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Praise for the novels of award—winning author

kristan higgins

‘Cheeky, cute, and satisfying…perfect entertainment for a girl’s night in’

-Booklist

‘Kristan Higgins proves that she is emerging as one of the most creative and honest voices in contemporary romance. Too Good to be True is simply delightful storytelling!’ -Romance Junkies

‘Higgins provides an amiable romp that ends with a satisfying lump in the throat.’

-Publishers Weekly

“A true masterpiece” -Dee & Dee Dish on Books

‘Smart, fresh and fun! A Kristan Higgins book is not to be missed!’

-New York Times bestselling author Carly Phillips

‘A touching story brimming with smart dialogue, sympathetic characters, an engaging narrative and the amusing, often self—deprecating observations of the heroine. It’s a novel with depth and a great deal of heart.’

-RT Book Reviews, 4½ stars Top Pick

‘Higgins is a talented writer who will make you want to search high and low for anything that she has written’

-Chicklit Romance Writers

Dear Reader,

The Next Best Thing is Lucy and Ethan’s story. It’s about second chances. After the death of her husband shattered her heart, Lucy’s positive that she doesn’t want to fall in love again…She’d rather find some safe, slightly boring guy who’d be more of a companion than the new love of her life. But Ethan, her faithful neighbour, is determined to bust out of the role of ‘friend with privileges’ and get Lucy to see him as a lot more.

As with all of my books, I hope you’ll have a lot of laughs and shed a few satisfying tears as well. There’s something new this time…a cat! Fat Mikey is a nod to my own regal pet, Cinnamon…as for Fat Mikey’s name, I ‘borrowed’ it from my neighbours down the street. I hope you’ll bond with the curmudgeonly kitty.

Growing up, I was blessed with a large Hungarian family centred around babies, laughter and food—especially desserts, so it was great fun to set this story in a bakery. There’s a lot of great food described in this book…I’ll post a few recipes on my website if you’re interested. And while the Black Widows in the story are fictional, they were inspired by my own three great—aunts, Anne, Mimi, Marguerite, and my grandmother, Helen, whose nickname was Bunny. Our family tradition of baking is firmly embraced by my lovely and loving aunts—Rita, whose cakes are the stuff of legend; Hilary, who makes the best apple pie this side of the Mississippi; and Teresa, who doesn’t bake but was smart enough to marry a man who does, and does so incredibly well.

Let me know how you enjoyed the book! It’s always such a pleasure to hear from readers.

All the best,

Kristan

About the Author

KRISTAN HIGGINS divides her time between home in Connecticut and summers on Cape Cod. She is the mother of two lovely kids, the wife of a brave firefighter, and a devoted Ben & Jerry’s fan. Previously a copywriter, Kristan began writing fiction when her children graced her life with simultaneous naps…so much more satisfying than folding laundry. She holds a BA in English, which enables her to identify dangling participles and quote many great novels. She loves to connect with readers on her website www.kristanhiggins.com and her Facebook page www.facebook.com/KristanHigginsBooks.

The Next Best Thing

Kristan Higgins

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This book is dedicated—finally!-to my patient, funny,

generous and lovely mother, Noël Kristan Higgins.

Thank you, Mom, for everything. I love you so.

CHAPTER ONE

“YOU HAVE A WHISKER.”

Though I hear the loudly whispered comment, it doesn’t quite register, as I am rapt with adoration, staring at the wonder that is my hour—old niece. Her face still glows red from the effort of being born, her dark blue eyes are as wide and calm as a tortoise’s. I probably shouldn’t tell my sister that her baby reminds me of a reptile. Well. The baby is astonishingly beautiful. Miraculous.

“She’s amazing,” I murmur. Corinne beams, then shifts the baby the slightest bit away from me. “Can I hold her, Cory?” My two aunts mutter darkly—only Mom has held the baby so far, and clearly, I’m breaking rank.

My sister hesitates. “Um…well…”

“Let her, Cory,” Chris encourages, and my sister reluctantly hands over the little bundle.

She’s warm and precious, and my eyes fill with tears. “Hi there,” I whisper. “I’m your auntie.” I can’t believe how much I love this baby…she’s fifty—five minutes old, and I’m ready to throw myself in front of a bus for her, should the need arise.

“Pssst. Lucy.” It’s Iris’s voice again. “Lucy. You have a whisker.” My seventy—six—year—old aunt taps her upper lip. “Right there. Plus, you’re holding her wrong. Give her to me.”

“Oh, gee, I don’t know about that,” Corinne protests, but Iris deftly takes the baby from me. My arms feel lonely without the sweet weight of my niece. “Whisker,” Iris says, jerking her chin at me.

Almost against my will, my finger goes to my upper lip…gah! Something thick and almost sharp, like a piece of barbed wire, is embedded in my skin. A whisker! Iris is right. I have a whisker.

My tiny aunt Rose sidles up to me. “Let’s take a look here,” she says in her little—girl voice, studying my lip. Then, before I know it, she seizes the offending hair and yanks.

“Youch! Rose! That hurt!” I press a finger against the now smarting hair follicle.

“Don’t worry, honey, I got it. You must be coming into the Change.” She gives me a conspiratorial smile, then holds my whisker up to the light.

“I’m thirty years old, Rose,” I protest weakly. “And come on, stop looking at it.” I brush the whisker from her fingers. The whisker was a fluke. I’m not menopausal. I can’t be. Could I? Granted, I’m feeling a bit…mature today, given that my younger sister has had a baby before I did…Rose scrutinizes my face for another hair. “It can happen. Your second cousin Ilona was thirty—five. I don’t think you’re too young. A mustache is usually the first sign.”

“Electrolysis,” my mother recommends as she tucks the blankets around Corinne’s feet. “Grinelda does it. I’ll have her look at you next time she comes in for a reading.”

“Your psychic also does electrolysis?” Christopher asks.

“She’s a medium. And yes, Grinelda is a very talented woman,” Iris says, smiling down at Emma.

“Don’t I get a turn to hold that child? I seem to remember I’m also her great—aunt,” Rose peeps. “And personally, I bleach. Once I shaved, and three days later, I looked like Uncle Zoltan after a bender.” She accepts my niece from Iris and her wrinkled, sweet face morphs into a smile.

“Oh, shaving. Never shave, Lucy,” Iris says. “You get stubbly.”

“Um…okay,” I say, shooting a glance at my sister. Surely this is not normal conversation in a labor and delivery room. “So how are you feeling now, Corinne?”

“I’m wonderful,” she says. “Can I please hold my daughter again?”

“I just got her!” Rose protests.

“Hand her over,” Christopher orders. With a martyred sigh, Rose obeys.

My sister gazes down at the baby, then looks up at her husband. “Do you think we should put some Purell on her?” she asks, her brow wrinkling in worry.

