The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(10)

“The hormones,” Iris murmurs, looking after her.

“I cried for weeks after Stevie was born,” Rose seconds. “Of course, he was ten pounds, six ounces, the little devil. I was stitched up worse than a quilt.”

“I bled for months. The doctors, they lie,” Iris adds. “And my kebels, hard as rocks. I couldn’t sleep on my stomach for weeks.” It is tradition to refer to girl parts in Hungarian, for some reason.

My reprieve is short-lived. The Black Widows turn to me. “You really want another husband?” Iris demands.

“Oh, Lucy, are you sure?” Rose cheeps, wringing her hands.

“Um…I think so,” I answer.

“Well, good for you,” Mom says with brisk insincerity.

“After my Larry died, I never wanted another man,” Rose declares in a singsong voice.

“Me, neither,” Iris huffs. “No one could fill Pete’s shoes. He was the Love of My Life. I couldn’t imagine being with someone else.” She glances at me. “Not that there’s anything wrong with you wanting someone else, honey,” she adds belatedly.

The bell over the front door opens, and in comes Captain Bob, an old friend of my father’s. Bob owns a forty-foot boat in which he takes groups for a one-hour cruise around Mackerly, complete with colorful narrative and irregular history. I know, because I often pilot his boat as a part-time job.

“Hello there, Daisy. A beautiful day, isn’t it?” His ruddy face, the result of too much sun and Irish coffee, flushes redder still. He’s been in love with my mother for decades. “And who’ve you got there?” Captain Bob adds, his voice softening. He takes another step toward Mom.

Mom turns away. “My granddaughter. Don’t breathe on her. She’s only five days old.”

“Of course. She’s beautiful,” Bob says, looking at the floor.

“What can I get you, Captain Bob?” I ask. Other than a date with my mom.

“Oh, I’ll have a cheese danish, if that’s okay,” he says with a grateful smile.

“Of course it’s okay.” I smile while fetching his order. The poor guy comes in every day to stare at my mother, who takes great delight in snubbing him. Perhaps this should be my first lesson in dating—treat men badly, and they’ll love you forever. Then again, I never had to treat Jimmy badly. Just one look, as the song says. That’s all it took.

My sister emerges from the bathroom, her eyes red. “I need to feed her,” she announces. “My boobs are about to explode. Oh, hi, Captain Bob.”

Bob flinches and murmurs congratulations, then takes his danish and change.

“Is nursing hygienic?” Rose wonders.

“Of course it is. Best thing for the baby.” Iris turns to Captain Bob. “My daughter’s a lesbian doctor. An obstetrician. She says nursing’s best.” It is true that my cousin Anne is a lesbian and an obstetrician…not a doctor to lesbians (or not solely lesbians) as Iris’s description always causes me to think. Bob murmurs something, then slinks out the door with another look of longing for my mother, which she pretends to ignore.

“I never nursed,” Rose muses. “In my day, only the hippies nursed. They don’t bathe every day, you know. The hippies.”

Corinne takes the baby to the only table in Bunny’s—the Black Widows don’t encourage people to linger. “This is not the Starbucks,” they like to announce. “We don’t ship food in from a truck. Get your fancy-shmancy coffee somewhere else. This is a bakery.” My aunts are one of the many reasons the Starbucks down the street does such a brisk business.

Corinne lifts up her shirt discreetly, fumbles at her bra, then moves the baby into position. She winces, gasps and then, seeing me watch, immediately slaps a smile on her face.

“Does it hurt?” I ask.

“Oh, no,” she lies. “It’s…a little…it’s fine. I’ll get used to it.” Sweat breaks out on her forehead, and her eyelids flutter in pain, but that smile doesn’t drop.

The bell rings again, announcing another visitor. Two, in this case. Parker and Nicky.

“Nicky!” the Black Widows cry, falling on the lad like vultures on fresh roadkill. The boy is kissed and hugged and worshipped. He grins at me, and I wave, my heart swelling with love. He is a beautiful boy, the image of Ethan.

“Is there frosting?” he asks, and my mother and aunts lead him to the back to sugar him up.

“Frosting’s not good for him, Parker,” my sister points out, wiping the nursing-induced sweat from her forehead. “It’s all sugar. You shouldn’t let them give Nicky sugar.”

“Well, given that my aunts taught me how to throw up after meals,” Parker replies calmly, “a little frosting therapy seems pretty benign.” She smiles at me. “Hi, Luce.”

“Hi, Parker,” I return, smiling back.

Maybe it’s because she was the first friend I made after being widowed, one of the few people in town who hadn’t known me before, maybe it’s because I generously ignore the fact that she’s tall, slim, gorgeous and rich, but Parker and I are friends. The first thing she ever said to me upon learning that I was Ethan’s brother’s widow, was “Jesus! That just sucks!” No platitudes, no awkward expressions of sympathy. I found that quite refreshing. I was rather flattered when she called me after her breakup with Ethan, and even more when she included me on the details of her pregnancy. At the time, everyone else was still doing the kid-gloves thing. Don’t mention babies…she’s a widow. Don’t talk about your love life…she’s a widow. To Parker, I was just me—a widow, yes, but a person first. You’d be surprised how rare that take on things can be.