The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(80)

“Go to a plastic surgeon,” Mom says. “I’m thinking of Botox, myself.”

“Okay, about the weekend,” I say. “I think we should really go whole hog this year. I’ve been baking these—”

“Botox? That’s spider venom,” Iris says. “You’d have to be an idiot to put spider venom in your face.”

“It’s a bacteria. Botulism bacteria. It’s not venom,” I say. “Anyway, I thought we could—”

“I know what it is, Miss Smarty-Pants,” Iris says, waving her hand dismissively. “My daughter is a lesbian doctor, after all.” She turns to my mother. “Why would you stick a needle full of bacteria in your face, Daisy? Did you turn stupid overnight?”

“I want to look my best,” my mother says, adjusting her scarf.

“We also need to discuss that offer from NatureMade,” I try again. Jorge grins.

“Vanity is a sin,” Iris says, adjusting her shirt, which, from the look of it, belonged to her long-dead Pete.

“What about my skin tag? Am I supposed to go around looking like a goat with wattles all over my body?” Rose asks querulously. “Or get Ebola by cutting off my own skin?”

“That would be tetanus, Rose,” I say. “Don’t cut them off yourself. See a doctor, okay? Now, back to the—”

“Did you get your flu shots, speaking of injections?” Mom asks her older sisters.

With a sigh, I slump down in my chair and wait them out. After twenty minutes or so, I eventually manage to steer the conversation back to the Taste of Mackerly and am outvoted, as usual, on the burning issue of the pumpkin cookies, which, according to Iris, everyone loved.

Then I give them the details on NatureMade’s official offer…number of loaves we’d be able to supply, how the schedule would change at Bunny’s, a bit more oversight from the company to ensure that our bread was consistent.

“So what do you think?” I ask when I’m done.

Mom studies her manicure, as ever seeming detached from the bakery where she’s worked most of her life. Iris and Rose, on the other hand, sit like disgruntled trolls, dour expressions on their faces, arms folded across their ample bosoms. Jorge, still lurking in the back, purely for entertainment purposes, laughs silently and pours himself more coffee.

“I don’t like some out-of-towners telling us how to do things,” Iris eventually says.

“I have to agree with Iris,” Rose cheeps, plucking the fabric above her skin tag.

I nod. “Well, we could do nothing, too, and continue to ignore the fact that we make less every month.” Iris harrumphs. “And eventually, we’ll just go broke and close the bakery and sell the property to McDonald’s. How does that sound? Everyone on board?”

“Sarcasm causes wrinkles,” Rose says.

“Mom,” I attempt, “you thought it was a good offer, right?”

But the bell over the front door tinkles, and Mom’s head snaps around like a Labrador scenting a pheasant. “Grinelda’s here!” she announces in the same tone a five-year-old might say, Santa came! “Lucy, do you want your mustache taken care of?”

“I don’t have a mustache!” I protest, my fingers flying up to double-check. No whiskers. So there.

The Black Widows have already stampeded away from the table, practically trampling each other to get to the psychic. “What about the offer?” I call after them.

Iris pokes her head back through the swinging door. “If you want to be bossed around by some chain store, you go ahead. The bread’s your responsibility.” Her head disappears, and I hear her booming voice welcome Grinelda to the bakery.

“Wasn’t that fun?” I ask Jorge. He winks and starts stacking the trays from this morning’s pastries.

I take a deep breath, then place a call to Matt DeSalvo at NatureMade. “Hi, Matt, it’s Lucy Mirabelli from Bunny’s,” I say when he says hello.

“Hi, Lucy!” he answers warmly. “I was just thinking about you. Have you had a chance to look at our offer?”

“Yes,” I say. “We have a few questions—” well, I have a few questions, my relatives couldn’t care less “—but things are looking pretty good to me.”

“Want to meet for dinner tonight?” he asks. “I’d be happy to come back to Mackerly. It’s such a pretty town.”

“Okay,” I agree tentatively. “Sure. Um, there’s a place right around the corner from the bakery called Lenny’s.” For some reason, I don’t want to go to Gianni’s, even with my in-laws in Arizona. It doesn’t seem right to take Matt there.

“Seven o’clock work for you?”

“Seven’s great,” I answer.

“I can’t wait,” he says, and he sounds sincere.

When I hang up, there’s an uncomfortable feeling wriggling around in my gut, and it takes me a minute to put my finger on it. Guilt, I realize. I feel guilty because I’m meeting Matt for dinner. Even if it’s just business. I look over at Jorge to see if he’s staring at me in dismay and disappointment. Nope. He’s washing pans.

I glance at my watch: 2:00 p.m. Ethan’s still in Atlanta, probably in a meeting right now, but he’s flying home this evening. I decide to text him. Am meeting the bread guy at Lenny’s, 7:00 p.m. Drop by if you can, okay? After a moment’s hesitation, I add, xox, Lucy, and a sudden, sweet warmth causes my heart to expand in my chest. Ethan will appreciate that, the hugs and kisses.