Author: Kristan Higgins

She sits back down and contemplates me. “You haven’t said the big one yet. The big what-if.”

“Well, since you know everything, you can just go ahead and say it for me,” I mumble.

She gives me a wry smile. “Well, one could say that you do love Ethan already. The big question must be, what if you didn’t love him as much as Jimmy?”

Hearing it said out loud like that, right here in the kitchen with the sun shining in the windows, my African violets blooming on the windowsill…it’s a slap in the heart. “I really don’t want to talk about this, Parker,” I whisper.

Parker sighs. “Okay. I’m sorry.” She pauses, and I swallow against the pebble, knowing she’s not finished. I’m correct. “But Lucy, you’re never going to know unless you give him a shot, are you? And if you don’t, you’ll end up with some loser who leaves you cold. Is that what you want?”

“What I want…” I stop. What I want is for Jimmy not to have died, for Ethan to meet someone wonderful and be happily married. I can just about hear the Fates laughing at me. “Parker, there’s got to be some happy medium. Someone I could love, just not too much.”

“Listen to you,” she says fondly as if talking to a not very bright child. “Forgive me for saying this to the poor widow, but I think you’re being kind of…obtuse.”

I stare out the window. “It’s a self-defense mechanism,” I acknowledge.

“Right. Well, listen. You’re my friend, kid. So’s Ethan. I love you both and just want you to be happy, that’s all.”

“I appreciate it.” I take a sip of coffee and don’t look her in the eye.

“All right. Well, I have revisions on those nasty little Holy Rollers.”

My shoulders relax. “What’s this one called?” I ask.

She grins. “The Holy Rollers and the Poor Little Kitten. Someone’s cat gets squished by a tractor, and the smug little bastards get to explain heaven. So watch yourself, Fat Mikey.” With that, Parker gets up, pats my shoulder and leaves.

“OVER HERE, WE HAVE THE FAMOUS Dead Man’s Shoal,” Captain Bob says over the mike on board the tour boat. Since I had a hooky day, I’d figured I’d help out my old pal, and luckily, there was a tour scheduled. The thought of a day spreading out before me with nothing on the schedule meant two things—blow some more money on clothes I don’t wear, or help out Captain Bob.

“In 1722, Captain Cook of the West Indies fame brought his wife along on a trip, and as you know, ladies—” it’s a church group from Maryland, on a brief recess from power gambling down at the casinos “—women are bad luck on a boat.” The ladies giggle appreciatively. “The crew rebelled and set Mrs. Cook on that very shoal at low tide. She tried to swim to Mackerly’s shore, but alas, the night was rough and the poor woman drowned. You can still hear her ghost moaning on foggy nights.”

“Is that true?” one of the ladies asks me.

“No,” I whisper, steering gently back toward the dock.

“And that concludes our tour! Ladies, if you’re looking for the finest pastries and goodies on the East Coast, I strongly urge you to stop in at Bunny’s Bakery, just two blocks north of our dock,” Bob says, taking a slug of his Irish coffee. He winks at me—we’re both quite aware of what Bunny’s does and does not offer, and I smile back at him. “In fact, I’d be happy to walk you up there myself. Thank you so much for choosing Captain Bob’s Island Adventure!”

Bob takes the wheel and steers us the last few yards to the dock. “Thanks, Lucy,” he says. “Nice having you with me this morning.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, standing aside so the passengers can disembark. “My pleasure.”

“Think your mother’s still at work?” he asks hopefully.

“There or at the nursing home,” I say. “Did you hear about my great-aunt Boggy?”

“I did indeed,” Bob murmurs. “Unbelievable.”

“I’ll probably head over there now,” I say. At that moment, my cell phone rings, and I fish it out of my pocket and glance at the screen. “Oh, here’s Mom now. Hi, Mom,” I say.

“Lucy? Where are you? Are you still sick? I’ve been trying everywhere.”

A cold sweat breaks out over my body. “I’m two blocks from the bakery,” I tell her. “What’s wrong?”

My mom pauses. “You’re okay? You’re not still throwing up?”

“I’m fine, Mom! What’s wrong?”

“It’s Boggy, sweetheart.” She sighs. “Are you sitting down?” Without waiting for an answer, she drops the bomb. “She died this morning.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“I DUNNO. IT WAS LIKE SHE WAS FINE one sec, then she just started coughing and the next thing I know, she’s dead.” Stevie, unaccustomed to a tie, pulls at his collar as we stand next to the open casket at Werner’s Funeral Home, gazing down on our tiny great-aunt. “Maybe it was one of your scones.”

I look at him in horror, guilt punching my stomach with a cold fist. “Was she eating a scone when she started coughing?” I whisper.

“No. But I was. Maybe she inhaled a crumb or something. It wasn’t my fault, that’s for sure.”

“Of course it wasn’t, sweetie.” Aunt Rose sniffles, patting her son’s arm, then blowing her nose with an astonishing honk. “But those scones were awfully crumbly, Lucy. You should put in a little sour cream next time.”

“Boggy choked on a scone?” Iris asks, giving me a sharp look.

“No! She didn’t choke on anything, right, Stevie? You were with her.”

Stevie shrugs, then scratches his ear. “We were watching Matlock. She said that old dude was still handsome, I’m eating the scone, she starts coughing, and then—” Stevie widens his eyes and sticks out his tongue “—dead. I thought about giving her a scone. Brought her back the first time, right, Luce?”

