Author: Kristan Higgins

“Looking good, Nicky!” Parker calls, and I manage a wave. My nephew resumes his activity, and Parker takes a deep breath, then slides her arm around my shoulders and wait till I can straighten up. “Lucy,” she says quietly, “Ethan got a call today from work. They want him to transfer to the Atlanta branch and head up the international sales division.”

I swallow once, twice. “Well, that would be…great. For him, you know. He could do all those wild things, travel again…And the weekend thing seemed to work for you guys, so…” I blink hard. Oh. I’m crying again. I didn’t realize.

She looks at me and bites the inside of her cheek. “Lucy, I have to wonder what’s going to happen to you two if you don’t make things right.” I don’t answer, just flex my tingling hands. Eventually Parker sighs. “I love you both, that’s all. You’re more my family than my family, and I just…” Her voice trails off. “Make sure you’re doing the right thing,” she finishes.

“I’m trying,” I whisper. Then I wave to Nick and go to my apartment to feed my cat.

TO PUNISH ME FOR MY OVERNIGHT absence, Fat Mikey brings me a mole with its head missing, a clear warning that should I ever leave him again, this is what will happen to me. I clean up the mess, picturing Mrs. Mole as she wonders what happened to her husband, who was ostensibly going out for a tulip bulb or something and never came home. Do moles have widow support groups? Does she have life insurance on Mr. Mole?

“Try not to kill anymore, okay, pretty kitty?” I implore my cat, picking him up for a nuzzle. He purrs loudly, and I scratch his neck as he closes his eyes in pleasure. “We’re staying at Grammy’s house tonight,” I tell him. He opens his eyes, irritated at this pronouncement, then wriggles out of my grasp.

I toss some work clothes into a bag. I don’t know how long I’ll stay at Mom’s…I don’t really even see what I’m packing, but it doesn’t really matter. It’s not like I’m going to France or something.

When I finally manage to stuff my cat into the carrier, I grab my bag, pick up the carrier and turn for the door, only to yelp in surprise.

My mother-in-law stands in the doorway.

“I’m sorry, dear, I didn’t mean to startle you,” she says.

“No, no, it’s fine,” I lie. Honestly, she’s like a fox. “How’s Ethan?”

“He’s a little sore. Planning to go to work tomorrow, even though I said he should stay in bed and let me cook him some cavatelli and sausage.”

I can’t help a little grin at the thought of Ethan in bed, his mother serving him lunch and stroking his battered brow. Her idea of heaven, his of hell. “Well, it’s probably a good sign that he wants to go back to work,” I say.

“Are you nuts? He needs at least a week in bed,” she says. Then she brushes a hair off my shoulder. “Lucy, honey, he told us you and he broke up.”

My throat slams shut. “Oh.” I set down the carrier, as Fat Mikey weighs a ton.

“Gianni and I…well, we think it’s probably a smart move,” Marie says softly. “With you and Jimmy and your past and all. So complicated.”

“Right,” I agree distantly. She gives me a sad smile—sad, but relieved.

I take a deep breath, knowing Ethan would kill me for what I’m about to say. “Marie, I think sometimes Ethan feels a little…second best to you and Gianni. Compared to Jimmy, I mean.”

She pulls back, an indignant expression crossing her face. “I don’t love one of my sons more than the other, Lucy,” she says firmly.

“I know. Just…I know you don’t approve of where he works, and—”

“What’s not to approve of? He makes a good living! He’s an executive! We’re very proud.” Her eyes shift away in a silent acknowledgment that perhaps her statement isn’t a hundred percent accurate.

“Make sure he knows. That’s all,” I say softly. Marie shrugs, then gives a little nod. “I have to run. Tell Ethan I’m glad he’s feeling better.” I kiss Marie’s cheek, then pause. “Marie, do remember a girl named Doral-Anne who used to work at the restaurant? She played on Ethan’s baseball team?”

My mother-in-law’s face freezes. “Her. I remember, all right. The one who stole. Miss Tattoo. I told her she had to cover that thing up. ‘We’re a family restaurant,’ I say. ‘No one wants to see what you did on a bender.’ She didn’t like that, but—”

“Did you know she went out with Jimmy for a while?” I interrupt.

Marie freezes, and once more, her eyes slide away. “Yes. I knew. Let me tell you, we were awfully happy when you showed up, Lucy. Sure, you weren’t Italian, but at least you were Catholic and a nice girl, you know what I mean? Not trash. That girl was trash.”

I look at my mother-in-law for a second. “Last night when Ethan was hit, Doral-Anne took care of Nicky. Did you know that?”

Her mouth takes on that So? expression the Mirabellis do so well…the slightly defensive posture, the jutting chin, the lifted eyebrow. “Took care of Nicky how?”

“Parker ran into the street to help Ethan, and Nicky was crying and scared, and she picked him up.” Reassured him, no doubt. Turned away so the little guy wouldn’t have to see his daddy lying unconscious in the street.

Marie remains unimpressed.

“I’ve got to go,” I say again. We walk down the hall together. Fat Mikey yowling at the indignity of being carried in such a fashion.

“Come for dinner at the restaurant one of these days, honey,” she calls as I press the button for the elevator. “You know how Gianni likes to cook for you.”

“Will do,” I answer, smiling. The second the doors close, my smile drops like an anvil.

