The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(53)

I leap out of bed and lurch down the hall. Ethan sits at the kitchen table, a newspaper in front of him. “Hey,” he says, standing up. “How are you feeling?”

“I have to go! The bakery…My mom will—”

“Sit. Calm down.” He goes to the cupboard, takes down my favorite mug and pours me a cuppa joe. “I called the bakery a while ago, told Iris you were sick last night and needed the day off.”

“Oh.” I pause. “How many times have they called since then?”

“Four. Iris is wondering if you have Lou Gehrig’s disease. Rose thinks it sounds more like cancer. Your mom said feel better, she’ll see you tomorrow.” Ethan allows a small smile as he pours some half-and-half in my cup and hands it to me. “Sleep okay?” he asks.

I realize, with no small degree of shock, that I did. “Yes. Thanks.” I pause. “Did you check on me? I don’t remember.” And I find that I’d like a sleepy little memory of Ethan taking care of me. I’d like that very much.

“Yep,” he says, his face impassive. “You seemed fine. Want me to make you breakfast?”

“Oh, no, that’s fine. Thanks, though.” We look at each other for a minute.

Ethan and I have logged in a lot of hours in this kitchen. Many were the happy weekend nights that I’d bake him something while he told me stories of the people he met, the airports he loved, the thrill of bringing on a new account or the crazy things he’d do in the name of selling Instead.

And we did a little more than talk and bake here, too. Once, we did it on the island, the granite cold, Ethan hot. Jeepers! I should not be thinking about that.

“I’ve got to run, Luce,” Ethan says, setting his own cup in the sink. “You sure you’re feeling okay? You’re a little flushed.” He frowns.

“No, no, I’m fine. Thanks, Ethan. You were really great.” I pause. “As usual.”

“No problem. I called Parker, by the way. She’ll swing by after she drops Nicky at nursery school.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

And away he goes, stopping to say something to Fat Mikey, who answers in a throaty meow. There’s something awfully endearing about a man who is loved by a grouchy cat. Then the door closes, and I’m alone again. Alone again, naturally, like that sappy song I’d discovered in my parents’ tape collection. Oh, I’d loved that song! Many happy, maudlin hours were spent weeping and singing along to my cassette player until my mom burst in one day, snatched the tape from the machine and snapped it in half.

I take a sip of coffee and close my eyes in simultaneous appreciation and horror…the dark, almost burnt taste is unmistakably delicious. Starbucks. Not from my own cabinet, of course, which means Ethan must have brought down some of his own. Which means, probably, that he gets it from Doral-Anne. God, I hope they’re not dating. I chew on my lip, then take another sip, unable to resist the siren call of the coffee god.

The buzzer rings, and I trot into the living room and press the intercom. “Hello?”

“It’s Parker, you nasty, drugged-out ho! Let me in!”

With a smile, I press the button, and a minute later, Parker breezes into my apartment, all blonde and expensive-looking. She takes a hard look at me, then raises an eyebrow. “Did we have fun?”

“If by fun, you mean puking on the father of your child, then yes. I had so much fun.”

“God! Ethan had me in stitches this morning! You poor thing! And you were on a date, too? The poor guy! What did he say?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Ethan scared him pretty good. I guess he thought the guy slipped me a mickey or something. Want some coffee?”

“Oh, yes, I do. Nicky’s gotten into the horrifying habit of waking up at five and wanting to snuggle. The snuggles are great…the five o’clock I could do without.”

“By five in the morning, I’ve made dough for more than six dozen loaves of bread,” I tell her as I pour her a cup.

“So you’re a freak of nature. We knew that.” She accepts her cup and sits back, her catlike green eyes growing somber. “So seriously, Lucy. Ethan said it was some medication gone wrong. Are you okay?”

“Sure. It was quite a trip, though. I thought my fingers were growing.”

She smiles. “I meant, why are you taking medication? You’re not sick, are you?”

I glance at her. “Ethan didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

I bite my lip. “Well, I’ve been having panic attacks. I had a few after Jimmy died, and they’re back, pretty much since I started looking for another husband. And last night, Ethan kindly pointed out what a mess I’ve become, so you can save the lecture.”

Parker sighs, heavy on the melodrama.

“What?” I ask.

“What do you think, dummy?”

“I think friends shouldn’t call each other dummy, dummy.” Parker takes a long pull on her coffee, surveying me over the rim of the mug. “What?” I ask again. “Did Ethan say something? Do you guys talk about me?”

She contemplates me, sets her cup down. “We don’t,” she admits. “But I just want to point out, my dear—” Parker’s voice takes on its prep-school drawl “—that when you and Ethan had your extra-special arrangement, you both seemed happier.”