“You didn’t give her one, did you?” I ask, cringing at the idea of him stuffing a pastry into our ancient aunt’s mouth as a bizarre form of resuscitation. Granted, his IQ is roughly the same as a chicken’s, so it is possible.

“No, Luce, I’m not stupid,” my cousin protests. “But you’re the one who said they brought her back to life.”

“I was hallucinating at the time, Stevie.”

“Will you two stop your bickering?” Iris says. “You’re ruining this perfectly lovely wake.”

I close my eyes. The cloying scent of lilies makes my head throb, not to mention the saccharine organ music that simpers in the background. Personally I’d rather have the Brandenberg Concertos or the Smashing Pumpkins or something. Anything but “On Eagle’s Wings.”

My mother bustles up in her usual cloud of Chanel No. 5, looking like Audrey Hepburn: a black silk dress with a large white bow at the waist, strappy, three-inch black Manolo Blahniks which make her feet look like they enjoy a little bondage. “You look incredible,” she gushes, reaching out to touch my shoulder. Yes, I’m wearing a skirt, a sweater, some decent shoes (just some Nine West pumps…unlike Mom here, I thought it inappropriate to use Boggy’s wake as a showcase for my slutty shoes). “It’s wonderful to see you all dressed up! That color is fantastic on you!”

“Mom, settle down. We’re at a wake,” I say.

“Oh, you,” she says fondly. “Those earrings are darling!”

Let me explain. The Black Widows love nothing more than a well-planned wake, the flowers, the people, the tears. They attend everyone’s, and to be fair, they know everyone, being second-generation locals in a town of two thousand. There’s a complex scoring process for such events—number of attendees, expense of the flower arrangements, classiness of the charity the deceased’s family chose for the in lieu of flowers bit, who’s catering the after-funeral reception. Iris booms out how beautiful the deceased looks, Rose chirps about how thoughtful were those who sent flowers, and Mom announces how kind so-and-so was to come.

I myself have a little less fun at funeral homes, though they don’t present the same degree of distress as the cemetery. But Stevie has seized the idea that an errant crumb was carried on a rogue draft of air into Boggy’s esophagus, and this was in fact her cause of death. Furthermore, he is now relaying this fact to anyone who will listen. And lastly…well, lastly, none of us was prepared for little old Boggy to pass away so quickly.

“I was planning to visit her today,” my cousin Neddy, Iris’s son, complains.

“Well, if you’d wanted to see her, you could’ve come any time over the past fifteen years, Ned,” Iris says in stentorian tones. “This is what you get for waiting till the eleventh hour. Not that we knew it would be eleventh hour, that is. She was doing so well. A medical miracle. Dateline was going to pick up the story. Poor Boggy!”

“It’s a tragedy!” Rose weeps. “We should’ve had her for years more!”

Years more. How long was Aunt Boggy supposed to hang around, huh?

Good old Cousin Anne tries to be the voice of reason. “Aunt Rose, Ma,” she says firmly. “Boggy was a hundred and four. It was just her time. She had a very long life, and dying at a hundred and four is hardly a tragedy, now, is it?”

“It is!” Rose sobs. She does love to cry, that woman. “How can you be so heartless, Anne! All those years, she just lay there like a dead dog, and when she finally woke up, Lucy just had to bring her something that she’d choke on. Lucy, why didn’t you bring her ice cream instead? Why? Really, a little common sense…”

“She did not choke on a scone!” I protest loudly, forcing a smile to the next person in line.

“Reverend Covers!” my mother sings. “Aren’t you wonderful to come! How thoughtful!”

Iris and Rose discuss Boggy’s tragic death to everyone who comes by, and that’s the whole town, since news of the medical miracle and subsequent death has piqued everyone’s curiosity. The line is long, and my feet are killing me.

There, in the back of the room, is Ethan, wearing a navy blue suit and red tie. His eyes catch mine, and my heart squeezes abruptly. I haven’t seen him since the morning after my little Michael Phelps incident, and I’m not too sure how he’s feeling toward me these days. I give a little wave, and he nods. No smile. My throat tightens. Ethan and I need a little sit-down. We need to talk. Something’s got to give.

“Yo, Luce, so sorry for your loss.” Charley Spirito stands in front of me, Red Sox jacket over a shirt and tie.

“Thanks, Char—” My words are cut off as Charley engulfs me in his gym-teacher arms. He buries his face against my neck, planting a wet kiss on my collarbone. “Ick!” Crikey! He just copped a feel! “Knock it off, Charley!” I snap.

“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he says. “Plus, I was wondering if you might wanna go out again sometime? Since the fat dude didn’t work out?”

“I am at my great-aunt’s wake, Charley!” I say, straightening my sweater.

“Is that a yes?” He grins.

“It’s a no! Get out of here! Shoo!”

“Lucy, are you dating that boy?” Rose trills.

“No. I’m not dating anyone.” My face is tight with heat as Charley saunters away, stupidly proud for getting away with a little groping. I catch Ethan looking at me, his face still blank, and look away abruptly.

I need a break. With a word to my mom, who’s acting like she’s Ryan Seacrest on the Red Carpet at the Academy Awards, I head for the back of the room. There’s sure to be a blister on my heels tomorrow morning, and I sit gratefully and take a deep breath. My heart beats a little too fast. I almost wish I could take another floaty pill.