The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(43)

As I measure out the ingredients, the sharp, pure smell of Mexican vanilla fills the air. I inhale, then rub a little on my wrist. Best perfume in the world, in my opinion.

By eleven, one of the prettiest cakes I’ve ever made sits in front of me. It’s gorgeous…both layers came out perfectly, no tilting or sinking, no sir. The icing gleams, the brown so deep and lovely I wish I could live in it. Coffee and chocolate, butter and vanilla, the inexpressibly comforting smell of cake fills my oven-warmed kitchen. Though it’s probably just my imagination, it seems that on the shelf over the window, my little statue of St. Honore, patron saint of bakers, is smiling.

As rewarding as it might be, as good as my bread truly is, I really should be a pastry chef again.

I cut a slab of cake and gently transfer it to one of my pretty plates. Wrapping it in plastic, I tape a little note to the edge. “Enjoy.” Then I slip out of my apartment and walk upstairs, leaving the cake in front of Ethan’s door.

There is no sound from within. He might be at Parker’s…he’s been known to sleep over there from time to time; once when Nicky had strep and was having fever-induced nightmares, another time when the little guy got stitches after crashing his tricycle into a tree. Sometimes just to be there, and since there are seventeen bedrooms in Grayhurst, why not? Or he might be there for romantic reasons, and the image of Ethan kissing Parker, taking her hand and leading her to bed, causes my stomach to twist. I shouldn’t be jealous—Ethan deserves every happiness, perhaps more than anyone I know. If he’s with Parker, I should be glad.

The image of Ethan with Doral-Anne, however, is too horrible to contemplate.

With a sigh, I turn and retrace my weary steps back down to my place. I’m tired.

But rather than go to bed, I find myself casting another admiring glance at the remaining cake. Then I go to the pantry, grope around in the white cardboard box, take out a Twinkie and wait out the night.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

“WANNA SEE ME LIGHT THIS ON FIRE and drink it?”

Stevie, the poison-ivy eating, corpse-tipping cousin, stands before me, a glass of whiskey in one hand, a lighter in the other.

“No, Stevie. Do not light that on fire. Don’t be an idiot.”

“God, you’re no fun anymore,” Stevie says. “Hey, heard you’re looking for a new guy. I know someone, a buddy a’ mine—”

“No, thanks, Stevie.”

“Come on, let me tell you about him! He’s a good guy. Lotsa fun.”

“Stevie, sweetie, if he’s your buddy and you think he’s fun, then I’m under the impression that he likes to steal cars, get tattoos and shoot fish. Am I right?”

“Yeah. So?” Stevie looks injured. I pat his arm and wander off to mingle. I’m the daughter-in-law, after all, and this is the Mirabellis’ farewell party as they depart for Valle de Muerte…er, Puerte.

Gianni’s is mobbed…probably shouldn’t say that at an Italian restaurant in Rhode Island. Gianni’s is packed to the gills, that’s better. Half the town is here—the mayor, the town council, Father Adhyatman from St. Bonaventure, Reverend Covers from St. Andrew’s, which is right across the street. (They often have attendance contests…the winner buys dinner at Lenny’s, all very convivial. Beats a holy war.) Ash is here, dressed in the expected black and chains, and my mother is staring at her as one would stare at a particularly gruesome roadkill, not even noticing that Captain Bob is, in turn, staring at her. There’s my excellent cousin Anne the lesbian doctor and her special friend, as Iris calls her. In fact, Iris is now trying to force-feed Laura, who has the willowy grace of a supermodel.

Gianni’s Ristorante won’t be closing—my father-in-law couldn’t bring himself to go that far. Instead his cousin’s husband’s brother is going to take over, and they’ll “see how it goes” before putting anything up for sale. It was a relief, honestly…while losing a few restaurant accounts might make the Black Widows rethink Bunny’s business plan, I’m not ready to lose the place where Jimmy and I met, where he worked so happily.

“Hi, Aunt Wucy!” My nephew hugs my legs, then wipes his mouth on my pants.

“Hi there, gorgeous,” I say, ruffling his hair. He smiles up at me, his lips curling in identical fashion to his father’s. I scoop the lad up and kiss his cheek. “What’s new, Superglue?”

He giggles. “Nothing. I ate a squid.”

“Did you? Was it good?”

He nods, then reaches into the pocket of his little pink oxford shirt. “Here. I brought you one.”

Sure enough, he holds a fried calamari in his grimy little hand. “Thank you, angel!” I say, kissing him again. “Can I save it for later?”

“Okay. Can I get down now? I wanna find Daddy. I have a squid for him, too.” I set him down, and off he runs.

“Hi, Lucy,” my sister says. Emma is, as ever, clutched to her bosom. Or I think it’s Emma…it’s a baby-size lump covered in a pink blanket.

“Can I peek at Emma?” I ask. “I’d love to hold her. Can I?”

Corinne stiffens. “Um…well, there’s so many people.”

“Please? I haven’t held her for a day and a half,” I plead.

“If you dropped her—”