The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(32)

I shift in my chair to look at him better. His jaw is tight, and a muscle jumps underneath his left eye. I reach out and give him a tentative pat on the leg.

“Would you please stop touching my leg?” he bites out.

My hand slinks back to my own lap. “Sorry! Sorry, Eth,” I say. “But listen, your parents deserve to retire. Why are you so mad, buddy?”

He gives me a look that could cut glass. “Lucy, you’re so obtuse sometimes,” he says.

“What? What am I missing?”

He continues to gaze at me dispassionately, like a teacher with a not-very-bright student. “If Jimmy were alive, they’d never leave. They’d die in that kitchen.” He jerks his chin in the direction of his parents’ escape.

“Well, Jimmy did die,” I murmur. My hand wants to pat him again, but we know better.

“I’m aware of that, Lucy,” he says, his voice unfamiliar in its hardness.

“And they really should retire. They’re in their seventies, aren’t they?”

“Yes. And I don’t begrudge them retirement. But why not Newport or the Cape or something? Why Arizona? It’s a little far, don’t you think? I just moved back here, and I was hoping…”

“Hoping to be closer with them?” I ask.

Ethan shrugs. “I guess.” He pauses, pushing the food around on his plate. I sneak another mouthful, feeling somehow that I’m being unsympathetic by eating when my friend is distressed. Chewing without moving my mouth proves difficult, however, so I just go for it, letting Ethan brood next to me. It works.

“Did you know that Jimmy was named for our grandfathers?” he asks after a few minutes “They were both Giacomo.”

I smile. I did know that little fact, learning only when it was time to do our wedding invitation that Jimmy’s name wasn’t James, as I’d assumed. “What’s your point?” I ask gently.

Ethan straightens his fork. “Do you know who I’m named for?” he asks.

“He’s named for the doctor,” Marie announces loudly. Apparently, Angelo has been thoroughly chastised, because both my in-laws have returned to the table. They sit now, Marie smiling, Gianni glowering. “We were so sure you were a girl, honey,” Marie says to her younger son. “Lucy, we didn’t even have a boy’s name picked out, we were so sure! You were supposed to be Francesca. Isn’t that a lovely name?”

“It is,” I agree, grinning at Ethan.

“Even when the doctor said you were a boy, I didn’t believe it. I was convinced you were a girl!”

“What every man wants to hear, Ma,” Ethan says, but Marie continues, undaunted.

“So then he shows me your tiny little parts—” Ethan closes his eyes and I giggle “—and we were just stumped! Then your father here—” Marie elbows Gianni “—your father says, ‘So what do we call the little bugger?’ And my mind, it goes completely blank, so I look at Dr. Tavendish and I say, ‘What’s your first name, Dr. T.?’ And he says, ‘Ethan.’ And that was that!” She and Gianni smile at each other fondly, warmed by the memory.

“And that’s how this little paesan got a WASP name,” Ethan says. Then he gives his parents a smile that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. “So tell us more about Valle de Muerte.”

AFTER DINNER, ETHAN AND I WALK HOME. The street is quiet, as sidewalks tend to roll up before nine after Labor Day. Ethan knows how I feel about the cemetery, and it’s nice not to have someone trying to coax me through like they’re cajoling a reluctant dog out of a crate. The stars gleam bright above, and salt flavors the air, putting me in mind of sourdough bread.

“Does it really bother you, being named after the doctor?” I ask.

“Not really. It’s just…well, it doesn’t matter.” Ethan says mildly. I suspect it does, but now that we’re away from his parents, he’s not going to reopen the subject.

“How’s the new job going?” I ask.

“It’s okay.”

“What do you do all day?”

He sighs. “Meetings. Long-range planning, research on new markets.”

It’s a far cry from what he used to do…schmoozing, basically. He was head of North American sales, rather astonishing, given that he’s only twenty-seven. Instead of working at Gianni’s during college, Ethan took a summer internship at International, and his employers so liked him that they offered him a job. I know from Parker that the new position is a promotion and Ethan’s making even more money now, but I also know that long-range planning and research are not Ethan’s thing. Certainly, though, it’s safer than flying all around the country and doing all those adventure sports things.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

“Not especially.”

“Then why’d you take it?”

We’ve reached the bridge and stop for a minute, looking down at the Mackerly River, which flows from the ocean side of the island to the bay. The lights of the much more upscale Newport twinkle in the distance, but here on our little lump of land, it’s quiet save for the murmuring rush of the tidal river and the occasional night bird. A breeze ruffles Ethan’s perpetually rumpled hair.

He glances at me. “Figured I should be around more for Nicky,” he says, dropping his gaze to the water.