The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(64)
Then she squeezes my hand and bustles off to the front.
When my work at the bakery is done, I decide to go for a bike ride and head north on Newport Road. The brisk wind stings, and my hair whips around my face. Salt is heavy in the air, as well as the smell of the autumn leaves, sharp and sad and lovely. I turn inland on Mickes Street. There’s Doral-Anne’s old house. It’s still the hovel it was in grammar school, a seedy little ranch with three rusted-out cars in the yard. The grass is long and thick with weeds.
Doral-Anne and I were on the same school bus, her stop about ten minutes before mine. Once, when I was about seven, she’d trudged down the bus steps and turned to look back, something like loneliness on her thin face. Surprised, I waved to her. She flipped me the bird in response. I can still remember the way heat flared across my cheeks, how I wish I hadn’t offered that stupid, naive wave that was so instantly and graphically rejected. It was the first time Doral-Anne had singled me out, though it wouldn’t be the last.
Ah, well. A mist is starting to fall, and I need to pay attention to the road, since it’s a little slick. After about a mile, I turn onto Grimley Farm Road, the wind in front of me now, slowing me, almost warning me off.
When I reach my destination, I lean my bike against the telephone pole and walk down toward number 73. The driveway is still unpaved, the sand softened by recent rains. My footsteps make a pleasant scraping sound as I approach the house where Jimmy and I never got to live.
It’s painted white now, our little Cape. It was gray when Jimmy and I bought it, but the white looks nice. The shutters are still green. I’d painted them myself.
Jimmy had surprised me with this house. Told me we were going on a picnic, came up here, said he knew the owners. I wondered why we were going to eat in someone’s yard; the house didn’t have a view of the water, and the property was fairly unremarkable. But Jimmy wouldn’t answer my questions. Instead he just grinned, took my hand and led me through the front door. The house was empty of furniture except for one small table in the living room. On the table was a jewelry box, and in the box was the key to the front door.
It might not have been the house I’d have picked out, but it was affordable, and the cost of real estate on Mackerly definitely limited our choices. While I’d felt a prickle of alarm that I now owned a house I’d had no part in choosing, Jimmy’s pride and excitement had swept that away. It was a grand gesture, and he loved making those. This was the guy, after all, who’d sent four dozen roses to my dorm room the night after our first date. Who surprised me with a honeymoon to Hawaii when I thought we were going to Bar Harbor, Maine. Who couldn’t spend one night away from me, even if it meant driving all the way home after a long day.
I’m not sure why I’m here now. I’ve visited a few times over the years, unable to ignore it completely, this little place that was going to be ours. It sold quickly enough…a family bought it, which was nice. A swing set adorns the backyard, and a little plastic car sits in the driveway.
I turn around and head back for home. The mist has turned to rain, and I’ll be soaked by the time I get there. My pastry class starts at five, and I decide to bring Ethan home some of the amaretto zabaglione that we’re scheduled to make, rather than letting the class eat it all, as I usually do. I guess I’m feeling a little guilty, mooning over Jimmy after nearly fainting at the sight of his doppelganger. Yes. Ethan more than deserves a little sweetness from me.
WHEN CLASS IS OVER, I RETURN to my apartment. Ethan’s not home yet, even though it’s eight-thirty. I try to quash the worry and click on my computer. When Google comes up, I type in “NatureMade” and sit back to read.
NatureMade is a sound company, from all accounts. Expanding slowly, holding tight when the economy’s been rough, good to its employees. Matt DeSalvo is mentioned a couple of times, in promotion announcements and as a contact person, stuff like that. After a moment’s hesitation, I try an image search on him, wondering if he really did look that much like Jimmy, but nothing comes up.
I wander to the window and look out into the dark. Where’s Ethan? It’s still raining, and with leaves on the road, it could be slick out there. His car is new. That’s good, but what if he’s not used to it enough? What if he had an accident? I left a message on his home phone earlier, announcing that dessert awaited him, if he was so inclined. So far, I’ve resisted the urge to call him on his cell, since I don’t want him to be talking while he’s driving, which is another thing he does that drives me crazy, even if he does use a Bluetooth.
Finally a knock comes on the door, and I start, then vault for the door. Sure enough, it’s Ethan.
“Where have you been?” I demand, my face burning at the sight of him.
“Hi,” he says, frowning. “I had a meeting.”
“Well, isn’t that nice to know,” I sputter. “I thought you were dead.”
His face softens. “Well, I seem to be alive,” he says, smiling just a little.
I almost kiss him. Almost hug him. Then the moment passes when that would be natural, and we’re left just looking at each other, Fat Mikey working on a hairball under the chair.
“I made zabaglione,” I mutter. “Come on in.”
He follows me into the kitchen, taking his usual seat at the table. “Thanks,” he says as I set a bowl in front of him. Then I sit down, too, and watch him eat.