my heart. He doesn’t do more than kiss me back, letting me set the pace, cupping my face with gentle hands.

It’s different this time—this isn’t a warm-up to sex, and this isn’t the hot, desperate kissing of two lonely people. We’re just kissing, mouths gentle, hands tender and chaste, but his heart thumps harder against my chest, and my knees are weakening. The sheer pleasure of the way he feels outweighs that faint flare of alarm in the back of my heart. I deepen the kiss, sliding my hands up his sides, feeling the lean muscles over his rib cage, tasting the faint combination of amaretto and Ethan, and the thought occurs to me that I’m already—

The phone rings, stopping my thoughts. Rings again, and a third time. I don’t move away from Ethan’s warmth, his mouth, the hint of the smile that always plays under the surface when we kiss. But then my sister’s voice comes on the answering machine.

“Lucy! Please! Christopher had a heart attack! Come to the hospital right now!”

C
ORINNE’S USUALLY PERFECT HAIR IS WILD
, and Emma wails in her arms.

“How is he?” I ask, but my sister is sobbing so hard she doesn’t make sense.

“I’ll find a doctor,” Ethan says, leaving the waiting room where we found Corinne.

I sit next to my sister, who’s shaking wildly. “I can’t believe it,” she manages. “After all this…I thought…he never…”

“Okay, okay, sweetie, calm down,” I murmur, rubbing her shoulder. “Here, let me take Emma.” I pry the baby out of Corinne’s arms and snuggle her against my shoulder. She stops crying instantly, snuffles around for a second and takes one of those shuddering breaths that indicates she’s done. Corinne, however, continues.

“When did you guys get here?” I ask.

“Two hours ago,” she says.

“Oh, honey! You should’ve called me right away.”

“There were too many things to do,” she says, wiping her eyes on her sleeve. I rub her back with my free hand. Emma sighs against my neck, warm and heavy with sleep.

“Should I call Mom?” I ask, rather surprised she isn’t here already.

“No!” Corinne wails. The baby jerks in her sleep. “You’re bad enough!”

I give her a quizzical look, then sigh. Right. I’m a harbinger of death. Forgot. “Okay, honey, okay. That’s fine. Now try to calm down and tell me what happened.”

Bit by bit, sob by sob, I get the story. Christopher and Corinne had been discussing the fact that Chris hadn’t eaten any leafy greens that day, and she was urging him to finish his spinach. Chris rubbed his chest, said it felt a little tight and Corinne had screamed, made him lie flat “—so I could give him CPR, you know?—” and called 911, convinced he was breathing his last. It did seem to get worse while she was on the phone, and once he was in the E.R., the doctors just whisked him away.

“He could be dying!” Corinne squeaks. “All alone, dying!” I hug her awkwardly around Emma. My own eyes fill. Please, Daddy, I pray. Please, Jimmy. Don’t let this happen to Corinne, too.

“He’s really healthy, Cory,” I murmur, trying to sound calm and wise. “I’m sure this is nothing.” Chris
is
healthy, my goodness. His cholesterol is 142, a number called “un-American” by the doctor and proudly relayed to me just a few days ago when Corinne gave me the health update.

But, already, images of Christopher’s funeral are knifing through my head. Emma growing up without her dad, as Corinne and I did, but without the cushion of memories that I, at least, have held like little diamonds all these years.

The door opens. “Hey,” Ethan says, smiling at Corinne. “He’s fine.”

“Oh, thank you, God!” I blurt, patting my niece’s back.
Your father’s fine, sweetheart. Thank you, Jimmy, thank you, Daddy.

Ethan sits next to Corinne and puts his arm around her shoulders. “The doctor says you can come on down and he’ll talk to you and Chris together. Okay? You need a drink of water first?”

She leans against Ethan for a second, struggling to stay under even moderate control, and shakes her head, then turns to me. “Please come,” she says in a small voice, and my heart pulls.

“He’s fine, did you hear, honey? He’s fine.” I kiss her cheek and stand, Emma still snoozing away. Ethan rises and offers Corinne his hand, which she grabs gratefully.

“You’re sure he’s fine?” she asks Ethan.

“That’s what the nurse said,” he assures her.

We walk down the hall, back toward the busy E.R. “Right here,” Ethan says, pointing to a curtain.

“Ethan, will you hold the baby?” Corinne asks. “I don’t want her near all these germs.”

“Sure. I’ll take her up to the lobby, how’s that?” Ethan offers, gently taking Emma from me. His hands are practiced and sure, and he drops a kiss on Emma’s little head. Then he looks at me, and his mouth curls in a smile, causing my stomach to squeeze.

“Thanks, Ethan. Lucy, come on,” Corinne urges. She pushes back the curtain, then bursts into renewed sobs at the sight of her husband, who looks quite healthy to me, sitting up in bed in a johnny coat.

