Author: Kristan Higgins

“Ethan!” I bark. He stops, turns around, his face unreadable. “Look, I’m sorry I took your head off,” I say in a softer voice. “It’s just…hard, learning something about Jimmy that I—” My voice breaks a little. “That I didn’t expect. And I’ll be honest, Eth. I don’t like it that you knew all this time and never said anything. I figured you’d tell me something as big as that.”

“Why would I tell you, Lucy? You’d just be hurt and upset. Like you are now.” He stares at me, waiting. Always waiting.

I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, wondering if Ethan has other little pockets of decay on Jimmy. No. That’s not fair to Jimmy. He dated Doral-Anne, and as Ethan said, so what? It was before he met me. Doesn’t mean Jimmy was some sort of man-slut.

“So how are things with your parents?” I ask, not really wanting to hear the answer.

“They’re okay. Improving,” Ethan says. A vast distance seems to be spreading between us like a tar pit, eager to suck us down and mire us in the muck.

“And how are you doing, Ethan?” I ask, my voice horribly polite.

“I’m fine, Lucy,” he says gently.

I swallow, then swallow again around the pebble in my throat. “That’s good. Tell your folks I said hi.”

“Will do,” he says.

“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Good night, then.”

“Good night, Ethan.” The door closes softly behind him.

Then, feeling sick and too full of sugar and chocolate, I clean up the hairball.

When that lovely task is complete, I flop down on my couch. The night is still painfully young. I could watch more of my wedding video, but crap, there’s no point in that, is there? I can’t have Jimmy back, dimes or no dimes. I could call Ethan or go upstairs and try to smooth things over, but I just seem to be making things worse lately. Maybe we need a little space.

Too bad Grinelda’s not really psychic. Too bad I couldn’t talk to my dad, since Mom has abdicated the throne when it comes to parental guidance. I briefly consider jumping onto the online widows group I belonged to the first couple of years after Jimmy died and asking for advice, but I don’t really know what to say. I’ve moved on…sort of…and I love the man I’m with. I just can’t seem to make him very happy.

And so I find myself in the kitchen, baking until midnight. Bittersweet chocolate cake. Fittingly enough, it’s Ethan’s favorite.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

THE TASTE OF MACKERLY IS NOT ONLY A FUN evening, it also raises funds for the town’s emergency services program. In addition to the food vendors, there’s face painting, games and a tank where citizens will have the chance to dunk town notables, including the mayor, Father Adhyatman and Lenny. (Right now, Father A. is taunting Reverend Covers for throwing like a Protestant, whatever that means.) Kids get hair weaves and henna tattoos, and Grinelda usually does readings (twenty dollars for fifteen minutes; I don’t know how she does it).

The town green, which makes up the northern edge of Ellington Park and borders Main Street, is dotted with tents—Lenny’s, Gianni’s, Starbucks, Bunny’s, Eva’s Catering, Cakes by Kim. A band plays on a little stage near the entrance to the cemetery. The trees glow with color—this weekend is really the last of our glorious foliage. Teenagers huddle in groups, giggling and texting and flipping their hair. I hope Ash will have a few friends here tonight, I think with a pang. I told her she could hang out with me, but I’m not really her favorite person these days. I don’t seem to be anybody’s favorite person, in fact.

The crowning glory of the evening is Stuffie—an enormous, papier-mâché stuffed clam. Tradition dictates that Stuffie be driven slowly around the park three times—the streets are closed off to all but the pickup truck pulling our mascot. After the final pass, Stuffie will be towed to the center of the park and, for reasons unclear to many, will then be ignited as the townsfolk cheer. It’s rather primal, but Stuffie is an undeniable hit.

I’d skipped the Taste of Mackerly after Jimmy died, fleeing to Provincetown for the weekend, leaving the Black Widows to run Bunny’s paltry booth so I could avoid the well-meaning assurances that I’d meet someone else and the hit-and-run glances of the pitying. But I’ve come to love this event. After all, I love Mackerly, and this is one of her finest moments.

Our booth looks especially pretty this year. We’re right on the edge of Main Street, a prime location. Our tent is a cute little yellow-and white-striped number, and underneath, I’ve covered a large table with a brightly embroidered Hungarian tablecloth. Earlier this afternoon, I wound flower lights around the tent poles and through the bars that support the tent ceiling. Two clumps of helium-filled balloons are tied in front—red, green and white, the colors of Hungary. I put out a few vases, arrange some zinnias and late roses, hung out a banner that says Bunny’s Bakery—The Finest In Hungarian Pastries. After I begged for the opportunity to bring some homemade goodies, Iris finally compromised and agreed to make some authentic pastries in addition to the pumpkin cookies. “I’ll do it,” she said. “You have your hands full with those Mirabellis.”

She was right, of course. Yesterday, I drove Gianni to his cardiologist, took Marie to buy some new shoes and a coat. Haven’t seen Ethan for a day or two, though.

“I didn’t bother with pastries,” Iris announces as she and Rose pull up in the Crown Vic they share. “And no one wants to admit they eat prune anymore, so I didn’t make the lekvar kifli.”

“You didn’t? But you made mezeskalacs, right?” I ask. Mezeskalacs are honey cakes, spiced with ginger and nutmeg, perfect for the fall, and something only a Hungarian bakery could supply. Hauling out a bakery box from Iris’s backseat, I peer anxiously within.

