The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(38)

“So adopt,” Mom says.

“We got invited to Mirabellis’ going-away party,” Rose says. “I do love a party.”

“Boggy, lunch is ready!” Mom announces loudly. “Chicken paprikas, extra sour cream, just the way you like it! And galuska, too!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you really shouldn’t give her that,” says a nurse, poking her head inside the door. “The doctor just put her on a low-salt, low-fat diet.”

My mother and aunts recoil as if slapped. “What doctor?” Iris demands. “My daughter, she didn’t say anything about low salt. And she’s a lesbian doctor.”

“Poor Boggy!” Rose cries. “Isn’t it bad enough that she’s—” Rose’s voice drops to a melodramatic whisper “—in the coma?”

“She’s not in a coma,” the nurse says. “Not technically. Anyway, she needs to stick to her diet.”

“Oh, gosh,” I say. “Aunt Boggy’s a hundred and four. She should get to eat a little paprikas, don’t you think?” I smile, appealing to the nurse’s sense of humanity. Depriving an ancient old lady of salty, butter-soaked food is the moral equivalent of water-boarding in the eyes of this family. A call to Amnesty International will be next.

“That’s right,” Iris says. “Lucy, you’re right. So nuts to you, nurse!” She grabs the bowl from my mother’s hands and marches over to Aunt Boggy, pushes the button on her bed to raise the old lady to a sitting position and begins spooning the chicken sludge into her mouth. The nurse sighs and walks away. I’m not sure, but I think Boggy smiles. And while it’s a little disgusting to watch Boggy’s droopy mouth open and close like a baby bird’s, I have to say, it smells fantastic in here. Rose wipes Boggy’s mouth, and Iris shovels in some more high-fat, salty, delicious food.

“Mom,” I say, turning back to my mother in the hope of resuming our earlier conversation, “do you miss being married?”

She gives me a look of thinly veiled patience. “Why? Did you see Joe Torre on TV?” Apparently Mom hasn’t forgotten my timid suggestions way back when that she try to find someone like “that nice Mr. Torre.”

“No,” I say. “But—”

“Lucy, promise me you’ll never wear that sweater out in public again, okay, honey?” She gets up and spreads an afghan over the bottom of Boggy’s bed, leaving me in the void where maternal advice is supposed to be.

Later that day and much to my surprise, my mother comes over as I’m packing up the afternoon bread. “I just got off the phone with Gertie Myers,” she says, naming her hairdresser, who was also my Girl Scout troop leader. “Her nephew Fred’s divorced, and I told her you were looking.”

“Oh,” I say, my stomach clenching. “Um. Okay. Thanks.” I pause. “Is he nice? Have you met him?”

“Does he have his own teeth?” Rose adds with complete sincerity, coming out of the freezer, where she was stowing a tray of unwanted, unpurchased, unappetizing cookies for another day.

“I have no idea,” my mother says. “But he’s coming to your baseball game tonight. Good luck.”

“HI, I’M FRED BUSEY.”

Gah! My mouth opens, but no sound emerges.

While Fred Busey may have his own teeth, the rest of the picture is not so pretty. He’s roughly five feet three inches and somewhere around two hundred and fifty pounds. From my lofty three-inch height difference, I am privy to a distressing view of his scalp. You know those infomercials where they’re pitching what’s basically a can of spray paint to cover some guy’s bald spot? Yes. That. And the result is, sadly, quite, er…noticeable.

Granted, Number Four on my color-coded list is Not Too Attractive so as to discourage lust, which is part of chemistry of course, and can lead to infatuation and even love…but Fred is pushing the envelope here.

“Hi,” I say, remembering my manners. “I’m Lucy Mirabelli. My mother gets her hair cut by your aunt.”

He grins. “Nice to meet you, Lucy,” he says, shaking my hand. Oh, dang. He seems nice.

“Hello, all,” says my sister. Baby Emma is clutched to her chest, and I lean in to take a look. “Not so close, Lucy, you’re dirty,” my sister says, then sticks out an elbow to Fred. “Hello, I’m Corinne, Lucy’s sister, and I’d shake your hand, but as you can see, I’m holding my baby. She’s eighteen and a half days old.”

“Congratulations,” Fred says, taking a peek at the baby. “She’s just beautiful. Looks like you.” He smiles at my sister, scoring thousands of points with Corinne. Charming, this guy, despite his outward resemblance to Jabba the Hutt. “Does your husband play softball, too?” he asks my sister.

“Oh, God, no! Softball’s way too dangerous,” Corinne says, her eyes wide with horror. “No, no. He’s an umpire. Second base.” There’s Christopher indeed, wearing the usual protective gear worn by umpires. And a Kevlar vest underneath. I’m not kidding. Corinne’s certain a line drive could cause his death.

“Luce!” Charley Spirito galumphs over. “Luce, you wanna get a beer after the game?” he says. At the sight of Fred Busey, Charley’s dopey grin falls off his face. “Who’s dis?” he says, immediately adopting a Mobbed-up accent.