Author: Kristan Higgins

Putting the loaf gently in the slicer, I press the button, still as charmed by the machine as I was as a child, then open the fridge to see what offerings it holds. Tuna salad, no celery…perfect. I pop two slices of the fresh bread into the toaster, then open a bottle of coffee milk and wait.

While I love the bakery and love working with my aunts, I can’t help wishing Bunny’s was different. More tables, more refined pastries than just danish and doughnuts. If we sold biscotti, for example. (“Biscotti? That’s Italian,” my aunts said the last time I broached the subject. “We’re not the Italians.”) If we sold cakes by the slice—not Rose’s wedding cakes, but the kind that people might actually like to eat. Coconut lime, for example. Sour cream pecan. Chocolate with mocha frosting and a hazelnut filling. If we sold coffee and cappuccino, even, heaven protect us, lattes.

“Lucy, honey, can you get Grinelda some more coffee?” Aunt Rose calls.

“Sure,” I answer. My toast is still browning. I grab the pot and sugar bowl and, heading into the front, note that my mother is wiping her eyes. “How’s Dad?” I can’t help asking.

“He thinks Emma is just beautiful,” Mom answers. “It’s amazing, Grinelda. You have such a gift.”

“Such a gift,” I murmur with a dubious glance at the gypsy, who is chewing on another cookie. An eleven-by-seventeen-inch piece of paper is taped to Bunny’s front door…the door through which Grinelda entered. Daisy Is A Grandmother!!! the sign says, right above the picture of my niece. Emma Jane Duvall, September 8, 7 lbs. 3 oz.

The readings are over. My aunts wander back to the kitchen to get a box for Grinelda’s loot as my mother fills the medium in on Corinne’s nursing issues. As I pour Grinelda some more coffee, she cuts her pale blue eyes to me.

“I have a message for you, too,” she says, a chunk of sugar cookie falling from her mouth onto her sequined lap.

“That’s okay, Grinelda. I’m fine,” I answer.

“He wants you to check the toast. Your husband.” She pops the fallen cookie bit back into her mouth and regards me impassively. My mother quivers with attention.

“Lucy! Your toast is about to burn back here, honey!” Iris calls.

Mom’s eyes nearly pop out of her head. “Oh. My. God!”

“Thanks, Iris,” I call.

“What else?” my mother breathes, reaching out to clutch Grinelda’s age-spotted hand.

“Check the toast. That’s his message,” she says, taking a slurp of coffee.

“Got it. Thanks.” I look up at the ceiling. “Thanks, Jimmy! My sandwich would’ve been ruined without your divine intervention.”

“A cynic. That’s what she is,” Rose says, hurrying to pat Grinelda’s shoulder. “She’ll come around.” Rose looks outside. Across the street, the chrysanthemums planted around the statue of James Mackerly glow with good health. “Oh, my word,” she whispers. “Yellow flowers next to red! Oh, Larry!”

I RACE FOR SECOND, SLIDE AT THE LAST second, and bang! I’m in.

“Safe!” calls Sal, the umpire at second.

My teammates cheer. “Of course I’m safe, Ethan,” I say to my brother-in-law, who missed the tag. “You’re no match for my incredible speed.”

“Apparently not,” he murmurs, a smile curling up the corners of his mouth. Something tugs in my stomach, and I look over at third base. May need to steal that, too.

“Nice try, Ethan!” Ash calls from the stands.

“Thanks, Ash!” he says, tossing her a little salute. She blushes so fiercely we can practically feel the heat. Poor Ash…she really needs friends her own age.

Just about every able-bodied adult under the age of seventy plays on the Mackerly Softball League, and every one of the six downtown businesses sponsors a team. So does International Food Products, Ethan’s company, the team Bunny’s Bakery is playing tonight.

Not only am I the organizer of our little baseball club, spending hours and hours each winter on team assignments, scheduling, equipment maintenance and so on, but I’m one of the league’s best players, I’m proud to say. My batting average this year is .513. (Crazy, I know!). As pitcher, I lead the league in strikeouts, and I have more stolen bases than all my teammates combined. It’s fair to say I absolutely love playing softball.

Ellen Ripling is up and takes a strike. She hasn’t been on base since June 22, and given that it’s now mid-September, my hopes are not high that she’ll get me to third. However, it’s 4-1 Bunny’s, and it’s the bottom of the eighth. I watch and bide my time. Ball two. I glance at Ethan, who’s smart enough to stand close to the base in case I bolt. “How’s your new job?” I ask. Aside from a few chance meetings in the lobby of our building, Ethan and I haven’t really talked since he moved back to Mackerly permanently.

“It’s okay,” he says. “Lots of meetings.”

“You haven’t really told me about it,” I prod.

“Mmm. Well, I’ve been busy. Settling in, all that crap.”

I take another look at Ethan. His brown eyes flick to me, and he smiles automatically, that elvish smile that curls so appealingly at the corners. “Want to come over later?” I ask. “Tell me about it?”

His gaze flicks back to the batter as Ellen strikes out. Inning over. “Not sure about that,” he says.

Charley Spirito, Bunny’s right-fielder, ambles over as Ethan and I make our way off the infield. “Hey, Luce,” he says, “what’s this I hear about you looking for a man? Your aunts were saying you’re gettin’ back in the game. True?”

