The Next Best Thing (8 page)

“You don’t get it, Ethan,” I said in a smaller voice. “I just feel so…I’m twenty-eight now. I’m older than Jimmy.” Swallowing, I looked down. For a second, I remembered Jimmy’s blue-green eyes smiling at me, and my heart broke all over again. “No one will ever love me like that again.” Dang, I was really crying now. So much for all fun, all the time.

“Oh, hey,” he said, his voice gentle. “You’ll be loved again, Lucy. The minute you’re ready. You’ll see.”

“I’m orange, Ethan,” I squeaked. “And it looks like my hair got caught in a fan.”

He bit down on a smile. “You’re gorgeous,” he said. “Even now, with all the, er, extras. You’d be gorgeous if you rolled in, I don’t know, pig entrails. Cow manure.” He handed me a tissue from the box on the coffee table.

“That’s so poetic. You should work for Hallmark,” I said, blowing my nose. Still, his words made my heart feel a little bit better.

“It’s true. You’re beautiful.” He smiled and reached out to touch my cheek.

“Thanks, Ethan,” I said, blinking in alcoholic gratitude. “You’re the best.”

“I thought you hated me,” he said, one eyebrow raising in that elvish way, a grin curling the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t. I was lying,” I answered.

“Just checking,” he said.

And then, quite out of the blue, he kissed me.

Ethan had kissed me before, of course. He’d been my friend since college, had been my brother-in-law, my protector and comforter, and he was Italian, and Italians kiss their relatives. So yes, Ethan had kissed me many times, on the cheek, as in
Okay, gotta run, see you next weekend.
But not like this.

This was just a gentle, warm press of lips. A sweet, almost innocent kiss after a long, long time of nothingness, and it was such a generous thing, that kiss, such an act of kindness, that my heart stopped in near-wonder. Then it was over, and Ethan pulled back an inch or two and looked at me. There were shards of gold in his brown eyes, and somehow I’d never noticed that. We stared at each other for a few heartbeats, barely breathing.

Without quite realizing it, I leaned forward, closing the distance between us. Ethan’s lips were so soft and full and warm, achingly wonderful. There was the soft, bristly scrape of his three-days beard against my face, the cool silkiness of his hair under my fingers.

The kiss deepened, a little less soft, a little more…meaningful. Ethan shifted, cupped my head in his hands.
His tongue brushed mine, and that was it. I lurched against him, gripped a fistful of his shirt in one hand, his skin hot through the fabric. A little sound came from the back of my throat, and the way he tasted and felt made me feel dizzy, because it was so,
so
good to be touched, and held, and kissed again. God, I missed kissing.

And much to my surprise, I found that I liked kissing
Ethan.
Very much. It could be said, in fact, that (A) I was starving and (B) he was a buffet, because I’d (C) crawled on top of him, had his head clamped between my hands and was kissing the stuffing out him.

Of course, I’d imagined kissing someone since Jimmy died. Someone who was Not-Jimmy…imagined how I’d feel and how
difficult
and
sad
it would be. How I’d compare the two men, Jimmy and Not-Jimmy, and I’d find Jimmy so superior and then wallow in self-pity for my poor widowed self.

Somehow, I wasn’t thinking those things now. Later, it would occur to me that I hadn’t thought about Jimmy at all, not in the way I’d imagined I would. I hadn’t forgotten about him, of course…he was part of me, and so thoughts like,
Jimmy’s robe is slipping
flashed here and there. But they were interspersed with other thoughts…
Oh, God, that feels good, don’t stop
…for example. As for a sense of Jimmy’s ghost standing there, watching me in disapproval, no. Maybe it was the White Russians, maybe not, but all I could think of was how
good
it felt, how grateful I was to be wanted again. To have a man’s hands on my skin, to feel the solid muscles of male shoulders, to inhale the dark, spicy scent of a man, to be kissed with that blend of soft and hard, tenderness and hunger.

Ethan was the one who pulled back, eyes dark and smoky, and took my hands in his, held them against his
chest. I was straddling his lap, and my robe—Jimmy’s robe—was half off, and while Ethan hadn’t seen my boobs yet, it was pretty much a technicality. I could feel his heart thudding against me, and both of us were breathing hard. I may have been shaking. “Lucy,” he said, and his voice contained a soft warning.