Corinne falls on him, sobbing. “Christopher! Oh, baby! I thought you were dead!”

The words echo in my head. I’d said the same thing to Ethan this very night.

“Hi, there” comes a voice. Great. It’s Dr. Hateswomen. He frowns at the sight of me, then shakes Corinne’s hand. “I’m Dr. Porter. Your husband here is going to be just fine.
His EKG is completely normal, and the first two rounds of blood work are fine.”

“He had chest pain!” Corinne objects. “My father was only forty-two, and he died of a heart attack.”

“Right, right,” the doctor says condescendingly. “Well, your husband is fine, as I just told you. It was just stress.”

“Stress? He doesn’t have stress!” Corinne objects.

“Yes, I do, damn it!” Christopher barks, causing Corinne and me both to jump. “You’re killing me, Corinne! Every damn day, you’re waiting for me to die! I eat a piece of cheese, and your face goes white. I’m five minutes late, and you’ve called the police! Everything in our house is so fucking perfect, I feel like a goddamn bull in a china shop! And the baby, my God! You make me feel like I’m going to drop her on her head, following me around every time I pick her up! It’s gotten so I’m scared to touch my own child!”

Corinne looks like she’s been clubbed. I can’t say I’ve ever heard Christopher swear before. “Chris—” I begin.

“No, Lucy. You don’t understand. She’s terrified she’ll end up like you, and she’s sucking the joy from our lives, and it’s no wonder I landed in the E.R.”

“He has a point,” Dr. Hateswomen says. “We certainly advocate a healthy diet and regular exercise, but he told me about how you time him on the elliptical and won’t let him order for himself in restaurants, Mrs….uh—” he glances at his chart “—Mrs. Duvall. It’s a bit much.”

“And I’ve had it. I can put cream in my goddamn coffee if I want to, Corinne,” Christopher bellows. “That’s right! Cream! Not even half-and-half!” He swings his legs over the side of the bed, jerks off the hospital gown and grabs his shirt. “I’m staying with Jerry Mitchell tonight,” he informs Corinne, whose eyes look like they’re going to pop out and roll across the floor. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

With that he stands, then looks at the doctor. “Can I go?” he demands.

“Sure,” Dr. Hateswomen says. “Try to keep the stress level low.”

“Great advice,” I can’t help saying. Corinne wrings her hands.

The good doctor turns an impassive gaze on me. “Do I know you?”

“Um…I was in a while ago.” I feel my cheeks warming.

“Oh, yes. Hallucinations. Gotcha.
Ciao.
”

With that he leaves, his white coat flapping after him.

“Chris, honey, you can’t…I didn’t…” my sister attempts, tears streaking down her cheeks.

“Corinne, I need a little space. Okay? We’ll talk soon.” My brother-in-law looks at me. “Maybe she can stay with you tonight,” he says in a gentler voice.

“Sure,” I answer.

Then Christopher is gone, and Corinne falls apart for real.

A
FEW HOURS LATER
, Corinne is sleeping on my couch, wrapped in an afghan. She’s zonked, thanks in large part to the Valium Dr. Hateswomen saw fit to give her upon hearing her wails after Chris left. Ethan made a run to Corinne’s house to fetch the portable crib, diapers and thirty-six other things that Corinne listed as absolutely necessary for an overnight away from home.

I’m in the kitchen with Emma, who’s taking her first bottle like a champ. Corinne keeps a can of formula in the diaper bag in case of her own death, and Emma is glugging away, eyes closed. Her skin is miraculously gorgeous…all shades of pink perfection, and her fingernails have completely charmed me. She holds my pinkie as she drinks, and it’s fair to say I’m madly in love with my little niece.

“Hey.” Ethan’s voice is soft. With some effort, I tear my eyes off of Emma and look up at him. “I set up the portable crib in your room. Figured Corinne needed some sleep.”

“Great,” I answer. “Thanks, Ethan.” I look back down at Emma and ease the nipple out of her mouth. Her lips purse, but her eyes stay closed.

“You’ll make a great mom,” Ethan murmurs, and I don’t look at his face. My heart twists painfully, afraid that he’s about to say something more. It’s just not something I can think about right now, not after imagining another husband dying tonight. Instead I look back down at Emma and adjust her blanket.

“I guess I’ll head upstairs,” Ethan says.

“Okay,” I agree, then look back at him. “Thank you, Ethan. You’ve been great.”

He gives a little smile. “Sleep tight.”

Sighing, I ease out of the chair and carry Emma carefully into my room. Ethan made the little portable crib with a sheet and a pink blanket, which is folded neatly at the bottom. A stuffed pink giraffe is there, too. Nice touch. He really does have that fatherhood thing down.