THE STRANGE, NUMB VERSION OF MYSELF continues for the next few days. I return to the bakery, waking long before anyone else is around, and go through the motions—weighing the dough, shaping the loaves, letting them rise, scoring the tops with robotic precision. I’ve never been more efficient, actually, and Jorge gives me a significant look on my third day back, when I do all the washing before he even comes in. After two nights with Mom, I went back to my apartment, figuring I couldn’t hide forever. Corinne and Emma came for a visit. Ash dropped by as well and stayed for a game of Extreme Racing USA.

I haven’t seen Ethan. Not at all. Marie told me he’s away on business. His absence is a hole in my heart.

On Friday afternoon, I find myself alone in the bakery. Without the promise of happy hour, the Black Widows left at three, and Jorge took care of the evening deliveries. The cooler hums. The cases have been cleared, Rose’s sad cookies refrozen for a more hopeful day. The kitchen is clean, though maybe I could find a few things to do. Empty the grease from the Frialator. “What an exciting life you lead, Lucy Lang,” I say out loud. My voice echoes.

I go out the front door and lean against the lamppost, looking over at the town green. Yet another sunny October day, the sky a deep and aching blue, the last few leaves of the beech trees clinging precariously. Over the sounds of the wind and a distant soccer game comes the sound of Canada geese. I look up and sure enough, a ragged V formation flies right over the cemetery, the geese squawking and talking as they head south for the winter. Good luck, I think. Be careful. Don’t get shot. Mind the airplanes.

A bright flash of color rounds the corner—yellow skirt, orange winter boots, purple coat, orange poncho.

“Grinelda!” I bark.

She shuffles to a halt. “Hello,” she says, pulling down her blue-tinted, Bono-style sunglasses to peer at me.

“Hey, have you got a minute?” I ask. She doesn’t answer immediately. “I can pay,” I add.

“Sure,” she replies. “Got any cookies?”

“They’re all in the freezer, but come on in. I’ll find something.”

Ten minutes later, Grinelda is drinking an overly sweetened cup of coffee and eating a Ding-Dong I had in my purse.

“So,” she says, a clot of chocolate dropping from her mouth. “You want a reading?”

I hesitate, then plunge in. “Yes, please.”

“You’re a believer now?” she says, grinning like Fat Mikey when he’s slain a rodent.

“Well,” I murmur, “I was wondering if maybe Jimmy had more for me than toast advice.”

She shoves the last half of the Ding-Dong into her mouth, her cheeks bulging, then swallows like a cormorant trying to get down a particularly bony fish. “Let’s find out,” she says. She closes her eyes and lets out a low hum. “Uuuunnnnnnhhhh. Uuuunnnnnnhhhh.” This is new. She must’ve seen it on TV or something. “Uuuunnnnnnhhhh.”

I sigh. It’s come to this. I’m an official Black Widow.

“Okay, I’m getting someone. Name starts with a J.”

“I’m guessing that would be Jimmy,” I say neutrally

“Don’t speak.” She breathes again. “Uuuunnnnnnhhhh. Yes. J. It’s a man. Tall. He’s holding a frying pan. Is it Jimmy? Yes! It’s Jimmy.”

I roll my eyes. “Hi, Jimmy.”

“Uuuunnnnnnhhhh. Uhn—What’s this? He’s surrounded by food. Tomatoes, garlic, chicken—”

“Okay, Grinelda, you know Jimmy was a chef. That’s no secret—”

“Shush. I’m getting something.” She opens one eye a slit. “Got any more of those Ding-Dongs?”

“You know what, Grinelda? Never mind. I’ll just—”

“Shh! Okay. He’s showing me something. Bread. No, toast. He says…yes. Toast.”

“Right,” I mutter, more disgusted with myself than Grinelda. “Check the toast. Got it, Jimmy. Anything else?”

“He’s showing me something else. A wedding? Yes. A wedding. Marriage.”

Ah. Now we have something, I think. Of course, we probably don’t, given that it’s Grinelda and all, but still. I’m desperate.

Grinelda peeks at me again. “Does this mean anything to you?”

At that moment, my cell phone rings.

“Cell phone usage is strongly discouraged during communication from the other side,” Grinelda intones.

I hit Mute and glance at the screen. It’s Matt DeSalvo.

Matt DeSalvo. The bread man. Who could get my bread to thousands of people, who could then make toast with it. My mother and aunts felt that Jimmy was pushing me to the bread man. Now there’s a wedding in the picture. And Matt just happens to call.

“He’s going,” Grinelda says, and though it’s been almost six years and though I don’t have a lot of faith in Grinelda’s special gifts, I feel a lump rise in my throat just the same.

“Bye, Jimmy,” I can’t help saying. It’s no use. I’ll never stop missing him.

THAT NIGHT, I DECIDE THAT I CAN’T avoid Ethan forever. I go upstairs, empty-handed, no cake, no custard, no cookies, and knock firmly. There’s no answer. Right. He’s away. I just assumed he’d be back—

The elevator bell dings behind me, the doors slide open and there he is, towing his suitcase. His eyebrows bounce up at the sight of me.

“Hi,” I say. My stomach cramps with nervousness.

“Hi,” he says, taking out his keys. “How are you?”

“I’m good!” I chirrup. “I came to see how you were doing!” I sound like the amped-up host of a children’s show, all cutesy and super-duper friendly. “Feeling okay?”

“All better,” he lies. I can see a shadow of a bruise along his temple.

“Great!” I bleat, apparently unable to sound normal. “Welp—” yes, I say welp “—I just wanted to say hi. Hey, is it true you’re going international? International sales, I mean? With International Foods?” Shut up, Lucy.