Author: Kristan Higgins

“Really?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. “Don’t forget where we met, Lucy.”

“Oh, I know,” I say. “But you quit. You dropped out before you finished.”

He nods. “Yes, I did,” he admits.

“So that would be great!” I exclaim. “You should take over Gianni’s. You know your dad thinks the cousin’s husband’s brother is a total screw-up.”

Ethan gives me a look. “Better the cousin’s husband’s brother than me, Luce,” he says.

“But you’re a fantastic cook! You’d be perfect! And it’s the family—”

“I’ll never be Jimmy,” Ethan interrupts. “And that’s what my parents really want.”

There’s an uncomfortable silence. Our chips are gone, and the gulls grow disgusted and leave. Ethan unwraps the cake. He holds it up in an offer, but I shake my head and watch, bemused, as he takes a bite. His eyes close in pleasure for a second, and I smile.

“What about you?” Ethan asks. “Any progress with the grocery store offer?” He takes another bite of cake.

“Not yet,” I admit. I’d spoken to Matt DeSalvo twice last week, rather disappointed when he didn’t offer to meet face-to-face so I could see if he really looked as much like Jimmy as I thought. “There’s still a lot to talk about. But I’ll probably take it.”

“I thought you weren’t sure you wanted to bake bread,” Ethan comments.

“I’m not. But it’s better than going bankrupt.” There’s a splotch of mustard on my jeans, and I scratch it idly. “And,” I admit, “it’s a way of becoming someone, you know? It’d be nice to write into the Johnson & Wales alumni magazine and say my bread’s distributed statewide. And Matt said maybe we’d go into Connecticut and Massachusetts, too. So.” I look up at Ethan. “A nice offer.”

He nods. “This cake is fantastic,” he says. “Try some.”

“I don’t—” I begin, but he leans forward and pops a chunk into my mouth. The rich, velvety texture of the dark chocolate melts on my tongue, and the hazelnut frosting is like a bit of divine perfection. It was a great idea to roast…roast the…

“Well?” Ethan says, then notices my expression. “Lucy?”

“It’s…it’s good,” I stammer. And it is. And I can taste it. I swallow. Yes, there’s the hint of coffee, just the slightest murmur of cinnamon.

“Here,” Ethan says. He smiles as he feeds me the last piece, and I close my eyes and concentrate. The cake is so good, Ethan’s right. I can’t believe I can finally, finally enjoy my own baking again after such a long time. Something that was gone has come back, something that was part of my daily life for a long, long time, something I’ve missed so much. But now, today…today, I can once again appreciate something I made with my own hands, that I made with attention and care for the man in front of me, and to be able to have that back…

My eyes are wet when I open them. Ethan’s smile drops.

“Are you okay, honey?” he asks, and with that, I reach out and wrap my arms around his neck and kiss him, tasting chocolate and Ethan, his gentle, beautiful mouth, the heat of him. His arms go around me, one hand cupping the back of my head. And I kiss him and kiss him and kiss him, feeling his heart beat against mine.

I pull back and look into his eyes. His gaze drops to my mouth, and he pushes a piece of my hair off my face.

“Make love to me, Ethan,” I whisper, and he stands and gives me his hand.

The sunlight comes in patches through the little windows that line the cabin. Ethan pulls the couch out, then straightens, not saying anything. I sit down, and he kneels before me. I touch his cheek, then unbutton his shirt with shaking fingers. His skin is beautiful, olive and smooth, the muscles hard underneath. I press my palm over his heart, feel the reassuring beat there, steady and constant. Just like Ethan. Then I look at him, into eyes made of gold and brown, like fallen leaves in a clear stream.

Then he leans in closer so that our foreheads touch. “You sure, honey?” he asks

“Yes,” I whisper, and his mouth is on mine. His hand slides under my T-shirt and cups my breast, and my breath catches. He tastes so good, feels like heaven and I can’t believe I’ve waited so long for this. His mouth moves to my neck, a hot jolt shudders through me, and I sink into the bed, the sun hot on my skin, and give myself away.

And I realize that despite my intentions, I’ve fallen in love after all.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

IT’S MUCH COLDER WHEN WE HEAD BACK…the sky clouded up while we were in the cabin, the ocean turning slate and choppy. We don’t talk much; Ethan is fairly busy negotiating the rough waves around Point Judith and adjusts the sail frequently. We keep a fast clip, bouncing over the waves, and I watch my captain warily as I grip a cleat, spray stinging my face, and worry that my grim fantasies of Ethan’s death will come true as we whisk and smack through the water.

Everything’s gonna be all right, everything’s gonna be all right…Everything’s gonna be all right… It’s not lost on me that this snippet of Bob Marley was my mantra after Jimmy died. But every time Ethan looks at me, so damn happy, fear strikes my heart. Don’t let me hurt him, Jimmy, I pray. Abruptly the thought comes to me that maybe Jimmy isn’t all that happy that my heart has opened to someone else. That maybe he wants to be the first, the best, the most. Forsaking all others, all the days of my life, that’s how the marriage vows went. And being widowed…that’s not like Jimmy betrayed me. He didn’t ruin my love for him. He just died.

I try to imagine how it would be if my soul had to watch Jimmy struggle through life without me. Of course I’d want him to find someone wonderful. But, I admit, clutching my stomach as we bounce over the wake of a lobster boat, I’d also want to be the love of his life. To be the one by which all others were measured.

