Author: Kristan Higgins

“I miss the everyday stuff,” I whisper. “Don’t smother those things trying to make every minute special, Cory. You can’t keep it up. You’re a wreck.”

She nods, tears still slipping silently down her cheeks. “It’s been so hard,” she admits. “I’m so tired, Lucy. My boobs are killing me, and I have no idea what I’m doing with the baby, and I feel so guilty sometimes when she cries and I just think, ‘Oh, please, not again, Emma, I can’t take it anymore.’ The other day, I was in the grocery store, and Emma was fussing, and I’d had about an hour’s sleep the night before, and this old woman told me this was the happiest time of my life and I wanted to stab her with a knife!”

I burst out laughing at the vision of gentle Corinne killing a senior citizen in the produce aisle. After a minute, Corinne laughs, too.

“So…and I’m just suggesting here…maybe you have a few things bottled up,” I offer. “You know what I think? I think Chris will love you even more, once you drop the Stepford wife thing.”

She looks at me, the circles under her eyes making her look like a scared little kid. “Really?” she asks.

“Yes. Trust me. I’m your big sister,” I say, hugging her. “Now you need to get some sleep. The bed’s all made in the spare room. If Emma’s hungry tonight, I’ll feed her. She took the bottle just great. Okay?”

She starts to say something…advice, no doubt…then reconsiders. “Okay. Thanks, Lucy.” She stands up and heads for the guest room. “Luce?” she says, her voice tentative. “I’m sorry I said I was afraid to be like you. You know what I meant, right?”

“Sure, honey,” I assure her. “Now go to sleep.”

I check on Emma once more…she’s sleeping, her eyelids twitching, her little mouth working as if she’s blowing kisses in her sleep. I touch her head with one finger.

You’ll make a great mom, Ethan said tonight. For a second, I imagine going upstairs to report on Corinne, to kiss him good-night before coming back down to watch over Emma. To thank him for once again coming to the rescue. Maybe even to tell him that I think he’s a great father.

But I don’t. Instead I give Emma one more kiss, then slip into the living room and watch my wedding DVD with the sound off.

CHAPTER TWENTY

“MAYBE YOU’D LIKE THE CHEESE DANISH, Mr. Dombrowski?” I suggest.

It’s been a long day. Corinne came in for lunch so Emma could be worshipped. Chris had said he wanted to go away for the weekend, do a little camping in the Adirondacks, and Corinne needed some reassurance on the odds of his being eaten by a bear or falling off a mountain. I complied dutifully, thinking his odds of a car accident were a lot greater than grizzly attack but knowing to keep my mouth shut.

Mr. Dombrowski weighs my words with considerable gravity, then nods thoughtfully. “I think I’d enjoy that, dear,” he says. “Thank you.”

I glance at the clock…it’s three-thirty. “I’d love to have a cup of tea if you have the time, Mr. D.,” I suggest.

His solemn face lights up. “That would be lovely,” he says. “Maybe we could take a little walk and get something at the place down the street.”

I wince. “Starbucks?”

“Yes. It’s quite the rage, I understand. The coffee culture.”

“Sure,” I concede. After all, this will be a big deal for Mr. Dombrowski…an outing with another human. Any petty feelings I have toward Doral-Anne hardly measure up against that.

“I’ll be back in a while,” I call to my aunts. “Mr. Dombrowski and I are going out for a coffee.”

“How sweet,” coos Rose. “Have fun!” As I take off my apron, she darts to my side. “See if he’s interested in a date, Lucy. I wouldn’t mind an older man.”

I smile. “Okay, Rose. Want anything from Starbucks?”

“Oh, no,” she says, glancing at the clock. “It’s almost happy hour.”

Right. It’s Friday. Taking Mr. D.’s arm, I push open the door and remind myself to go slowly. We shuffle down the street, a few leaves drifting down around us. Mr. Dombrowski is dressed in a tweed jacket and a cap.

“You look rather dashing, Mr. D.” I smile.

“I bought this jacket when my son graduated from college,” he says, chuckling. “And this hat…my wife bought it for me when we were in Ireland.”

“She had wonderful taste,” I say, pushing open the door to Starbucks. It’s the same as they all are…muted colors, progressive rock drifting from speakers, a few plants here and there. Three teenagers sit at one table near the window…plenty of hair tossing and exclaiming going on over there and I smile, the wise older woman. Of course we notice you, I think. You’re beautiful and bright and young. Don’t try so hard.

“What are you doing here?”

Ah, my nemesis. “Hi, Doral-Anne,” I say pleasantly. “Mr. Dombrowski and I were in the mood for a little treat, right, Mr. D.?”

She glances at the ancient man on my arm. “Your new boyfriend, Lucy?” she sneers.

As ever, I’m stunned by her meanness. “I should be so lucky,” I say clearly.

Mr. D. smiles and squints at the menu. “What’s in an Americano?” he asks.

“Espresso and water,” Doral-Anne grunts.

“I think I’ll have the salted caramel hot chocolate, Mr. D. What do you think?”

“Sounds mysterious and delicious,” Mr. Dombrowski agrees. “I’ll have the same.”

“Tall, grande, venti or short?” Doral-Anne asks.

“Small, please,” I answer for the sheer pleasure of rebelling against the ridiculous lingo.

“Small for me as well,” my little old buddy seconds.

