The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(91)

“Lucy?”

My head jerks back, my vision swims, then clears. Ethan stands in the dimming light of the evening, frowning.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” he asks, kneeling in front of me.

“You’re getting gum on your pants,” I say distantly.

“Lucy.” He gives my shoulders a little shake. “What’s the matter, honey?”

I lean forward and rest my head on Ethan’s shoulder for a minute, feel his hand stroke the back of my head. “Lucy,” he whispers. “What happened?”

I raise my head and look in his eyes. “Did you know about Jimmy and Doral-Anne?” I ask.

He hesitates, and I have my answer. Rage gathers in a fireball.

“You knew?” I spit. “You knew, didn’t you?”

He sighs, looks down. And nods.

Something ugly and hot twists in my stomach. “She’s been gunning for me for years, and you never said anything?” My voice rises to a near shriek. “I don’t believe this! That woman hates me, has taken every chance she’s had to kick me when I was down, and you never said a word? What the hell, Jimmy?”

Ethan’s head jerks back, and his hands drop from my shoulders. “Ethan,” he says, his voice hard.

“What?”

“Ethan. You just called me Jimmy.”

The pebble in my throat feels more like a tumor, malevolent and strangling. “I’m a little upset right now, Ethan. Doral-Anne just informed me that she slept with Jimmy.”

“So?” His voice is oddly cool.

“So? So…so the Jimmy I knew would never have gone for someone like Doral-Anne.” My voice is breathy and furious.

“Why?”

“Because! Because she’s meaner than acid, and he was wonderful. She was not his type.”

Ethan stands up. “Right. You were his type. He dumped her and went for you. So what’s the problem?”

I splutter wordlessly. The problem? The problem is, I don’t want to picture Jimmy—my Jimmy—with a nasty little number like Doral-Anne of the snake tattoos. Picture him kissing her, or oh, God, undressing her! Gah! Could he honestly have mentioned marriage to her?

“Lucy,” Ethan says wearily, “Jimmy fell for you the second he laid eyes on you. And you fell for him.” His hands raise in frustration. “Why are you complaining? Doral-Anne’s had it rough—”

“Right. Poor misunderstood Doral-Anne.” I stand up as well, my legs shaking. “I’m going home. Tell the gang sorry I couldn’t make it.”

“Lucy—”

“Ethan, I really want to be alone. Okay?” And with that, I sling my baseball bag over my shoulder and head out of the park on my ridiculous path. Out of the park, around the cemetery. My throat thickens as I pass the point closest to my father’s grave. I could really use a dad at this moment. I wonder if Joe Torre would take a call from me.

He was gonna marry me.

How could I never have known that? Jimmy kept that from me. Gianni and Marie must’ve known, too.

And so did Ethan, all these years. He befriended Doral-Anne and he never bothered to tell me why. Well, I think fiercely, slashing my hand across my teary eyes, they say the wife is always the last to know.

An hour later, I’m sitting on my couch, Fat Mikey on one side, a box of Hostess Cupcakes on the other, three empty wrappers on the floor. I stare straight ahead, my mind empty except for memories. On the TV screen, Jimmy and I stare at each other, smiling, kissing, laughing. He chose “Angel” by Dave Matthews for our first dance. Wherever you are, I swear, you’ll be my angel. Of course, I was supposed to be the angel…in the romantic, I-can’t-believe-you’re-so-wonderful way. Jimmy was supposed to stay alive and adore me. He wasn’t supposed to leave me. And even though he didn’t know me then, he sure as hell wasn’t supposed to find Doral-Anne attractive. To sleep with her. To talk about marrying her.

At this moment in real time, Fat Mikey decides a wad of hair must be expelled from the far reaches of his intestinal track. He starts hacking, then squeaks as I heave him into my arms. “Come on, buddy, out on the balcony,” I grunt, opening the slider with my elbow. There. Made it. Fat Mikey shoots me a disgruntled look, aggravated that I prevented him from gacking on the couch, then returns his attention to the business at hand. I sigh and lean in the doorway, waiting for my cat. The potted ferns I bought last spring have withered from the cold, their leaves yellow and straggling. The long, gray winter is coming.

Then I straighten, goose bumps rising on my arms. There, on the wide railing of the balcony, something gleams, catching the light from the street.

A dime.

Without daring to breathe, I tiptoe over to the railing and touch the dime with one finger. Heads up, FDR quite youthful and virile.

“Jimmy?” I whisper. “Are you there?”

No voice speaks, no image shimmers in the corner. The night is still. A little breeze blows from the ocean, rustling the dead leaves of the ferns. From my dead husband, I hear nothing.

“I sure miss you,” I say, my throat tightening. I think about everything I wish I could ask him…what to do about Ethan, how to comfort his parents. If he ever loved Doral-Anne. If that matters. “I could really use some advice, Jim,” I add. “Not that ‘Check the toast’ wasn’t helpful.”