“Terrorizing the babysitter, like any good four-year-old.” She smiles at Ethan, he smiles back, and once again, I imagine them married. Though Nicky was definitely unplanned, the result of failed birth control, neither of them ever regretted having the lad. They could have more Nickys…after all, it’s not like they find each other repugnant, which is more than enough grounds for marriage in my eyes.

Parker snaps her fingers in front of my face, and I jump. “Lucy, I just asked how the date was going. I hardly got to talk to him…your sister was telling him about Emma’s poop and pee schedule, and I have to say, he took it like a man.”

“Did she show the cracked nipple?” I ask, grinning.

Ethan cocks his head. “You’re on a date?” he asks. “Who is he?”

“It’s not a date. Not really. We just…he’s Gertie Myers’s nephew. Fred Busey.”

“Fred!” Parker cries. Fred’s enhanced head snaps around. “Fred, be my best friend and grab me a Jägermeister, okay? Lenny, you old fart, pay attention! The man needs to be served!”

“So. I take it Charley Spirito didn’t work out,” Ethan says. That little muscle under his eye twitches. “On to Prospect Number Two, huh?”

“It’s not exactly a date,” I repeat.

At that moment, Doral-Anne shoves her way into our little knot, right as Fred joins us, carefully holding a Jägermeister shot for Parker and two beers. He passes out the drinks. “Hello,” he says, offering his hand first to Doral-Anne, then to Ethan. “I’m Fred Busey, a friend of Lucy here.”

“A friend, huh?” Doral-Anne says, making a mocking face. At some point after the game, she knotted her T-shirt to give the world a view of her tattoo (an orange and green snake, which curls around her pierced navel, forked tongue darting…adorable). “Nice to meetcha. So, Ethan, if you wanna continue that conversation…”

“Doral-Anne, this is Parker Welles, my son’s mother,” Ethan says, politely ignoring her rudeness.

“Hi, how are you? You work at Starbucks, right?” Parker asks.

“I’m the manager,” Doral-Anne says.

“I’m there all the time,” Parker murmurs, then shoots a guilty look at me. “For coffee only, of course,” she adds.

“Well,” Fred says. “Shall we get a table for five?”

“Oh, we don’t want to interrupt your date,” Parker says. “You guys have fun. Eth, mind if I join you two?”

And so I sit with Fred, who is perfectly nice, seems to be an adoring father and whose hair paint seems to be running, as a black streak is slowly but surely making its way down his forehead.

“She sounds like a real cutey,” I say at the appropriate interval in the story of Fred’s daughter and her ballet recital.

We spend an endless hour chatting before I look at my watch, feign surprise at the hour and remind Fred that I have to get up at four and really need some sleep. Which is, of course, a lie. I’ll be up for hours.

“Listen,” he says, and I mentally fumble for an excuse to turn him down on a second date. “You’re awfully cute, Lucy, but I just don’t think there’s chemistry here.”

Angels bless you, Fred, I think. “You seem like a great guy,” I say honestly. “But, well…yes.”

“Not over your husband, eh?” he says kindly.

I swallow. “I think you’re right,” I agree. “Good luck with everything, Fred.”

I stop at the bar to remind Lenny to get Tommy Malloy’s keys, then leave. The cheerful noise of the bar dies within a half block of my walk home. If I could just cut through the dang cemetery, I’d be home in ten minutes. As it is, it will take thirty-two.

The bugs of late September have left or died, and the only sound is one brave little cricket and the ever-present sound of the waves shushing against the rocky shore two blocks away. I trail my fingers along the cemetery wall. “Hi, Dad,” I say at the appropriate spot. “Hope everything’s good in heaven.” The wind rustles the fading leaves above, and one or two drift down.

Maybe Fred’s right. Maybe I’m not ready. Maybe it’s my destiny to be a Black Widow, have Grinelda do my whiskers and channel my dead husband. I do want more, I really do…I’m just not sure I can get it.

At home, Fat Mikey winds his hefty self around my ankles. Stumbling over him, I then reach down and pick him up, rubbing my face against his. “Hello, you big brute,” I murmur. He tolerates me for a moment, honors me with a rusty purr, then jumps free.

With a sigh, I sit on the couch, which is directly in front of the rather fabulous plasma screen TV Ethan helped me pick out last year. I could play Guitar Hero, I guess, or challenge my computer to a game of Scrabble. I could go to bed…4:00 a.m. comes early, of course.

I look at the wedding picture that hangs on the wall, a lovely eight-by-ten candid. Jimmy and me, laughing. Our faces are in profile, both of us turned to look at Ethan, who’s not in the shot. His best man speech was funny as all get-out, and everyone had roared with laughter. Especially Jimmy. His laugh was one of the things I loved most about him, a low, dirty laugh that did things to my insides. He was larger than life, my Jimmy. The life of the party. The love of my life. Our marriage was more than just two people being together…it was everything I ever wanted.

I go into the kitchen and open my baking cabinet. Molten dark chocolate cake with a milk chocolate center? Or no, flip that…milk chocolate cake with dark mocha chocolate goo for the center. Yes. A shot of espresso, some almond paste in the ganache. I’ll call it Java Glory Cake.

