The Next Best Thing. Kristan Higgins

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СКАЧАТЬ To Parker, I was just me—a widow, yes, but a person first. You’d be surprised how rare that take on things can be.

      “So this is the baby,” Parker says now, leaning over to gaze on Emma, who is glugging away like a frat boy at a kegger. “Wow. She really is beautiful, Corinne.”

      “Thanks,” Corinne says, shifting the baby away so as to avoid any ebola or tuberculosis Parker may be carrying. “Lucy, can you just reach into my bag and dial Chris’s number? I just want to check in.”

      “You just called him,” I remind her.

      “I know,” she says, a tear slipping down her cheek.

      “You okay, honey?” I ask. “Is this just hormonal?”

      “I’m wonderful,” she says, smiling through her tears.

      I do as instructed. Corinne takes the phone and stands, the baby still firmly attached, and wanders into the corner to talk with her husband once more.

      “Your sister has issues,” Parker states, glancing into the kitchen to ensure that her son is eating enough frosting. She takes Corinne’s seat and smiles.

      “True enough. How was your weekend?”

      “It was great. Ethan came over, and we all watched Tarzan, and then he rigged up a rope in the dining room so Nicky could swing around like the Ape Man. Wait till my dad sees that.” She smiles fondly. The dining room at Grayhurst (yes, the house has a name, which I always thought was so cool) probably could seat a couple dozen.

      “Sounds fun.” I pause. “Um, so, guess what? I’m going to start dating again.”

      “Oh, yeah? You and Ethan gonna be a real couple?”

      Parker knows about Ethan and me and our, er, arrangement. I told her one night, over too many mojitos and not enough food. Parker never seemed to have a problem with it. It was long after they’d broken up, after all.

      “No. Not Ethan. He’s just…no.”

      “He’s just what?” Parker asks, picking up one of Corinne’s ignored cookies and taking a bite. “He’s great in bed, as I dimly recall. Of course, it was almost five years ago, and we were only together a little while, but I remember this thing he did—”

      “Shh!” I glance around, praying that the Black Widows haven’t overheard. “Please, Parker!”

      “What?”

      “What? Well, Ethan’s my brother—in—law,” I whisper. “And just for the record—again—no one else knows that we’ve been…um…intimate. I’d like to keep it that way, okay?”

      “Well, aside from him being Jimmy’s brother, why?” Parker says in a lower voice. “He’s a great dad, which I’m sure is number one on your list of priorities.”

      I blink. “How did you know there was a list?”

      “Please. Of course there’s a list. Probably a color—coded list.”

      There is a list, of course, and yes, Strong Fatherhood Potential is indeed in the top three (in red, for nonnegotiable). I bite my lip. “Well, Ethan’s not, um…the right type.”

      “Except in bed?” Parker suggests with an evil smile.

      “Shh, Parker! Come on!” She chuckles, and I sigh. “He’s just not…well, first of all, I want a husband who’s not going to die anytime soon. And Ethan’s always jumping out of things and driving a motorcycle and stuff like that.”

      “He wears a helmet,” Parker says.

      “Not good enough.”

      “So is immortality also on the list, then?” She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

      “Of course not. I’m not unrealistic. But yes, Low Risk for Early Death is on the list.” Number one in fact. Parker grins, and I continue. “The fact remains that Ethan, while a great guy, is just not for me, okay? And you know exactly what I’m talking about, because you’ve told me the same thing, even though you’d make a beautiful family and could have more little Nickys running around.”

      Parker smiles. “Did you know he moved back to Mackerly?”

      I pause. “Ethan?”

      “Yes, dummy.”

      “What do you mean?”

      Parker takes another bite of cookie. “He took a job with International Food’s headquarters in Providence so he could be closer to Nick. Around all the time, not just on weekends.”

      “Oh,” I say, mildly hurt that I don’t know this already. Right…he mentioned something Friday night about having something to tell me, but must’ve forgotten. “Wow. That’s big news.”

      “Mmm. Anyway. He’ll be back permanently as of this weekend.”

      “Well. That’s good.” I pause. “Good for Nicky, certainly.”

      “Mommy! I ate blue frosting!” Speaking of Nick, the little guy charges out of the kitchen, the lower half of his face stained with blue from the hideous fondant Rose uses to frost her cakes (I’d only use butter cream, but Rose is the cake decorator at Bunny’s, no matter how superior my frosting might be).

      “That’s great, buddy!” Parker says. “Give me a blue kiss, okay?” She leans over and puckers, and Nicky laughingly obeys.

      “Want one, Aunt Wucy?” he asks. Though he’s lately mastered his L sound, he still calls me “Wucy,” which I find utterly irresistible.

      “I sure do, honey,” I answer. He climbs onto my lap and obliges, and I breathe in his smell, salt and shampoo and sugar and hug him tight for second, relishing his perfect little form, before he wriggles down to play with his Matchbox cars.

      “I gotta get going. Books to write.” She sighs dramatically.

      Parker is the author of a successful children’s series—The Holy Rollers, child—angels who come down from heaven, don roller—skates and help mortal kids make good choices. Parker hates the Holy Rollers with a mighty passion and wrote the first one as a farce…stories so sticky—sweet that they made her teeth ache. However, her sarcasm was lost on an old Harvard chum who ran the children’s division of a huge publishing company, and The Holy Rollers are now published in fourteen languages.

      “What’s this one about?” I ask, grinning.

      She smiles. “The Holy Rollers and the Big Mean Bully, in which the God Squad descends to beat the shit out of Jason, the seventh—grade thug who steals lunch money.”

      “Beat the shit out of Jason!” Nicky echoes, zipping his car along the window.

      “Oops. Don’t tell Daddy I said that, okay?” Parker asks her son, who agrees amiably.

      “Want me to keep an eye out?” Parker asks, scooping up Nicky’s little cars into her buttery leather pocketbook.

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