The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(36)
Stop.
Jimmy’s eyes were not brown.
Nor was it Jimmy’s face I pictured.
My legs are suddenly weak with terror, watery and useless. Suddenly my teeth are chattering. Dear God, it’s a panic attack, the likes of which I haven’t had since the first year after Jimmy’s death. I’m going to faint. I’m holding a baby and I’m going to faint. A bench waits nearby, and somehow I wobble toward it and sit heavily. Don’t faint, don’t faint, don’t faint, I chant silently to myself. I take a deep breath and hold it, then release it slowly, as I was taught in grief group after Jimmy died. My heart shudders and flops.
“I won’t drop you, Emma,” I whisper, and talking to her helps. I’m her auntie. I can’t let anything bad happen. I love her too much. My racing heart slows, my teeth stop chattering.
“Auntie’s okay,” I say, and my voice is stronger now. “Auntie loves you, angel.” She makes a small sound, and my eyes fill with tears. I’m okay now. That image meant nothing. The face I pictured…okay, yes, yes, it was Ethan’s face…that didn’t mean anything. My breath jerks in and out, eventually calming.
I won’t be having children with Ethan, God knows. Let’s be honest. It’s not Ethan’s link to Parker—or Jimmy—that stops me from being with him.
It’s the knowledge that I could really fall in love with Ethan. That I could love him in a way that would rip me in half if anything happened to him. That losing Ethan as I lost Jimmy could ruin me, and that this time, I might not make it back.
And whatever I could maybe feel for Ethan, however much he’s done for me—nothing is worth that kind of pain again.
“Auntie’s fine,” I whisper again, stroking Emma’s head with one hand. “Auntie is just fine.”
CHAPTER TEN
“READY TO GO IN?” I ask as I stand in the parking lot.
Standing in the parking lot is a time-honored ritual whenever I go anywhere with the Black Widows. There’s an order, you see, a hierarchy of who gets out first and how. First, tradition dictates that the youngest among us drives. That’s me, and I’m grateful, as Iris and Rose’s method is to point the vehicle in the desired direction and step on the gas. Getting out of the way is the responsibility of other drivers, pedestrians, deer, trees and buildings.
Upon arriving at our destination, tradition dictates that I hop out of the car and stand in attendance as Iris reapplies her Coral Glow, which was discontinued in 1978 but which she had the foresight to stockpile. She doesn’t need a mirror to put on lipstick, a skill they must’ve taught back when Eisenhower was president, since I’ve never seen a woman under the age of sixty pull this off.
The next tradition, which we’re living right now, is for Rose to gasp in horror, realizing she’s lost her wallet, then rifle through her vast black purse, her lips moving in silent prayer. A moment later, St. Anthony, patron saint of lost things, miraculously restores the wallet, placing it right there next to the rubber-banded envelope containing Rose’s medical insurance card, list of medications, several dozen coupons and her burial instructions.
After this bit of divine intervention, my mother must retie her scarf. She never goes anywhere without a scarf, winter or summer. Today’s choice is a beautiful little orange and pink number, and despite the fact that we only left the bakery ten minutes ago, tradition must be honored.
“Does my neck look crepey to you?” Mom asks as I watch, my arms beginning to ache from holding the tray of apricot brioche I baked in class last night. My students, who range in age from seventeen to eighty-four, had raved about them.
“Not at all,” I answer. “You’re gorgeous, Mom.”
“Oh, I am not,” she says fondly. Another tradition—reject compliments. Then her gaze drops down to my faded jeans with the fraying hem, my utterly unremarkable brown wool sweater. “Is that what you’re wearing?” she asks.
“No. I’m wearing a ball gown, but it’s invisible.” I twirl around, taking care not to spill the goodies. “Do you like it?”
“It wouldn’t kill you to dress up a little,” she says, adjusting her own skirt, a pretty, silky little number. She’s right, of course—yesterday, I bought yet another cashmere sweater, my seventeenth (but really, this one could not be denied—it was a gorgeous peachy color with a wide neckline and the prettiest buttons). My closet appears in my mind, its doors opening in supplication. Come on, Lucy, the unworn clothes beg. We’re here for you.
“Are we ready?” Iris asks, then, without waiting for an answer, strides ahead, leading the little parade of Hungarian widows inside.
High Hopes Convalescent Center is a poorly named nursing home, since most of its residents are dying. One of them is my Great-Aunt Boggy (her name is actually Boglarka, which means “Buttercup” in Hungarian). Visiting is a regular gig for the Black Widows and me…we honor our elders, even those who don’t know we’re around. Such is the case with Great-Aunt Boggy, age one hundred and four, nonverbal since my sophomore year in high school, a person who rouses only to eat, then slips back to the foggy place where she’s been for so long.
“What’s that?” Iris asks suspiciously, holding the door for me.
“Apricot brioche,” I say, lifting the cloth napkin that covers my tray. Boggy will eat one or two, and the grateful staff will eat the rest.