The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(75)

“Ethan, it’s not all right. If we’re going to have a real relationship, you have to let yourself be mad at me,” I say. “Especially when I’m a jerk.”

“I’m fairly helpless where you’re concerned, Lucy,” he says quietly.

That one takes my breath away. “Well, stand up for yourself, laddie,” I say after a minute, my voice squeaking a little.

He looks at me, his arms still folded. “Fine. You’re the one I want to be with, Lucy. Not Parker. Don’t try to get us together anymore.”

“Okay, fine, I do understand, and I am sorry.” I hesitate, then continue. “It’s just that, you know, when you guys were—”

“Lucy. Shut up.”

I obey. “Sorry.”

His smile starts at his eyes, like a candle being lit on a dark night, and sure enough, the corner of his mouth curls up. “Ten o’clock at the marina?” he suggests.

“Sounds great. I’ll bring lunch, okay?”

“Okay.”

We stand there another second or two, just looking at each other. “Well, good night, then,” I say a trifle awkwardly.

“Good night,” he echoes. But he stays in the doorway, looking at the floor, until I turn the corner.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

THERE’S A BRISK WIND THE NEXT DAY, and the boats bob on their moorings, the sounds of creaking wood and slapping water mixing with the cries of gulls as I approach the Marie, a sixteen-foot wooden sloop, its dark green hull topped with a stripe of maroon, the deck a caramel gold. The sails are tightly rolled, and the wind sings through the lines.

Ethan’s head pops out of the small cabin. “Hi,” he says, grinning.

“Ahoy,” I answer, feeling oddly shy.

His smile grows, and he steps out and offers me a hand. “Welcome aboard.”

I’ve never been on Ethan’s boat. He bought it when Jimmy and I had been married a couple of months, and I now recall that there’d been a little fraternal envy going on. Jimmy, who didn’t sail, had never sailed and didn’t much like being on the water, had stated that he, too, would have a boat someday. Marie had been quite charmed when Ethan named the boat for her and talked of it constantly at the restaurant. It was one of the few times, I imagine, that Jimmy had ever been shown up by his younger brother.

But although Ethan has invited me to go out many times, I’ve never said yes, and stepping onto the boat, which tilts precariously, that decision seems like a wise one now. The Marie is much less sturdy than Captain Bob’s forty-foot rock of stability, and sits quite low in the water.

“Here’s our lunch,” I say, handing Ethan the little cooler. Inside are two giant sandwiches on my best pumpernickel rye…turkey, avocado, bacon and mayonnaise flavored with dill and chives. Two little bags of Cape Cod potato chips. Four packets of Del’s Lemonade mix. And a slab of dark chocolate layer cake with a seemingly sinful hazelnut-cappuccino frosting half an inch thick, which I’d made last night.

“Thanks,” Ethan says.

“Can I peek inside?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says, and I do. The cabin is snug and adorable…porthole windows where the ceiling curves up, miniature cabinets closed with brass fasteners. There’s a table, a sink and a small door leading, I assume, to the head. A couch lines one wall.

“Do you ever go out overnight on this thing?” I call as Ethan unties the straps around the rolled-up sails.

“I haven’t lately, but I used to,” he says. “The couch pulls out into a bed. But since Nicky’s been in the world, no.”

“Good,” I say. Ethan indulges in far too many life-threatening hobbies. He raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.

A minute later, we’re heading away from the dock into the channel. Ethan tells me to sit and raises the first sail. The wind fills it immediately, and the boat leaps forward.

“Yikes,” I laugh.

He grins. “She’s a fast little boat,” he states proudly. He holds the tiller loosely, the wind ruffling his hair, looking like an ad for the idle rich in his thick Irish fisherman’s sweater, faded jeans and Top-Siders.

Ethan waves as we pass other boaters, occasionally tacking to give way. White sails dot the horizon, and seagulls wheel and turn overhead.

“Where are we headed?” I ask, gripping a cleat as we bounce over the wake of a motorboat.

“Where would you like to go?” he asks.

“Nowhere,” I answer. “I just like being out here with you.” My face grows hot. It’s not easy saying those words, but I’m rewarded with a smile from my captain.

For a while, we just sail out toward Point Judith, not too far off the coast, the slapping waves and wind a happy melody. The sun grows warmer, and I take off my sweatshirt. My heart thumps erratically, which has nothing to do with being in open water—I’m giving Ethan a chance. A real chance, not a token. Giving myself one, too, and it terrifies me. My hands tingle from time to time, the pebble seems firmly lodged in my throat. I look over at Ethan, who smiles. I smile back, and after a second, it becomes genuine.

We don’t talk much, and eventually, I stop envisioning his death (which, I imagine, would come from a rogue wave that tosses us from the boat into the cold Atlantic, where we’d bob helplessly until sharks came and feasted on Ethan’s beautiful olive flesh as I screamed helplessly). Okay, so maybe I can’t exactly stop, but my shoulders relax a little, and my heart rate seems to slow.