The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(57)
“Can’t blame a guy for trying,” he says. “Plus, I was wondering if you might wanna go out again sometime? Since the fat dude didn’t work out?”
“I am at my great-aunt’s wake, Charley!” I say, straightening my sweater.
“Is that a yes?” He grins.
“It’s a no! Get out of here! Shoo!”
“Lucy, are you dating that boy?” Rose trills.
“No. I’m not dating anyone.” My face is tight with heat as Charley saunters away, stupidly proud for getting away with a little groping. I catch Ethan looking at me, his face still blank, and look away abruptly.
I need a break. With a word to my mom, who’s acting like she’s Ryan Seacrest on the Red Carpet at the Academy Awards, I head for the back of the room. There’s sure to be a blister on my heels tomorrow morning, and I sit gratefully and take a deep breath. My heart beats a little too fast. I almost wish I could take another floaty pill.
Jimmy’s wake took place here, too. It was, of course, surreally awful…part of me kept saying, This is not really happening. He’ll show up any minute. So many of our wedding guests were there that it was almost confusing. Everyone had been so happy just a few months earlier. Could it really be possible that Jimmy was actually gone? Forever? It was like one of those dreams that start out happy, but bit by bit, you realize you’re lost and someone’s chasing you with a big knife, and there’s nowhere to hide.
Speaking of wedding guests, Debbie Keating, my best friend from childhood, stands at the casket, chatting with Rose. She was one of my bridesmaids, but when Jimmy died, Debbie dropped me. She didn’t come to his wake or funeral. She didn’t send a card. Instead, her mother informed me, right there as I stood next to my husband’s casket, shaking and stunned, that Debbie was taking Jimmy’s death really hard and was very sad. I never heard from Debbie again. When she got married two years later, I wasn’t invited.
It happens more than you’d like to know. People don’t know what to say, so they say nothing, ignore you, pretend not to see you, and, when trapped, do what Debbie’s doing now—smiling in my general direction to pretend that we’re still friends, only to shift her eyes away just before we actually make eye contact.
Someone sits next to me. It’s Grinelda, smelling of uncooked meat. “Hi, Grinelda,” I say. “How are you?”
“I’m not bad, kid. Yourself?”
“I’m okay.” I sneak a peek at her outfit—pink tulle ballerina skirt over purple corduroys, topped with a red velvet shirt and black down vest. “So, did you foresee Boggy’s death, Grinelda?” I can’t help asking.
“Welp, I’ll tell you. Sometimes wires get a little crossed. I might’ve seen it. Or not. Plus,” she adds, lowering her voice and remembering to sound like a gypsy, “all is not for me to know.”
“And what is for you to know, exactly?” I murmur.
She sighs rustily. “Whatever those who have passed want to tell me.” She cuts her hooded eyes my way. “Did you check the toast?”
“Yup. Checked the toast. Haven’t burned a single piece since you gave me the message.”
“Good, I guess. Now, I need a smoke,” she says, then bursts into a long bout of phlegmy coughing. I pat her back, trying not to cringe as she hacks and wheezes. Finally she grunts, then struggles to get out of the chair. I stand up and give her a hand.
“Take care, Grinelda,” I say.
“You, too, Lucy.” She shuffles off to Reverend Covers and hands him a purple business card.
“I’m sorry your aunt died, Wucy,” comes a voice from the region of my hip.
My heart swells with love. “Oh, hey there, Nicky,” I say, picking him up for a smooch. “Thanks, sweetheart. Did you come with your daddy?”
“No. I came with Mommy.” He drapes a companionable arm around my neck, and I kiss him again. His cheek is velvet, and I see that he has a new freckle just below his ear. “Wucy,” he says, toying with my necklace, “will Aunt Boggy see Uncle Jimmy in heaven?”
The question hits me like a punch in the stomach. I sink down slowly, shifting Nick so he sits on my lap. “I don’t know, honey,” I whisper. “Maybe. I don’t see why not.”
“Maybe he can make her dinner. Daddy says he was a good cook.”
The image of my husband in the kitchen is so strong I can almost smell the tomato sauce—Jimmy, dirty blond curls secured under the red bandana, his big hands dexterously chopping parsley, the sizzle of chicken in hot olive oil.
“He sure was a good cook,” I murmur, noting my nephew’s expectant eyes. “He would’ve cooked all your favorites, I bet.”
“That’s what Daddy says. Can I have a candy?” Nicky asks, wriggling off my lap. “There’s candy here. A big bowl of candy by the door.”
“Ask your mom,” I say.
“Bye!” Nicky dashes up to Parker, who absently strokes his dark hair as she talks to Ellen Ripling. The little boy clings to her leg, clearly trying not to interrupt. His eyes are just like Ethan’s, brown and mischievous, always a hint of a smile waiting there.
Except I haven’t seen Ethan smile lately. Even now, he looks a bit tired as he waits in the receiving line to offer his condolences to my relatives. Rose’s face lights up when she sees him, and he grins as he always does around the Black Widows, leaning in to kiss her cheek. He takes both her hands in his and says something that makes her smile. Such a way with the older women, that Ethan. Something moves in my chest as I remember the way he kissed my forehead the other night.