Author: Kristan Higgins

The timer dings in the kitchen, and I excuse myself, glad for the interruption. The cake is done. Smells incredible. Can’t wait to eat the stupid thing, stomachache be damned.

I don’t realize tears are leaking out of my eyes until one hisses on the oven door. I dash a pot holder across my eyes and take the cake out, setting it gently on the cooling rack. Ethan comes up behind me and slips his arms around my waist.

“I’m sorry,” I squeak.

“No, honey.” He lowers his forehead to rest against my shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Bad timing,” I acknowledge.

He turns me around and looks at me. Rain patters against the window, and the wind howls under the bridge a block away. I have plenty of time to hear the elements, since Ethan doesn’t speak right away. “You don’t need to remind me that he was here first, Lucy.”

I swallow painfully. “I was married to him. He was here first. That can’t be erased, Eth. I wouldn’t want it to be.”

Ethan nods. “Maybe he doesn’t have to be here all the time.”

He’s asking the impossible. Jimmy is with me all the time. His memory is constantly with me, and I don’t think that will ever change. “The bread guy looks a lot like him,” I say abruptly.

“Which bread guy?”

“The one from NatureMade,” I say.

Ethan raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Yes. Very much like Jimmy.”

“Thanks for the warning.” He slides his hands down my arms, then lets go of me.

I notice that Fat Mikey is crouched on the table, eating the last ramekin of crème brûlée, and decide to let my cat live a little. Another sheet of rain slaps the windows. The muscle jumps under Ethan’s eye, and not for the first time, I wonder how much he’s holding in.

“Ethan,” I say slowly, “I wasn’t trying to make a statement.” My throat grows tight. “I just wanted you to have a picture of him, and it happened to come today. I should’ve held it a few days. I’m sorry.”

He nods and takes my hand, examining a smear of batter across the back. “Thank you.”

“Want something else to eat?” I whisper.

His mouth tugs. “No,” he says, not looking up from my hand.

“How about that Scrabble game?” I offer a bit desperately.

“Maybe later,” he answers, and then he kisses me, there amid the ravaged kitchen, the smell of fresh cake and cream in the air, and my heart sings with relief. And rather than counting out tiles and checking dubious spellings in the dictionary, we end up in bed, Fat Mikey regarding us with disgust as we mess up his favorite place to sleep.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

A FEW DAYS LATER, ETHAN HAS TO TRAVEL to Atlanta, where the International Food Products manufacturing plant is headquartered, so I have plenty of time to contemplate the state of my life. Things have been okay between Ethan and me, though we’re still pretty careful with each other, especially about the subject of Jimmy.

The other day, I packed Nicky into his car seat and drove into Providence to surprise Ethan at work. As Nicky was spoiled by the staff, repeatedly summoned the elevator, photocopied his hands and took cup after cup from the dispenser by the water cooler, Ethan introduced me around—no title, just “This is Lucy,” but I held his hand the whole time, hoping he’d see that as a sign that I was in this. He was so happy, so proud to show off his son, and I got more than a few speculative looks, which made me blush constantly.

“This meant a lot,” Ethan said to me when we were waiting for the elevator, Nicky pressing the button over and over. I smiled and kissed him goodbye full on the mouth, my hands buzzing.

We’re getting there. Since he left for Georgia, we’ve been e-mailing a couple times a day, with long phone conversations at night. When I hear his voice, my heart jumps, and if it feels like a panic attack, maybe it’s something else. And blessedly, I’m still gorging myself on my rather incredible baking.

And baking is on my mind, as next weekend is the Taste of Mackerly, which is a chance for the town to draw in a few tourists before the season is officially done. Lenny’s, Bunny’s, Catering by Eva, Cakes by Kim, and of course, Starbucks will be there along with contributions from the Lions Club, the Exchange Club and the Polish Ladies Auxiliary, who hawk their pierogies like the end of days is nigh.

In the past, Bunny’s has trotted out the same tired, pumpkin-shaped cookies with frosting so hard that, three years ago, little Katie Rose Tinker chipped a tooth. Last year we had four dozen at the beginning of the evening. At the end, we had forty-six, and only because Ethan bought one for himself and one for Nicky. Nicky’s little teeth weren’t up for the task of gnawing through the icing, so Ethan had discreetly tossed it into the trash, but he’d soldiered on through his own, grinning at me as I offered sympathy for his culinary choice.

On Wednesday, the staff of Bunny’s sits down for a rare meeting. Jorge lingers in the back, drinking the sludge he calls coffee, and runs his hand over his bald head, mentally preparing himself for the ordeal ahead.

“Okay,” I say. “We have the Taste of Mackerly coming up on Columbus Day, so—”

“I have a skin tag,” Rose announces, leaning forward. “Right under my bra line. Here.” She hefts up her right breast and points. “Carmella Bronson said I could just snip it right off with toenail clippers, but I’m scared it won’t stop bleeding.”

“Go to a plastic surgeon,” Mom says. “I’m thinking of Botox, myself.”

“Okay, about the weekend,” I say. “I think we should really go whole hog this year. I’ve been baking these—”

“Botox? That’s spider venom,” Iris says. “You’d have to be an idiot to put spider venom in your face.”