I wince. My aunts may not fully approve of my efforts to remarry, but that hasn’t kept them from advertising my wares to every male who comes in the bakery. Iris’s method of not handing over change until I have been viewed has caught on. This morning, Rose presented me to Al Sykes and asked him if he wanted to date me. Given that he was my social studies teacher in sixth grade and roughly forty years my senior, I was grateful when he declined.

“So?” Charley prods.

“It’s true,” I admit. “Why? You know any men?”

He grins, hitches up his pants and looks at my chest. “I’m a man, Luce. You wanna go out with me? I could show you a good time, you know what I’m saying?”

Ethan cuts him a glance but says nothing.

A Del’s Lemonade truck pulls into the parking lot, and I find myself wishing I was sipping a frozen drink—or driving the truck—or lying underneath its wheels—rather than talking about my love life on the infield. I’ve known Charley my whole life. The idea of kissing him…getting naked with him…I suppress a shudder.

“Then again, a date with you is basically signing my own death warrant, right, Luce?” Charley says, apparently irked at my hesitation. “I mean, who’d want to do a Black Widow?”

My mouth falls open in surprise, but before I can do anything, Charley is lying on the field, clutching his face.

“Fuck, Ethan! You hit me!”

“Get up,” Ethan growls.

“Ethan,” I say, putting my hand on his arm. He shakes it off.

“Get up.” He stands over Charley, waiting.

I grab Ethan’s arm a little harder this time. “Ethan, he’s not gonna fight you. You know that. Leave him alone.” Charley, whose eye is rapidly swelling, shoots me a watery and grateful glance. Ethan did some boxing for a while, one of his many hobbies that involve physical harm to his person. Charley, though he’s the middle school gym teacher and seems as physically fit as the next guy, would be an idiot to fight Ethan Mirabelli. And though it could be said that Charley is indeed an idiot, he’s not that dumb.

“Lucy, I’m sorry for what I said,” Charley announces loudly enough for all to hear. “I’m a fuck-up, and that was a shitty thing to say. Okay?”

“Thank you for the beautiful apology, Charley,” I say just as loudly, turning to Ethan. His jaw is tight, his eyes hot. “Good enough, Ethan?”

“Good enough,” he mutters, then goes to his dugout.

Paulie Smith is our closer and makes short work of International’s final three batters. I wonder if he has a date…but no, there’s his wife. My teammates and I touch knuckles and pack up our gear, exchanging insults and compliments in our dugout.

“You coming to Lenny’s, Lucy?” Carly Espinosa, our catcher, asks, slinging her bag over her shoulder, then wincing as it hits her in the leg.

“Um, no, I have something I need to do,” I say.

“See you around, then,” she answers, sauntering after the rest of the team as they head toward the park.

I walk over to the other dugout, where Ethan stuffs his gear into his bag with considerable force. His temper, though rarely unsheathed, takes a while to fade.

“You okay?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, not meeting my eyes.

I sit on the bench next to him. “Charley’s a dope, that’s all,” I say.

“Yup.” He shoves his glove into the bag, then sits for a second, staring at the concrete floor of the dugout. “So what kind of guy are you looking for, anyway, Lucy?” he asks.

I take a quick breath. “I don’t know. Someone decent. Someone who’d be good to me.” Someone who won’t die young. “You want to grab dinner, Ethan? I’m heading over to see your folks.”

“Have you told them about your plan yet?” he asks knowingly. I haven’t, and a little moral support would be appreciated.

“Um, no, not yet. I figured I would tonight.” Please come.

Ethan tightens the drawstring on his bag and gives me a sidelong glance. “Sorry. I’m having dinner with Parker and Nicky.” He reaches out, ruffles my hair and is gone, leaving me to sit in the dugout alone. He stops and says something to Ash, who is lingering, hoping for just this interaction.

“Have fun,” I call belatedly. Dinner with the nuclear family. How nice.

I wonder for a minute if, now that he’s in Mackerly all the time now, Parker and he will get together. If their fondness for each other will blossom into something deeper. If they’ll end up married after all this time. I kind of hope so. They’re both great people, and they already have Nicky, who’s about as wonderful a child as a child can be. Ethan says something to Ash, earning a smile, then continues toward home.

My sentiments about Ethan and Parker are echoed by my mother-in-law an hour later as we sit in the owners’ booth at Gianni’s.

“That Ethan,” Marie begins, her traditional opening when talking about her younger son. “He’s working in Providence at that horrible company, he’s here, he makes a decent living. He should marry that Parker. Be a father to Nicky.”

“He is a father to Nicky,” I say mildly, looking at the mural of Venice above our table. “A wonderful father.”

“A full-time father,” Gianni corrects. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he adds as Kelly serves our dinner. “Oh, for Christ’s sake, where’s the parsley? Ivan, for the love of God!” Gianni lurches up from the table to go yell at his latest chef, which has happened roughly every six minutes since I’ve been here, and probably happens more often when I’m not.

My father-in-law had bypass surgery last year, and he just can’t take the stress of running the kitchen himself. That being said, he goes through chefs like tissues. No one, of course, was as good as Jimmy. No one knew the family recipes, the traditions. No one could ever fill Jimmy’s shoes, either as a son or a chef. And so Gianni suffers, his knees increasingly stiff, his temper increasingly short.

“Eat, sweetheart. You’re too thin.” Marie, who is wider than she is tall, spears a tortellini from her own plate and holds it out for me. I eat it obediently, smiling. Marie always loved two things about me—I adored her son, and I ate well. I’m not thin, let me assure you, but to an Italian family who owns a restaurant, I look like I just staggered back from forty days in the desert.