Author: Kristan Higgins

But Boggy had a stroke when I was sixteen, and she’s been at High Hopes ever since. Only her nieces (and I) visit, which we do with great devotion, mind you. But still. No grandchildren’s loving pats, no great-grandchildren…just the four of us.

Will that happen to me? I suddenly wonder in a seize of panic. Will Emma be the only one to remember poor Aunt Lucy? Lord, I hope Corinne would have more babies if that’s the case. Maybe she could have seven, and each one could take a day on my deathwatch…not that I would know, if I ended up like Boggy there.

I find that I’m sweating. My breathing is a little shallow. No. I won’t end up alone. I’m going to get married again. I’ll have a hubby soon, that nice, solid, slightly dull guy who will take really good care of me. I’ll have funny, sweet little kids who will adore me. I won’t have to borrow Emma or Nicky in order to have a child to love.

“How’s the search for a husband going?” my mother asks, reading my mind. She sits gracefully next to me, a bowl of fragrant paprikas puree in her manicured hands, and takes on her Barbara Walters Aren’t we fascinating? look.

“Oh, it’s okay,” I answer, fiddling with the cuff of my sweater. “Fine.”

“Have you gone out with Charley again?” she asks, stirring the sludge to cool it a little. Over by Boggy, Iris and Rose are still bickering over the health benefits/death threats of opening the window.

“Um, no. I don’t think he’s what I’m looking for,” I answer, breaking off a piece of brioche to test its texture. So flaky, the glaze gleaming sweetly. I bet it tastes great. My throat closes at the thought of actually eating it, and I swallow. Dang pebble.

“So what are you looking for? Another Jimmy?” Mom asks. “Because you won’t find one, sweetheart.”

“I know that, Mom.” I pause. “Ethan and Parker might be going out,” I add. I wait, hoping she’ll have something insightful and maternal to say about that.

“Oh, nice,” she murmurs, blowing on the paprikas.

“Ethan and Parker should go out,” Rose chirrups from Boggy’s bedside. “They should get married. Poor Nicky shouldn’t have to grow up a bastard.”

“Rose!” I exclaim. “Don’t call him that! Half the kids in this country don’t have parents who are married to each other.”

“Which is why I wonder about you looking for another husband,” my mother says, meeting my eyes.

“I never wanted to remarry,” Iris states. “My Pete was the Love of My Life. And what’s this I hear about the Mirabellis moving? What do they have in Arizona that we don’t have right here in Rhode Island?”

“Well, the desert, for one,” I say. “And Jimmy was the love of my life, too, but I don’t want to be alone for the rest of my life. I want kids.”

“So adopt,” Mom says.

“We got invited to Mirabellis’ going-away party,” Rose says. “I do love a party.”

“Boggy, lunch is ready!” Mom announces loudly. “Chicken paprikas, extra sour cream, just the way you like it! And galuska, too!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you really shouldn’t give her that,” says a nurse, poking her head inside the door. “The doctor just put her on a low-salt, low-fat diet.”

My mother and aunts recoil as if slapped. “What doctor?” Iris demands. “My daughter, she didn’t say anything about low salt. And she’s a lesbian doctor.”

“Poor Boggy!” Rose cries. “Isn’t it bad enough that she’s—” Rose’s voice drops to a melodramatic whisper “—in the coma?”

“She’s not in a coma,” the nurse says. “Not technically. Anyway, she needs to stick to her diet.”

“Oh, gosh,” I say. “Aunt Boggy’s a hundred and four. She should get to eat a little paprikas, don’t you think?” I smile, appealing to the nurse’s sense of humanity. Depriving an ancient old lady of salty, butter-soaked food is the moral equivalent of water-boarding in the eyes of this family. A call to Amnesty International will be next.

“That’s right,” Iris says. “Lucy, you’re right. So nuts to you, nurse!” She grabs the bowl from my mother’s hands and marches over to Aunt Boggy, pushes the button on her bed to raise the old lady to a sitting position and begins spooning the chicken sludge into her mouth. The nurse sighs and walks away. I’m not sure, but I think Boggy smiles. And while it’s a little disgusting to watch Boggy’s droopy mouth open and close like a baby bird’s, I have to say, it smells fantastic in here. Rose wipes Boggy’s mouth, and Iris shovels in some more high-fat, salty, delicious food.

“Mom,” I say, turning back to my mother in the hope of resuming our earlier conversation, “do you miss being married?”

She gives me a look of thinly veiled patience. “Why? Did you see Joe Torre on TV?” Apparently Mom hasn’t forgotten my timid suggestions way back when that she try to find someone like “that nice Mr. Torre.”

“No,” I say. “But—”

“Lucy, promise me you’ll never wear that sweater out in public again, okay, honey?” She gets up and spreads an afghan over the bottom of Boggy’s bed, leaving me in the void where maternal advice is supposed to be.

Later that day and much to my surprise, my mother comes over as I’m packing up the afternoon bread. “I just got off the phone with Gertie Myers,” she says, naming her hairdresser, who was also my Girl Scout troop leader. “Her nephew Fred’s divorced, and I told her you were looking.”

“Oh,” I say, my stomach clenching. “Um. Okay. Thanks.” I pause. “Is he nice? Have you met him?”

“Does he have his own teeth?” Rose adds with complete sincerity, coming out of the freezer, where she was stowing a tray of unwanted, unpurchased, unappetizing cookies for another day.

