The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(89)

I swallow. “Yep.”

She hesitates. “He’s always been good to you. He’s wonderful.”

“Yes,” I agree. “That’s definitely true.” I glance around for Ethan…he’s not here yet. I can’t tell if I’m relieved or anxious.

“Well, have a good game,” she says, making Emma wave to me. I wave back, then watch as Corrine stops to say something to Chris. He grins and kisses her, then waves to me.

“I hear you’re doing Ethan Mirabelli,” Charley Spirito says glumly, tapping his bat against his cleats.

I turn to my right-fielder. “Hello, Charley,” I say brightly. “I sure hope we win today, don’t you?”

“Fine, fine,” he grumbles. “It’s just that I thought there was something special between us, Luce.”

I try to remember what might have given him that impression, but mercifully, Chris calls for the game to start.

Today, I find that I’m eager for the season to be over. That the idea of the approaching winter, the shorter days and biting wind, seem cozy to me, with hours spent at my kitchen table, formulating and finalizing my bread recipes for NatureMade. Ethan and I will spend time together like a regular couple. I’ll put on some of my beautiful clothes, and we’ll go out for dinner somewhere nice in Federal Hill.

It’s really time to move on.

“Batter up!”

That would be me. Unfortunately Doral-Anne Driscoll is pitching for International. And there’s still no sign of Ethan.

Doral-Anne stretches so that her shoulders pop, and we are all treated to a glimpse of the snake tattoo on her belly, as she has hacked off the bottom four inches of her shirt. Looking down from the mound, Doral-Anne squints at me, sneers, then spits. I believe I hear my mother muffle a scream.

Knowing her fastball is deadly, I swing at the first pitch a full second before I think I should, and am rewarded with a solid thud of bat against ball. The bleachers cheer—good to have all my relations here—and I take off for first. The ball drops into shallow right, and I’m safe.

“Nice hit, Lucy,” Tommy Malloy says.

“Thanks,” I pant.

“Hey, I hear you and Ethan are giving it a whirl.”

“Yep,” I say.

“Good luck with that,” Tommy says, leaning forward, his hands on his knees, as Charley takes a practice swing. “Though I thought he and Parker were engaged.”

“Nope,” I answer.

“Ah, well. To each his own, I guess,” Tommy says dubiously. Then Charley gets hit by a pitch, so I’m off to second.

By the seventh inning Bunny’s is ahead, 8-2, and I personally have been on base three times already and scored twice. Doral-Anne is definitely off her game. She looks savage as Katie Rose Tinker takes her Mr. Microphone from a plastic case and taps on it to ensure she’ll be heard. Last year, I gave her fourth-grade class a tour of the bakery (any hard feelings about chipping her tooth on the pumpkin cookie gone in the face of eating cupcakes warm from the oven).

Katie Rose warbles her way through “God Bless America,” with all the squealy enthusiasm of Mariah Carey as we all stand, hats over our hearts, waiting for the torture to end. “…God bless America…my home…swee-eeeeet…ho-wo-wome!” Her youthful voice jumps almost an octave, and if she’s a couple of notes short of being in key, the crowd gives her a standing ovation for her enthusiasm.

And that’s when Ethan appears. The crowd grows immediately quiet, sits right back down and turns their attention to us.

“Hey, guys,” he calls to his team. “Sorry I’m late.”

“Hey, Ethan,” a few voices chorus.

Well, this is it. I walk over to him, take his face in my hands and kiss him firmly on the mouth. There will be no wondering about if we’re together anymore.

Silence falls over the ballpark.

“Hi,” I say when I’m done.

“Ouch,” he murmurs. Perhaps I was a little too emphatic. But his lovely mouth turns up in that mischievous, curling smile, and he kisses me quickly (and gently), then trots off to second base.

My face burns, but I feign normalcy and take care not to look over at the bleachers, where my in-laws may or may not be engaged in heart attacks. Carly Espinosa, our catcher, gives me a slap on the bottom. “I always thought Ethan was hot.” She grins.

And in the ninth inning, when I decide to steal second, what do you know?

“Safe!” Chris shouts.

“Was that for real?” I ask Ethan. “Or was that the return of my incredible speed?”

“Oh, the incredible speed, definitely,” he grins.

The final score is Bunny’s 11, International 4. My team is once again Mackerly champions.

“Nicely done,” Ethan says, giving me a brief hug. It’s no more or less than anything he’s done in the past, but it feels different, with the eyes of the town on us.

“Going to Lenny’s, Lucy?” Carly calls.

“But of course,” I answer.

“See you there,” Ethan murmurs, then moves off.

As my teammates trickle off the field, I give a brief statement to Mick Onegin, who covers town sports for the tiny local paper, saying how we all had a great time this season and were grateful to win against such impressive opponents. I see Ethan holding Nicky over by his dugout, talking to my aunts. No doubt they’re grilling him about the two of us. Well, he can hold his own with the Black Widows. More than hold his own, since they eat out of his hand.