“Don’t say anything,” I whispered, then I kissed him again, loving the fullness of his lips, the taste of his mouth. And when he didn’t respond immediately, I took his hand and put it over my breast, holding it there as I kissed him.

“You sure about this?” he murmured against my mouth.

“Don’t talk,” I repeated, and to make sure he wouldn’t, I grabbed his shirt, it was one of my favorites, a black button-down, and I just ripped that thing open and oh, Ethan was pretty gorgeous, and he was so warm and solid and real. He was here, too, and alive. Couldn’t overlook the little things.

“Take me to bed,” I commanded. And Ethan stood up, lifting me with him, my legs wrapped around his waist, and obeyed.

I
T WASN’T UNTIL ROUGHLY FIFTY-THREE
minutes later that common sense came roaring back with a brisk slap in the face.

I was lying under Ethan, still panting, my legs as weak as overcooked linguine, my skin damp with sweat. His face was against my neck, one arm around me, his hand in my newly shorn hair. I could feel his heart rate calming and suddenly, a cold river of dread flooded my heart. A horrible phrase sneaked into my mind. A phrase that implies one person is doing another person a favor by sleeping with her. That one person feels deep, deep sympathy, even pity, for the other, and it is only pity that motivates him to…Oh, God. Oh, no. Ethan had just given me a mercy f—

Oh, and one more thing. It was
Ethan!
I’d just had sex with Ethan! Horror clamped down on me like a thirty-foot python, and my eyes flooded with tears. I’d just done the
wild thing
with Ethan Mirabelli. My dead husband’s
brother
. I’d
cheated
on Jimmy (his death being a minor detail at this moment).

“I’m sorry,” I whispered as the tears spilled over. “Um, Ethan, I need to…I should…” I wriggled out of bed, dragging a sheet over me, and on streaky, weak orange legs, I staggered into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Pulling on my own bathrobe (as Jimmy’s lay somewhere between the couch and the
bed
), I slid to the floor, a thousand recriminations bouncing around in my skull, grabbed a towel and buried my face in it to muffle the sound of my sobs. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about (sob) pregnancy, as I’d been on the Pill for a while, due to irregular periods, something I’d managed to tell Ethan when he asked just how far we should go. And I knew that Ethan would never…but just the idea that I’d
done
it with Ethan
Mirabelli
…Oh, God.

“Lucy? You okay?” came Ethan’s voice.

“Ehehehenngh,” I managed. I heard the rustle of clothes—he was pulling on his pants, I guessed. Because he was probably still
naked
. Because I’d made him
shag
me. Because he was too
nice
to say no.

Ethan tried the door. “Open up, honey,” he said.

“Um, I need a minute,” I squeaked. The tears, hot and damning, slipped out of my eyes.
Oh, Jimmy,
I thought. He’d be so ashamed of me, mauling his brother, putting Ethan in an impossible position like this.

The little lock on the door popped open, and Ethan came in, clad in jeans and nothing else.

“How’d you unlock the door?” I asked, not looking at his face.

“One of my many life skills,” he answered, sitting next to me. “Lucy. Come on, honey. Don’t cry.”

“I’m so sorry,” I hiccupped. “Ethan, I’m so, so sorry.”

“What for?” he asked, taking my hand.

“I made you have sex with me,” I blubbered.

“Yes, guys hate that,” he murmured, tipping my chin up. “If anyone’s sorry, Lucy, it should be me. I’m the one who started it.”

“I was pretty much begging for it,” I said.

“And again, guys hate that.” He smiled.

“You’re not just a guy. You’re Jimmy’s brother. I’m Jimmy’s wife. We’re related. And now you’ve seen me. Naked. Naked and orange.” A hitching sob stuttered out of me.

He rolled his eyes. “We’re not related, and you’re not Jimmy’s wife anymore, honey. You’re his widow. And you look great naked, even if you’re not the right color.”

This further kindness just caused my face to scrunch up in that awful expression of uncontrollable crying. “I should probably move out,” I wept. “Find another apartment. Leave Rhode Island. Become a nun.”

Ethan laughed. “A nun, huh?”

“Don’t laugh,” I said. “I’m so ashamed, Ethan.”

“Okay, stop,” he said, his voice firm. “Lucy. Stop crying.” He turned and grabbed the box of tissues from the back of the toilet. I noted there were scratch marks on his back. God, I was a complete slut! My face contorted again.