“Nah,” Chris answers. “You girls scrubbed in, right?”

“Absolutely. Don’t want Emma to catch the polio,” Iris says, not a trace of sarcasm in her voice. I suppress a smile.

“Chris, honey, how are you feeling, sweetie?” Corinne asks her husband.

“A lot better than you, honey. I didn’t just give birth, after all.”

Corinne waves away his protest. “Lucy, he was so wonderful. Really. You should’ve seen him! So calm, so helpful. He was amazing.”

“I didn’t do a thing, Lucy,” my brother—in—law assures me. He reaches out to touch the baby’s cheek. “Your sister…she’s incredible.” The new parents gaze at each other with sappy adoration, and I feel the familiar, wistful lump in my throat.

Jimmy and I might’ve looked at each other like that.

“Hello! I’m Tania, your lactation coach!” A booming voice makes us all jump. “Well, well! Quite a turnout, I see! Do you want an audience, Mother?”

“Corinne, we’ll go,” I say, though it’s quite possible that my mother and aunts would like to stay and offer a running commentary. “We’ll see you later. I’m so proud of you.” I kiss my sister, touch the baby’s cheek once more and try not to notice as Corinne wipes her baby’s face. “Bye, Emma,” I whisper, my eyes filling yet again. “I love you, honey.” My niece. I have a niece! Visions of tea parties and jump rope fill my head.

My sister smiles at me. “See you later, Lucy. Love you.” She risks a pat to my arm with one hand, already instinctively adept at handling the baby.

“Let’s take a look at those nipples,” Tania the lactation coach barks. “Husband, take the baby, won’t you? I need to see your wife’s breasts.”

Like a well—trained border collie, I herd Mom, Rose and Iris out of the room. In the hallway, I notice something. My mother, aunts and I all seem to be wearing black today. My step falters. Mom is clad in a chic black wraparound sweater, something that wouldn’t look out of place on Audrey Hepburn; Iris wears a shapeless black turtleneck and Rose a black cardigan over a white shirt. My T—shirt of the day happens to be black—I get up at 4:00 a.m. and don’t spend a lot of time on clothing choices…this one just happened to be on the top of the pile.

By an ironic and unfortunate twist of fate, my mother, Iris and Rose bear the maiden name Black, translated from Fekete when my grandfather immigrated from Hungary. By an even more ironic and unfortunate twist of fate, all three were widowed before the age of fifty, so it’s only natural that they’re called the Black Widows. And on this happiest of days, somehow we’re all wearing black. It dawns on me that today I, also widowed young, am more like a Black Widow than like my radiant sister. That today I found my first whisker and was advised on facial hair management.

That I’m a long way off from having a baby of my own, a thought that’s been on my mind more and more recently. It’s been five years since Jimmy died, after all. Five and a half. Five years, four months, two weeks and three days, to be precise.

These thoughts override the chatter of my aunts and mother as we drive over the short bridge to Mackerly, back to the bakery where the four of us work.

“We’re going to the cemetery,” Mom announces as they pile out of the car, first Iris, then Rose, then my mother. “I have to tell your father about the baby.”

“Okay,” I say, forcing a smile. “See you in a while, then.”

“You sure you don’t want to come?” Rose asks. All three of them tilt their heads looking at me.

“Oh, gosh, I don’t think so.”

“You know she’s got a thing about that,” Mom says patiently. “Let’s go. See you later, hon.”

“Yup. Have fun.” They will, I know. I watch as they walk down the street toward the cemetery where their husbands—and mine—are buried.

The sun shines, the birds sing, my niece is healthy. It’s a happy, happy day, whisker or no whisker. Widowed or not. “A happy day,” I say aloud, heading inside.

The warm, timeless smell of Bunny’s Hungarian Bakery wraps around me like a security blanket, sugar and yeast and steam, and I inhale deeply. Jorge is cleaning up in back. He looks up as I come in. “She’s gorgeous,” I say. He nods, smiles, then goes back to scraping dough from the counters.

Jorge doesn’t speak. He’s worked at Bunny’s for years. Somewhere between fifty and seventy, bald, with beautiful light brown skin and a tattoo on his arm depicting Jesus’ agony on the cross, Jorge helps with cleanup and bread delivery, as Bunny’s supplies bread-my bread, the best bread in the state—to several Rhode Island restaurants.

“I’ll deliver to Gianni’s tonight, Jorge,” I say as he starts loading up the bread. He nods, heads for the back door and stands for a second, his way of saying goodbye. “Have a great afternoon,” I say. He smiles, flashing his gold tooth, then leaves.

The freezer hums, the malfunctioning fluorescent light over the work area buzzes, the cooling ovens tick. Otherwise, there’s just the sound of my own breathing.

Bunny’s has been in my family for fifty—seven years. Founded by my grandmother just after my grandfather died at the age of forty—eight, it has been run by women ever since. Men don’t tend to fare that well in my family, as you might have noticed. After my own father died when I was eight, Mom started working at Bunny’s, too, alongside Iris and Rose. And after Jimmy’s car accident, I came on board as well.

I love the bakery, and the bread I create is proof of a beneficent God, but it’s fair to say that if circumstances were different, I wouldn’t work here. Bread, while deeply rewarding, is not my true passion. I was trained to be a pastry chef at the great Johnson & Wales Culinary Institute in Providence, just about a half hour from Mackerly, a tiny island south of Newport. Upon graduation, I snagged a job at one of the posher hotels in the area. But after Jimmy died, I couldn’t keep it up. The pressure, the noise, the hours…the people. And so I joined the Black Widows at Bunny’s. Unfortunately for me, the division of labor had been decided years ago—Rose on cakes and cookies, Iris on danishes and doughnuts, Mom on management. That left bread.

Bread—baking is a Zenlike art, not fully grasped by much of the world, and an art that I’ve come to love. I arrive at four—thirty each day to mix the dough, measure it out, let it rise and get it in the oven, head home for a nap around ten, then return in the afternoon to bake the loaves we supply to the restaurants. Most days, I’m home by four. It’s a schedule suited to the erratic sleep patterns that came home to roost when my husband died.

I find that I’m feeling for another whisker. If there was one, after all, there might be others. Nope. I seem to be smooth, but I check the mirror in the bathroom just in case. No more whiskers, thank God. I look normal enough…strawberry—blond hair pulled into a ponytail, light brown eyes—whiskey eyes, Jimmy used to call them—a few freckles. It’s a friendly face. I think I’d make someone a very cute mom.

