Author: Kristan Higgins

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.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“AND THIS ONE? WHAT 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.