The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(55)

“Well, since you know everything, you can just go ahead and say it for me,” I mumble.

She gives me a wry smile. “Well, one could say that you do love Ethan already. The big question must be, what if you didn’t love him as much as Jimmy?”

Hearing it said out loud like that, right here in the kitchen with the sun shining in the windows, my African violets blooming on the windowsill…it’s a slap in the heart. “I really don’t want to talk about this, Parker,” I whisper.

Parker sighs. “Okay. I’m sorry.” She pauses, and I swallow against the pebble, knowing she’s not finished. I’m correct. “But Lucy, you’re never going to know unless you give him a shot, are you? And if you don’t, you’ll end up with some loser who leaves you cold. Is that what you want?”

“What I want…” I stop. What I want is for Jimmy not to have died, for Ethan to meet someone wonderful and be happily married. I can just about hear the Fates laughing at me. “Parker, there’s got to be some happy medium. Someone I could love, just not too much.”

“Listen to you,” she says fondly as if talking to a not very bright child. “Forgive me for saying this to the poor widow, but I think you’re being kind of…obtuse.”

I stare out the window. “It’s a self-defense mechanism,” I acknowledge.

“Right. Well, listen. You’re my friend, kid. So’s Ethan. I love you both and just want you to be happy, that’s all.”

“I appreciate it.” I take a sip of coffee and don’t look her in the eye.

“All right. Well, I have revisions on those nasty little Holy Rollers.”

My shoulders relax. “What’s this one called?” I ask.

She grins. “The Holy Rollers and the Poor Little Kitten. Someone’s cat gets squished by a tractor, and the smug little bastards get to explain heaven. So watch yourself, Fat Mikey.” With that, Parker gets up, pats my shoulder and leaves.

“OVER HERE, WE HAVE THE FAMOUS Dead Man’s Shoal,” Captain Bob says over the mike on board the tour boat. Since I had a hooky day, I’d figured I’d help out my old pal, and luckily, there was a tour scheduled. The thought of a day spreading out before me with nothing on the schedule meant two things—blow some more money on clothes I don’t wear, or help out Captain Bob.

“In 1722, Captain Cook of the West Indies fame brought his wife along on a trip, and as you know, ladies—” it’s a church group from Maryland, on a brief recess from power gambling down at the casinos “—women are bad luck on a boat.” The ladies giggle appreciatively. “The crew rebelled and set Mrs. Cook on that very shoal at low tide. She tried to swim to Mackerly’s shore, but alas, the night was rough and the poor woman drowned. You can still hear her ghost moaning on foggy nights.”

“Is that true?” one of the ladies asks me.

“No,” I whisper, steering gently back toward the dock.

“And that concludes our tour! Ladies, if you’re looking for the finest pastries and goodies on the East Coast, I strongly urge you to stop in at Bunny’s Bakery, just two blocks north of our dock,” Bob says, taking a slug of his Irish coffee. He winks at me—we’re both quite aware of what Bunny’s does and does not offer, and I smile back at him. “In fact, I’d be happy to walk you up there myself. Thank you so much for choosing Captain Bob’s Island Adventure!”

Bob takes the wheel and steers us the last few yards to the dock. “Thanks, Lucy,” he says. “Nice having you with me this morning.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, standing aside so the passengers can disembark. “My pleasure.”

“Think your mother’s still at work?” he asks hopefully.

“There or at the nursing home,” I say. “Did you hear about my great-aunt Boggy?”

“I did indeed,” Bob murmurs. “Unbelievable.”

“I’ll probably head over there now,” I say. At that moment, my cell phone rings, and I fish it out of my pocket and glance at the screen. “Oh, here’s Mom now. Hi, Mom,” I say.

“Lucy? Where are you? Are you still sick? I’ve been trying everywhere.”

A cold sweat breaks out over my body. “I’m two blocks from the bakery,” I tell her. “What’s wrong?”

My mom pauses. “You’re okay? You’re not still throwing up?”

“I’m fine, Mom! What’s wrong?”

“It’s Boggy, sweetheart.” She sighs. “Are you sitting down?” Without waiting for an answer, she drops the bomb. “She died this morning.”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

“I DUNNO. IT WAS LIKE SHE WAS FINE one sec, then she just started coughing and the next thing I know, she’s dead.” Stevie, unaccustomed to a tie, pulls at his collar as we stand next to the open casket at Werner’s Funeral Home, gazing down on our tiny great-aunt. “Maybe it was one of your scones.”

I look at him in horror, guilt punching my stomach with a cold fist. “Was she eating a scone when she started coughing?” I whisper.

“No. But I was. Maybe she inhaled a crumb or something. It wasn’t my fault, that’s for sure.”

“Of course it wasn’t, sweetie.” Aunt Rose sniffles, patting her son’s arm, then blowing her nose with an astonishing honk. “But those scones were awfully crumbly, Lucy. You should put in a little sour cream next time.”