Page 29
Author: Kristan Higgins
But I don’t say anything. It’s too soon. Instead I give Marie my love, ask her to hug Gianni for me and tell her how much I miss them both. Then I hang up, avoid my mother’s eyes and check my bread.
Ethan and I had dinner the other night, and it was an agony of discomfort. We’d gone to Lenny’s, and I’m fairly sure no one realized we were on a date. Ethan and I have been out to eat many times before, after all. Less frequently in the past two years, granted, when smokin’ sex was how we spent our time, but I’m sure this dinner didn’t look any different to the untrained eye. But Ethan was practically levitating with energy, talked nonstop, trying—way too hard—to entertain me. I was so nervous I could barely eat. It was beyond tense. I couldn’t think of anything to say—mentioning Jimmy seemed verboten, but avoiding the subject altogether felt unnatural, too. All the little customer stories I had from the bakery evaporated as I tried to think of something—anything—to talk about. We were reduced to talking about the weather and our food. Pathetic.
When we walked back to the Boatworks, Ethan escorted me to my door, then leaned against the wall, waiting for me to find my keys as Fat Mikey yowled from inside.
“Well, thanks, Eth,” I said, blushing. I didn’t want him to kiss me. I just wanted to be inside, safe with my cat. Oh, I wanted him to kiss me, and if he did, then we all know what would happen…I’d maul him right here in the hallway. Fat Mikey began headbutting the door as if he could break it down. Ethan’s eyes were steady, waiting. I looked at the floor.
“You’re welcome,” he said, then kissed my cheek. “See you soon. ”
Before he even disappeared around the corner to the stairs, I missed him.
I ended up knocking on Ash’s door to see if she wanted to practice making pumpkin walnut cheesecake, which is what’s on the menu for our next class, and lucky for me, she did. And the whole time, I couldn’t get my mind off Ethan, and so it’s been. When he’s around, I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. When he’s not, I miss him.
“So what’s eating you, Lucy?” Iris asks now, cocking her head in a concerned manner.
“Oh, nothing. Preoccupied, I guess,” I say, smiling at my starchy aunt. Though Rose is the more affectionate aunt, Iris is a bit more perceptive, despite her bulldozer personality.
“Dating’s not going too well?” she suggests.
“It’s…I don’t know. It’s harder than I thought,” I say.
“I thought I might date a little, too,” Rose says, making me bobble the tray of bread I just took out.
“Oh, yes,” Iris confirms, the sarcasm dripping. “All of a sudden, this one wants to see what’s out there. You should’ve seen her at the senior center when we got our flu shots. Four men, fanning around her, ignoring me. Just like when we were young. Me the smart one, her the pretty one. ”
“I’m smart, too!” Rose cheeps indignantly. “And you’re pretty, Iris. You just don’t know how to flirt. ”
Iris rolls her eyes. “I’m seventy-six years old, Rose. And you’re not much younger. Flirting. You should be swapping prescription lists and asking if they want the CPR when their hearts stop. ”
I laugh as Rose clucks in disapproval, and Jorge, who’s materialized from the back, grins. He and I begin bagging the still-warm bread with practiced efficiency.
“Lucy?” my mother calls from up front, her voice strained. “Someone’s here to see you. ”
“Okay,” I call, then turn to Jorge. “Can you get the rest of this?” He nods. “So Jorge, what do you think of Rose? She’s interested in dating again. ”
“Oh, pish, Lucy,” Rose giggles. “Jorge’s just a good friend. ”
Jorge flashes her a grin, his gold tooth winking.
I push through the swinging doors to the front of the bakery just as Mom comes into the kitchen. “Lucy, honey, wait—”
I lurch to a stop at the sight of the man standing at the counter.
It’s Jimmy.
My knees buckle, and Mom grabs me before I fall.
Of course, it’s not Jimmy. But it’s close, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. Rose is dabbing tears, and Iris’s hand is pressed against her heart.
Matt DeSalvo—he gave us his name at some point—is tall and broad-shouldered. His dirty blond hair is cut short. He has a wide, straight smile, and his face is angular and strong. Matt has a dimple, and Jimmy did not. Matt’s eyes are blue—not the astonishing blue-green that Jimmy’s were, but a more true blue. And he’s wearing a suit, which Jimmy rarely did.
But still. The resemblance is shocking.
We sit across from each other at the table in the bakery kitchen. Mom fixes tea, clucking, and Rose repeatedly tells me I’m white as a sheet. Which is natural, since I feel like I’ve seen a ghost. My hands are trembling, and I feel a little sweaty.
Since Jimmy died, I’ve seen him around. I know from my aunts and mother, as well as from the widows’ group I’d belonged to, that seeing your dead spouse was not uncommon. Once, when I was driving up from New London, a man crossed the street in front of me, looking so much like Jimmy that I’d done a U-turn and gone back to find him, searching for half an hour, my heart clacking in my throat, tears spurting out of my eyes. Another time, when I was leaving the hospital after Nicky was born, I’d heard Jimmy laugh clear as day…the low, dirty laugh so singular to Jimmy that I was convinced his spirit had dropped down to earth to visit his newborn nephew.
But seeing a Jimmy lookalike across the table from me…it’s overwhelming. At my near faint, Mom had explained the resemblance, and Matt had very nicely helped me into the kitchen, where I melted into a chair and put my head between my knees.