I’ve always wanted a family, a few kids. Despite one errant whisker, most of the evidence still indicates that I’m still young. Or not. What if Aunt Rose is right, and menopause is lurking in the shadows, waiting to pounce? One whisker today—a few months from now, I may need to start shaving. My voice may change. I’ll dry up like a loaf of bread left to rise too long in a warm oven; that which was once light and full of promise, left alone too long, now a hard, tasteless lump. That whisker was a warning. Crikey! A whisker!

I risk a quick squeeze to my breasts. Phew. The girls seem to be in good shape, no drooping or sagging yet. I’m still young. Fairly ripe. But yes, perhaps my shelf life isn’t as long as I like to pretend it is. Dang whisker.

Jimmy would want me to move on, to be happy. Of course he would. “What do you think, Jimmy?” I say out loud, my voice echoing off the industrial—size Hobart mixer, the walk—in oven. “I think it’s time for me to start dating. Okay with you, honey?”

I wait for an answer. Since his death, there have been signs. At least I think so. In the first year or so after his death, dimes would turn up in odd places, for example. Sometimes I’d catch a whiff of his smell—garlic, red wine and rosemary…he was head chef at Gianni’s, the restaurant owned by his parents. Once in a while, I dream about him. But today, on the issue of my love life, there’s nothing.

The back door opens, and my aunts and mom come in. “The cemetery was beautiful!” Iris announces. “Beautiful! Although if I catch those mowers cutting it so close to my Pete’s grave, I will strangle them with my bare hands.”

“I know it. I told the committee the same thing,” Rose cheeps. “Last year, they mowed right over the geraniums I planted for Larry. I thought I’d cry!”

“You did cry,” Iris reminds her.

Mom comes over to me in a cloud of Chanel No. 5. “That baby sure is beautiful, isn’t she?” she says, smiling.

I grin up at her. “She sure is. Congratulations, Grammy.”

“Mmm. Grammy. I like the sound of that,” she says smugly.

Iris nods in agreement—she’s already a grandmother, courtesy of the two kids her son, Neddy, and his ex—wife produced. Rose, meanwhile, pouts.

It’s not fair,” she says. “You’re so much younger, Daisy. I should’ve been a grandmother first.” Rose and Iris are well into their seventies; my mother is sixty—five, and Rose’s only son has failed to reproduce (which is probably a good thing, given Stevie’s propensity for stupid acts).

“Oh, Stevie will get some girl pregnant, don’t worry,” my mom says mildly. “I wonder, though, if he manages to find someone who’d marry him, if she’d die young, too.” Then, aware perhaps that this is a sensitive subject, the Black Widows turn as one to look at me.

You see, in my generation, the Black Widow curse has only struck me (so far). My sister lives in constant fear that Chris will die young, but so far, so good. Iris’s daughter, Anne, is gay, and for some reason, the Black Widows are confident that Laura, Anne’s partner of fifteen years, will be spared due to sexual orientation. Neddy’s ex—wife is also deemed safe. Both Ned and Stevie are healthy, though Stevie’s on the dim side (he once ate poison ivy on a dare. When he was twenty—two). The biological men in our family are spared…it’s just the husbands who seem to meet an early death. My grandfather, my great—uncles, my own dad, my aunts’ husbands…all died young.

Also, no Black Widow has ever remarried. The late husbands became saints, the wives became proud widows. The idea of finding another man is traditionally scoffed at, as in, “Bah! What do I need a man for? I already had my Larry/Pete/Robbie. He was the Love of My Life.”

Back before I was a widow, I thought that maybe the Black Widows almost liked being alone. That they were independent women, proud of how they’d coped. Maybe their disdain of remarrying was more a statement about their own security, independence, power, even. When I became a widow myself, I understood. It’s fairly impossible to imagine falling in love again when your husband’s life ends decades before you expect it.

The back door opens again. “Friday night happy hour has arrived!” calls a familiar voice.

“Ethan!” the Black Widows chorus, flattered and feigning surprise over his arrival.

“I hear from my sources that it’s a girl,” he says. “Congratulations, ladies.”

Ethan Mirabelli, my late husband’s younger brother, comes in through the back door, an insulated bag in hand. He kisses each Black Widow, with an extra—long hug and some murmured words for my mother, who beams and pats him on the cheek. Then Ethan glances at me. “Hey, Luce. Congratulations on being an auntie again.”

“Thanks, Ethan,” I answer, smiling. “I guess it’s not quite a cousin for Nicky, but close enough, right?” Nicky is Ethan’s son. Then I wince, realizing I may have just hit a sore spot. Nicky’s cousins would have to have been Jimmy’s kids…Jimmy’s and mine.

“Absolutely,” he answers, letting me off the hook.

“And how is Nicky?” asks Aunt Iris.

“He’s handsome, brilliant and has a way with the ladies. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.” Nicky is four, but everything Ethan says is true. My brother—in—law smiles at me, then unpacks his bag, something he found God knows where—a minibar, complete with martini shaker, small knife, shot glass and a few bottles of alcohol. “I thought French martinis today, girls,” he says, pouring the vodka. “They’re pink, in honor of the baby. I can only hope she’s as gorgeous as the rest of the Black women.”

As expected, the Black Widows coo and giggle in response. Ethan has them wrapped around his little finger.

“Is it too early for drinking?” Rose asks in her sweet voice, glancing at the clock and holding out her glass. Four—thirty. No earlier than any Friday.

“You don’t have to have one,” Ethan says, just as he’s about to pour the martini into her glass.

“Don’t be fresh,” Rose says, swatting his hand. “Fill ‘er up.” He grins and obeys. “Ethan,” Rose continues, “what I want to know is, how could you get that nice girl pregnant?”

Ethan lifts an eyebrow in his trademark bad—boy look. “Want to step into the office? I’ll be happy to show you.”

Aunt Rose whoops with mock horror and sincere appreciation. “What I mean is, why didn’t you marry her? That nice Parker?” Like they haven’t heard this a million times.

Ethan winks at me. “I asked, if you remember. She wouldn’t have me. She knew I was secretly in love with the Black Widows and my heart would never be hers.” He turns to me. “Here you go, Lucy.”

“Thanks, Eth,” I say.

Friday afternoon cocktail hour is a tradition here at the bakery. Ethan, who travels throughout the country for his work, comes home to Mackerly each weekend to see his son…and to check on me, I admit. Since Jimmy died, Ethan’s been very loyal. A great friend. But he starts most weekends off by coming to the bakery for happy hour and flirting with my mother and aunts, and they think he pretty much walks on water.

“So how’s the baby?” Ethan asks the Black Widows, then sits back and grins as they regale him with her loveliness.

I take a token sip from my glass, listening and smiling. Though they’ve all been widows most of their lives, the Black Widows are more full of life than most people I know.

Then I glance at my watch and set my drink aside. “I have to make the bread run to Gianni’s, guys. Ethan, want to come?”

