The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(92)
My cat kills the moment with an enormous gag. I wince, look down at the hairball. “You’ll clean that up, of course,” I tell my cat, who decides I’m adorable and butts his head against my shin. With a sigh, I pocket the dime and turn to go inside, then start in fright.
Ethan stands in my living room, staring at my wedding video, arms folded across his chest.
“Hey,” I say, closing the slider behind me.
“Hey,” he returns without looking away from the TV. I wonder if he just heard me talking to Jimmy. “Having a nice night, Lucy?”
I sigh. “Ethan…” Finally he looks at me, his eyebrows raised expectantly. Judgmentally, one might say.
Grabbing the remote off the couch where I left it, I hit the Off button, and the image of Anne and Laura dancing is cut short. Ethan remains where he is, arms still folded. “Ethan,” I state firmly, “I have to clean up a hairball.”
“Okay,” he says. “Don’t let me keep you.” He turns to leave.
“Ethan!” I bark. He stops, turns around, his face unreadable. “Look, I’m sorry I took your head off,” I say in a softer voice. “It’s just…hard, learning something about Jimmy that I—” My voice breaks a little. “That I didn’t expect. And I’ll be honest, Eth. I don’t like it that you knew all this time and never said anything. I figured you’d tell me something as big as that.”
“Why would I tell you, Lucy? You’d just be hurt and upset. Like you are now.” He stares at me, waiting. Always waiting.
I take a deep breath and let it out slowly, wondering if Ethan has other little pockets of decay on Jimmy. No. That’s not fair to Jimmy. He dated Doral-Anne, and as Ethan said, so what? It was before he met me. Doesn’t mean Jimmy was some sort of man-slut.
“So how are things with your parents?” I ask, not really wanting to hear the answer.
“They’re okay. Improving,” Ethan says. A vast distance seems to be spreading between us like a tar pit, eager to suck us down and mire us in the muck.
“And how are you doing, Ethan?” I ask, my voice horribly polite.
“I’m fine, Lucy,” he says gently.
I swallow, then swallow again around the pebble in my throat. “That’s good. Tell your folks I said hi.”
“Will do,” he says.
“I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Good night, then.”
“Good night, Ethan.” The door closes softly behind him.
Then, feeling sick and too full of sugar and chocolate, I clean up the hairball.
When that lovely task is complete, I flop down on my couch. The night is still painfully young. I could watch more of my wedding video, but crap, there’s no point in that, is there? I can’t have Jimmy back, dimes or no dimes. I could call Ethan or go upstairs and try to smooth things over, but I just seem to be making things worse lately. Maybe we need a little space.
Too bad Grinelda’s not really psychic. Too bad I couldn’t talk to my dad, since Mom has abdicated the throne when it comes to parental guidance. I briefly consider jumping onto the online widows group I belonged to the first couple of years after Jimmy died and asking for advice, but I don’t really know what to say. I’ve moved on…sort of…and I love the man I’m with. I just can’t seem to make him very happy.
And so I find myself in the kitchen, baking until midnight. Bittersweet chocolate cake. Fittingly enough, it’s Ethan’s favorite.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
THE TASTE OF MACKERLY IS NOT ONLY A FUN evening, it also raises funds for the town’s emergency services program. In addition to the food vendors, there’s face painting, games and a tank where citizens will have the chance to dunk town notables, including the mayor, Father Adhyatman and Lenny. (Right now, Father A. is taunting Reverend Covers for throwing like a Protestant, whatever that means.) Kids get hair weaves and henna tattoos, and Grinelda usually does readings (twenty dollars for fifteen minutes; I don’t know how she does it).
The town green, which makes up the northern edge of Ellington Park and borders Main Street, is dotted with tents—Lenny’s, Gianni’s, Starbucks, Bunny’s, Eva’s Catering, Cakes by Kim. A band plays on a little stage near the entrance to the cemetery. The trees glow with color—this weekend is really the last of our glorious foliage. Teenagers huddle in groups, giggling and texting and flipping their hair. I hope Ash will have a few friends here tonight, I think with a pang. I told her she could hang out with me, but I’m not really her favorite person these days. I don’t seem to be anybody’s favorite person, in fact.
The crowning glory of the evening is Stuffie—an enormous, papier-mâché stuffed clam. Tradition dictates that Stuffie be driven slowly around the park three times—the streets are closed off to all but the pickup truck pulling our mascot. After the final pass, Stuffie will be towed to the center of the park and, for reasons unclear to many, will then be ignited as the townsfolk cheer. It’s rather primal, but Stuffie is an undeniable hit.
I’d skipped the Taste of Mackerly after Jimmy died, fleeing to Provincetown for the weekend, leaving the Black Widows to run Bunny’s paltry booth so I could avoid the well-meaning assurances that I’d meet someone else and the hit-and-run glances of the pitying. But I’ve come to love this event. After all, I love Mackerly, and this is one of her finest moments.