I wipe my eyes and blow my nose once more. “I’m sorry,” I say again.
“It’s completely understandable,” Matt answers kindly. His voice is not like Jimmy’s at all, which helps. Close up, the resemblance isn’t that shocking. Matt’s nose is a little longer, and his chin is rounder than Jimmy’s, which was square and ridiculously masculine. But still. He looks more like Jimmy than anyone I’ve seen. More like Jimmy’s brother than Ethan does, for that matter.
“How long has it been?” he asks.
“Five and a half years,” I answer, stealing another look at his face.
“It was such a tragedy,” Iris announces.
“So tragic,” Rose cheeps at the same time.
“Why don’t you girls go down to the Starbucks?” Mom suggests sharply. “Lucy could use a coffee. One of those expensive, silly things. Go. Shoo. ”
The aunts, looking wounded at being kicked out, do as they’re told, and Matt stands up politely as they cluck and don their cardigans. I take the delay to get myself under control, though my hands are still trembling.
“So how did your husband die?” Matt asks. My mother, feeling that this is too personal a question, rattles the kettle loudly. Though she’s gotten rid of the aunts, there’s no way on God’s green earth that she’s going to leave.
“A car accident,” I say distantly.
“I’m so sorry. ” He says it just the right way, looking right into my eyes without flinching. Sympathy, not pity. There’s a huge difference, and we widows appreciate it, let me tell you. “You must’ve been awfully young. ”
“Twenty-four,” I murmur.
My mom sets down the tea tray with a clatter. “So what brings you to Bunny’s, Mr. DeSalvo?” she asks, sitting next to me. She tugs on her tailored, cropped jacket, crosses her legs, jiggling her foot so that her high-heeled shoe dangles precariously.
“Well, this may not be the time to discuss it, if you’re still feeling shaky,” Matt answers. “I can certainly come back. ”
“I’d think she’d feel less shaky if you said your business,” Mom retorts. I give her a questioning look. Not like her to be so rude. That’s more Iris’s terrain.
Still, Matt pauses, looking at me,
and I have to admit, I like that he’s waiting for my approval. “I’m fine, Matt. Go ahead. ”
“I represent NatureMade,” he says, naming an organic chain grocery store that dots our fair state. “Are you familiar with us?”
“Too expensive for real people to shop at, but yes,” my mother says.
He gives a half nod. “Well, yes, organic food is more expensive,” he acknowledges. “We like to think that our customers understand the value of good health—” Mom snorts, and I give her a reprimanding nudge. Matt laughs. “Okay, I’ll save the sales pitch. I’m here because we think Bunny’s bread is the best in the area, and we’d like to be the sole distributor in Rhode Island. ”
My mouth drops open. “Wow,” I murmur.
Matt gives me a nutshell idea of the details—NatureMade would sell four types of Bunny’s bread in its baked goods department. We could still supply bread to the restaurants we use now, as long as it didn’t interfere with NatureMade’s quota. If the bread sold well, they’d ask for more varieties, then discuss the possibility of distributing Bunny’s bread in the Connecticut and Massachusetts stores as well.
Matt smiles as he talks, a good salesman. His voice is low and confident, and he holds eye contact well. God, he reminds me of Jimmy! Not just how he looks, but the whole take-charge attitude. He has a plan, it’s a good one, and he knows it.
“What about selling it here?” Mom asks suspiciously. “We’re not going to stop selling here, of course. ”
“Well, we would ask that you’d limit the number of loaves and types available here,” he said. “And of course, we’d do an ad campaign in all the Rhode Island newspapers and some radio commercials, too, announcing that we carry Bunny’s bread. I imagine you’d see a bump in customer traffic, thanks to the publicity. ” Mom huffs but doesn’t contradict him.
He fishes a card out of his breast pocket and places it on the table. “I know you’ll have a lot to talk about,” he says. “Can I call you in a few days?”
“Sure,” I say. “That would be great. ”
He shakes Mom’s hand first, winning points for good manners, then mine, holding on a bit too long. “I’m sorry I startled you,” he says, a half smile on his mouth. My stomach flips, not unpleasantly.
“It’s not your fault,” I answer. I may be blushing.
“Great to meet you both,” Matt says. “And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d love a few of those cheese danishes for the road. ”
“I’ll get them,” Mom grumbles, getting up from the table.
Bemused, I sit at the table, my tea cooling next to me, toying with Matt’s card. Statewide bread distribution would be a huge shot in the arm for Bunny’s. Huge.
But it’s not really the bread I’m thinking of.
“I didn’t like him,” Mom announces, bursting through the swinging doors a minute later.
“Why?” I ask.
“Too slick,” she says, brushing a speck of imaginary lint from her lapel. “Did you see that suit? Armani, I’m thinking. ”
“You’re the one dressed like Michelle Obama, Mom,” I point out. She doesn’t answer. “He really looked like Jimmy, didn’t he?” I add.
“Oh, not so much. ”
“Mom. He looked like Jimmy’s brother. ”
“So?”
“So nothing, not really. He just did. ” I’m quiet for a minute. “It was kind of…comforting…seeing a face so much like Jimmy’s. That’s all. ”
My mother’s eyes fill with tears. She bends and gives me a rare hug. “He did. He looked just like Jimmy. ” She sits down and dabs her eyes.
The Next Best Thing Page 29