“Hell, no,” he answers with great cheer. “Why on earth would I visit my parents when I can drink with these Hungarian beauties instead?”

More tuts, more feigned disapproval at Ethan’s casual dismissal of his parents, more deep appreciation and secret consent from the Black Widows.

“Does being a gigolo pay well?” I ask.

Ethan laughs. “Maybe I’ll see you later, Luce.” We both live in the Boatworks, an old sailboat factory turned condominiums.

I go in the back and load up the bread for Gianni’s delivery. Much of it is still warm. My breathing slows, my movements gentle and efficient with practice as I bag each loaf, setting it in the large bakery box. The scent of fresh bread is what heaven must smell like, comforting and homey. When the box is full, I heft it up, push open the back door and head outside to the street and bright sunshine.

To my consternation, Starbucks, which is located just around the corner from Bunny’s, is full, even at this hour. Bunny’s could use some of those customers, I think. For years, I’ve been urging the Black Widows, each of whom owns thirty percent of the bakery, to shift our emphasis from bakery to café. Of course, that would mean changing, and the Black Widows don’t like change. I own ten percent of the bakery, so I could never outvote them. I can’t even filibuster.

Around the corner from Starbucks is Gianni’s Ristorante Italiano, owned by Gianni and Marie, my in—laws. “Lucy!” they cry in delight as I struggle through the back door.

“Hi, Marie, hi, Gianni,” I say, stopping to receive my kisses. Paolo, the sous chef and a vague relation from Rome, takes the loaves from me, as Micki, a prep chef, calls out a hello as she chops garlic and parsley. Kelly, a longtime waitress who went to school with me, waves as she talks on the phone.

“How are you? The baby? Everyone healthy, please God?” Marie asks. I’d called them before going to the hospital—we’re very close.

“She’s so beautiful,” I tell them, beaming. “My sister was a champ, too. Seventeen hours.”

“Any tearing?” Marie asks, causing Gianni to wince.

“Um, we didn’t cover that just yet,” I murmur.

“We’ll send some food,” Gianni says. “A new baby’s such a blessing.”

For a second, we fall silent. My eyes go to the shrine above the twelve—burner stove. Two candles, the red bandana Jimmy always wore while cooking and a photo of him taken on our wedding day. His broad, genial face grins at me, those amazing eyes sparkling. He favored the northern Italian side of the family…curly, dirty blond hair, eyes like the Mediterranean Sea and a smile that could power a small town. A big man, broad—shouldered and tall with a booming laugh, he made me feel protected and safe and utterly, completely loved.

Dang it. My eyes seem to be filling with tears. Well. The Mirabellis don’t mind. Marie strokes my arm, her dark eyes filling, too, and Gianni pats my shoulder with a beefy hand.

“Is Ethan coming home this weekend, do you know?” Marie asks me, wiping her eyes.

I hesitate. “Um, I think so.” Knowing their son was down the street with my family would only hurt them.

“That job of his,” Gianni mutters. “Foolishness. Ah!” He flaps his hands in disgust while I suppress a grin.

Though Ethan once studied to be a chef at the same school I myself attended, he dropped out just before his senior year to work for a large food corporation. A company most famous for making Instead, a hugely popular drink that contains all the nutrition of a well—balanced meal without the inconvenience of actually having to eat. I think my in—laws would’ve preferred it if Ethan had become a drug dealer or porn star, frankly. After all, his company’s mission is basically to discourage sit—down dining, and they own a restaurant.

My eyes go back to Jimmy’s picture. Now is not the time to tell the Mirabellis about my decision to get back on the horse. It can wait. Why ruin their weekend? Because while they wouldn’t begrudge me the comfort of husband and children, I know it won’t be easy to hear. Besides, I have some housekeeping to take care of first.

Around nine that night, I’m playing a lively game of Scrabble with my computer, seventeen pounds of purring pet on my lap—my cat, Fat Mikey. A knock sounds on the door. “Come on in,” I call, knowing who it is.

“Hey, Lucy,” Ethan says, opening the door. I rarely bother locking up—the building has a coded security system in the lobby, and Mackerly’s crime rate is practically nonexixtent.

“Hi, Eth. How’s it going?” I tear myself away from the computer…was just about to play zenith, which would totally slay Maven, my archenemy computer foe, but humans come first. Or they should. I play the word discreetly, then close the lid of my computer. Take that, Maven!

“Everything’s great.” Ethan, who has logged many hours in my apartment over the past five years, makes himself at home by opening the fridge. “Can I have one of these?” he calls.

I swallow. “Sure. I made them for you.” Earlier in the evening, I did what I often do—created a fabulous dessert. Inside the fridge are six ramekins of pineapple mango mousse, each one topped with a raspberry glaze. I figured Ethan will eat at least three, and I need to be on his good side.

“You want one?” he calls. I can tell he’s already eating.

“No, thanks. They’re all yours.” I don’t eat my own desserts. Haven’t in years.

“This is fantastic,” he says, coming into the living room.

“Glad you like it,” I say, not meeting his eyes.

“Hey, thanks for e—mailing those pictures of Nick,” he says, already scraping the ramekin clean.

“Oh, you’re welcome. He sure looked cute.” Ethan and I grin at each other in a moment of mutual Nick adoration. On Wednesday, the nursery school put on a play about the life cycle of the butterfly. Nicky was a milkweed seed. It’s become my habit to photograph Nicky and e—mail pictures to Ethan while he’s traveling, since Parker, Nick’s mother, never seems to remember her camera.

“Um, listen, Ethan, we need to talk,” I say, cringing a little.

“Sure. Let me grab another one of these. They’re incredible.” He goes back into the kitchen, and I hear the fridge open again. “Actually I have something to tell you, too.” He returns to the living room “But ladies first.” Sitting in the easy chair, he smiles at me.

Ethan looks nothing like his brother, which is both a comfort and a sorrow. Unlike Jimmy, Ethan is a bit…well, average. Nice—looking, but kind of unremarkable. Medium brown eyes, somewhat disheveled brown hair, average height, average weight. Kind of a vanilla type of guy. He has a neat little beard, the kind so many baseball players favor—three days of stubble, basically, which gives him an attractive edginess, but he’s…well, he’s Ethan. He looks a bit like an elf in some ways—not the squeaky North Pole elves, but like a cool elf, a Tolkien elf, mischievous eyebrows and sly grin.

He regards me patiently. I swallow. Swallow again. It’s a nervous habit of mine. Fat Mikey jumps into Ethan’s lap and head butts him until Ethan obliges the bossy animal by scratching his chin. Ethan rescued him from the pound a few years back, saying no one would take the ugly beast, and gave him to me. Fat Mikey has never forgotten just who sprung him from prison, and now favors Ethan with a rusty purr.

