The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(30)

“Hello, you beautiful creatures,” Ethan purrs in a low and very effective voice.

“Hello, Ethan,” they coo in unison. The man has a talent.

Tonight, after cocktail hour, Ethan and I are meeting his parents for dinner. They “have something to tell,” so it’s a command performance. I’ve barely seen Ethan since we, er, broke up, despite the fact that he’s right upstairs every night now. I called him on Tuesday to see if he wanted to hang out—basically, to show him we were still friends, even though the benefits package had been canceled—but he had to work on a presentation for the West Coast sales reps. Even the mention of my cinnamon-raisin bread pudding with a Jack Daniels-browned butter glaze didn’t sway him. I had, however, sneaked up and left a bowl in front of his door, sort of like the Tooth Fairy but with better stuff.

“What’s he want?” Iris asks, jerking her chin at Charley. Ah, customer relations. The cornerstone of any good business.

“Charley, what can I get you? We’re closing in a few minutes,” I say.

“Um, well…” Charley glances with rightful fear at Iris. “Lucy, I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me. Sometime. Maybe. If you’re not, uh, busy.”

I blink.

“On a date? Are you asking her out on a date?” Rose asks, her voice tremulous with hope. “Because she is dating, you know. She’s looking to get married again and have some babies.”

Ethan smothers a grin. My mother sighs.

“Thank you, Rose,” I say, knowing there’s no point in asking for discretion.

“The women in this family have always been brave in childbirth,” Iris muses. Then she slaps Charley with an intimidating gaze. “So? You want to take her on a date, or is this a ‘just friends’ situation?” Iris makes quote marks with her fingers. “You’re not g*y, are you? My daughter’s a lesbian doctor, so there’s nothing wrong with that. Just want to see what you have in mind.”

Charley looks understandably confused. “On a date, Charley?” I ask, just so we’re all clear.

“Yeah. On a date.” He fiddles with the zipper of his Red Sox jacket and can’t seem to look me in the eye.

Ethan is looking steadily at Charley. Maybe he put Charley up to this, to make up for the Black Widow crack at the game.

I don’t know that I really want to go out with Charley Spirito, whom I’ve known since first grade, when he serenaded me the alphabet song in belch format. On the other hand, I have to give him credit for having the chutzpah to ask in front of the Black Widows. And Ethan.

“Sure,” I answer slowly. “That would be nice.”

He lets out a breath. “Great. You busy tomorrow?”

I glance at Ethan. Most of my Saturday nights over the past few years have been spent, at least in some part and some form, with Ethan. He’s pouring vodka into a martini shaker. Jeesh. Grey Goose, wasted on the Black Widows, who could drink gasoline and Hawaiian Punch and call it delicious. He doesn’t look at me.

“Tomorrow’s fine,” I say, turning back to Charley. “Thanks.”

“I’ll call you, then.” He nods at the Black Widows, slaps Ethan on the shoulder and leaves.

“Charley Spirito?” my mother asks. “Isn’t he the one who put gum in your hair when you were ten?”

“Yes,” I say. What the heck. At least I know him. Hopefully his belching/gum-in-the-hair days are in the past.

“So. She’s got a date. And what are we drinking tonight, Ethan?” Iris booms.

“Sex on the Beach,” Ethan answers, grinning as he withdraws a bottle of peach schnapps from his little bag o’ liquor. The Black Widows hoot in appreciation.

Friday night happy hour has never really been about me. Plus, I don’t often drink hard alcohol (I did learn something from my run-in with the White Russians), so I grab my backpack from behind the counter and heft it onto my shoulder. “Have fun, guys.” I pause. “See you at Gianni’s later on, Eth?”

“I’ll meet you there,” he says.

Three hours later, I’m seated at the family table at Gianni’s Ristorante Italiano. Since Jimmy died, these family dinners have become more rare, but back in the day, it was one of the things that drew me to the Mirabellis—the kidding, the abundance of food, the menfolk. Jimmy, Gianni and Ethan…a husband, a father figure, a brother-in-law. It was all so reassuring, so safe and convivial.

Now, we sit, the four of us, Jimmy’s absence still a gaping hole, never more so than when the Mirabellis are together. I sit next to Ethan, across from my in-laws. Slices of my own delicious bread sit in a basket on the table, a candle flickers, and all around us, Gianni’s patrons swoon in delight. It really is a wonderful place, no matter how my father-in-law complains about the crappy help he gets in the kitchen, the dopey Russian sous chef he fired last week, the even dumber Sicilian he has now. I murmur in sympathy and eye the bowl of penne alla vodka that sits just out of my reach next to Marie. I’m starving.

Ethan’s energy bristles off of him in waves, tense and still as an Olympic racer before the starting pistol. He’s always like this with his parents…unlike Jimmy, who worked with them with an ease and fondness that touched my heart every time I saw it.

If Jimmy had gotten old, he’d have looked like his dad—the Mediterranean Sea eyes, broad shoulders, maybe even the extra thirty pounds Gianni carries. Ethan, by contrast, looks like his mom’s side of the family, dark hair and eyes, quick movements. He usually reminds me of an otter, rarely still, always up for fun…except in the presence of his family. It’s as if when Jimmy died, he took all the laughter from his family. As if reading my thoughts, Marie sighs heavily, her eyes moist.