HE DOCTOR WILL SEE YOU NOW,” the receptionist says, earning me the baleful glare of a roomful of women in varying degrees of ripeness.

“She’s my cousin,” I explain. “I’ll only be a minute. I’m sorry.” No one deigns to answer.

I walk through the frosted glass door down the hall to my cousin’s office.

“Hey, Anne,” I say, giving a little knock. “Thanks for seeing me.”

“Sure, kid! How’s it going?” Anne asks.

Cousin Anne ushers me into a seat. Her office is in Newport, and as Newport is the stylish city mouse to Mackerly’s more humble offerings, so Anne is to me. She’s ten years older, extremely gorgeous and wicked smart, as indicated by the diplomas from Harvard and Johns Hopkins that hang on her wall. Her graying hair is short and funky, and her skin is a testimony to sunscreen and good genetics. She dresses in comfortable, stylish clothes in soothing colors and wears great jewelry. Her office is likewise wicked cool…glass desk, green leather chairs, a gorgeous view of the graceful span that is the Newport Bridge. A bookcase holds dozens of medical books, a nice picture of Anne and Laura, and a beautiful glass sculpture of a baby in utero.

“I’m not pregnant,” I say, just to get that out of the way. “And I brought you blueberry cream scones as a bribe.” I set the string-wrapped white box on her desk

“I love bribes,” she says amiably, peeking under a flap. “Yummy.”

“How’s Laura?” I ask, stalling.

“Oh, she’s great,” Anne answers. “Busy with the new school year and all that. We’re heading up to Bar Harbor for the weekend.”

“Sounds fun,” I say.

“It should be,” she agrees. Waits a little more. They must’ve taught that in med school. Sit silently till the patient can’t stand it anymore and blurts it all out.

“So. Things good with the lesbian doctor practice?” I say, swallowing hard.

She laughs. “Can you work on that? I’d really love to hear my mom say, ‘My daughter, the obstetrician’ just once.”

I smile. “Well, she’s very proud. Drops your credentials whenever she can.”

I do have a regular doctor. It’s just that I used to babysit Dr. Ianelli’s kids. And Mrs. Farthing is the receptionist there, and she’s the mother of my old high school classmate. The nurse, Michelle, is a bakery regular (two cheese danishes every Monday, Wednesday and Friday, and the pounds are starting to pile on, frankly). The physician’s assistant, Caroline, was in Girl Scouts with Corinne. The usual.

Anne nods. “So what brings you here, Lucy?”

I hesitate. “Doctor patient confidentiality?” I suggest.

“You bet,” she answers.

“I’m having anxiety attacks again.” Anne nods. “I mean, I had a few after Jimmy died, of course, hyperventilating, heart pounding, stuff like that, but I haven’t had any for a couple of years. Until a few weeks ago, actually.”

“Had anything changed in your life lately?” Anne asks.

“Well, my in-laws finally left yesterday,” I answer.

She nods and waits.

“And I’m…um, I’m starting to date again. Sort of.” I swallow sickly.

“That’s pretty big, hon,” she says with a kind smile.

My sinuses prickle with tears. “Mmm-hmm,” I murmur.

“How’s it going?” she asks.

“Not awful, not great.” I sniffle, and Anne passes me a tissue box without comment.

“How are you sleeping?” she asks.

“I haven’t slept that well since the accident,” I admit. “A few hours at night, a few in the morning after I’m done at the bakery.”

“Sleep has a lot to do with your mental state, Goose,” she says, reverting to her childhood nickname for me. “How about exercising? Any of that?”

“I ride my bike a lot. Around the island. I rode here today. At my last check-up, the doctor said I was perfectly healthy.”

She nods, then opens her desk drawer and takes out a prescription pad. “This is a scrip for a mild antianxiety medication,” she says, scribbling something down. “Give it a try, see if it helps. It should help you sleep, too. The first time you take it, you should probably be home and not near hot ovens and all that, okay?” She rips off the paper and hands it to me, then stands up and comes round her desk.