I clear my throat. “Well, listen. You know, ever since Jimmy died, you’ve been, just…well. Incredible. Such a good friend, Ethan.” It’s true. I don’t have the words to voice my gratitude.

His mouth pulls up on one side. “Well. You’ve been great, too.”

I force a smile. “Right. Um…well, here’s the thing, Ethan. You know that Corinne had a baby, of course. And it got me thinking that, well…” I clear my throat. “Well, I’d like to have a baby, too.” Gah! This isn’t coming out the way I want it to.

His right eyebrow raises. “Really.”

“Yeah. I’ve always wanted kids. You know. So, um…” Why am I so nervous? It’s just Ethan. He’ll understand. “So I guess I’m ready to…start dating. I want to get married again. Have a family.”

Ethan leans forward, causing Fat Mikey to jump off his lap. “I see,” he says.

I look at the floor for a second. “Right.” Risking a peek at Ethan, I add, “So we should probably stop sleeping together.”

CHAPTER TWO

ETHAN BLINKS. HIS EXPRESSION doesn’t change. “Okay,” he says after a beat.

I open my mouth to brook his argument, then realize he hasn’t made one. “Okay. Great,” I mumble.

Ethan sits back and looks toward the kitchen. “So seeing your new niece really got to you, huh?”

“Yes. I guess so. I mean, I’ve always wanted…well, you know. Husband, kids, all that. I’ve been thinking about it lately, and then today-” I opt not to describe my whisker. “I guess it’s time.”

“So is this theoretical, or do you have someone in mind?” he asks. Fat Mikey lets out a squeaky meow, then lifts his leg and starts licking.

I clear my throat. “It’s theoretical. I just…I just figured we should make a clean break of it first, you know? Can’t have a friend with privileges if I’m trying to find a husband.” A nervous bleat of laughter bursts from my throat.

Ethan starts to say something, then seems to change his mind. “Sure. Most boyfriends wouldn’t like to find out that you’ve got a standing arrangement with someone else.” His tone is mild.

“Right,” I say after a pause.

“Is that door still sticking?” He nods to the slider, which leads to the tiny balcony.

“Don’t worry about it,” I mutter. My face feels hot.

“Oh, hell, Luce, don’t worry. I’ll fix it. You’re still my sister—in—law.” For a second, he just stares at the glass door.

“Are you mad?” I whisper.

“Nah.” He stands up, then comes over to me and drops a kiss on the top of my head. “I will, of course, miss the smokin’ sex, but you’re probably right. I’ll drop in tomorrow to fix the door.”

That’s it? “Okay. Um, thanks, Ethan.”

And with that, he’s gone, and I have to say, it feels odd. Empty and quiet.

I’d thought he might have been a little more…well…I don’t know what. After all, we’ve been sleeping together for two years. Granted, he travels all week, and on the weekends when he had Nicky, obviously we didn’t do anything, but still. I guess I didn’t expect him to be so…blasé.

“What are we complaining about?” I ask myself out loud. “It couldn’t have gone any better.” Fat Mikey rubs against my ankles as if in agreement, and I reach down to pet his silky fur.

The evening stretches in front of me. I have seven hours until I head for the bakery. A normal person would go to bed, but my schedule is erratic at best. Another thing Ethan and I have in common: the man only sleeps four or five hours a night. I wonder if we’ll still play Scrabble or Guitar Hero late at night, now that we’re not…well, we were never really a couple. Just friends, and sort of relatives, linked forever by Jimmy. And lovers, though my mind bounces away from that word. Friends with privileges sounds much more benign.

In the first year after Jimmy died, Ethan had been one of the few people whose company I could stand. My friends—well, it was hard for both them and me. I’d married and buried a husband when most of my peers weren’t even thinking about a serious relationship. A lot of them just sort of…faded away, not knowing what to say or do for a woman widowed at twenty—four after eight months and six days of marriage.

Corinne ached for me, but seeing her eyes well up every time she saw me didn’t do much for my emotional state. My mom had a grim resignation to Jimmy’s death, almost a been there, done that, own that crappy T—shirt attitude as she patted my hand and shook her head. My aunts, forget it. To them, it was my destiny…Poor Lucy, well, at least she got it over with. Not that they were heartless enough to say that, but there was sort of a maudlin welcome feeling when I was around them, as if my widowhood was simply a fact of life. As for Gianni and Marie, I could hardly bear to be around them. Jimmy was their firstborn son, the chef in their restaurant, the heir apparent, the crown prince, and of course, the Mirabellis were absolutely ruined. Though we saw each other often, it was agony for all three of us.

But Ethan…maybe because we were almost the same age, maybe because we’d been pals at Johnson & Wales before he fixed me up with Jimmy, but whatever the reason, he was the only one who didn’t make me feel worse.

In those first few black months, Ethan was a rock. He found this very apartment, right below his. He bought me a PlayStation and we spent far too many hours racing cars and shooting each other on the screen. He cooked for me, knowing I’d eat Sno—Balls and Ring Dings if left to my own devices, coming down with a pan of eggplant parmigiana, chicken marsala, meat loaf. We’d watch movies, and he didn’t care if I’d forgotten to shower for the past couple of days. If I cried in front of him, Ethan would patiently take me in his arms, stroke my hair and tell me that someday, we were both going to be okay and if I didn’t stop blubbering on his shirt, he was going to fit me with a shock collar and start using it.

Then he’d head out for another week of traveling and schmoozing, which seemed to be what he was paid so handsomely to do. He’d e—mail me dirty jokes, bring me tacky little souvenirs from whatever city he was in, send pictures of himself doing those stupid daredevil things he did—helicopter skiing in Utah, sail—surfing in Costa Rica. It was part of Ethan’s job to show the demographic of Instead’s consumers that eating a real meal was a waste of time when such fun awaited them. Which was ironic, given that Ethan loved to both eat and cook.

After the first six months or so, when I wasn’t quite so soggy, Ethan backed off a little, started doing the things normal guys do. For about two months, he dated Parker Welles, one of the rich summer folks, and to me, they seemed quite nice together. I liked Parker, who was irreverent and blunt, and assumed Ethan had found his match, so I was quite surprised when Ethan told me they’d broken up amicably. Then Parker found out she was pregnant, informed Ethan and politely declined his marriage proposal. She stayed in Mackerly, living in her father’s sprawling mansion out on Ocean View Avenue, where all the rich folks live, and gave birth to Nick. Why she passed on Ethan is a mystery—she’s told me time and again she thinks he’s a great guy, just not the one for her.

After Nicky came into the world, Ethan and I found ourselves hanging out once more. I guess the privileges part was bound to happen eventually, though neither of us planned on it. In fact, you could say that I was stunned the first time he—well. More on that later. I should think about something other than Ethan.

