The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(102)

Marie remains unimpressed.

“I’ve got to go,” I say again. We walk down the hall together. Fat Mikey yowling at the indignity of being carried in such a fashion.

“Come for dinner at the restaurant one of these days, honey,” she calls as I press the button for the elevator. “You know how Gianni likes to cook for you.”

“Will do,” I answer, smiling. The second the doors close, my smile drops like an anvil.

THE STRANGE, NUMB VERSION OF MYSELF continues for the next few days. I return to the bakery, waking long before anyone else is around, and go through the motions—weighing the dough, shaping the loaves, letting them rise, scoring the tops with robotic precision. I’ve never been more efficient, actually, and Jorge gives me a significant look on my third day back, when I do all the washing before he even comes in. After two nights with Mom, I went back to my apartment, figuring I couldn’t hide forever. Corinne and Emma came for a visit. Ash dropped by as well and stayed for a game of Extreme Racing USA.

I haven’t seen Ethan. Not at all. Marie told me he’s away on business. His absence is a hole in my heart.

On Friday afternoon, I find myself alone in the bakery. Without the promise of happy hour, the Black Widows left at three, and Jorge took care of the evening deliveries. The cooler hums. The cases have been cleared, Rose’s sad cookies refrozen for a more hopeful day. The kitchen is clean, though maybe I could find a few things to do. Empty the grease from the Frialator. “What an exciting life you lead, Lucy Lang,” I say out loud. My voice echoes.

I go out the front door and lean against the lamppost, looking over at the town green. Yet another sunny October day, the sky a deep and aching blue, the last few leaves of the beech trees clinging precariously. Over the sounds of the wind and a distant soccer game comes the sound of Canada geese. I look up and sure enough, a ragged V formation flies right over the cemetery, the geese squawking and talking as they head south for the winter. Good luck, I think. Be careful. Don’t get shot. Mind the airplanes.

A bright flash of color rounds the corner—yellow skirt, orange winter boots, purple coat, orange poncho.

“Grinelda!” I bark.

She shuffles to a halt. “Hello,” she says, pulling down her blue-tinted, Bono-style sunglasses to peer at me.

“Hey, have you got a minute?” I ask. She doesn’t answer immediately. “I can pay,” I add.

“Sure,” she replies. “Got any cookies?”

“They’re all in the freezer, but come on in. I’ll find something.”

Ten minutes later, Grinelda is drinking an overly sweetened cup of coffee and eating a Ding-Dong I had in my purse.

“So,” she says, a clot of chocolate dropping from her mouth. “You want a reading?”

I hesitate, then plunge in. “Yes, please.”

“You’re a believer now?” she says, grinning like Fat Mikey when he’s slain a rodent.

“Well,” I murmur, “I was wondering if maybe Jimmy had more for me than toast advice.”

She shoves the last half of the Ding-Dong into her mouth, her cheeks bulging, then swallows like a cormorant trying to get down a particularly bony fish. “Let’s find out,” she says. She closes her eyes and lets out a low hum. “Uuuunnnnnnhhhh. Uuuunnnnnnhhhh.” This is new. She must’ve seen it on TV or something. “Uuuunnnnnnhhhh.”

I sigh. It’s come to this. I’m an official Black Widow.

“Okay, I’m getting someone. Name starts with a J.”

“I’m guessing that would be Jimmy,” I say neutrally

“Don’t speak.” She breathes again. “Uuuunnnnnnhhhh. Yes. J. It’s a man. Tall. He’s holding a frying pan. Is it Jimmy? Yes! It’s Jimmy.”

I roll my eyes. “Hi, Jimmy.”

“Uuuunnnnnnhhhh. Uhn—What’s this? He’s surrounded by food. Tomatoes, garlic, chicken—”

“Okay, Grinelda, you know Jimmy was a chef. That’s no secret—”

“Shush. I’m getting something.” She opens one eye a slit. “Got any more of those Ding-Dongs?”

“You know what, Grinelda? Never mind. I’ll just—”

“Shh! Okay. He’s showing me something. Bread. No, toast. He says…yes. Toast.”

“Right,” I mutter, more disgusted with myself than Grinelda. “Check the toast. Got it, Jimmy. Anything else?”

“He’s showing me something else. A wedding? Yes. A wedding. Marriage.”

Ah. Now we have something, I think. Of course, we probably don’t, given that it’s Grinelda and all, but still. I’m desperate.

Grinelda peeks at me again. “Does this mean anything to you?”

At that moment, my cell phone rings.

“Cell phone usage is strongly discouraged during communication from the other side,” Grinelda intones.

I hit Mute and glance at the screen. It’s Matt DeSalvo.

Matt DeSalvo. The bread man. Who could get my bread to thousands of people, who could then make toast with it. My mother and aunts felt that Jimmy was pushing me to the bread man. Now there’s a wedding in the picture. And Matt just happens to call.

“He’s going,” Grinelda says, and though it’s been almost six years and though I don’t have a lot of faith in Grinelda’s special gifts, I feel a lump rise in my throat just the same.