The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(48)
Finally we were all herded out. Boggy was tired. I’d run back home and got her another six scones, since she’d eaten three that afternoon. With promises to make whatever she liked, I kissed her withered cheek and bid her goodbye. Not sure if she remembers me, but it hardly matters.
I check my purse to make sure I have my cell phone. My date sounded pretty nice, though we’ve only spoken via e-mail and once on the phone. Has a steady job. Never been married. Seems terrifyingly normal.
At the notion of sitting in Lenny’s with yet another candidate for husband, the pebble in my throat seems to swell. And hey…Here’s the bag from the pharmacy. My new prescription. Ah, yes. Anne said they were mild…maybe I should take one. Thinking of my recent panic attacks, I decide to give it a try. I read the instructions on the bottle, take a pill, eat a Twinkie in order to obey the “take with food” requirement. Then I check my upper lip for whiskers, blow my cat a kiss and promise to return soon, and leave.
As I wait for the elevator, I wonder how Ethan’s doing. He didn’t swing by High Hopes. Nor did he call me back. Nor have we seen each other since the Mirabellis’ going-away party, as I’d bowed out of the actual physical departure of my in-laws. Gianni, Marie and I had a big tear fest the day before they left, and that was as much as we could handle.
Outside, it’s a little chilly, a stiff breeze knifing off the water. October is just around the corner. It’s my favorite month…the shorter days seem more forgiving, gentler somehow, encouraging people to go inside and eat something warm. The smell of ocean is thick in the air as I head down Park Street, skirting the cemetery, noting that the maples are red and gold, the beeches a cheery yellow.
As I pass the spot where my father’s buried, I stop for a second and peek over the wall. Convenient, that he’s so close to the edge…I don’t have to suffer the same guilt I feel over not visiting Jimmy’s grave. “Hey, Dad,” I say. For a second, I pull my father’s image to mind, trying to find a real memory and not just something from a home movie or photograph. Ah. Here we go. An old favorite, worn but not diminished from the many times I’ve summoned it. Daddy pushing me on the swing, his big hands propelling me through the air, the giddy tickle in my stomach, the wind in my hair, my father’s big laugh behind me.
A little melancholy descends like a damp fog. If only my Lazarus scones could bring back my dad. Just for a day. Just an hour, even. Ten minutes, hey. I’m not greedy. If I could ask him how I’m doing, or what I should be doing. If I could feel his arms around me, smell his comforting Dad smell, which I swear I can almost catch sometimes. If my father would just tell me everything would be okay, I’d have a much easier time believing it.
Ah, well. Enough maudlin self-pity for the day. Besides, maybe my pill is starting to take effect. I feel a little…light. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken it before a date, but then again, what better time?
I get to Lenny’s and wave. There’s Tommy Malloy, shooting pool with Obie Chisholm. Carly Espinosa is here—she and her husband, Ted or Todd, I can never remember—have a standing date on Thursdays.
I look around the bar…hmm. That’s odd. Seems like my head is still moving, even though it’s not. What’s my date’s name again? Something weird. Oh, yes. Corbin, as in Corbin Dallas, the Bruce Willis character from The Fifth Element. I love that movie. “Corbin Dallas,” I say aloud. Oops. Yes, it’s fair to say the pill has definitely kicked in. Kind of a nice feeling, really, like I’ve just had a big glass of Chardonnay.
Well, he doesn’t seem to be here. I take a seat at an empty booth, only to be joined immediately by Stevie.
“Can you f**king believe Aunt Boggy?” he asks. He holds a martini glass filled with purple liquid. A haze of smoke hovers over it, and I wince. God knows what’s in there. Could be anything from dry ice to formaldehyde, knowing Stevie.
“It’s pretty amazing,” I say.
“Hey, you’re gonna come to my thing, right?” he asks. “When I break the record?”
“Is there really a cow-jumping record to break, Stevie?” I ask.
“I dunno,” he grunts, taking another slug of whatever’s in his glass. “If not, I can set it.”
“Sure, I’ll be there,” I answer. “Sounds fun.”
“Watch this, Luce.” Stevie tips his head back and balances the martini glass on his forehead. “Cool, huh?” he asks.
“Wicked cool, Stevie,” I agree.
“Okay, gotta run.” Stevie removes the martini, sloshing a little liquid into his hair. “There’s Craig Owens. See ya, cuz.” Stevie, never the most focused lad, wanders off to his oldest friend—the one who once dared him to eat poison ivy.
“Lucy?” I look up.
“Yes. Are you Corbin?” He nods, smiles and sits down.
Corbin and I have not met face-to-face, though I saw his picture on eCommitment. A rather plain guy, classic New England face—light brown hair, small blue eyes, straight teeth, the short nose of the Boston Irish. He meets many of the criteria for my next husband: He is an executive at an insurance company and enjoys running and golf (the desk job and frequent physical exercise meeting the Low Risk of Early Death requirement). His job is with an old, well-established company (about as recession-proof as you can get in this day and age). He volunteers with troubled youths at a camp for two weeks each summer, so his Fatherhood Potential is high. And he’s not making the blood thrill in my veins. Another plus.