Looking around my apartment, I sigh. It’s a nice place—two bedrooms, a living room, big sunny kitchen with ample counter space for baking. Prints hang on the walls as well as a large photo of Jimmy and me on our wedding day. The furniture is comfortable, the TV state—of—the—art. My balcony overlooks a salt marsh. Jimmy and I were in the process of moving into a house when he died. Obviously I hadn’t wanted to live there without him, so I sold it and moved here, Ethan’s proximity a great comfort.

I had imagined that Ethan and I would spend more than ten minutes breaking up, and I find myself at a bit of a loss for what to do. It’s nine—thirty on a Friday night. Some nights, Ash, the Goth teen who lives down the hall, comes over to play video games or catch a movie, but there’s a high school dance tonight, and her mother forced her to go. I could go over the syllabus for the pastry class I teach at the community college, but I’d just be guilding the lily, since I planned that out last week. My gaze goes to the TV.

“Fat Mikey, would you like to see a pretty wedding?” I ask my cat, hefting him up for a nuzzle, which he tolerates gamely. “You would? Good boy.”

The DVD is already in. I know, I know, I shouldn’t watch it so much. But I do. Now, though, if I really am moving on, if I’m going to find someone else, I really do need to stop. I pause, think about scrubbing the kitchen floor instead, decide against it and hit Play.

I fast—forward through me getting ready, watching in amusement the jerky, sped—up movements of Corinne pinning the veil into my hair, my mother dabbing her eyes.

Bingo. Jimmy and Ethan standing on the altar of St. Bonaventure’s. Ethan, the best man, is cracking a joke, no doubt, because the brothers are laughing. And then Jimmy looks up and sees me coming down the aisle. His smile fades, his wide, generous mouth drops open a little and he looks almost shocked with love. Love for me.

I hit Pause, and Jimmy’s face freezes on the television screen. His eyes were so lovely, his lashes long and ridiculously pretty. A muscular physique despite cooking and eating all day, the longish blond hair that curled in the humidity, the way his eyes would half close when he looked at me…

I swallow, feeling that old, familiar tightness in my throat, as if there’s a pebble lodged in there. It started after Jimmy died—I’d actually asked my cousin Anne, who’s a doctor, to see if I had a tumor in there, but she said it was just a classic symptom of anxiety. And now it’s back, I suppose, because I’m about to, er…move on. Or something.

The last part of becoming fully alive again—because when Jimmy died, he took a huge part of me with him—would be to find someone new. I want to get married and have babies. I really do. I grew up without a dad, and I wouldn’t willingly take on single motherhood. And though I’ll always miss Jimmy, it’s time to move on. Finding another husband…it’s a good idea. Sure it is.

It’s just that I’ll never love anyone the way I loved Jimmy. That’s the truth. And given how I was ripped apart when he died, it’s probably a good thing. I never want to feel anything like that again. Ever.

CHAPTER THREE

ON WEDNESDAY, I RIDE MY BIKE around Ellington Park. It’s a gorgeous day in early September, the breeze off the ocean spicing the salty air with a hint of autumn leaves, just beginning to turn at the tips. My spirits are bright as I pedal along the park. One would be hard—pressed to feel glum on such a sparkling day as this.

Mackerly, Rhode Island, is as charming and tiny a town as they come in New England. Roughly two hundred yards off mainland Rhode Island, we boast two thousand year—rounders, five hundred more summer folk and a lot of pretty views of the ocean. A tidal river bisects the island, and all traffic, foot and otherwise, must cross that river.

James Mackerly, a Mayflower descendant, planned our fair town around a massive chunk of land—Ellington Park, named after his mother’s family. On the far end of the park is the town green, notable for a flagpole, a memorial to the Mackerly natives who died in foreign wars and a statue of our founding father. The green bleeds south into Memorial Cemetery, which in turn leads to the park proper—gravel paths, flowering trees, the aforementioned tidal river, a playground, soccer field and baseball diamond. The park is dotted with elm and maple trees and enclosed by a beautiful brownstone wall. Farther up Narragansett Bay are Jamestown and Newport, and so Mackerly, being a little too tiny, is often overlooked by tourists. Which is fine with most of us.

The Boatworks, where Ethan and I both live, is directly across from the south entrance of the park. Bunny’s is across from the north entrance, in view of the town green and the statue of James Mackerly sitting astride Trigger (well, the horse’s name wasn’t known, but we all call him Trigger). If I were a normal person, I’d head over the little arched footbridge, enjoy the gorgeous paths through the park, walk through the cemetery and emerge onto the green in front of the bakery and all the other little stores in the tiny downtown—Zippy’s Sports Memorabilia the building right next to and owned by Bunny’s, Lenny’s Bar, Starbucks and Gianni’s Ristorante Italiano. If I went that way, my route to work would only be a half mile. But I’m not normal, and so each day, I circumnavigate the park, stretching a half—mile route to three miles, heading west down Park Street so I can cross the river on Bridge Street, then turn again onto Main.

I don’t like the cemetery. I love the park, but I can’t go into the cemetery. Instead I ride around it. Every day, which is a great excuse for exercise.

I duck to avoid smacking my head on a low—hanging branch as I cruise along the cemetery wall. Underneath a generous chestnut tree and very close to the street is my father’s grave. Robert Stephen Lang, age 42, Beloved Husband and Father. “Hi, Daddy,” I call as I pass.

Even before my dad died, and long before Jimmy, I’d hated the cemetery, and for good reason. When I was four, Iris’s husband, Uncle Pete died (esophageal cancer after a lifetime of Camels Unfiltered). I hadn’t been allowed to see him in the hospital—the hospice ward is no place for a kid—and so I didn’t realize how thin and wasted he’d become. The casket was closed at the wake, and pictures of a younger, healthier Pete had adorned the funeral home.

At any rate, we all went to the cemetery, the men somber in their suits, black umbrellas provided by the funeral home hovering above the mourners. It had been a wet spring, and the ground was soft, saturated with rain. Our heels sank into the earth, and rainwater seeped into our shoes. I was sad, of course…all those grown—ups crying quite unnerved four—year—old me. I was about to become considerably more upset.

Cousin Stevie, future eater of poison ivy, was eight at the time. We all stood around the grave as the priest began the traditional funeral prayers. Stevie was bored…his own dad was still alive (to die three years later in a railroad accident). Everything was boring to Stevie at that age. He’d been good until now, thanks to Rose’s threats of his own imminent death if he didn’t behave, but he couldn’t hold out any longer.

As I said, it had been a rainy spring. The night before had seen a nor’easter that dumped an additional two inches into the earth, I found out later at the many retellings of this awful tale. All I knew was that it was muddy, my mother was crying and Stevie was more fun to look at than my sad mommy.

