Author: Kristan Higgins

I head back to my team’s dugout to make sure everything’s packed up. As usual, someone left a glove, a thermos containing gin, from the smell of it, and a cleat. Honestly, how does someone not notice their shoe is missing?

“Think you’re so hot, don’t you?” comes a voice.

I turn, unsurprised. “Hey, Doral-Anne. How’s it going?”

“I hurt my arm last week,” she states, eyeing me with disgust.

“Oh.” I pause. “That’s too bad. I noticed you didn’t have your usual stuff.”

“Did you, Lucy? You noticed? How honored I am.”

That’s it. I jam my fists into my hips and consider her. “Doral-Anne, honestly, what is your problem? We barely spoke in school, and to the best of my knowledge, I never ran over your dog or kicked your kid in the head. So why are you so dang nasty to me all the time?”

“Oh, am I supposed to feel sorry for you like the rest of this town does, Lucy? Didn’t I worship you enough?” Her voice pitches up in a nasty impression of an adult. ‘Poor Lucy Lang’s daddy died, so everyone be nice to her. Pick her for your team, make sure you ask her to sit next to you.’” She makes a disgusted sound. “Working at your little bakery, going off to your fancy school like you were some sort of princess.”

“I never acted liked that, Dor—”

“Then you waltz back into town and scoop up Jimmy Mirabelli. And I guess one Mirabelli boy wasn’t good enough for you, ’cuz now you’re f**king the other one.”

“You kiss your children with that mouth?” I ask, but my knees seem to be shaking.

“Don’t you talk about my kids,” she snarls. “And you wanna know something else, Princess?”

“Not really,” I answer.

“No, you like sticking your head in the sand, don’t you? Well, too f**king bad.” She leans in close enough for me to smell her gum. “Your St. Jimmy was sleeping with me when you first met him. He was gonna marry me.”

A hot wave of shock smashes into me so hard I can’t even breathe. My hands flutter, then clench into fists. “That is not true,” I choke out.

“Really? Why do you think I got fired? Jimmy didn’t want his precious little princess to be upset by an old girlfriend hanging around.”

I can’t seem to get any air into my lungs—my chest is paralyzed with shock. And hate. “You got fired because you took money from the cash register,” I manage to answer, my voice like ground glass.

“Yeah, well, those arrogant assholes had that coming. And I’ll tell you one more thing,” Doral-Anne says, wiping her hands on her pants. “You really deserved that faithless shit you married, but you don’t come close to deserving Ethan.”

I slap her so hard her head jerks back. My hand stings, my arm buzzes, then falls limply to my side. Doral-Anne’s face turns red, then white, my handprint clearly visible.

“Don’t you ever speak about my husband that way again, Doral-Anne. Do you understand me?” My heart pounds so hard and fast I can barely hear myself. I almost hope she’ll say something else so I can…I don’t know. Beat her up. Though, despite the red haze that colors my vision at this moment, I realize she’d probably cream me. Stomp on my carcass. Scalp me.

Surprisingly she backs down. “Truth hurts, doesn’t it?” she says quietly. And with that, she turns and walks out of the dugout, across the infield and into center field. Toward the cemetery, and God help me, if she does anything to Jimmy’s grave, I’ll…I’ll…

I’m hyperventilating. Sinking onto the bench, I can feel my heart flopping around like a convulsing tuna. My throat is tight, my vision graying…and images of the past flit before my eyes.

When Jimmy and I were first dating, I’d popped into the restaurant. Doral-Anne was there, all right, in the kitchen, talking to Jimmy. And Jimmy’s face had been…guilty. When he’d seen me, his gaze jacked back to Doral-Anne, and there was this strange, awkward moment. Then he’d just about pounced on me, hustling me out of there as fast as he could.

Another time…oh, God. I remember when he told me Doral-Anne had been fired, and to show a little solidarity, I’d told him I’d never liked her. I wondered aloud why someone would steal from a family that had been so good to her. And Jimmy had looked so miserable at that moment that I playfully accused him of being a softy. “If someone steals from you, sweetie, you have to fire them. Your dad did the right thing.”

Now I can see that Jimmy’s misery might’ve been something else. He dumped Doral-Anne for me, and she lashed out by stealing, and Jimmy…he knew exactly why she did it.

That time I met Doral-Anne at the gas station, just after Jimmy died, her stunning cruelty as she taunted me because I’d never have Jimmy’s baby…I wondered then, and many times since, what would make a person say something so hateful, so vicious, and suddenly, the answer is clear.

Revenge. Humiliation. A broken heart.

He was gonna marry me.

Oh, God. Oh, Jimmy.

My breath slams in and out of my chest, and if I don’t do something about it, I’m going to faint. Which would be totally okay right now, because fainting would be preferable to the thoughts that are ricocheting through my head like a barrage of bullets. I lean forward, dangle my head between my knees, staring at the wads of gum and sunflower seeds littering the cement floor of the dugout, my thoughts as ugly as the view.

“Lucy?”

My head jerks back, my vision swims, then clears. Ethan stands in the dimming light of the evening, frowning.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” he asks, kneeling in front of me.

“You’re getting gum on your pants,” I say distantly.

“Lucy.” He gives my shoulders a little shake. “What’s the matter, honey?”

I lean forward and rest my head on Ethan’s shoulder for a minute, feel his hand stroke the back of my head. “Lucy,” he whispers. “What happened?”

