The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(74)

“I’m sorry,” I say. “Anything I can do?” Other than stare at her naked, enormous boob, that is. Gosh, is that nipple still cracked? Jeepers.

“No,” she answers. “You’ve been great.” Fat Mikey puts his front paws against her knees, and she smiles. “Animals sense when you’re sad,” she says, and I opt not to correct her by saying that Fat Mikey is probably about to make a move on Emma’s dinner if Corinne doesn’t cover up soon. Instead I pick up my cat and pet him, earning a disgruntled meow for interrupting his plans to nurse. He startles as my niece barks out a burp that would put the Fenway Faithful to shame.

My door opens. “Corinne?”

We both turn away from the TV. Christopher stands uncertainly in the doorway, looking rather awful. Cory gets up, seemingly unaware that her right breast is still completely uncovered, bobbing there like the marker buoy at the head of the channel.

“Chris!” she breathes. “How are you?” Emma makes a little grunting sound and starts rooting around on Corinne’s neck, looking for her next round.

Christopher holds out a bouquet of red roses. A good sign, I think with a little smile. “I’m an idiot,” he says. “Oh, Corinne, I love you. I do, and I’m so sorry I never said anything about how I was feeling.”

“No, baby, I’m the one who’s sorry,” my sister whispers, her eyes spilling tears. “I just want you to be okay. I want to be with you for the rest of my life. I don’t want to end up like Mom or Lucy.”

I roll my eyes. “Why don’t I take Emma and go into the kitchen?” I suggest, but they’re already hugging, around both Emma and the breast.

“You’re the love of my life, Corinne,” Chris whispers, and a voyeuristic lump rises in my throat. “But, honey, you’re going to have to back off and just trust in the universe that we’re going to have a long, long time together.”

“I love you, too,” she weeps. “I never meant to send you to the hospital.” Fat Mikey once again puts his paws against her leg, sniffing the air.

Ten minutes later, Corinne hugs me, her boob finally covered. “Thank you for everything,” she whispers.

“Oh, sure,” I say, hugging her back. “Let him eat bacon once in a while. It makes life happier.”

“I’ll try,” she says.

“Thank you, Lucy,” Christopher says, adjusting his daughter’s hat.

“No problem,” I say, and with that, they’re gone, lugging about a thousand dollars’ worth of baby gear down the hall. In another second, I hear the ding that marks the elevator’s arrival, and then it’s completely quiet, except for the wedding video, which now shows everyone about to sit down for dinner. There’s Ethan, looking considerably younger without his beard, talking to the DJ as the guy apparently explains how to use the mic for the best man speech.

I turn it off. Sigh deeply. Wonder what to do about Ethan Mirabelli.

For one tiny second, I have the urge to call Jimmy, so strong that my hand twitches as I almost reach for the phone. For just that flash, I can’t believe I haven’t called him already, since he’s the only one who would understand how terrifying it is to be where I am.

Fat Mikey butts his head against my shoe. I look down gratefully, and there, on the carpet, is a dime.

My breath catches. I haven’t found a dime in a while. A couple of years, in fact. With fingers that shake just a little, I pick it up and examine it. A perfectly ordinary dime that could have, of course, dropped from a pocket or a purse or Corinne’s gigantic diaper bag.

Or not.

Back when Jimmy first died, it took me a while to notice the strange phenomenon of the dimes, but once I caught on, I started keeping them in a jar in my bedroom. I go there now and lean on the bureau, looking at them.

I don’t know if they’re from Jimmy or not, but it seems a stretch to think that I formed a habit of dropping rogue dimes. Not nickels, not quarters, not pennies…just dimes. I have no idea what they might signify, but I know that I believe—and want to continue believing—that they’re a sign that Jimmy’s spirit is still involved in my life.

I give the dime a kiss, then drop it in the jar with its eleven brothers and sisters. A minute later, I’m knocking on Ethan’s door, not quite sure what I plan to say.

He answers, not opening the door all the way or standing aside to let me in.

“Ethan, I’m so sorry for what I said,” I blurt.

He sighs, looks at the floor and folds his arms, Italian sign language for We got a situation here.

“Take me sailing tomorrow,” I say, surprising myself completely. And Ethan, too, it appears, since his head jerks up and his eyebrows raise. “Let’s get out of town for the day.”

“Really?” he asks, his eyes questioning. And hopeful. You’ve been hurting him for years, Parker said. That can’t be true, but my throat still tightens under the familiar clamp of tears.

“Really,” I answer thickly.

“Okay,” he says, as I knew he would.

Still, he doesn’t exactly look overjoyed that I’m proposing this little venture, so I stand on tiptoe and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “I didn’t mean it the way it sounded.”

“It’s all right,” he says, making me feel worse.