“Here,” he said. “Blow your nose.”

I did, a couple of times. Wiped my eyes, finally getting off the last of the mud mask, it seemed. “Ethan, really, I’m so sorry. We never should’ve done this. It was wrong, and it was all my fault.”

He took a deep breath. “Lucy, listen.” He took both my
hands in his and looked at me until I was able to look back. His dark eyes were serious for once. “We both miss him. We’re young, we’re healthy, we’re straight. And we spend a lot of time together. We just…comforted each other. That’s all, honey.”

For a second, it looked like he was going to say something else, but then he must’ve changed his mind, because he didn’t.

“Don’t you feel guilty?” I asked. After all, I was Hungarian
and
Catholic. Of course I felt guilty. Ethan was also Catholic, and Italian. Surely he felt a few pangs, a little fear of hell—

“No. I don’t feel at all guilty. Or bad in any way. My back’s a little sore, maybe. How much do you weigh these days?”

I gave a surprised snort of laughter and smacked his shoulder. His bare, rather perfect, nicely muscled shoulder. “None of your business,” I answered.

“My chiropractor might say otherwise.” He winked, looking every inch the flirt he was.

His skin was so smooth. Which I could tell because apparently I was sort of caressing that shoulder. Ethan’s torso was rather…gorgeous. The muscles in his arms moved and slid beautifully under his olive skin. Oh, look, he had six-pack abs. All that time outdoors, I guessed. And his hands…Manly, capable hands. The kind that knew what to do to a woman. Mmm.

Suddenly aware that I was ogling him, I jerked my hand away from that lovely shoulder and sneaked a look at Ethan’s face. There it was again, that little crooked smile that changed his face from not bad to mischievous and adorable.

Ethan reached out and pinched my chin. “Don’t feel guilty, you crazy orange nut job,” he said. “Okay?”

His hair was sticking up on one side. “I’ll try,” I said.

For a moment, we just looked at each other. Then, almost without meaning to, I reached out and put my hand
against his lovely, warm neck and felt his pulse jump against my hand. A long, hot moment seemed to vibrate between us.

Then Ethan leaned in, slowly, slowly, and kissed me again.

And we ended up doing it on the bathroom floor, Fat Mikey yowling outside the door.

When Ethan left on Sunday night, I promised him I’d never put him in this position again. Said promise was broken the next weekend, when I jumped him the second he came through my door, and then again a few hours later, when he said he should be going and kissed me goodbye.

After a few forbidden shags, we—well, I—decided we should be friends with privileges and nothing more. I made Ethan swear that this wouldn’t change our friendship; that he’d dump me if he met someone else or wanted to get back with Parker; and that he’d never ever tell anyone about us, because the idea of my in-laws finding out that I was doing their younger son…Gah! No. As far as my mother and aunts went, God forbid they found out that I was
using Ethan for sex
. My family drew the line at the use of scarlet letters, but just barely. I remembered Cousin Ilona of the early menopause being labeled a hussy when, eighteen short years after her husband died, she let the postman carry in her groceries.

Breaking up—check that.
Ending the arrangement
between Ethan and me was a good idea. I wanted to move on, and Ethan was too dangerous a choice for a husband.

I just hadn’t realized how much I’d miss him.

“A
ND THIS ONE
? W
HAT WOULD YOU
call that, my dear?”

“That, Mr. Dombrowski, is our world famous chocolate chip cookie.” Famous perhaps for its utter blandness, and a far cry from the crispy, butter-soaked variety Iris bakes for family members. She says the recipe is not worth wasting on what she calls “the great unwashed.”

“I see, I see.” He shuffles another inch alongside the case. “And this one?”

I smile. “That would be our legendary cheese danish. I believe you’ve tried those before.” Every day for the past twenty-three years, in fact.

“I think I may try that, then. You say I like it?”

“You do, Mr. D. You definitely do.” I take a danish out of the case and, because I like Mr. D. so much, put it in a little box and tie it with string. He deserves more than a bag. We had tea together once in his surprisingly bright and uncluttered house—and it took him about half an hour to set the table just so. I could relate…at the time, I’d been a new widow, and filling the hours was of utmost importance.

