The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(79)
The timer dings in the kitchen, and I excuse myself, glad for the interruption. The cake is done. Smells incredible. Can’t wait to eat the stupid thing, stomachache be damned.
I don’t realize tears are leaking out of my eyes until one hisses on the oven door. I dash a pot holder across my eyes and take the cake out, setting it gently on the cooling rack. Ethan comes up behind me and slips his arms around my waist.
“I’m sorry,” I squeak.
“No, honey.” He lowers his forehead to rest against my shoulder. “Thank you.”
“Bad timing,” I acknowledge.
He turns me around and looks at me. Rain patters against the window, and the wind howls under the bridge a block away. I have plenty of time to hear the elements, since Ethan doesn’t speak right away. “You don’t need to remind me that he was here first, Lucy.”
I swallow painfully. “I was married to him. He was here first. That can’t be erased, Eth. I wouldn’t want it to be.”
Ethan nods. “Maybe he doesn’t have to be here all the time.”
He’s asking the impossible. Jimmy is with me all the time. His memory is constantly with me, and I don’t think that will ever change. “The bread guy looks a lot like him,” I say abruptly.
“Which bread guy?”
“The one from NatureMade,” I say.
Ethan raises an eyebrow. “Really.”
“Yes. Very much like Jimmy.”
“Thanks for the warning.” He slides his hands down my arms, then lets go of me.
I notice that Fat Mikey is crouched on the table, eating the last ramekin of crème brûlée, and decide to let my cat live a little. Another sheet of rain slaps the windows. The muscle jumps under Ethan’s eye, and not for the first time, I wonder how much he’s holding in.
“Ethan,” I say slowly, “I wasn’t trying to make a statement.” My throat grows tight. “I just wanted you to have a picture of him, and it happened to come today. I should’ve held it a few days. I’m sorry.”
He nods and takes my hand, examining a smear of batter across the back. “Thank you.”
“Want something else to eat?” I whisper.
His mouth tugs. “No,” he says, not looking up from my hand.
“How about that Scrabble game?” I offer a bit desperately.
“Maybe later,” he answers, and then he kisses me, there amid the ravaged kitchen, the smell of fresh cake and cream in the air, and my heart sings with relief. And rather than counting out tiles and checking dubious spellings in the dictionary, we end up in bed, Fat Mikey regarding us with disgust as we mess up his favorite place to sleep.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
A FEW DAYS LATER, ETHAN HAS TO TRAVEL to Atlanta, where the International Food Products manufacturing plant is headquartered, so I have plenty of time to contemplate the state of my life. Things have been okay between Ethan and me, though we’re still pretty careful with each other, especially about the subject of Jimmy.
The other day, I packed Nicky into his car seat and drove into Providence to surprise Ethan at work. As Nicky was spoiled by the staff, repeatedly summoned the elevator, photocopied his hands and took cup after cup from the dispenser by the water cooler, Ethan introduced me around—no title, just “This is Lucy,” but I held his hand the whole time, hoping he’d see that as a sign that I was in this. He was so happy, so proud to show off his son, and I got more than a few speculative looks, which made me blush constantly.
“This meant a lot,” Ethan said to me when we were waiting for the elevator, Nicky pressing the button over and over. I smiled and kissed him goodbye full on the mouth, my hands buzzing.
We’re getting there. Since he left for Georgia, we’ve been e-mailing a couple times a day, with long phone conversations at night. When I hear his voice, my heart jumps, and if it feels like a panic attack, maybe it’s something else. And blessedly, I’m still gorging myself on my rather incredible baking.
And baking is on my mind, as next weekend is the Taste of Mackerly, which is a chance for the town to draw in a few tourists before the season is officially done. Lenny’s, Bunny’s, Catering by Eva, Cakes by Kim, and of course, Starbucks will be there along with contributions from the Lions Club, the Exchange Club and the Polish Ladies Auxiliary, who hawk their pierogies like the end of days is nigh.
In the past, Bunny’s has trotted out the same tired, pumpkin-shaped cookies with frosting so hard that, three years ago, little Katie Rose Tinker chipped a tooth. Last year we had four dozen at the beginning of the evening. At the end, we had forty-six, and only because Ethan bought one for himself and one for Nicky. Nicky’s little teeth weren’t up for the task of gnawing through the icing, so Ethan had discreetly tossed it into the trash, but he’d soldiered on through his own, grinning at me as I offered sympathy for his culinary choice.
On Wednesday, the staff of Bunny’s sits down for a rare meeting. Jorge lingers in the back, drinking the sludge he calls coffee, and runs his hand over his bald head, mentally preparing himself for the ordeal ahead.
“Okay,” I say. “We have the Taste of Mackerly coming up on Columbus Day, so—”
“I have a skin tag,” Rose announces, leaning forward. “Right under my bra line. Here.” She hefts up her right breast and points. “Carmella Bronson said I could just snip it right off with toenail clippers, but I’m scared it won’t stop bleeding.”