I raise my head and look in his eyes. “Did you know about Jimmy and Doral-Anne?” I ask.

He hesitates, and I have my answer. Rage gathers in a fireball.

“You knew?” I spit. “You knew, didn’t you?”

He sighs, looks down. And nods.

Something ugly and hot twists in my stomach. “She’s been gunning for me for years, and you never said anything?” My voice rises to a near shriek. “I don’t believe this! That woman hates me, has taken every chance she’s had to kick me when I was down, and you never said a word? What the hell, Jimmy?”

Ethan’s head jerks back, and his hands drop from my shoulders. “Ethan,” he says, his voice hard.

“What?”

“Ethan. You just called me Jimmy.”

The pebble in my throat feels more like a tumor, malevolent and strangling. “I’m a little upset right now, Ethan. Doral-Anne just informed me that she slept with Jimmy.”

“So?” His voice is oddly cool.

“So? So…so the Jimmy I knew would never have gone for someone like Doral-Anne.” My voice is breathy and furious.

“Why?”

“Because! Because she’s meaner than acid, and he was wonderful. She was not his type.”

Ethan stands up. “Right. You were his type. He dumped her and went for you. So what’s the problem?”

I splutter wordlessly. The problem? The problem is, I don’t want to picture Jimmy—my Jimmy—with a nasty little number like Doral-Anne of the snake tattoos. Picture him kissing her, or oh, God, undressing her! Gah! Could he honestly have mentioned marriage to her?

“Lucy,” Ethan says wearily, “Jimmy fell for you the second he laid eyes on you. And you fell for him.” His hands raise in frustration. “Why are you complaining? Doral-Anne’s had it rough—”

“Right. Poor misunderstood Doral-Anne.” I stand up as well, my legs shaking. “I’m going home. Tell the gang sorry I couldn’t make it.”

“Lucy—”

“Ethan, I really want to be alone. Okay?” And with that, I sling my baseball bag over my shoulder and head out of the park on my ridiculous path. Out of the park, around the cemetery. My throat thickens as I pass the point closest to my father’s grave. I could really use a dad at this moment. I wonder if Joe Torre would take a call from me.

He was gonna marry me.

How could I never have known that? Jimmy kept that from me. Gianni and Marie must’ve known, too.

And so did Ethan, all these years. He befriended Doral-Anne and he never bothered to tell me why. Well, I think fiercely, slashing my hand across my teary eyes, they say the wife is always the last to know.

An hour later, I’m sitting on my couch, Fat Mikey on one side, a box of Hostess Cupcakes on the other, three empty wrappers on the floor. I stare straight ahead, my mind empty except for memories. On the TV screen, Jimmy and I stare at each other, smiling, kissing, laughing. He chose “Angel” by Dave Matthews for our first dance. Wherever you are, I swear, you’ll be my angel. Of course, I was supposed to be the angel…in the romantic, I-can’t-believe-you’re-so-wonderful way. Jimmy was supposed to stay alive and adore me. He wasn’t supposed to leave me. And even though he didn’t know me then, he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to find Doral-Anne attractive. To sleep with her. To talk about marrying her.

At this moment in real time, Fat Mikey decides a wad of hair must be expelled from the far reaches of his intestinal track. He starts hacking, then squeaks as I heave him into my arms. “Come on, buddy, out on the balcony,” I grunt, opening the slider with my elbow. There. Made it. Fat Mikey shoots me a disgruntled look, aggravated that I prevented him from gacking on the couch, then returns his attention to the business at hand. I sigh and lean in the doorway, waiting for my cat. The potted ferns I bought last spring have withered from the cold, their leaves yellow and straggling. The long, gray winter is coming.

Then I straighten, goose bumps rising on my arms. There, on the wide railing of the balcony, something gleams, catching the light from the street.

A dime.

Without daring to breathe, I tiptoe over to the railing and touch the dime with one finger. Heads up, FDR quite youthful and virile.

“Jimmy?” I whisper. “Are you there?”

No voice speaks, no image shimmers in the corner. The night is still. A little breeze blows from the ocean, rustling the dead leaves of the ferns. From my dead husband, I hear nothing.

“I sure miss you,” I say, my throat tightening. I think about everything I wish I could ask him…what to do about Ethan, how to comfort his parents. If he ever loved Doral-Anne. If that matters. “I could really use some advice, Jim,” I add. “Not that ‘Check the toast’ wasn’t helpful.”

My cat kills the moment with an enormous gag. I wince, look down at the hairball. “You’ll clean that up, of course,” I tell my cat, who decides I’m adorable and butts his head against my shin. With a sigh, I pocket the dime and turn to go inside, then start in fright.

Ethan stands in my living room, staring at my wedding video, arms folded across his chest.

“Hey,” I say, closing the slider behind me.

“Hey,” he returns without looking away from the TV. I wonder if he just heard me talking to Jimmy. “Having a nice night, Lucy?”

I sigh. “Ethan…” Finally he looks at me, his eyebrows raised expectantly. Judgmentally, one might say.

Grabbing the remote off the couch where I left it, I hit the Off button, and the image of Anne and Laura dancing is cut short. Ethan remains where he is, arms still folded. “Ethan,” I state firmly, “I have to clean up a hairball.”

“Okay,” he says. “Don’t let me keep you.” He turns to leave.