And Stevie was bored. So, being Stevie, he started doing something. Something ill—advised. Something stupid, one might say. He dug his toe into the muddy earth, and a clump of soil fell into the grave, landing with a wet splat. Stevie was fascinated. Could he get another clot of earth to fall? Without his mother noticing? He could. How about another? Yes, another. Bigger this time. Splat. What a neat sound.

The adults were droning their way through the Lord’s Prayer. Stevie looked up, saw that I was watching and decided to show off for his little cousin. He dug his toe in up to his ankle, wriggled it, and suddenly, the earth under Stevie crumpled away in a mud slide into the grave. Stevie staggered back, arms flailing, fell against the casket, causing it to slide just an inch or two toward the compromised edge of the grave. Then, in slow motion, Uncle Pete’s casket slid slowly, then listed into the yawning earth. One corner hit the other side of the grave. The casket tipped…and opened.

Uncle Pete’s body—oh, gosh, it’s hard just to remember this story—Uncle Pete’s decimated body tipped out, fell almost all the way out of the casket and dangled there for a second before falling with a horrifying squelch into the sodden grave.

The screams that followed still echo in my mind. Aunt Rose shrieking. Uncle Larry, knowing instinctively that his son had caused this, repeatedly smacking Stevie on the bottom as Stevie wailed. Iris fainting. Neddy and Anne screaming and sobbing. My father hauled my pregnant and awkward mother away from the terrible sight. As for me, I stood frozen, staring down at that thing that didn’t even look like Uncle Pete, facedown in the muck.

Four years later, dehydrated from crying and terrified that he would meet a fate similar to Uncle Pete’s, I’d fainted at the cemetery during my own dad’s funeral and, according to family legend, nearly fell into the grave myself.

So. I’d say I have just cause to be phobic about cemeteries. The only thing I remember about Jimmy’s graveside service was that I was shaking so hard that I wouldn’t have been able to stand were it not for Ethan’s arm around me.

The truth is, not all cemeteries freak me out. In grammar school I went on a field trip to a Colonial cemetery not far from Mackerly, and I did just fine. Once, Jimmy and I spent the weekend in Orleans on Cape Cod and found a beautiful cemetery with wide expanses of shade, and we actually had a picnic amid the granite stones and sad stories from long ago. But this one, where so many of my menfolk lie…this one I just can’t go in. Aside from the funeral, I’ve never been to Jimmy’s grave. I’m not proud of this. It makes me feel like a bad widow, but I just can’t seem to walk down that path, go through those gates.

It’s okay, I rationalize. I get my cardio workout this way. I reach the intersection of Bridge and Main Streets, ring my bicycle bell and then cross, cruising into the bakery parking lot. My sister’s car is here. Oh, goody!

Jorge comes out as I head in. “Did you see the baby?” I ask. He grins and nods. “Isn’t she pretty?”

He nods again, his dark eyes crinkling.

“See you later, Jorge.” He’ll be back for the afternoon deliveries.

“Hi, Cory!” I say, gently twisting past the Black Widows to see the baby. “Oh. Oh, wow. Oh, Corinne.” I saw Emma yesterday at my sister’s house, but the thrill has yet to fade. The baby is sleeping in my sister’s arms, pink and white skin, eyelids so new and transparent I can see the veins. Her lips purse adorably as she sucks in her sleep.

“She has eyelashes!” I exclaim softly.

“Not so close, Lucy,” Corinne murmurs, fishing a travel bottle of Purell out of her pocket. “You have germs.”

I glance at my sister. Her eyes are wet. “You okay, Cor?” I ask.

“I’m great,” she whispers. “It’s Chris I’m worried about. He woke up twice last night when the baby cried. He needs his sleep.”

“Well, so do you,” I point out, obediently slathering my hands.

“He needs it more.” Corinne tucks the blanket more firmly around Emma. “He can’t get worn—out. He might get sick.”

My aunt Iris bustles over, wearing her customary man’s flannel shirt. She holds her hands out for inspection. “Completely sterilized, Corinne, honey. Let me hold the baby. You sit.”

“I’ll hold the baby,” my mother states, gliding over like a queen. Today she’s wearing red patent—leather shoes with three—inch heels and a red and white silk dress (Mom doesn’t do any baking—strictly management). She sets down a cup of coffee and some cookies for Corinne and holds out her arms. Corinne, looking tense, reluctantly passes the baby to our mom.

Mom’s face softens with love as she gazes at her only grandchild. “Oh, you are just perfect. Yes, you are. Lucy, take care of Mr. Dombrowski.”

“Hi, Mr. D.,” I say to the ninety—seven—year—old man who comes in to the bakery every afternoon.

“Good day, my dear,” he murmurs, peering at our display case. “Now, that one’s interesting. What would you call that?”

“That’s a cherry tart,” I say, suppressing a little shudder. Iris makes those by glopping a spoonful of canned cherry filling onto some frozen pastry. Not quite what I would do. No, I’d go for some of those beautiful Paonia cherries from Colorado—there’s a market in Providence that has them flown in. A little lemon curd, some heavy cream, cinnamon, maybe a splash of balsamic vinegar to break up the sweetness, though maybe with the lemon, I wouldn’t need—

“And this? What’s this, dear?”

“That one’s apricot.” Also from a can, but I don’t mention that. It’s odd—my aunts are incredible bakers, but they save those efforts for our family gatherings. For the non—Hungarian, not—related—by—blood population, canned is plenty good enough. Frozen (and refrozen, and re—refrozen) is just fine for the masses, who wouldn’t know good barak zserbo if it bit them.

Mr. Dombrowski shuffles along the case, surveying every single thing we have in there. He never buys anything other than a cheese danish, but the sweet old man doesn’t have a lot to do. Coming in to buy his danish—half of which he’ll eat with his tea, half with tomorrow’s breakfast—gives a little structure to his day. He creeps along, murmuring, asking questions as if he’s about to decide just how to split up Germany after World War II. I well understand the division of hours. Mr. D.’s alone, too.

As I ring up Mr. D’s meager sale, Corinne picks up the phone and punches a number. “Chris? Hi, honey, how are you? How are you feeling? You okay?” She pauses. “I know. I just thought you might be a little tired. Oh, I’m fine, of course! I’m great. Oh, she’s fine! Wonderful! She’s perfect! She is. I love you, too. So much. You’re a wonderful father, you know that? I love you! Bye! Love you! Call you later!”

As I mentioned, Corinne lives in terror that her seemingly healthy husband is on the brink of death. Growing up, Corinne and I didn’t give much thought to what seemed to be a family curse. Sure, Mom and the aunts were widows…unlucky, sure, but that didn’t have anything to do with us. Still, when I met Jimmy, it crossed my mind that I had the smarts to fall in love with a strapping man, six foot two of burly machismo and low cholesterol (yes, I insisted on a physical when we got our blood tests done). And maybe taking out a hefty life insurance policy on your fiancé isn’t what most brides have on their lists, but it was a move that turned out to be horribly prescient.

