The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(62)

“I’m smart, too!” Rose cheeps indignantly. “And you’re pretty, Iris. You just don’t know how to flirt.”

Iris rolls her eyes. “I’m seventy-six years old, Rose. And you’re not much younger. Flirting. You should be swapping prescription lists and asking if they want the CPR when their hearts stop.”

I laugh as Rose clucks in disapproval, and Jorge, who’s materialized from the back, grins. He and I begin bagging the still-warm bread with practiced efficiency.

“Lucy?” my mother calls from up front, her voice strained. “Someone’s here to see you.”

“Okay,” I call, then turn to Jorge. “Can you get the rest of this?” He nods. “So Jorge, what do you think of Rose? She’s interested in dating again.”

“Oh, pish, Lucy,” Rose giggles. “Jorge’s just a good friend.”

Jorge flashes her a grin, his gold tooth winking.

I push through the swinging doors to the front of the bakery just as Mom comes into the kitchen. “Lucy, honey, wait—”

I lurch to a stop at the sight of the man standing at the counter.

It’s Jimmy.

My knees buckle, and Mom grabs me before I fall.

Of course, it’s not Jimmy. But it’s close, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. Rose is dabbing tears, and Iris’s hand is pressed against her heart.

Matt DeSalvo—he gave us his name at some point—is tall and broad-shouldered. His dirty blond hair is cut short. He has a wide, straight smile, and his face is angular and strong. Matt has a dimple, and Jimmy did not. Matt’s eyes are blue—not the astonishing blue-green that Jimmy’s were, but a more true blue. And he’s wearing a suit, which Jimmy rarely did.

But still. The resemblance is shocking.

We sit across from each other at the table in the bakery kitchen. Mom fixes tea, clucking, and Rose repeatedly tells me I’m white as a sheet. Which is natural, since I feel like I’ve seen a ghost. My hands are trembling, and I feel a little sweaty.

Since Jimmy died, I’ve seen him around. I know from my aunts and mother, as well as from the widows’ group I’d belonged to, that seeing your dead spouse was not uncommon. Once, when I was driving up from New London, a man crossed the street in front of me, looking so much like Jimmy that I’d done a U-turn and gone back to find him, searching for half an hour, my heart clacking in my throat, tears spurting out of my eyes. Another time, when I was leaving the hospital after Nicky was born, I’d heard Jimmy laugh clear as day…the low, dirty laugh so singular to Jimmy that I was convinced his spirit had dropped down to earth to visit his newborn nephew.

But seeing a Jimmy lookalike across the table from me…it’s overwhelming. At my near faint, Mom had explained the resemblance, and Matt had very nicely helped me into the kitchen, where I melted into a chair and put my head between my knees.

I wipe my eyes and blow my nose once more. “I’m sorry,” I say again.

“It’s completely understandable,” Matt answers kindly. His voice is not like Jimmy’s at all, which helps. Close up, the resemblance isn’t that shocking. Matt’s nose is a little longer, and his chin is rounder than Jimmy’s, which was square and ridiculously masculine. But still. He looks more like Jimmy than anyone I’ve seen. More like Jimmy’s brother than Ethan does, for that matter.

“How long has it been?” he asks.

“Five and a half years,” I answer, stealing another look at his face.

“It was such a tragedy,” Iris announces.

“So tragic,” Rose cheeps at the same time.

“Why don’t you girls go down to the Starbucks?” Mom suggests sharply. “Lucy could use a coffee. One of those expensive, silly things. Go. Shoo.”

The aunts, looking wounded at being kicked out, do as they’re told, and Matt stands up politely as they cluck and don their cardigans. I take the delay to get myself under control, though my hands are still trembling.

“So how did your husband die?” Matt asks. My mother, feeling that this is too personal a question, rattles the kettle loudly. Though she’s gotten rid of the aunts, there’s no way on God’s green earth that she’s going to leave.

“A car accident,” I say distantly.

“I’m so sorry.” He says it just the right way, looking right into my eyes without flinching. Sympathy, not pity. There’s a huge difference, and we widows appreciate it, let me tell you. “You must’ve been awfully young.”

“Twenty-four,” I murmur.

My mom sets down the tea tray with a clatter. “So what brings you to Bunny’s, Mr. DeSalvo?” she asks, sitting next to me. She tugs on her tailored, cropped jacket, crosses her legs, jiggling her foot so that her high-heeled shoe dangles precariously.

“Well, this may not be the time to discuss it, if you’re still feeling shaky,” Matt answers. “I can certainly come back.”

“I’d think she’d feel less shaky if you said your business,” Mom retorts. I give her a questioning look. Not like her to be so rude. That’s more Iris’s terrain.

Still, Matt pauses, looking at me, and I have to admit, I like that he’s waiting for my approval. “I’m fine, Matt. Go ahead.”

“I represent NatureMade,” he says, naming an organic chain grocery store that dots our fair state. “Are you familiar with us?”