“I think I’ll enjoy this,” Mr. Dombrowski says. He straightens his tie—he still wears one every day—and a wave of tenderness washes over me.

“Please come back soon,” I say, handing him the box. “It’s always so nice to see you.”

His creased old face splits in a smile. “Thank you, my dear,” he says.

If Bunny’s had tables and chairs and served coffee and tea, Mr. D. would have a place to sit every day. He might see more people than just the Black Widows and me.

“I think we should expand,” I announce as I return to the kitchen. The yeasty smell of Italian bread fills the air—Jorge just left with Gianni’s Friday night order, and things are winding down at Bunny’s. Iris and Rose are hunched over a newspaper, the pastry dough for tomorrow morning’s danishes sitting in neglected lumps. When dough gets warm, it loses its flakiness. I glance at what they’re poring over—it’s the sports page, featuring a large picture of Josh Beckett of Red Sox fame. Aw. My aunts are cougars. How cute.

“Hello?” I say. “Anyone baking back here? This dough’s getting warm.”

Both aunts jump. Rose grabs a rolling pin and attacks the dough maniacally.

“Expand what?” Iris asks, her face taking on that bulldog look she gets whenever we discuss this.

“The bakery. It’s silly that we don’t have seats or serve coffee. We’re losing money hand over fist to Starbucks.”

“We’re not some grunge hangout,” Rose says, and I have to say, I’m impressed she knows the term
grunge
. “We’re a bakery. We sell baked goods, not some over-priced coffee that tastes like you scraped it off the bottom of the pot. And a tall? What’s a tall? What’s a grand? They don’t even say it right. GrahhhhnnnDAY. Please. Can’t they just say small, medium, large?”

I arch an eyebrow at my aunt. “You’ve been to Starbucks, Rose. How surprising.”

“What?” Iris barks. “Explain yourself.”

Rose blinks like a frightened mouse, a strategy that’s always worked well for her. “I didn’t mean to order a coffee,” she peeps in her little-girl voice. “But those names are so confusing! I thought I was getting a hot chocolate.”

“We have hot chocolate at home!” Iris thunders.

“Not like the Starbucks,” Rose says, her face lighting up with something like religious adoration. She turns to me. “Oh, Lucy, sweetheart, you have to try it! It’s incredible! The whipped cream is—”

“You’re a traitor to this family, Rose Black Thompson!” Iris barks. “Mama would spin in her grave!”

My mother drifts in, navy pencil skirt, silk blouse printed in blue and green, bottle-green suede Prada pumps that I’d nearly bought myself last week. “I could hear you in front of Lenny’s, Iris,” she says.

“Your sister has been to the Starbucks!” Iris says in the same tone as one might say,
Your sister strangled a puppy
.

“Stop being so domineering, Iris,” Rose dares, her face pink. “I can buy a hot chocolate if I want to! You’re not the boss of me!”

“Okay, stop, you two, or I’m turning a hose on you,” my mother says. “Lucy, someone just came in. Take it, won’t you?”

Gratefully, I scurry out of the kitchen. Charley Spirito is there, resplendent in Red Sox regalia—jacket, cap, sweatpants as well as a black eye and sheepish look. “Hi, Luce,” he says hesitantly.

“Hey, Charley,” I answer. “What can I get you?”

The bell over the door tinkles as Ethan comes in, insulated bag in hand. My heart does a little twist, which I try to ignore. He’s not here to see me, of course. Tonight’s Friday. Cocktail hour. “Hi, Lucy. Hey, Charley,” Ethan says. “Helluva black eye.”

“Your handiwork. How’s it going, Eth?” Charley returns, shaking Ethan’s hand. Apparently there are no hard feelings. Men.

The Black Widows trail out of the kitchen like Pavlov’s dogs at the sound of Ethan’s voice.

“Hello, you beautiful creatures,” Ethan purrs in a low and very effective voice.

“Hello, Ethan,” they coo in unison. The man has a talent.

Tonight, after cocktail hour, Ethan and I are meeting his parents for dinner. They “have something to tell,” so it’s a command performance. I’ve barely seen Ethan since we, er, broke up, despite the fact that he’s right upstairs every night now. I called him on Tuesday to see if he wanted to hang out—basically, to show him we were still friends, even though the benefits package had been canceled—but he had to work on a presentation for the West Coast sales reps. Even the mention of my cinnamon-raisin bread pudding with a Jack Daniels-browned butter glaze didn’t sway him. I had, however, sneaked up and left a bowl in front of his door, sort of like the Tooth Fairy but with better stuff.

