The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(29)

Breaking up—check that. Ending the arrangement between Ethan and me was a good idea. I wanted to move on, and Ethan was too dangerous a choice for a husband.

I just hadn’t realized how much I’d miss him.

CHAPTER EIGHT

“AND THIS ONE? WHAT WOULD YOU call that, my dear?”

“That, Mr. Dombrowski, is our world famous chocolate chip cookie.” Famous perhaps for its utter blandness, and a far cry from the crispy, butter-soaked variety Iris bakes for family members. She says the recipe is not worth wasting on what she calls “the great unwashed.”

“I see, I see.” He shuffles another inch alongside the case. “And this one?”

I smile. “That would be our legendary cheese danish. I believe you’ve tried those before.” Every day for the past twenty-three years, in fact.

“I think I may try that, then. You say I like it?”

“You do, Mr. D. You definitely do.” I take a danish out of the case and, because I like Mr. D. so much, put it in a little box and tie it with string. He deserves more than a bag. We had tea together once in his surprisingly bright and uncluttered house—and it took him about half an hour to set the table just so. I could relate…at the time, I’d been a new widow, and filling the hours was of utmost importance.

“I think I’ll enjoy this,” Mr. Dombrowski says. He straightens his tie—he still wears one every day—and a wave of tenderness washes over me.

“Please come back soon,” I say, handing him the box. “It’s always so nice to see you.”

His creased old face splits in a smile. “Thank you, my dear,” he says.

If Bunny’s had tables and chairs and served coffee and tea, Mr. D. would have a place to sit every day. He might see more people than just the Black Widows and me.

“I think we should expand,” I announce as I return to the kitchen. The yeasty smell of Italian bread fills the air—Jorge just left with Gianni’s Friday night order, and things are winding down at Bunny’s. Iris and Rose are hunched over a newspaper, the pastry dough for tomorrow morning’s danishes sitting in neglected lumps. When dough gets warm, it loses its flakiness. I glance at what they’re poring over—it’s the sports page, featuring a large picture of Josh Beckett of Red Sox fame. Aw. My aunts are cougars. How cute.

“Hello?” I say. “Anyone baking back here? This dough’s getting warm.”

Both aunts jump. Rose grabs a rolling pin and attacks the dough maniacally.

“Expand what?” Iris asks, her face taking on that bulldog look she gets whenever we discuss this.

“The bakery. It’s silly that we don’t have seats or serve coffee. We’re losing money hand over fist to Starbucks.”

“We’re not some grunge hangout,” Rose says, and I have to say, I’m impressed she knows the term grunge. “We’re a bakery. We sell baked goods, not some over-priced coffee that tastes like you scraped it off the bottom of the pot. And a tall? What’s a tall? What’s a grand? They don’t even say it right. GrahhhhnnnDAY. Please. Can’t they just say small, medium, large?”

I arch an eyebrow at my aunt. “You’ve been to Starbucks, Rose. How surprising.”

“What?” Iris barks. “Explain yourself.”

Rose blinks like a frightened mouse, a strategy that’s always worked well for her. “I didn’t mean to order a coffee,” she peeps in her little-girl voice. “But those names are so confusing! I thought I was getting a hot chocolate.”

“We have hot chocolate at home!” Iris thunders.

“Not like the Starbucks,” Rose says, her face lighting up with something like religious adoration. She turns to me. “Oh, Lucy, sweetheart, you have to try it! It’s incredible! The whipped cream is—”

“You’re a traitor to this family, Rose Black Thompson!” Iris barks. “Mama would spin in her grave!”

My mother drifts in, navy pencil skirt, silk blouse printed in blue and green, bottle-green suede Prada pumps that I’d nearly bought myself last week. “I could hear you in front of Lenny’s, Iris,” she says.

“Your sister has been to the Starbucks!” Iris says in the same tone as one might say, Your sister strangled a puppy.

“Stop being so domineering, Iris,” Rose dares, her face pink. “I can buy a hot chocolate if I want to! You’re not the boss of me!”

“Okay, stop, you two, or I’m turning a hose on you,” my mother says. “Lucy, someone just came in. Take it, won’t you?”

Gratefully, I scurry out of the kitchen. Charley Spirito is there, resplendent in Red Sox regalia—jacket, cap, sweatpants as well as a black eye and sheepish look. “Hi, Luce,” he says hesitantly.

“Hey, Charley,” I answer. “What can I get you?”

The bell over the door tinkles as Ethan comes in, insulated bag in hand. My heart does a little twist, which I try to ignore. He’s not here to see me, of course. Tonight’s Friday. Cocktail hour. “Hi, Lucy. Hey, Charley,” Ethan says. “Helluva black eye.”

“Your handiwork. How’s it going, Eth?” Charley returns, shaking Ethan’s hand. Apparently there are no hard feelings. Men.

The Black Widows trail out of the kitchen like Pavlov’s dogs at the sound of Ethan’s voice.