Author: Kristan Higgins

A little melancholy descends like a damp fog. If only my Lazarus scones could bring back my dad. Just for a day. Just an hour, even. Ten minutes, hey. I’m not greedy. If I could ask him how I’m doing, or what I should be doing. If I could feel his arms around me, smell his comforting Dad smell, which I swear I can almost catch sometimes. If my father would just tell me everything would be okay, I’d have a much easier time believing it.

Ah, well. Enough maudlin self-pity for the day. Besides, maybe my pill is starting to take effect. I feel a little…light. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it before a date, but then again, what better time?

I get to Lenny’s and wave. There’s Tommy Malloy, shooting pool with Obie Chisholm. Carly Espinosa is here—she and her husband, Ted or Todd, I can never remember—have a standing date on Thursdays.

I look around the bar…hmm. That’s odd. Seems like my head is still moving, even though it’s not. What’s my date’s name again? Something weird. Oh, yes. Corbin, as in Corbin Dallas, the Bruce Willis character from The Fifth Element. I love that movie. “Corbin Dallas,” I say aloud. Oops. Yes, it’s fair to say the pill has definitely kicked in. Kind of a nice feeling, really, like I’ve just had a big glass of Chardonnay.

Well, he doesn’t seem to be here. I take a seat at an empty booth, only to be joined immediately by Stevie.

“Can you f**king believe Aunt Boggy?” he asks. He holds a martini glass filled with purple liquid. A haze of smoke hovers over it, and I wince. God knows what’s in there. Could be anything from dry ice to formaldehyde, knowing Stevie.

“It’s pretty amazing,” I say.

“Hey, you’re gonna come to my thing, right?” he asks. “When I break the record?”

“Is there really a cow-jumping record to break, Stevie?” I ask.

“I dunno,” he grunts, taking another slug of whatever’s in his glass. “If not, I can set it.”

“Sure, I’ll be there,” I answer. “Sounds fun.”

“Watch this, Luce.” Stevie tips his head back and balances the martini glass on his forehead. “Cool, huh?” he asks.

“Wicked cool, Stevie,” I agree.

“Okay, gotta run.” Stevie removes the martini, sloshing a little liquid into his hair. “There’s Craig Owens. See ya, cuz.” Stevie, never the most focused lad, wanders off to his oldest friend—the one who once dared him to eat poison ivy.

“Lucy?” I look up.

“Yes. Are you Corbin?” He nods, smiles and sits down.

Corbin and I have not met face-to-face, though I saw his picture on eCommitment. A rather plain guy, classic New England face—light brown hair, small blue eyes, straight teeth, the short nose of the Boston Irish. He meets many of the criteria for my next husband: He is an executive at an insurance company and enjoys running and golf (the desk job and frequent physical exercise meeting the Low Risk of Early Death requirement). His job is with an old, well-established company (about as recession-proof as you can get in this day and age). He volunteers with troubled youths at a camp for two weeks each summer, so his Fatherhood Potential is high. And he’s not making the blood thrill in my veins. Another plus.

Still, I fail to feel as pleased as perhaps I should. Also, my eyes feel cold. That’s weird. “So,” I say.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he says. “Have you ordered yet?”

Lenny lumbers over to take our order. “So, Luce, you playing the field again?”

“Not exactly, Len, not exactly. Lenny, This is Corbin…um, sorry, Corbin, I didn’t get your last name.”

“Wojoczieski,” he answers.

“Huh. I thought you looked Irish,” I said.

“My mother’s Irish,” he answers, seeming pleased.

Wojo-something. Now that’s a name that will take a little studying. Wojo-et cetera. Hmm. Lucy Wojo…nah. Lucy Lang, that sounded the best. Even better than Lucy Mirabelli. Maybe I should go back to Lang. Maybe I could make up a new name, even. When I was a little girl, I wanted to change my last name to Ingalls Wilder, for obvious reasons. Maybe I can do that now.

“Luce? You want something?” Lenny asks, giving me a nudge.

“Chicken salad and seltzer, okay, Len?” I say. Even in my present state, I’m quite aware I shouldn’t drink even one drop of alcohol tonight. Because it’s clear that I’m a little…well, I hesitate to say stoned, since it implies illicit drug use, but affected by this medicine. However, and I have to give Anne credit here, I am not feeling anxious at all. Kind of floaty, kind of fun, really.

“The most amazing thing happened today,” I tell old Corbin as Lenny leaves. “My great-aunt Boggy woke up from the dead. Well, almost dead. Woke up from the near dead. She’s a hundred and four.”

“Isn’t that incredible!” Corbin says with a beaming smile. “My goodness! Amazing!”

“It was amazing, Corbin, it was indeed,” I agree. I wonder what would happen if my eyes froze like ice. Would I still be able to see? Move my eyes? Would they crack like an ice cube? “Wojoczieski? Did I get it right?”

“Yes, you did! Well done,” he says, beaming proudly. It is quite an accomplishment, after all. “So tell me more about this amazing woman.”

“Sure. Well, it was the scone or something.” I launch into the story, and Corbin is quite delighted.

“Isn’t that a marvel,” he murmurs, pausing as Lenny sets down our drinks.

“It is. It really is. Hey, do your eyes ever feel cold?”

“I can’t say that they do,” he answers amiably. “Cheers.”

We clink glasses. Boy, the bubbles in my seltzer water are so pretty. So floaty and pretty and round.

“You’re a baker, right?” Corbin says.

