The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(68)
I can still see the stunned look on Jimmy’s face when the socks bounced off his forehead. Suddenly a hundred dopey, beloved memories slice through my heart like shrapnel…Jimmy’s habit of just walking into the bathroom, no matter what I was doing in there. The way he’d do a hundred push-ups before bed, then admire his biceps and encourage me to do the same. His inability to start the day without cross-checking three weather forecasts as if he was a sailor dependent on the winds.
“I miss the everyday stuff,” I whisper. “Don’t smother those things trying to make every minute special, Cory. You can’t keep it up. You’re a wreck.”
She nods, tears still slipping silently down her cheeks. “It’s been so hard,” she admits. “I’m so tired, Lucy. My boobs are killing me, and I have no idea what I’m doing with the baby, and I feel so guilty sometimes when she cries and I just think, ‘Oh, please, not again, Emma, I can’t take it anymore.’ The other day, I was in the grocery store, and Emma was fussing, and I’d had about an hour’s sleep the night before, and this old woman told me this was the happiest time of my life and I wanted to stab her with a knife!”
I burst out laughing at the vision of gentle Corinne killing a senior citizen in the produce aisle. After a minute, Corinne laughs, too.
“So…and I’m just suggesting here…maybe you have a few things bottled up,” I offer. “You know what I think? I think Chris will love you even more, once you drop the Stepford wife thing.”
She looks at me, the circles under her eyes making her look like a scared little kid. “Really?” she asks.
“Yes. Trust me. I’m your big sister,” I say, hugging her. “Now you need to get some sleep. The bed’s all made in the spare room. If Emma’s hungry tonight, I’ll feed her. She took the bottle just great. Okay?”
She starts to say something…advice, no doubt…then reconsiders. “Okay. Thanks, Lucy.” She stands up and heads for the guest room. “Luce?” she says, her voice tentative. “I’m sorry I said I was afraid to be like you. You know what I meant, right?”
“Sure, honey,” I assure her. “Now go to sleep.”
I check on Emma once more…she’s sleeping, her eyelids twitching, her little mouth working as if she’s blowing kisses in her sleep. I touch her head with one finger.
You’ll make a great mom, Ethan said tonight. For a second, I imagine going upstairs to report on Corinne, to kiss him good-night before coming back down to watch over Emma. To thank him for once again coming to the rescue. Maybe even to tell him that I think he’s a great father.
But I don’t. Instead I give Emma one more kiss, then slip into the living room and watch my wedding DVD with the sound off.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“MAYBE YOU’D LIKE THE CHEESE DANISH, Mr. Dombrowski?” I suggest.
It’s been a long day. Corinne came in for lunch so Emma could be worshipped. Chris had said he wanted to go away for the weekend, do a little camping in the Adirondacks, and Corinne needed some reassurance on the odds of his being eaten by a bear or falling off a mountain. I complied dutifully, thinking his odds of a car accident were a lot greater than grizzly attack but knowing to keep my mouth shut.
Mr. Dombrowski weighs my words with considerable gravity, then nods thoughtfully. “I think I’d enjoy that, dear,” he says. “Thank you.”
I glance at the clock…it’s three-thirty. “I’d love to have a cup of tea if you have the time, Mr. D.,” I suggest.
His solemn face lights up. “That would be lovely,” he says. “Maybe we could take a little walk and get something at the place down the street.”
I wince. “Starbucks?”
“Yes. It’s quite the rage, I understand. The coffee culture.”
“Sure,” I concede. After all, this will be a big deal for Mr. Dombrowski…an outing with another human. Any petty feelings I have toward Doral-Anne hardly measure up against that.
“I’ll be back in a while,” I call to my aunts. “Mr. Dombrowski and I are going out for a coffee.”
“How sweet,” coos Rose. “Have fun!” As I take off my apron, she darts to my side. “See if he’s interested in a date, Lucy. I wouldn’t mind an older man.”
I smile. “Okay, Rose. Want anything from Starbucks?”
“Oh, no,” she says, glancing at the clock. “It’s almost happy hour.”
Right. It’s Friday. Taking Mr. D.’s arm, I push open the door and remind myself to go slowly. We shuffle down the street, a few leaves drifting down around us. Mr. Dombrowski is dressed in a tweed jacket and a cap.
“You look rather dashing, Mr. D.” I smile.
“I bought this jacket when my son graduated from college,” he says, chuckling. “And this hat…my wife bought it for me when we were in Ireland.”
“She had wonderful taste,” I say, pushing open the door to Starbucks. It’s the same as they all are…muted colors, progressive rock drifting from speakers, a few plants here and there. Three teenagers sit at one table near the window…plenty of hair tossing and exclaiming going on over there and I smile, the wise older woman. Of course we notice you, I think. You’re beautiful and bright and young. Don’t try so hard.