The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(85)

I hope Ethan heard that last little bit, but he’s slamming around in the kitchen with a vengeance.

“You could’ve called,” I say with a little smile. “Or knocked.”

“We thought you’d be sleeping, with the hours you keep!” Marie cries in her defense. “You gave us a key! Aren’t you happy to see us?” Her face oozes betrayal and a crushed heart.

“Well, uh, sure, I’m happy,” I stammer. “I’m very happy to see you! It’s just…well…you know. The circumstances.”

“We wanted to surprise you,” Marie says with a little pout.

“And you sure did!” I reply, forcing a smile.

Gianni closes his eyes and shakes his head. “That Ethan. What did I do wrong? First, that schifoso milkshake. Now, he’s arrapato for his brother’s moglie.”

A crash comes from the kitchen.

“He’s not a bad person,” Marie whispers, reaching over to pat her husband’s arm.

“Okay, look. Um…you’re right. Ethan’s not a bad person,” I begin. Talk about damning with faint praise. “He’s a very good person. And you know, he’s been so wonderful to me since Jimmy died—”

“And now we know why,” Gianni snarls.

“No! It’s not like that. He…” I pause. “Look. I love you both. And you knew I was, um…trying to find someone.” I resist the urge to look at my wedding picture. “Is it such a stretch to think that Ethan would be—” A contender, I’m thinking, but Marie jumps in.

“The next best thing?” she suggests. Her face wrinkles with the onset of tears. “When you put it that way, maybe it does make sense.”

“Well, no, Marie, I’m not looking for another—”

Gianni snorts. “If you’re looking for another Jimmy, you’re not gonna find him in Ethan, that’s for sure.”

“I’m not looking for another Jimmy,” I say slowly, blinking at my father-in-law. “Ethan’s nothing like Jimmy.”

“Tell me about it!” Gianni shouts. “His whole job is to get people to stop eating! That’s a slap in my face, an insult to my life’s work.”

“Maybe people don’t like your life’s work as much as you think,” Ethan bites out from the kitchen doorway. He carries in a tray of coffee, cups and a plate of cake slices and slaps it down on the table. “Maybe a milkshake is a welcome change to overcooked pasta and leathery veal.”

“You’re an ungrateful little—”

“Okay! Stop!” I order. “Ethan. Your parents are upset, okay? Settle down.” He glares at me. I turn to Gianni, who also glares at me. “Gianni, please don’t say things you’ll regret later. Ethan’s your son, too.”

“Just not nearly as good as St. Jimmy,” Ethan snipes.

“Stop it,” I whisper. Ethan, all bristling anger and mis-buttoned shirt, sits next to me, deliberately close. I take a deep breath. “So.” I glance at Marie for a little solidarity, but she’s eyeing the pound cake. I push the plate closer to her, and she takes a piece. “A few weeks ago, Ethan and I—”

“Lucy and I are together,” Ethan interrupts. “You can have a problem with it—you already do, I gather—or you can accept it. Obviously, it would be easier if you thought I was good enough for her, but then again, that would negate your little Italian melodrama. Still, if you want to stay on good terms with your one surviving son, who happens to be the father of your only grandchild, you might want to mind your manners.”

“Watch how you talk to your mother,” Gianni growls.

“Ethan, you can’t blame us for being shocked,” Marie tuts. “We just found you doing God knows what with Jimmy’s wife.”

Ethan closes his eyes briefly, and I reach out without thinking and take his hand. He looks at me, his eyes unreadable.

“This is just…ah!” Gianni says, rubbing his chest with vigor. “Isn’t it against the law or something? A man can’t just…” He pauses, giving his son a condemning stare. “Can’t just take his brother’s wife.”

“She’s not anyone’s wife,” Ethan growls. “She’s a widow.”

“Your brother’s widow,” Marie adds.

“Thanks, Ma. I forgot.”

“Always with the sarcasm, you,” Gianni snarls. The muscle under Ethan’s eye ticks.

There’s an uncomfortable silence. “So let’s change the subject a little,” I say, since it’s clear no one is going to leave happy tonight. “You’ve come back to Rhode Island. What’s the plan?” I pause. “I’m guessing from the suitcases in the hall, you’d like to stay here.”

“Not if we’re not welcome,” Gianni grumbles.

“You’re welcome. Of course you are,” I assure them, my heart sinking even further.

“I’d be happy to put you up in a hotel,” Ethan offers.

“What would we do in a hotel?” Marie asks. “Hotels are for rich people. You might be rich, Ethan. We’re not rich. Hotels are for people with no family.”

“Then you’ll stay at my place,” Ethan orders, and I mentally thank him with all my heart. I love my in-laws, but God in heaven, I don’t want to live with them. And while Ethan probably feels that sentiment a million times more, they are his parents.