The Next Best Thing. Kristan Higgins

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СКАЧАТЬ Eth,” I say.

      Friday afternoon cocktail hour is a tradition here at the bakery. Ethan, who travels throughout the country for his work, comes home to Mackerly each weekend to see his son…and to check on me, I admit. Since Jimmy died, Ethan’s been very loyal. A great friend. But he starts most weekends off by coming to the bakery for happy hour and flirting with my mother and aunts, and they think he pretty much walks on water.

      “So how’s the baby?” Ethan asks the Black Widows, then sits back and grins as they regale him with her loveliness.

      I take a token sip from my glass, listening and smiling. Though they’ve all been widows most of their lives, the Black Widows are more full of life than most people I know.

      Then I glance at my watch and set my drink aside. “I have to make the bread run to Gianni’s, guys. Ethan, want to come?”

      “Hell, no,” he answers with great cheer. “Why on earth would I visit my parents when I can drink with these Hungarian beauties instead?”

      More tuts, more feigned disapproval at Ethan’s casual dismissal of his parents, more deep appreciation and secret consent from the Black Widows.

      “Does being a gigolo pay well?” I ask.

      Ethan laughs. “Maybe I’ll see you later, Luce.” We both live in the Boatworks, an old sailboat factory turned condominiums.

      I go in the back and load up the bread for Gianni’s delivery. Much of it is still warm. My breathing slows, my movements gentle and efficient with practice as I bag each loaf, setting it in the large bakery box. The scent of fresh bread is what heaven must smell like, comforting and homey. When the box is full, I heft it up, push open the back door and head outside to the street and bright sunshine.

      To my consternation, Starbucks, which is located just around the corner from Bunny’s, is full, even at this hour. Bunny’s could use some of those customers, I think. For years, I’ve been urging the Black Widows, each of whom owns thirty percent of the bakery, to shift our emphasis from bakery to café. Of course, that would mean changing, and the Black Widows don’t like change. I own ten percent of the bakery, so I could never outvote them. I can’t even filibuster.

      Around the corner from Starbucks is Gianni’s Ristorante Italiano, owned by Gianni and Marie, my in—laws. “Lucy!” they cry in delight as I struggle through the back door.

      “Hi, Marie, hi, Gianni,” I say, stopping to receive my kisses. Paolo, the sous chef and a vague relation from Rome, takes the loaves from me, as Micki, a prep chef, calls out a hello as she chops garlic and parsley. Kelly, a longtime waitress who went to school with me, waves as she talks on the phone.

      “How are you? The baby? Everyone healthy, please God?” Marie asks. I’d called them before going to the hospital—we’re very close.

      “She’s so beautiful,” I tell them, beaming. “My sister was a champ, too. Seventeen hours.”

      “Any tearing?” Marie asks, causing Gianni to wince.

      “Um, we didn’t cover that just yet,” I murmur.

      “We’ll send some food,” Gianni says. “A new baby’s such a blessing.”

      For a second, we fall silent. My eyes go to the shrine above the twelve—burner stove. Two candles, the red bandana Jimmy always wore while cooking and a photo of him taken on our wedding day. His broad, genial face grins at me, those amazing eyes sparkling. He favored the northern Italian side of the family…curly, dirty blond hair, eyes like the Mediterranean Sea and a smile that could power a small town. A big man, broad—shouldered and tall with a booming laugh, he made me feel protected and safe and utterly, completely loved.

      Dang it. My eyes seem to be filling with tears. Well. The Mirabellis don’t mind. Marie strokes my arm, her dark eyes filling, too, and Gianni pats my shoulder with a beefy hand.

      “Is Ethan coming home this weekend, do you know?” Marie asks me, wiping her eyes.

      I hesitate. “Um, I think so.” Knowing their son was down the street with my family would only hurt them.

      “That job of his,” Gianni mutters. “Foolishness. Ah!” He flaps his hands in disgust while I suppress a grin.

      Though Ethan once studied to be a chef at the same school I myself attended, he dropped out just before his senior year to work for a large food corporation. A company most famous for making Instead, a hugely popular drink that contains all the nutrition of a well—balanced meal without the inconvenience of actually having to eat. I think my in—laws would’ve preferred it if Ethan had become a drug dealer or porn star, frankly. After all, his company’s mission is basically to discourage sit—down dining, and they own a restaurant.

      My eyes go back to Jimmy’s picture. Now is not the time to tell the Mirabellis about my decision to get back on the horse. It can wait. Why ruin their weekend? Because while they wouldn’t begrudge me the comfort of husband and children, I know it won’t be easy to hear. Besides, I have some housekeeping to take care of first.

      Around nine that night, I’m playing a lively game of Scrabble with my computer, seventeen pounds of purring pet on my lap—my cat, Fat Mikey. A knock sounds on the door. “Come on in,” I call, knowing who it is.

      “Hey, Lucy,” Ethan says, opening the door. I rarely bother locking up—the building has a coded security system in the lobby, and Mackerly’s crime rate is practically nonexixtent.

      “Hi, Eth. How’s it going?” I tear myself away from the computer…was just about to play zenith, which would totally slay Maven, my archenemy computer foe, but humans come first. Or they should. I play the word discreetly, then close the lid of my computer. Take that, Maven!

      “Everything’s great.” Ethan, who has logged many hours in my apartment over the past five years, makes himself at home by opening the fridge. “Can I have one of these?” he calls.

      I swallow. “Sure. I made them for you.” Earlier in the evening, I did what I often do—created a fabulous dessert. Inside the fridge are six ramekins of pineapple mango mousse, each one topped with a raspberry glaze. I figured Ethan will eat at least three, and I need to be on his good side.

      “You want one?” he calls. I can tell he’s already eating.

      “No, thanks. They’re all yours.” I don’t eat my own desserts. Haven’t in years.

      “This is fantastic,” he says, coming into the living room.

      “Glad you like it,” I say, not meeting his eyes.

      “Hey, thanks for e—mailing those pictures of Nick,” he says, already scraping the ramekin clean.

      “Oh, you’re welcome. He sure looked cute.” Ethan and I grin at each other in a moment of mutual Nick adoration. On Wednesday, the nursery school put on a play about the life cycle of the butterfly. Nicky was a milkweed seed. It’s become my habit to photograph Nicky and e—mail pictures to Ethan while he’s traveling, since Parker, Nick’s mother, never seems to remember her camera.

      “Um, listen, Ethan, we need to talk,” I say, cringing a little.

      “Sure. Let me grab another one of these. They’re incredible.” СКАЧАТЬ