The Next Best Thing (Gideon's Cove #2)(94)

“So how is it, being back?” Iris asks Gianni. Both being the bossy type, they’ve always had a grudging respect for the other.

“Not bad. We’re back in our house. Sold the condo in Arizona for ten grand more than we paid for it, our house was still on the market, I says to Marie, I says, ‘Why not? We know what we’re getting!’ So Ethan called the movers and we’ll be back in our own house next week. Like we never left.”

“Is Ethan here?” my mother asks. Marie, who is chatting up my aunts, falls abruptly silent.

“Oh, he’s here, all right,” Gianni grumbles. “With that del cazzo milkshake.”

Right. International Foods is the biggest sponsor of the Taste of Mackerly. They pay for all the tent rentals, the lights, the liquor permit and the extra cops to control traffic. In addition, Ethan’s listed in the big donors section of the program, and it’s already been announced that we’ve raised enough for new air packs for the firefighters as well as a new radio system. But that kind of generosity doesn’t matter to Gianni, who still views Instead as a personal fork stuck in his heart by that no-good second son of his.

“What do you think of him and Lucy?” Iris asks, never one for subtlety. Gianni’s impressive eyebrows lower.

Marie darts a glance my way. “Well…it’s…”

“Nonny!”

Saved by a four-year-old! Nicky comes charging over, crashing into Marie’s legs. “Well, hello, little man!” she exclaims, trying to pick him up. Unfortunately Marie is five-foot-nothing, and Nicky had a recent growth spurt.

“Come here, you,” Gianni says, his face softening with adoration. He picks up his grandson and kisses him loudly on the cheek, then chuckles and ruffles Nicky’s hair.

“I ate a worm,” Nicky announces, holding up a bag of gummy strings.

“That’s disgusting,” Gianni says. “Here, have a cookie. Want Poppy to buy you a cookie?”

Nicky looks at the pumpkin cookies spread out on our table. “Do I have to?”

“No, baby, you don’t,” I say with a sigh.

“Hi, guys,” Parker says, joining us. “Anyone have anything good to eat yet?”

“Not yet,” Marie says. “How about you?”

Parker’s cheeks stain with pink. “Um…not really.”

“You’ve been to Starbucks, haven’t you?” I ask.

“Busted,” she murmurs. “But only for that hot chocolate.”

“Isn’t it to die for?” Rose exclaims. “Marie, have you tried it yet?”

Indeed, a dozen people mingle in front of the Starbucks tent, despite the fact that the Taste of Mackerly doesn’t officially start until four, ten minutes from now. Ash, who used to boycott the chain store as a sign of solidarity, is waiting in line as well. Ouch.

Just then Ethan walks past Starbucks’ tent, a large box in his arms. He stops to say hi to Ash, and I watch as her face turns red. Ethan grins at something she says, and Ash smiles back, glowing. Ethan moves on, then pauses before crossing the street—Stuffie the Clam is making a practice run lap before his immolation. Ethan calls something to the driver of the pickup—Ed Langley of Ed’s Egg Farm, just before the bridge—then crosses the street. He pauses in front of his parked car to say something to Roxanne the surly waitress, and she laughs and pats his shoulder before crossing the street toward the green. Only Ethan could get a smile from Roxanne.

He’s so nice to everyone. That’s not news to me, but it feels awfully good to see in action just the same. I hope he’ll come by soon, so we can smooth out anything that needs smoothing. I miss him. I’ll tell him that.

I pull my gaze off Ethan, then freeze. Doral-Anne glares at me from ten yards away, Kate on one side, Leo on the other, the usual poison shooting from her eyes. Her daughter tugs her hand, and Doral-Anne looks down, puts her hand on Kate’s head and says something, her face softening into a smile. Well, well. A moment of maternal tenderness from the lady with the snake tattoo.

A bit flustered by the jealousy that’s reared its ugly head, I busy myself trying to arrange the cookies on our pretty table so they don’t look quite so hideous, but it’s no good. They’re just so…graceless. So tacky. If I ever had control of the bakery, I’d ban these for life.

“Can we have a bunch of these?” asks a boy of about twelve.

I look over my shoulder to see who he’s talking to—no one there—then back at the lad. “Are you talking to me, sweetie?”

“Yes. Could we have some cookies?”

“Really?” I ask, then give my head a little shake. “I mean, sure. Of course you can. How many?”

“Maybe ten?” he says.

“Wow,” I say. “You bet.” I bag ten cookies and hand them to the kid, who pays, thanks me and dashes off.

Iris gives me an arch look. “Guess they’re not as bad as you thought, are they?” she says, tutting.

“Can I have some, too?” another boy asks.

“Sure!” I tell him, then glance at Iris, who’s preening like a cat over a dead mouse. “Sorry, Iris. I underestimated their appeal.”

“Yes, you did,” she agrees.

“Lucy, we’re going to look around a little,” Rose cheeps. “If you don’t mind, of course. Want anything?”