I lay my niece in the crib and cover her, moving the giraffe well away from her face. She gives a little murmur, and again, my heart catches. I stay for a moment, resting my hand on her little shoulder to reassure her, then straighten up slowly, my back muscles protesting. It’s been a long, long day.

Corinne is awake. “Is she okay?” she asks as I come out of my bedroom.

“She’s great,” I answer. “Sleeping like a little angel.”

Corinne smiles a little at that. “Did Christopher call?” she whispers.

I motion for her to sit on the couch, then curl up in the chair opposite her. “No, honey. Not yet.”

“We’ve never fought,” she says, two tears spilling out of her eyes.

I blink. “And you’ve been married for three years?”

“Three years, six months and nine days,” she says, and that’s what breaks my heart, because I, too, always knew exactly how long Jimmy and I were together.

“That’s a long time to go without a fight,” I murmur.

“I just want everything to be perfect,” she says, wiping her eyes. “What if we have a fight and then he dies? What if the last thing I say to him is ‘I hate your mother’or ‘Can’t you ever remember to take out the trash?’ What if I was like Mom, yelling at him to get out of the bathroom? I’d never forgive myself.” Corinne weeps. I get up and fetch a box of tissues and a glass of water.

“Thanks,” she mumbles, blowing her nose. We’re both quiet for a minute or two. Outside, the wind gusts off the ocean, catching that particular hollow under the bridge in an unearthly, mournful howl.

“I’m so scared of ending up like you,” Corinne says softly. Her mouth wobbles. “And I’m so sorry for you, Lucy.”

I sigh, feeling about a hundred years old. “It was horrible,” I admit. “But, Corinne, I…I lived, you know?” I look square at my sister. “And you know what I miss the most?” She shakes her head and wipes her eyes. “I miss…I miss the everyday stuff. The not-perfect stuff.”

My own eyes fill abruptly. “We had this fight,” I say, my voice wobbling. “It was over me doing the desserts at Gianni’s. Marie did them all, you know?” Corinne nods. “And I just wanted them to carry one thing of mine, this limoncello tart with raspberries…well, heck, it doesn’t matter. But he took his mother’s side, and we fought that night, and I was folding laundry and I threw a pair of socks at his head.”

I can still see the stunned look on Jimmy’s face when the socks bounced off his forehead. Suddenly a hundred dopey, beloved memories slice through my heart like shrapnel…Jimmy’s habit of just walking into the bathroom, no matter what I was doing in there. The way he’d do a hundred push-ups before bed, then admire his biceps and encourage me to do the same. His inability to start the day without cross-checking three weather forecasts as if he was a sailor dependent on the winds.

“I miss the everyday stuff,” I whisper. “Don’t smother those things trying to make every minute special, Cory. You can’t keep it up. You’re a wreck.”

She nods, tears still slipping silently down her cheeks. “It’s been so hard,” she admits. “I’m so tired, Lucy. My boobs are killing me, and I have no idea what I’m doing with the baby, and I feel so guilty sometimes when she cries and I just think, ‘Oh, please, not again, Emma, I can’t take it anymore.’ The other day, I was in the grocery store, and Emma was fussing, and I’d had about an hour’s sleep the night before, and this old woman told me this was the happiest time of my life and I wanted to stab her with a knife!”

I burst out laughing at the vision of gentle Corinne killing a senior citizen in the produce aisle. After a minute, Corinne laughs, too.

“So…and I’m just suggesting here…maybe you have a few things bottled up,” I offer. “You know what I think? I think Chris will love you even more, once you drop the Stepford wife thing.”

She looks at me, the circles under her eyes making her look like a scared little kid. “Really?” she asks.

“Yes. Trust me. I’m your big sister,” I say, hugging her. “Now you need to get some sleep. The bed’s all made in
the spare room. If Emma’s hungry tonight, I’ll feed her. She took the bottle just great. Okay?”

She starts to say something…advice, no doubt…then reconsiders. “Okay. Thanks, Lucy.” She stands up and heads for the guest room. “Luce?” she says, her voice tentative. “I’m sorry I said I was afraid to be like you. You know what I meant, right?”

“Sure, honey,” I assure her. “Now go to sleep.”

I check on Emma once more…she’s sleeping, her eyelids twitching, her little mouth working as if she’s blowing kisses in her sleep. I touch her head with one finger.

You’ll make a great mom,
Ethan said tonight. For a second, I imagine going upstairs to report on Corinne, to kiss him good-night before coming back down to watch over Emma. To thank him for once again coming to the rescue. Maybe even to tell him that I think he’s a great father.

But I don’t. Instead I give Emma one more kiss, then slip into the living room and watch my wedding DVD with the sound off.