Anyway, when Jimmy died, it kind of cemented the idea in Corinne’s brain that she, too, was destined to be widowed young. She managed to marry Christopher, though he had to ask her seven times before she caved. She cooks him low—fat, low—salt food, sits next to their elliptical with a stopwatch every day to make sure he gets his forty—five minutes of cardio and tends to hyperventilate if he orders bacon when they go out for breakfast. She calls him about ten times a day to ensure that he’s still breathing and remind him of her lasting and abiding love. In any other family, Corinne would be gently urged to take medication or see a counselor. In ours, well, we just think Corinne is smart.

“So what’s new with you, Lucy?” my sister asks, frowning. Her eyes are on her baby, her fists clenched, mentally counting the seconds before she can get Emma back.

I take a deep breath. Time to face the music, now that I’ve had a few days to think on it. “Well, I think I’m ready to start dating again,” I say loudly, then swallow—there’s that pebble feeling—and brace myself.

My announcement falls like an undercooked angel food cake. Iris’s and Rose’s eyes are wide with shock, their mouths hanging open. Mom gives me a puzzled glance, then looks back at her grandchild.

But Corinne claps her hands together. “Oh, Lucy! That’s wonderful!” Tears leap into her eyes, spilling out. “That’s…it’s…Oh, honey, I hope you’ll find someone wonderful and perfect like Chris and be just as happy as I am!” With that, she bursts into sobs and races into the bathroom.

“The hormones,” Iris murmurs, looking after her.

“I cried for weeks after Stevie was born,” Rose seconds. “Of course, he was ten pounds, six ounces, the little devil. I was stitched up worse than a quilt.”

“I bled for months. The doctors, they lie,” Iris adds. “And my kebels, hard as rocks. I couldn’t sleep on my stomach for weeks.” It is tradition to refer to girl parts in Hungarian, for some reason.

My reprieve is short—lived. The Black Widows turn to me. “You really want another husband?” Iris demands.

“Oh, Lucy, are you sure?” Rose cheeps, wringing her hands.

“Um…I think so,” I answer.

“Well, good for you,” Mom says with brisk insincerity.

“After my Larry died, I never wanted another man,” Rose declares in a singsong voice.

“Me, neither,” Iris huffs. “No one could fill Pete’s shoes. He was the Love of My Life. I couldn’t imagine being with someone else.” She glances at me. “Not that there’s anything wrong with you wanting someone else, honey,” she adds belatedly.

The bell over the front door opens, and in comes Captain Bob, an old friend of my father’s. Bob owns a forty—foot boat in which he takes groups for a one—hour cruise around Mackerly, complete with colorful narrative and irregular history. I know, because I often pilot his boat as a part—time job.

“Hello there, Daisy. A beautiful day, isn’t it?” His ruddy face, the result of too much sun and Irish coffee, flushes redder still. He’s been in love with my mother for decades. “And who’ve you got there?” Captain Bob adds, his voice softening. He takes another step toward Mom.

Mom turns away. “My granddaughter. Don’t breathe on her. She’s only five days old.”

“Of course. She’s beautiful,” Bob says, looking at the floor.

“What can I get you, Captain Bob?” I ask. Other than a date with my mom.

“Oh, I’ll have a cheese danish, if that’s okay,” he says with a grateful smile.

“Of course it’s okay.” I smile while fetching his order. The poor guy comes in every day to stare at my mother, who takes great delight in snubbing him. Perhaps this should be my first lesson in dating—treat men badly, and they’ll love you forever. Then again, I never had to treat Jimmy badly. Just one look, as the song says. That’s all it took.

My sister emerges from the bathroom, her eyes red. “I need to feed her,” she announces. “My boobs are about to explode. Oh, hi, Captain Bob.”

Bob flinches and murmurs congratulations, then takes his danish and change.

“Is nursing hygienic?” Rose wonders.

“Of course it is. Best thing for the baby.” Iris turns to Captain Bob. “My daughter’s a lesbian doctor. An obstetrician. She says nursing’s best.” It is true that my cousin Anne is a lesbian and an obstetrician…not a doctor to lesbians (or not solely lesbians) as Iris’s description always causes me to think. Bob murmurs something, then slinks out the door with another look of longing for my mother, which she pretends to ignore.

“I never nursed,” Rose muses. “In my day, only the hippies nursed. They don’t bathe every day, you know. The hippies.”

Corinne takes the baby to the only table in Bunny’s—the Black Widows don’t encourage people to linger. “This is not the Starbucks,” they like to announce. “We don’t ship food in from a truck. Get your fancy—shmancy coffee somewhere else. This is a bakery.” My aunts are one of the many reasons the Starbucks down the street does such a brisk business.

Corinne lifts up her shirt discreetly, fumbles at her bra, then moves the baby into position. She winces, gasps and then, seeing me watch, immediately slaps a smile on her face.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

“Oh, no,” she lies. “It’s…a little…it’s fine. I’ll get used to it.” Sweat breaks out on her forehead, and her eyelids flutter in pain, but that smile doesn’t drop.

The bell rings again, announcing another visitor. Two, in this case. Parker and Nicky.

“Nicky!” the Black Widows cry, falling on the lad like vultures on fresh roadkill. The boy is kissed and hugged and worshipped. He grins at me, and I wave, my heart swelling with love. He is a beautiful boy, the image of Ethan.

“Is there frosting?” he asks, and my mother and aunts lead him to the back to sugar him up.

“Frosting’s not good for him, Parker,” my sister points out, wiping the nursing—induced sweat from her forehead. “It’s all sugar. You shouldn’t let them give Nicky sugar.”

“Well, given that my aunts taught me how to throw up after meals,” Parker replies calmly, “a little frosting therapy seems pretty benign.” She smiles at me. “Hi, Luce.”

“Hi, Parker,” I return, smiling back.

Maybe it’s because she was the first friend I made after being widowed, one of the few people in town who hadn’t known me before, maybe it’s because I generously ignore the fact that she’s tall, slim, gorgeous and rich, but Parker and I are friends. The first thing she ever said to me upon learning that I was Ethan’s brother’s widow, was “Jesus! That just sucks!” No platitudes, no awkward expressions of sympathy. I found that quite refreshing. I was rather flattered when she called me after her breakup with Ethan, and even more when she included me on the details of her pregnancy. At the time, everyone else was still doing the kid—gloves thing. Don’t mention babies…she’s a widow. Don’t talk about your love life…she’s a widow. 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.”