The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(73)

He hesitated for a second, and my toes clenched. “Okay,” he finally said, but I could see the disappointment in his eyes.

“So why aren’t things working?” Parker asks. I get the impression I don’t get to leave the cellar until she’s gotten her answers, and I glance around, half expecting to see Fortunato, the guy who was walled up in that creepy Edgar Allen Poe story. Unfortunato, if you ask me, left to die behind the bricks.

“It’s just…a little awkward,” I answer. “Can we go upstairs?”

Like Ethan, she has mastered the art of the disappointed gaze. They must teach it in parenting school. “Sure,” she says, then turns on her heel and leads the way past the racks of red, the undiluted barrels of single malt scotch, the tasting room where Mr. Welles enjoys showing off to his friends on the rare occasions he returns to Rhode Island.

We head up the frigid stone stairs, almost in the clear, when Parker stops. “You should give him a chance, Lucy,” she says.

“I am giving him a chance,” I return. “I am, Parker.”

“A real chance. Not just a token.”

“Well, you know, I’m trying. But maybe I’m just not ready.”

“It’s been almost six years, Lucy,” she reminds me. “Don’t you think you should be ready by now?”

My blood pressure surges. Folks, unless you’ve walked the walk, never tell a widow it’s time she moved on. Never before has Parker crossed the line, but she sure did just now.

“I don’t need you to tell me how long it’s been since my husband died, okay?” I bite out. “You’ve never been widowed, and I hope you never are, Parker, but given that you have no idea what it’s like, you might want to keep your advice to yourself.”

She sighs. “I’m just saying—”

“And it’s ironic that you’re so keen on me being with Ethan,” I say, a decided edge to my voice now, “since you passed on him first. Maybe you should be the one sleeping with him.”

And because my luck just bites, that’s when Ethan opens the door, his son on his shoulders. From the expression on his face, I know he heard me.

THANK GOODNESS ETHAN AND I CAME separately, I think a couple of eons later, watching him get on his motorcycle. His helmet is on the back of the bike. He doesn’t put it on.

“Your helmet!” I yell as he starts up the engine. Mercifully his motorcycle is a BMW with a quietly purring engine, not one of those deafening midlife crisis Harleys.

Ethan glances at me, then reaches back for the helmet and puts it on. He gently revs the engine and heads down the long gravel driveway to the road.

Dinner was—what’s the word I’m looking for?—a nightmare. Ethan barely spoke to me, which was completely understandable. Parker, perhaps trying to apologize for forcing the conversation in the wine cellar, did her best to be übernice and funny, telling us about her latest manuscript (The Holy Rollers and the Crippled Puppy). Ethan didn’t talk a lot. At least Nicky was there to distract his father, but as soon as the boy was tucked in, requesting a multiple kisses and songs from each of the three adults present, Ethan headed out.

“Really f**ked that up, didn’t you?” Parker says mildly from behind me.

I turn and look at her. “See, I was thinking this was your fault.”

She grins. “Time to kiss and make up, I guess. Go. Get out of here. Rock his world. You hurt him, he’s wounded, you love that crap. Go.”

“I don’t love hurting Ethan!” I protest. “Jeez, that’s the last thing I want.”

“Mmm,” she murmurs. “Yet you’ve been hurting him for years.”

“I have not! Crikey, Parker, you’re a pain in the butt, you know that?” I take a huffy breath. “Please thank your chef for dinner, thank your dad for the wine. And thank you, Parker, for your lovely hospitality.”

“Ciao.” She laughs.

With a sigh, I climb into my faithful little Mazda and head down the road. Ethan is not in sight, and as if by rote, I scan the side of the road for his twisted body every ten yards or so. His helmet cracked, unable to protect him. His unmoving, broken legs, pointing in impossible directions. Fun hobby, really.

Ethan’s motorcycle is parked in its usual spot when I get home, and my shoulders lower a notch. He’s not dead. Not hurt. Just wounded, as Parker said. I’ll just drop in to feed Fat Mikey, then go upstairs and make things right with Ethan.

But when I open the door, I see my sister, sniffling as she nurses Emma. My TV is on—dang. Corinne’s watching my wedding DVD. It’s the part when Jimmy’s dancing with his mom. Obviously I’d had to forego the father-daughter dance, but Jimmy danced with his mom to the tune of the sappy tear-fest that was Celine Dion’s “Because You Loved Me.” Not a dry eye in the house, ladies and gentlemen. Tall, strong Jimmy towered over the happily sobbing Marie. Despite her low center of gravity and rather rotund figure, Jimmy had dipped her at the end, making her scream a little, which nicely undercut the wonderfully saccharine lyrics.

“Hi,” I say to my sister.

“I don’t know how you can even get out of bed,” she sobs.

“Um…well. How are you?”

“Christopher hasn’t called,” she says, tears raining down on Emma’s soft head. She pops the baby off the left breast and shifts her into burp position.