“Nonfat, two percent, whole or soy?”

“What did she say?” Mr. D. asks.

“She asked what kind of milk we’d like,” I inform him, smiling. “How about two percent?”

“I guess I don’t really care,” he murmurs. “I’m ninety-seven years old, after all.”

“Make that whole then, Doral-Anne,” I tell her, relishing the fact that she absolutely hates waiting on me. “You only live once, right?”

“Whipped cream?” she bites out.

“Absolutely,” I answer. Mr. D. nods.

“This is gonna take a few minutes,” she mutters as we stand expectantly. “You can wait over there.”

“Let’s sit down instead, Mr. D.,” I suggest and am instantly rewarded with another scowl from Doral-Anne.

When we’ve taken a seat far away from the teenagers, Mr. D. looks around happily. “This is a lovely place,” he pronounces. “Very pleasant. Thank you, Lucy.”

“My pleasure,” I say sincerely.

“How are you these days?” he asks. “Your aunts told me you’re dating again.”

“Well, I guess I am,” I admit. From behind the counter comes the phlegmy sound of the cappuccino machine.

“Have you found someone nice?” Mr. D. asks.

“Um, yes. I have.” I hesitate. “I’m just not sure it’s going to work.” I bite my lip. What the heck? Mr. D. would understand. The cappuccino machine gurgles its last few breaths. “I’m afraid I’ll always compare him to my first husband and—”

“And God knows he was such a prince,” Doral-Anne says loudly.

Once again, I’m stunned by her rudeness, but my companion doesn’t seem to have heard her. “And what, dear?”

I lower my voice but try to enunciate so he can hear me. “I’ll never love him the way I loved Jimmy.”

Mr. Dombrowski nods sadly. “I suppose that’s a natural fear,” he says.

“Did you ever think about dating again, Mr. D.?” I ask.

He smiles. “I don’t think there are a lot of women out there who’d like to date me, Lucy.”

“My aunt Rose would,” I say, grinning.

He gives a startled laugh. “Is that right? How flattering. She’s a lovely woman, that Rose.”

“She really is,” I agree.

“Your order is ready, Lang!” Doral-Anne barks.

“That girl is rather rude, isn’t she?” Mr. D. comments, frowning over at our barista.

“She really is,” I say again.

I SEE MR. D. TO HIS DOOR, MY HEART LIGHT. The knowledge that forty-five minutes of my time could make someone happy is heady stuff, and I’m humming as I go back to the bakery, rather buzzed with lack of sleep and a surplus of sugar. My God, that hot chocolate was unbelievable. No wonder people flock to the dang place.

A not-unpleasant nervousness shoots through my legs as I open the back door. Ethan’s here, measuring out vodka. “Hi,” I say.

“Hey, Luce,” Ethan says. “Dirty martinis today. Want one?”

My face feels hot, and Ethan’s mouth pulls up on one side in a knowing grin.

“Sure,” I say. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he says, and my stomach squeezes in that uncomfortable, wonderful way.

“Ethan,” Iris says, swirling her drink appreciatively before taking a sip, “Lucy must’ve told you that she wants another husband. Do you know anyone?”

He looks up at me for a moment—You haven’t told them yet?—then pours some olive brine into the martini shaker. “Can’t say that I do,” he murmurs.

“Iris,” I say. “Can you please—”

“Ethan, dear,” Rose begins, her nose glowing with alcohol consumption. I’ll have to make sure she’s not driving. “Does it bother you, Lucy leaving Jimmy’s memory behind?”

“No,” Ethan says, shaking the metal cylinder, then pouring the martini into a waiting glass. “I think Lucy should be happy. Jimmy would want her to move on.” He looks at me steadily. This would be an opportune time to tell my aunts and mother that Ethan and I are together…

“I don’t know,” Iris says. “I wonder what Pete would say if I decided to date again. He always was jealous. Rose, remember the Knights of Columbus dance, when Tom O’Reilly cut in, and Pete punched him in the nose? Oh, I have to admit, that made me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world!”

“Violence does that for some people,” I murmur, taking a slug of my drink, then wincing.

Rose tries to take another sip of her martini, then frowns as she finds her glass empty. Ethan pours her another. “What about you, Daisy?” she asks. “Do you think Robbie would’ve minded?”

Mom taps a perfectly manicured finger on the wooden countertop. “I don’t care if he’d mind or not. He was the love of my life, and I’m just not interested in dating or getting married again. He was enough to last me a lifetime.” She glances at me. “But everyone’s different.”

I sneak a peek at Ethan, whose mouth is tight. Well. He knows how the Black Widows are. And he said he’d be patient. He sees me looking, and I give him a little smile. A muscle under his eye twitches, but he smiles back.

“I’d get married again if I didn’t have to have sex,” Iris muses in her booming voice. “I don’t want to have sex with an old man.”

“And yet here I stand, young, healthy, heterosexual and ignored,” Ethan says, bouncing a devilish eyebrow, and as usual, he gets a round of hoots and giggles from his biggest fans.

Iris cuffs him fondly. “Don’t tempt me, young man,” she says.

“If only I were twenty years younger, Ethan,” Rose giggles.

“I love older women—you should know that by now.” He kisses her cheek, slings an arm around her shoulders—she’s about a foot shorter than he is—then turns to me.