“What’s he want?” Iris asks, jerking her chin at Charley. Ah, customer relations. The cornerstone of any good business.

“Charley, what can I get you? We’re closing in a few minutes,” I say.

“Um, well…” Charley glances with rightful fear at Iris. “Lucy, I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me. Sometime. Maybe. If you’re not, uh, busy.”

I blink.

“On a date? Are you asking her out on a date?” Rose asks, her voice tremulous with hope. “Because she
is
dating, you know. She’s looking to get married again and have some babies.”

Ethan smothers a grin. My mother sighs.

“Thank you, Rose,” I say, knowing there’s no point in asking for discretion.

“The women in this family have always been brave in childbirth,” Iris muses. Then she slaps Charley with an intimidating gaze. “So? You want to take her on a date, or is this a ‘just friends’ situation?” Iris makes quote marks with her fingers. “You’re not gay, are you? My daughter’s a lesbian doctor, so there’s nothing wrong with that. Just want to see what you have in mind.”

Charley looks understandably confused. “On a date, Charley?” I ask, just so we’re all clear.

“Yeah. On a date.” He fiddles with the zipper of his Red Sox jacket and can’t seem to look me in the eye.

Ethan is looking steadily at Charley. Maybe he put Charley up to this, to make up for the Black Widow crack at the game.

I don’t know that I really want to go out with Charley Spirito, whom I’ve known since first grade, when he serenaded me the alphabet song in belch format. On the other hand, I have to give him credit for having the chutzpah to ask in front of the Black Widows. And Ethan.

“Sure,” I answer slowly. “That would be nice.”

He lets out a breath. “Great. You busy tomorrow?”

I glance at Ethan. Most of my Saturday nights over the past few years have been spent, at least in some part and some form, with Ethan. He’s pouring vodka into a martini shaker. Jeesh. Grey Goose, wasted on the Black Widows, who could drink gasoline and Hawaiian Punch and call it delicious. He doesn’t look at me.

“Tomorrow’s fine,” I say, turning back to Charley. “Thanks.”

“I’ll call you, then.” He nods at the Black Widows, slaps Ethan on the shoulder and leaves.

“Charley Spirito?” my mother asks. “Isn’t he the one who put gum in your hair when you were ten?”

“Yes,” I say. What the heck. At least I know him. Hopefully his belching/gum-in-the-hair days are in the past.

“So. She’s got a date. And what are we drinking tonight, Ethan?” Iris booms.

“Sex on the Beach,” Ethan answers, grinning as he withdraws a bottle of peach schnapps from his little bag o’ liquor. The Black Widows hoot in appreciation.

Friday night happy hour has never really been about me. Plus, I don’t often drink hard alcohol (I did learn something from my run-in with the White Russians), so I grab my backpack from behind the counter and heft it onto my shoulder. “Have fun, guys.” I pause. “See you at Gianni’s later on, Eth?”

“I’ll meet you there,” he says.

Three hours later, I’m seated at the family table at Gianni’s Ristorante Italiano. Since Jimmy died, these family dinners have become more rare, but back in the day, it was one of the things that drew me to the Mirabellis—the kidding, the abundance of food, the menfolk. Jimmy, Gianni and Ethan…a husband, a father figure, a brother-in-law. It was all so reassuring, so safe and convivial.

Now, we sit, the four of us, Jimmy’s absence still a gaping hole, never more so than when the Mirabellis are together. I sit next to Ethan, across from my in-laws. Slices of my own delicious bread sit in a basket on the table, a candle flickers, and all around us, Gianni’s patrons swoon in delight. It really is a wonderful place, no matter how my father-in-law complains about the crappy help he gets in the kitchen, the dopey Russian sous chef he fired last week, the even dumber Sicilian he has now. I murmur in sympathy and eye the bowl of penne
alla vodka that sits just out of my reach next to Marie. I’m starving.

Ethan’s energy bristles off of him in waves, tense and still as an Olympic racer before the starting pistol. He’s always like this with his parents…unlike Jimmy, who worked with them with an ease and fondness that touched my heart every time I saw it.