The sounds of baking are the gentle music of my soul. I was born to be a baker. Bread has its own reward, but dessert is where I was meant to be. The clatter of the mixing bowls against the cool granite countertop, the crisp smack of the eggshells at the edge, the chirring of my whisk. And the colors! The lemony-yellow of well-beaten eggs, the seductive gloss of the bitter chocolate as it melts with the pale butter. The many shades of white…the matte of the flour, the purity of the baking powder, the cheerful gleam of the sugar. My vintage mixing bowls are also white, each one polka-dotted with a different color…green for the largest, then orange, then red, then robin’s egg blue. Ethan gave them to me for Christmas a few years ago. One of the best presents I ever got.

As I measure out the ingredients, the sharp, pure smell of Mexican vanilla fills the air. I inhale, then rub a little on my wrist. Best perfume in the world, in my opinion.

By eleven, one of the prettiest cakes I’ve ever made sits in front of me. It’s gorgeous…both layers came out perfectly, no tilting or sinking, no sir. The icing gleams, the brown so deep and lovely I wish I could live in it. Coffee and chocolate, butter and vanilla, the inexpressibly comforting smell of cake fills my oven-warmed kitchen. Though it’s probably just my imagination, it seems that on the shelf over the window, my little statue of St. Honore, patron saint of bakers, is smiling.

As rewarding as it might be, as good as my bread truly is, I really should be a pastry chef again.

I cut a slab of cake and gently transfer it to one of my pretty plates. Wrapping it in plastic, I tape a little note to the edge. “Enjoy.” Then I slip out of my apartment and walk upstairs, leaving the cake in front of Ethan’s door.

There is no sound from within. He might be at Parker’s…he’s been known to sleep over there from time to time; once when Nicky had strep and was having fever-induced nightmares, another time when the little guy got stitches after crashing his tricycle into a tree. Sometimes just to be there, and since there are seventeen bedrooms in Grayhurst, why not? Or he might be there for romantic reasons, and the image of Ethan kissing Parker, taking her hand and leading her to bed, causes my stomach to twist. I shouldn’t be jealous—Ethan deserves every happiness, perhaps more than anyone I know. If he’s with Parker, I should be glad.

The image of Ethan with Doral-Anne, however, is too horrible to contemplate.

With a sigh, I turn and retrace my weary steps back down to my place. I’m tired.

But rather than go to bed, I find myself casting another admiring glance at the remaining cake. Then I go to the pantry, grope around in the white cardboard box, take out a Twinkie and wait out the night.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“WANNA SEE ME LIGHT THIS ON FIRE and drink it?”

Stevie, the poison-ivy eating, corpse-tipping cousin, stands before me, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a lighter in the other.

“No, Stevie. Do not light that on fire. Don’t be an idiot.”

“God, you’re no fun anymore,” Stevie says. “Hey, heard you’re looking for a new guy. I know someone, a buddy a’ mine—”

“No, thanks, Stevie.”

“Come on, let me tell you about him! He’s a good guy. Lotsa fun.”

“Stevie, sweetie, if he’s your buddy and you think he’s fun, then I’m under the impression that he likes to steal cars, get tattoos and shoot fish. Am I right?”

“Yeah. So?” Stevie looks injured. I pat his arm and wander off to mingle. I’m the daughter-in-law, after all, and this is the Mirabellis’ farewell party as they depart for Valle de Muerte…er, Puerte.

Gianni’s is mobbed…probably shouldn’t say that at an Italian restaurant in Rhode Island. Gianni’s is packed to the gills, that’s better. Half the town is here—the mayor, the town council, Father Adhyatman from St. Bonaventure, Reverend Covers from St. Andrew’s, which is right across the street. (They often have attendance contests…the winner buys dinner at Lenny’s, all very convivial. Beats a holy war.) Ash is here, dressed in the expected black and chains, and my mother is staring at her as one would stare at a particularly gruesome roadkill, not even noticing that Captain Bob is, in turn, staring at her. There’s my excellent cousin Anne the lesbian doctor and her special friend, as Iris calls her. In fact, Iris is now trying to force-feed Laura, who has the willowy grace of a supermodel.

Gianni’s Ristorante won’t be closing—my father-in-law couldn’t bring himself to go that far. Instead his cousin’s husband’s brother is going to take over, and they’ll “see how it goes” before putting anything up for sale. It was a relief, honestly…while losing a few restaurant accounts might make the Black Widows rethink Bunny’s business plan, I’m not ready to lose the place where Jimmy and I met, where he worked so happily.

“Hi, Aunt Wucy!” My nephew hugs my legs, then wipes his mouth on my pants.

“Hi there, gorgeous,” I say, ruffling his hair. He smiles up at me, his lips curling in identical fashion to his father’s. I scoop the lad up and kiss his cheek. “What’s new, Superglue?”

He giggles. “Nothing. I ate a squid.”

“Did you? Was it good?”

He nods, then reaches into the pocket of his little pink oxford shirt. “Here. I brought you one.”

Sure enough, he holds a fried calamari in his grimy little hand. “Thank you, angel!” I say, kissing him again. “Can I save it for later?”

“Okay. Can I get down now? I wanna find Daddy. I have a squid for him, too.” I set him down, and off he runs.

“Hi, Lucy,” my sister says. Emma is, as ever, clutched to her bosom. Or I think it’s Emma…it’s a baby-size lump covered in a pink blanket.

“Can I peek at Emma?” I ask. “I’d love to hold her. Can I?”

Corinne stiffens. “Um…well, there’s so many people.”

“Please? I haven’t held her for a day and a half,” I plead.

“If you dropped her—”

“I won’t drop her, Corinne. Can I please hold my niece? I won’t kill her, I promise.”