The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(49)

Still, I fail to feel as pleased as perhaps I should. Also, my eyes feel cold. That’s weird. “So,” I say.

“Thanks for meeting me,” he says. “Have you ordered yet?”

Lenny lumbers over to take our order. “So, Luce, you playing the field again?”

“Not exactly, Len, not exactly. Lenny, This is Corbin…um, sorry, Corbin, I didn’t get your last name.”

“Wojoczieski,” he answers.

“Huh. I thought you looked Irish,” I said.

“My mother’s Irish,” he answers, seeming pleased.

Wojo-something. Now that’s a name that will take a little studying. Wojo-et cetera. Hmm. Lucy Wojo…nah. Lucy Lang, that sounded the best. Even better than Lucy Mirabelli. Maybe I should go back to Lang. Maybe I could make up a new name, even. When I was a little girl, I wanted to change my last name to Ingalls Wilder, for obvious reasons. Maybe I can do that now.

“Luce? You want something?” Lenny asks, giving me a nudge.

“Chicken salad and seltzer, okay, Len?” I say. Even in my present state, I’m quite aware I shouldn’t drink even one drop of alcohol tonight. Because it’s clear that I’m a little…well, I hesitate to say stoned, since it implies illicit drug use, but affected by this medicine. However, and I have to give Anne credit here, I am not feeling anxious at all. Kind of floaty, kind of fun, really.

“The most amazing thing happened today,” I tell old Corbin as Lenny leaves. “My great-aunt Boggy woke up from the dead. Well, almost dead. Woke up from the near dead. She’s a hundred and four.”

“Isn’t that incredible!” Corbin says with a beaming smile. “My goodness! Amazing!”

“It was amazing, Corbin, it was indeed,” I agree. I wonder what would happen if my eyes froze like ice. Would I still be able to see? Move my eyes? Would they crack like an ice cube? “Wojoczieski? Did I get it right?”

“Yes, you did! Well done,” he says, beaming proudly. It is quite an accomplishment, after all. “So tell me more about this amazing woman.”

“Sure. Well, it was the scone or something.” I launch into the story, and Corbin is quite delighted.

“Isn’t that a marvel,” he murmurs, pausing as Lenny sets down our drinks.

“It is. It really is. Hey, do your eyes ever feel cold?”

“I can’t say that they do,” he answers amiably. “Cheers.”

We clink glasses. Boy, the bubbles in my seltzer water are so pretty. So floaty and pretty and round.

“You’re a baker, right?” Corbin says.

“That’s correct, Corbin Dallas,” I say. “I bake bread. Lots of kinds. Honey wheat, rye, marble, Italian, French, cinnamon raisin. It’s really good bread.” I tilt my head and smile, but it feels like my head keeps moving. Is my head still moving? I reach up to check. Nope. Head is stable, Houston. All systems go. Hey, that’s funny. Houston and Dallas in the same thought bubble. Cool.

“And I know you said you were a widow,” Corbin prompts. “I’m so sorry for your loss.” He reaches across the table and squeezes my hand, his little piggy blue eyes filled with compassion. I squeeze back.

“That’s nice of you, Corbin,” I answer. “You have nice manners.” I nod, and there goes that head still moving feeling. “Um, listen, Corbin. I took some medicine before we came here,” I add. “I’m feeling kind of strange.”

“Oh, dear,” he says. “Are you okay? Can I do anything?”

“Nah. I’m sure I’ll feel better once I eat something more than a Twinkie.”

Corbin smiles broadly, charmed. And why not? Am I not charming?

Speaking of not charming, the door opens, and in comes the surly Doral-Anne Driscoll. She catches sight of me and sneers. I just barely restrain myself from flipping her off. She heads over to a table, and dang it! There’s Ethan. He stands up, kisses her cheek and they sit down.

Ethan’s here. He didn’t call. He didn’t want to hear about Boggy or the Lazarus scones. Instead he’s here with that nasty white trash Doral-Anne. I mean, fine, but still. Can’t he do better than Doral-Anne? What about Parker?

“There’s no accounting for taste,” I say aloud—oops—but apparently my response makes sense to Corbin. Whatever. Nice guy. He keeps talking, smiling away, but I’m having trouble hearing.

Roxanne stomps over to our table with our food, slapping the plates down on the table with her trademark clatter, scowling. “Thank you!” I sing out, suddenly starving. I take a huge bite of sandwich…it’s a little hard to get food to the right spot, but I do feel a bit better after scarfing the thing down. Tasty. Quite tasty. Lenny puts a little curry powder in the chicken, a few red grapes. Very nice touch.

“So, Lucy,” Corbin says. Crikey, I almost forgot he was there. “Forgive me for asking, and you certainly don’t have to discuss it, but…how did your husband die?”

“It was a car accident,” I say around a large mouthful of fries.

“Oh, no,” he murmurs.

“He fell asleep at the wheel. Six miles from home.” I swallow and take another bite of chicken salad.

“Oh, no. You poor thing.” Again with the hand grip. “How old were you?”