If Jimmy had gotten old, he’d have looked like his dad—the Mediterranean Sea eyes, broad shoulders, maybe even the extra thirty pounds Gianni carries. Ethan, by contrast, looks like his mom’s side of the family, dark hair and eyes, quick movements. He usually reminds me of an otter, rarely still, always up for fun…except in the presence of his family. It’s as if when Jimmy died, he took all the laughter from his family. As if reading my thoughts, Marie sighs heavily, her eyes moist.

“Thank you for asking us to dinner,” I prompt gently, taking a sip of my wine and eyeing the chicken parmesan. We’re eating family style, and neither Marie nor Gianni has started serving yet. My stomach growls.

Marie gives Gianni a look. “We wanted you here because we love you like you’re our own daughter, Lucy, honey. And Ethan, of course, you’re like a son to us.”

“I hate to be overly technical here, Ma,” Ethan says, “but in point of fact, I
am
your son.” His right eyebrow bounces up as he looks at me. The corner of his mouth curls, and I feel a wave of affection for him. Poor Ethan, always the second son. I give his knee a little pat.

“You know what I mean, Mr. Smart-Ass,” Marie replies, half fond, half irritated. “Thirty-six hours of labor, okay? So shut up.”

“It gets longer every year,” Ethan murmurs, reaching for the penne and passing it to me. His father scowls, but Ethan
ignores him. “In the original story, I was born in a taxi on the way to the hospital. Now she’s in labor for a day and a half.”

Marie reaches over and smacks Ethan’s head. “Hush, you, we’re talking here. You know what I mean. She’s like a daughter, you’re our son, shut it.”

“Show your mother some respect,” Gianni says, more coolly than Marie’s fond chastising. He’s never gotten over Ethan’s choice of profession.

“I respect my mother,” Ethan says, a hard edge in his voice. His small smile is gone. “Mom. I respect you. Especially if it took me thirty-six hours to be born.”

“Your head was all squished when you finally came out.” She winces, a life skill if you’re Italian, meant to instill guilt. “And the stitches! Oh, Madonna!”

Gianni shifts uncomfortably. “Do we have to discuss this at the table, Marie?”

“Oh, so my suffering, you don’t want to know, is that it? Sorry to disturb you, your majesty.” My mother-in-law turns to me. “Lucy, it was fourth-degree tear. Three inches long.” Gianni flinches, and I try not to smile.

“Sorry, Ma,” Ethan says. “Didn’t mean to be such trouble.” He smiles at his mother, but she’s lost in thought.

“Of course, Jimmy was no picnic, either. He was bigger, you know, nine pounds, eight ounces. Those eyes even when he was first born, they were so special. Like the ocean, so amazing! The nurses, they couldn’t believe it. Oh, he was the most beautiful baby I ever saw, Lucy.” Her mouth wobbles, and a spear of pain pierces my heart. Poor Marie.

I reach across the table and pat her hand, and at the same time, give Ethan’s knee a squeeze. I’m sure Marie doesn’t realize it, but she just told Ethan he
wasn’t
the most beautiful baby she ever saw. Ethan removes my hand, giving it a quick pat. Still, the message is clear. Hands off.

Marie wipes her eyes and sighs again. Gianni growls at a passing waiter to check table fifteen, Ethan’s leg jiggles with tension. All in all, a typical Mirabelli dinner.

“So what’s the big news?” I ask, taking a large bite of the delicious penne.

“So we’re moving,” Gianni announces. “Arizona. Retirement.”

I drop my fork with a clatter, splattering the white tablecloth with the creamy vodka sauce, and swallow.

“Excuse me?” Ethan asks. His leg jiggling has gone still.

“Arizona,” Marie repeats. “Valle de Muerte Community for Active Adults.”

“The Valley of Death?” Ethan asks.

“What Valley of the Death?” Marie asks. “Valle de Muerte, I said.”

“It’s not Valley of Death, smart-ass,” Gianni says to his son. “Marie, you got it wrong. It’s Puerte, not Muerte, okay? With a P. Valle de Puerte Active Adult Community. We’re active, we’re adults, we’re moving.”

“When did you decide this?” Ethan asks.

“Last week,” Marie explains. “Your father, his knees, his heart…and…well…” She glances at me, then down at her untouched plate.