The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(35)

No one slept through anything.

“Guess what?” Parker interrupts.

“What?” I yelp guiltily. Cripes, am I blushing?

“Ethan dropped by last night,” she says.

My cheeks burn hotter. “So? He’s the father of your child. He drops by a lot.” I look at my hands.

Parker gives me an odd look. “Well, hush and let me finish.”

“Sorry,” I mumble. Corinne pats Emma on the back, eliciting a shockingly loud belch for so tiny a package.

“So he asked if I wanted to go out. On a date. He said that maybe we should try having a real relationship, rather than just be the two parents of our son. Nicky, get down, honey. That’s too high. Good boy.”

“That’s sweet,” Corinne says.

“Sweet,” I echo. My knees tingle with adrenaline, though I don’t know why (the little hallway memory probably has a lot to do with it). Sober up, Lucy, I tell myself firmly. I’ve always thought there was more potential to Ethan and Parker than either of them did. “So? Are you gonna try?” I ask.

She grimaces. “I don’t know. It seems good on paper. It’s just not…I don’t know.”

“You should. You should marry him,” I say. God knows I’d love to have someone I liked, respected, admired, would father adorable children and who didn’t make my knees weak. And while my voice sounds normal, my heart is convulsing like a striper pulled out of the water.

Parker sighs. “Maybe I should,” she agrees with a considerable lack of enthusiasm. “But—”

At that moment, my sister’s cell phone rings, and she jumps like it’s the red phone in the Oval Office. “Hello? Chris? Are you okay? Honey?” She’s quiet a minute. “Sure! I’m fine! Oh, she’s wonderful! Beautiful! Perfect! How are you, sweetheart? I love you so much.”

“For Christ’s sake, they have medication for that,” Parker mumbles.

Glad for the change of subject, I feel my shoulders relax a little. “My mother’s last words to my dad were, and I quote here, Parker…‘Get the hell out of the bathroom, Rob, I have my period and I’m bleeding like a stuck pig.’” My friend snorts with horrified laughter, and I grin. “So give poor Cory a break. She’s just a screwball, as are we all.”

“You’re too nice, Lucy.” Parker grins.

“True. More people should be like me. You, for instance.”

Nicky, who seems to have more energy than a herd of ferrets, dangles from the jungle gym by one hand. Corinne, finished assuring Chris that the world is a wonderful, wonderful place, hangs up and says, “Parker, shouldn’t you direct his play a little more?”

“I don’t even know what that means,” Parker answers. “He’s a kid, Corinne! He’s having fun.”

Corinne gives her a dubious look. “Well, he’s your son, I suppose. Lucy, I’m going to check Dad’s grave. Want to come?”

It’s my sister’s habit to invite me on grave-weeding excursions. Someday, she’s convinced, my little phobia will crack and I’ll come along. She may be right, but today is not that day.

“Oh, no, thanks, Cory. Not today,” I say. “How about if I take my little niece for a stroll while you do your thing over there?”

She hesitates, nervous about letting me, a know-nothing agent of death, hold her child without supervision. “Please?” I beg. “Pretty please?”

“Well, okay,” she says, unable to find a way out of it. “Just make sure you keep a blanket over her head so she doesn’t burn. She doesn’t like to get sweaty, though, so make sure she can feel the breeze. Also, support her neck. And make sure she can breathe okay.”

“No smothering, Lucy, understand?” Parker quips.

“Got it.” I take the little bundle of love from my sister, who gives a reluctant grin.

“Sorry,” she says. “I know she’s safe with you.”

“Thank you,” I answer, breathing in the sweet and salty scent of infant.

“Nicky looks stuck,” Parker says. “Back in a flash.” She trots over to her child, who is now upside down at the top of the crow’s nest on the jungle gym.

“Want me to water Jimmy’s grave?” my sister offers.

“That would be nice. Thank you.” I smile up at my sister. She’s a sweetheart, despite her neuroses. And I’m in no position to cast stones.

Who will water Jimmy’s grave after his parents move? Ethan, I suppose. Or me. It could happen.

Emma turns her head so her face is tucked against my neck in the sweetest snuggle imaginable. Her slight weight is reassuring against my shoulder, her cheek so soft. I adjust her blanket, making sure she’s protected from the bright sun. She sighs, and my heart swells with love.

Ellington Park’s lovely wide paths are shaded by elm and maple trees. “Isn’t the shade nice?” I ask as we walk, dropping a kiss on her downy head. “And there’s a bird, a crow. They’re pretty. And very smart.” Never too early to start teaching. That’s what I’ve read, anyway. Talk to your baby. Read to them. That’s what I’d do if I were a mommy.

Though I’ve been resisting it, I give in to the temptation, and just for a moment, I pretend that Emma is mine. My daughter. That this miracle of cells grew in me, that it was my tummy that grew round and taut, causing Jimmy and me to just about burst with pride. That I’d grown ripe and glowing, a happy, laughing mother-to-be, never complaining, never swollen, never exhausted. And when the time came, I’d heroically tolerate the pains of childbirth without any drugs. I’d push and push, and when the doctor said, “It’s a girl!” I’d turn to my husband, who’d be smiling down at me, his laughing brown eyes bright with—