“I have no idea,” my mother says. “But he’s coming to your baseball game tonight. Good luck.”

“HI, I’M FRED BUSEY.”

Gah! My mouth opens, but no sound emerges.

While Fred Busey may have his own teeth, the rest of the picture is not so pretty. He’s roughly five feet three inches and somewhere around two hundred and fifty pounds. From my lofty three-inch height difference, I am privy to a distressing view of his scalp. You know those infomercials where they’re pitching what’s basically a can of spray paint to cover some guy’s bald spot? Yes. That. And the result is, sadly, quite, er…noticeable.

Granted, Number Four on my color-coded list is Not Too Attractive so as to discourage lust, which is part of chemistry of course, and can lead to infatuation and even love…but Fred is pushing the envelope here.

“Hi,” I say, remembering my manners. “I’m Lucy Mirabelli. My mother gets her hair cut by your aunt.”

He grins. “Nice to meet you, Lucy,” he says, shaking my hand. Oh, dang. He seems nice.

“Hello, all,” says my sister. Baby Emma is clutched to her chest, and I lean in to take a look. “Not so close, Lucy, you’re dirty,” my sister says, then sticks out an elbow to Fred. “Hello, I’m Corinne, Lucy’s sister, and I’d shake your hand, but as you can see, I’m holding my baby. She’s eighteen and a half days old.”

“Congratulations,” Fred says, taking a peek at the baby. “She’s just beautiful. Looks like you.” He smiles at my sister, scoring thousands of points with Corinne. Charming, this guy, despite his outward resemblance to Jabba the Hutt. “Does your husband play softball, too?” he asks my sister.

“Oh, God, no! Softball’s way too dangerous,” Corinne says, her eyes wide with horror. “No, no. He’s an umpire. Second base.” There’s Christopher indeed, wearing the usual protective gear worn by umpires. And a Kevlar vest underneath. I’m not kidding. Corinne’s certain a line drive could cause his death.

“Luce!” Charley Spirito galumphs over. “Luce, you wanna get a beer after the game?” he says. At the sight of Fred Busey, Charley’s dopey grin falls off his face. “Who’s dis?” he says, immediately adopting a Mobbed-up accent.

“Charley, meet Fred Busey. Fred, this is Charley, one of my teammates and an old friend.”

Charley gives me a look that conveys moral indignation and deep, deep hurt. “And old friend, huh? So I guess last week meant squat?”

Fred, understanding that good-looking Charley feels I have thrown him over for Fred’s own rotund self, beams. I close my eyes briefly. “Charley and I had dinner last week,” I explain to Fred. Turning to Charley, I add, “Those clams were great, Charley. I had a nice time.”

“Nice time, is dat right. I getcha. Fine. No prob, Luce.” He gives Fred a disgruntled look, then tromps off to right field, where we put all the guys who can’t catch.

“So this is fun,” Fred says. “I haven’t been to a game in a long time. Maybe we can grab a drink afterward?”

I swallow. “Um…yeah,” I say. “Let’s see how, um, how long the game goes.”

“Sounds great. I’ll be cheering for you.” He winks, then waddles off with Corinne over to the bleachers. Ah. Good. Parker and Nicky are there, too—we’re playing Ethan’s team again.

I don’t see Ethan yet…he’s been late a couple of times recently, driving in from Providence, but I start at seeing International’s new pitcher. Doral-Anne Driscoll. Uh-oh.

In addition to being a loose-moraled, obscenity-spewing, nasty and not-always-clean bully, Doral-Anne was also the captain of Mackerly High’s softball team. The year we won States. I wasn’t on the team…my baseball talents were dormant till I started playing as an adult.

“Well, well, well,” Doral-Anne says, then spits. I square my shoulders. She can’t scare me anymore. I’m a grownup. A grown-up who bats .513.

“Hi, Doral-Anne. What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Ethan Mirabelli invited me to come,” she says. “Saw him the other day. Said I wouldn’t mind playing again, and he said his team could use a good pitcher, so here I am.” She pulls a face, daring me to protest.

“Welcome,” I say. My mind is racing. Why would Ethan invite Doral-Anne? Surely he can’t be…interested…in her, of all people!

“Batter up!” calls Stuey Mitchell, our home plate ump. I take my bat, tap my cleats and go up to the plate.

Three pitches later, I’m out. Somewhat dazed, I slink back to the dugout.

“Way to go, D.A.” someone calls.

It’s Ethan, walking toward the field from the parking lot, tucking his International Foods T-shirt into his pants. I can’t help it, I know it’s juvenile, but heck! Ethan’s supposed to be my friend. He’s not supposed to cheer when I humiliate myself at bat. He must see my disgruntled expression, because he smiles. “Nice try, Lucy,” he adds.

Doral-Anne doesn’t seem to have lost her stuff in the years since high school. She retires us in order, and I can’t help but notice that Ethan and she have a laugh together back at the dugout.

Bemused, I get my glove and head for the mound.

Ethan’s up first…the privileges of ownership, when he’s around, anyway. Doral-Anne watches his ass quite intently as he walks to the batter’s box. Super.

My first pitch is a bit inside. Okay, okay, it’s a lot inside. Ethan jumps back, a swirl of dirt rising from his cleats. “Ball one,” Stuey calls.

“Control yourself, Lang,” Doral-Anne shouts, then spits in the dirt. God. Martha Stewart would just have to smother her with an eiderdown pillow, wouldn’t she?