Dang it! There’s nothing except those awful tooth-chipping cookies. Knowing Iris, these may well be the same cookies from last year. “Iris, I thought we agreed you’d make some other things, too!” Slightly panicked, I look in the back seat for another box. Nothing. “We don’t have anything else? Why didn’t you call me, Iris? I would’ve made something!”

“I didn’t have time,” Iris announces breezily, applying a coat of Coral Glow. “I was very busy last night.”

“Busy doing what?” I ask.

“For your information, The Tudors was on, Miss Nosy-Pants. And stop worrying! Everyone loves these cookies.” She gives me a peck on the cheek, then says, “Help your Aunt Rose with that cake.”

Rose is struggling to get a wedding cake out of the trunk of the car…well, a plastic cake model covered in spackle-type frosting. It’s a display, meant to charm soon-to-be brides, but unfortunately, this one looks rather dated. It’s not bad…just a little plain, a few easy roses on the top and nothing else. In this era of ornate weddings, we could’ve used a little pizzazz.

“Pretty cake,” I lie, grabbing the edge of the foil-covered tray.

“Oh, this old thing?” Rose answers, peeking around the cake at me. “It’s from a few years ago.” She pauses to blow on the top of the cake, causing a puff of dust to swirl up into my face. “I thought about doing another one, but…”

“The Tudors?” I suggest, coughing a little.

She smiles. “Yes! Do you watch it, too?”

“I don’t, Rose,” I answer.

My mother pulls up in her MiniCooper, looking like Katharine Hepburn about to go out for martinis—wide-legged winter-white pants, a red boatneck sweater, double rope of pearls and patent leather red pumps. “Hello!” she calls merrily, her cheeks pink, skin glowing.

“Hi, Mom. Did you bring the drinks?” I ask. The beverages are Mom’s annual contribution, and I’m hoping for hot cocoa, even if it’s from a mix.

“I thought we’d serve Hi-C,” Mom says, pointing to an industrial-size jug of the sugary drink. “Get that, will you, sweetheart?”

“Great,” I mutter. We have Hi-C and inedible cookies. Starbucks will have cake and brownies, cookies and tarts, not to mention all those dang coffee varieties.

“I hope the Starbucks will be selling that hot chocolate,” Aunt Rose says merrily, echoing my thoughts. “It’s like heroin! I can’t get enough! Oh, look, there are the Mirabellis! Hello!”

Gianni’s Ristorante Italiano is back under previous management. It took Gianni about twelve hours to get things back the way they were, and the cousin’s husband’s brother is now working as a prep chef as Gianni growls and barks, as happy as he gets.

“Hi, guys,” I say, blushing. One doesn’t quickly forget that one’s in-laws caught one in the act.

“How youse girls doing?” Gianni asks the Black Widows, giving me a nod. It’s something.

Marie, at least, is willing to hug me and pat my cheek. “You look so beautiful, Lucy!”

My mother smiles smugly. It’s true…I’m wearing real clothes today. A long, chocolatey brown skirt that stops about three inches from those gorgeous mahogany boots, which are making their debut today. A dark red cashmere sweater. Gold necklace, hoop earrings, even a little eye shadow and lip gloss.

“What are you selling over there?” Rose peeps. “It smells wonderful!”

Gianni’s, Marie tells us, is serving bruschetta (with my bread, ironically, the one good thing that comes out of Bunny’s), bowls of minestrone soup, which is nice, since it’s cool this afternoon and getting colder as the sun sets. Gnocchi with vodka sauce (Jimmy’s recipe…apparently, the cousin’s husband’s brother had changed it and Gianni near stroked out when he was informed). And yes, Marie’s famous tiramisu. I can’t imagine anyone wanting our concrete-textured, clove-saturated pumpkin cookies painted with that garish, tasteless orange frosting when Marie’s tiramisu is available.

“So how is it, being back?” Iris asks Gianni. Both being the bossy type, they’ve always had a grudging respect for the other.

“Not bad. We’re back in our house. Sold the condo in Arizona for ten grand more than we paid for it, our house was still on the market, I says to Marie, I says, ‘Why not? We know what we’re getting!’ So Ethan called the movers and we’ll be back in our own house next week. Like we never left.”

“Is Ethan here?” my mother asks. Marie, who is chatting up my aunts, falls abruptly silent.

“Oh, he’s here, all right,” Gianni grumbles. “With that del cazzo milkshake.”

Right. International Foods is the biggest sponsor of the Taste of Mackerly. They pay for all the tent rentals, the lights, the liquor permit and the extra cops to control traffic. In addition, Ethan’s listed in the big donors section of the program, and it’s already been announced that we’ve raised enough for new air packs for the firefighters as well as a new radio system. But that kind of generosity doesn’t matter to Gianni, who still views Instead as a personal fork stuck in his heart by that no-good second son of his.

“What do you think of him and Lucy?” Iris asks, never one for subtlety. Gianni’s impressive eyebrows lower.

Marie darts a glance my way. “Well…it’s…”

“Nonny!”

Saved by a four-year-old! Nicky comes charging over, crashing into Marie’s legs. “Well, hello, little man!” she exclaims, trying to pick him up. Unfortunately Marie is five-foot-nothing, and Nicky had a recent growth spurt.

“Come here, you,” Gianni says, his face softening with adoration. He picks up his grandson and kisses him loudly on the cheek, then chuckles and ruffles Nicky’s hair.

“I ate a worm,” Nicky announces, holding up a bag of gummy strings.