“That’s correct, Corbin Dallas,” I say. “I bake bread. Lots of kinds. Honey wheat, rye, marble, Italian, French, cinnamon raisin. It’s really good bread.” I tilt my head and smile, but it feels like my head keeps moving. Is my head still moving? I reach up to check. Nope. Head is stable, Houston. All systems go. Hey, that’s funny. Houston and Dallas in the same thought bubble. Cool.

“And I know you said you were a widow,” Corbin prompts. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, his little piggy blue eyes filled with compassion. I squeeze back.

“That’s nice of you, Corbin,” I answer. “You have nice manners.” I nod, and there goes that head still moving feeling. “Um, listen, Corbin. I took some medicine before we came here,” I add. “I’m feeling kind of strange.”

“Oh, dear,” he says. “Are you okay? Can I do anything?”

“Nah. I’m sure I’ll feel better once I eat something more than a Twinkie.”

Corbin smiles broadly, charmed. And why not? Am I not charming?

Speaking of not charming, the door opens, and in comes the surly Doral-Anne Driscoll. She catches sight of me and sneers. I just barely restrain myself from flipping her off. She heads over to a table, and dang it! There’s Ethan. He stands up, kisses her cheek and they sit down.

Ethan’s here. He didn’t call. He didn’t want to hear about Boggy or the Lazarus scones. Instead he’s here with that nasty white trash Doral-Anne. I mean, fine, but still. Can’t he do better than Doral-Anne? What about Parker?

“There’s no accounting for taste,” I say aloud—oops—but apparently my response makes sense to Corbin. Whatever. Nice guy. He keeps talking, smiling away, but I’m having trouble hearing.

Roxanne stomps over to our table with our food, slapping the plates down on the table with her trademark clatter, scowling. “Thank you!” I sing out, suddenly starving. I take a huge bite of sandwich…it’s a little hard to get food to the right spot, but I do feel a bit better after scarfing the thing down. Tasty. Quite tasty. Lenny puts a little curry powder in the chicken, a few red grapes. Very nice touch.

“So, Lucy,” Corbin says. Crikey, I almost forgot he was there. “Forgive me for asking, and you certainly don’t have to discuss it, but…how did your husband die?”

“It was a car accident,” I say around a large mouthful of fries.

“Oh, no,” he murmurs.

“He fell asleep at the wheel. Six miles from home.” I swallow and take another bite of chicken salad.

“Oh, no. You poor thing.” Again with the hand grip. “How old were you?”

“I was twenty-four, and Jimmy was twenty-seven. We’d only been married a little while. Not even a year.”

“So sad.” Those little blue eyes seem wet. I’m not sure if this makes me like or dislike Corbin.

“It really is,” I say, nodding. It sure is. It’s sad. But there’s something wrong with me, like I can’t really compute or something. I look at my hands. The fingers seem very, very long. “Do my hands look big to you, Corbin?” I flex my fingers. They look so odd. Like flippers. Like that Olympic kid who won all those medals—Michael Phelps? Yes, that’s it! Like his feet. He has flipper feet or something, right? And my hands look just like that. Freaky. I look at Corbin to see if he shares my concern.

But Corbin is not looking. No, Corbin has one hand over his eyes. Corbin seems to be crying.

“You okay?” I ask. “Corbin Dallas?”

He’s crying, all right. He puts the napkin down and bridges his hands over his nose. “I’m sorry,” he says, the tears dripping down his face. “It’s just…oh, Lucy, I didn’t realize…I’m so sorry.” He takes a shuddering breath, tries to smile, fails. Lenny gives us an odd look, and heads at the bar are starting to turn. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do this…See, my dog…I have a dog. Biffy. And he was recently…well, he needs surgery. For a cyst over his eye. And I’m worried, I guess, and when you said your husband fell asleep at the wheel, it just brought up all this…emotion. You know, if you love someone, the level of worry is the same. Biffy is so…”

His voice goes on. Surely he is not comparing his dog’s cyst to my husband’s death. But yes, he is. Wow. I’d react, but my fingers seem to be growing. Whoa. I think I should probably call Anne. Pronto. But my fingers seem too big to fit into my pocketbook. Are they? I fumble with my purse, unable to get the snap undone. Maybe my cold eyes are screwing up my depth perception. I have no idea, really. Meanwhile, Corbin is working up quite a tear-storm.

“Everything okay over here?”

I look up, and there’s Ethan. “Are my fingers growing?” I ask, waving them around. I turn my hands over to see if they look weird from that side. They do. “They’re so big!”

Ethan looks down at Corbin, a slow fury filling his features. He looks…damn. Kind of hot, really, all scowly and protective. I do love that neat little beard on Ethan. Smokes him right up. Mmm-hmm. Too bad Doral-Anne has just joined our little group. I close one cold eye so I don’t have to see her and just drink in the sight of Angry Ethan.

“What did you do?” he growls, reaching out to grab Corbin’s shirt. “What did you give her?”

My date’s eyes are wide and wet. Ethan yanks him out of the booth, tipping the table a little. My seltzer water sloshes. “Oh, no, the pretty bubbles!” I exclaim.

“What did you do to her?” Ethan yells, shaking Corbin like a rag. The bar is so quiet. It’s like I can feel the silence. Like the silence is blue and warm. I wish I could wrap the silence around my cold eyes and—“Answer me!” Silent except for Ethan, that is.

“Don’t hit me! I didn’t do anything! Lucy, tell him!” Corbin squeaks.