“It’s a bacteria. Botulism bacteria. It’s not venom,” I say. “Anyway, I thought we could—”

“I know what it is, Miss Smarty-Pants,” Iris says, waving her hand dismissively. “My daughter is a lesbian doctor, after all.” She turns to my mother. “Why would you stick a needle full of bacteria in your face, Daisy? Did you turn stupid overnight?”

“I want to look my best,” my mother says, adjusting her scarf.

“We also need to discuss that offer from NatureMade,” I try again. Jorge grins.

“Vanity is a sin,” Iris says, adjusting her shirt, which, from the look of it, belonged to her long-dead Pete.

“What about my skin tag? Am I supposed to go around looking like a goat with wattles all over my body?” Rose asks querulously. “Or get Ebola by cutting off my own skin?”

“That would be tetanus, Rose,” I say. “Don’t cut them off yourself. See a doctor, okay? Now, back to the—”

“Did you get your flu shots, speaking of injections?” Mom asks her older sisters.

With a sigh, I slump down in my chair and wait them out. After twenty minutes or so, I eventually manage to steer the conversation back to the Taste of Mackerly and am outvoted, as usual, on the burning issue of the pumpkin cookies, which, according to Iris, everyone loved.

Then I give them the details on NatureMade’s official offer…number of loaves we’d be able to supply, how the schedule would change at Bunny’s, a bit more oversight from the company to ensure that our bread was consistent.

“So what do you think?” I ask when I’m done.

Mom studies her manicure, as ever seeming detached from the bakery where she’s worked most of her life. Iris and Rose, on the other hand, sit like disgruntled trolls, dour expressions on their faces, arms folded across their ample bosoms. Jorge, still lurking in the back, purely for entertainment purposes, laughs silently and pours himself more coffee.

“I don’t like some out-of-towners telling us how to do things,” Iris eventually says.

“I have to agree with Iris,” Rose cheeps, plucking the fabric above her skin tag.

I nod. “Well, we could do nothing, too, and continue to ignore the fact that we make less every month.” Iris harrumphs. “And eventually, we’ll just go broke and close the bakery and sell the property to McDonald’s. How does that sound? Everyone on board?”

“Sarcasm causes wrinkles,” Rose says.

“Mom,” I attempt, “you thought it was a good offer, right?”

But the bell over the front door tinkles, and Mom’s head snaps around like a Labrador scenting a pheasant. “Grinelda’s here!” she announces in the same tone a five-year-old might say, Santa came! “Lucy, do you want your mustache taken care of?”

“I don’t have a mustache!” I protest, my fingers flying up to double-check. No whiskers. So there.

The Black Widows have already stampeded away from the table, practically trampling each other to get to the psychic. “What about the offer?” I call after them.

Iris pokes her head back through the swinging door. “If you want to be bossed around by some chain store, you go ahead. The bread’s your responsibility.” Her head disappears, and I hear her booming voice welcome Grinelda to the bakery.

“Wasn’t that fun?” I ask Jorge. He winks and starts stacking the trays from this morning’s pastries.

I take a deep breath, then place a call to Matt DeSalvo at NatureMade. “Hi, Matt, it’s Lucy Mirabelli from Bunny’s,” I say when he says hello.

“Hi, Lucy!” he answers warmly. “I was just thinking about you. Have you had a chance to look at our offer?”

“Yes,” I say. “We have a few questions—” well, I have a few questions, my relatives couldn’t care less “—but things are looking pretty good to me.”

“Want to meet for dinner tonight?” he asks. “I’d be happy to come back to Mackerly. It’s such a pretty town.”

“Okay,” I agree tentatively. “Sure. Um, there’s a place right around the corner from the bakery called Lenny’s.” For some reason, I don’t want to go to Gianni’s, even with my in-laws in Arizona. It doesn’t seem right to take Matt there.

“Seven o’clock work for you?”

“Seven’s great,” I answer.

“I can’t wait,” he says, and he sounds sincere.

When I hang up, there’s an uncomfortable feeling wriggling around in my gut, and it takes me a minute to put my finger on it. Guilt, I realize. I feel guilty because I’m meeting Matt for dinner. Even if it’s just business. I look over at Jorge to see if he’s staring at me in dismay and disappointment. Nope. He’s washing pans.

I glance at my watch: 2:00 p.m. Ethan’s still in Atlanta, probably in a meeting right now, but he’s flying home this evening. I decide to text him. Am meeting the bread guy at Lenny’s, 7:00 p.m. Drop by if you can, okay? After a moment’s hesitation, I add, xox, Lucy, and a sudden, sweet warmth causes my heart to expand in my chest. Ethan will appreciate that, the hugs and kisses.

In the front, Grinelda is powering through a day-old brownie and spraying the Black Widows with crumbs. “I’m getting someone who’s name starts with an L…Is it Larry?” She stuffs a neon pink cookie in her mouth. “It’s Larry.”

“Oh, Larry,” Rose breathes.

“Larry wants you to be happy. Go ahead and date someone, he says. Share your light with the world.”

I have to hand it to Grinelda. She knows her audience well, because Rose’s eyes mist over, and her face turns pink with pleasure.

“What about me?” Iris demands. “Does Pete want me to find someone else?”

Grinelda takes a drag on her little brown cigar. “Hmm. Let me see. Give me a minute.” She exhales slowly, then slurps her coffee. “Someone’s coming through. A man. His name starts with…let’s see now…his name starts with P. Does anyone know a man whose name starts with P?”