“Doing okay?” Ethan calls over the rush of wind.

“I’m great,” I answer, determined to make it true.

When we finally make it back to the marina, I can’t wait to be on solid land again. Ethan looks at me as he wraps the line around a cleat. “You look a little green,” he says, taking my hand as I rise. “Want me to drive you home?”

“I’d kind of like to walk,” I say honestly.

“Okay,” he says, climbing off the boat and helping me disembark. We stand there on the wooden dock, which bobs unpleasantly. Rain clouds darken the sky in the west, and leaves shower down from the trees.

“Come over later,” I say.

“Okay,” he agrees instantly, and again my heart clutches at the smile in his eyes.

“See you later, alligator,” I say, turning to head for solid ground.

“Lucy?” I turn back. His face is serious now. “Thank you,” he says.

My heart softens dangerously. “Thank you, too, Ethan,” I answer unsteadily. Then, bowing my head against the sharp breeze, I head for home.

Ethan seems to know I need a little time alone—either that, or he has his own stuff to do. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t come by until about nine. Fat Mikey, distressed that he’s seen so little of his favorite person, yowls until Ethan picks him up and scratches his battered ears vigorously. “How you doin’, Fat Mikey?” Ethan asks, doing a fair impression of a mobster. “How’s our friend here?”

I’ve been in the kitchen, baking since I walked through the door to see if the cake was a fluke. It’s not, thank God, and that has to be a sign that Ethan is good for me. My melancholy lifted as I started with crème brûlée…satiny and rich, the hard shell of sugar burned to perfection. After that, a batch of pots de crème au chocolat, the dark chocolate giving the sweet creaminess the perfect bite. Then a quick batch of bananas Foster, so simple and fun and delicious. I laughed as I lit them on fire, though tasting it a few moments later, I admitted I put in a little too much nutmeg. I’ve since moved on to a carrot cake, which is baking right now as the mixer churns a batch of cream cheese icing on the counter.

“I see we’ve been busy,” Ethan says, raising an eyebrow at my kitchen. Every mixing bowl I own is on the counter, flour spatters the dark granite countertops, dishes are heaped in the sink and the place smells like heaven. Like a pastry shop.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. I give him a crème brûlée and a healthy serving of bananas Foster. I watch as he eats, and when he offers me a spoonful, I open my mouth obediently. “Nice that you can eat your own desserts again,” he says, wiping a bit of cream off the corner of my mouth.

“More than nice,” I agree.

He doesn’t ask when that changed. Maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe he knows what it means. “This is incredible” is all he says, gesturing to his plate.

I smile. “Thanks.”

Then I wash my hands and take off my apron. I ruffle Ethan’s hair as I pass his chair, and he grabs my hand and pulls me in for a kiss, and after the briefest hesitation, I kiss him back. It’s just going to take a little getting used to, I assure myself.

We go into the living room and sit, looking at each other. I swallow, then smile. He smiles back. “Want to play Scrabble?” I ask, lust and nervousness rolling through me in tingling waves.

“Sure,” he says with a knowing grin. “Hey, what’s this?”

Leaning against the couch is a rectangular package, still in brown paper. Shoot. Forgot about that thing. Ash had signed for it and left me a note. “Um…actually, it’s for you,” I say, nibbling my thumbnail.

Ethan’s eyebrows bounce up. “Really?”

I swallow. “Yes. Uh, I didn’t realize it would be done so soon. I thought it would take a little longer…”

“Can I open it?” he asks, smiling happily at me. It dawns on me that maybe today isn’t the best time for this particular gift. Then again, maybe it is.

“Sure.”

Ethan sits in the easy chair and takes the present. He pulls the paper off, unwraps the tissue paper protecting the frame and turns it over to see the picture. His face freezes. I wait for his reaction. It doesn’t come. He just sits in the chair, staring at the gift, frozen.

I got the top photo from Marie when they were packing up the house a few weeks ago—Jimmy and Ethan at the beach. Jimmy was twelve in the picture, Ethan seven. The two boys are standing in front of the surf, Jimmy’s arm slung around his much smaller brother’s shoulders. Already, you can see that Jimmy’s going to be tall—his shoulders have started to broaden, and his face has that amiable, open appeal it held all his brief life. His hair is sun-streaked, and freckles dot his nose. Ethan, on the other hand, is a scrawny little guy, dark as a gypsy, thin enough that you can see his ribs. He’s laughing in the picture, both his top front teeth missing. His hair is wet, his skin sandy.

The lower picture is also of Jimmy and Ethan. That one’s from our wedding day, and once again, Jimmy has his arm around Ethan’s shoulders. Jimmy beams; Ethan looks a bit more sardonic, his elvish eyebrows raised as if to say, Get a load of the big dope here. I love that picture. Jimmy had loved it, too.

Ethan still hasn’t said anything.

“Ethan?” I whisper. He looks up, then clears his throat.

“Thank you,” he says in a rather perfunctory manner.

“I…you didn’t have any. Pictures, that is. Of Jimmy.” Dismay sits heavily in my stomach, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t eaten three desserts tonight.

“Right. Well. This is very nice of you, Lucy.” His voice is oddly formal. He looks back at the picture, then rubs his forehead.