“You hang in there, honey,” she says, folding me into a hug. “Change sucks, and of course you’re going to freak out a little, starting to date again after all this time. What’s it been, five years?”

“And a half,” I say.

“Shit.” She sighs, then messes up my hair. “You’re normal, Lucy.” I give her a smile to show that I’m spunky and super-brave, and she smiles back. “Listen, the lesbian doctor has to get back to her patients. These pregnant women get mighty testy if I keep them waiting. Call me if you need anything else. And hey, come for dinner one of these days. Maybe Laura and I can think of some guy for you.”

“Thanks, Anne,” I say sincerely. Good old Anne. She and Laura almost make me wish I were gay, too.

AFTER I FILL THE PRESCRIPTION, I swing by High Hopes Convalescent Center to see Great-Aunt Boggy. I made a ton of scones last night, and the staff loves when I bring stuff in. Maybe Boggy will eat one, too. They’re nice and soft…I’m guessing they don’t need much tooth action, which is good, since Boggy doesn’t have teeth anymore.

You have of course noticed that I don’t eat my own desserts. It’s a shame, since judging by the smell of them, they’re fantastically stupendously wonderful. Not eating them probably keeps me from being an even better baker, because obviously, it’d help to know what things tasted like.

But the night Jimmy died, you see, I’d baked a beautiful dessert in my newlywed fervor. Jimmy and I hadn’t spent a day apart since our wedding, and that whole day, I’d been missing him, the heat of young love throbbing most pleasantly. Despite the fact that I’d been at work at the fancy Newport hotel where I was slaving, I came home and decided to bake for Jimmy. Pictured him coming through the door late that night, weary but wired, full of stories about his day in New York. I’d present him the most beautiful dessert ever, smile and listen until he was sufficiently relaxed to go to bed, where my plan was to shag him senseless and make him unspeakably grateful that he had such a hot wife.

And so I pulled out all the stops to show him how much I’d missed him. To let him know how I adored him. To show off a little, too, because despite my mother-in-law being a wonderful dessert maker, I really wanted to be Gianni’s pastry chef someday.

I spent the next few happy hours dipping golden peaches in a boiling water bath, slipping off the peels, slicing the succulent fruit wafer-thin. On a whim, I grilled them lightly, drizzling a sweet white wine over them as I did so. I toasted half a pound of pistachios, then ground them into rubble with some carmelized ginger, then cut that into unsalted butter for the crust. Rather than make one big tart, I made four little ones—baked the crusts, and when they were cool, added a generous layer of crème fraîche and lemon zest, topped with the thin-sliced peaches, their deep golden color darkening to a seductive red at the center. I arranged the slices to look like flower petals, then poached some blueberries in the wine and added them as the center of the flower. When I was finished, I had what was quite possibly the prettiest dessert ever made. And because I felt I couldn’t possibly wait till Jimmy got home, I ate one. Right after Jimmy called to tell me he was just passing New Haven, I ate another, then saved the last two for my honey.

Well, obviously, Jimmy never got to try one, and ever since that horrible night, the desserts I’ve baked have lost their taste for me. I still love to make them…I just can’t seem to eat them. Whenever I take a bite of a cake or a tart or a pudding or even just a chocolate chip cookie, it tastes like dust—meaningless, empty and gray. If I try to swallow, I gag. It’s pretty clear why.

And so I’ve resorted to the products of Hostess…Twinkies are my favorite, that slight tang of chemical preservative that gives the beloved icon its impressive shelf life, the spongy, sticky cake, the little tunnel of white through the middle. Hostess Cupcakes, too—the peel-away frosting with the cheery little swirl of white on top, the nondairy cream filling that I like to dig out with my tongue. Those pink Sno-Balls, like something from a science fiction movie. The Ho Hos, the Ding Dongs…sigh. My teachers from Johnson & Wales would have my name burned off the alumni register if they knew.

“Hello, dear,” says the receptionist at High Hopes as I walk through the door.

“Hello,” I answer, smiling as I set the second box of scones on the counter. “How’s my aunt doing today?”

“Oh, she’s just as sweet as can be,” Alice lies kindly. What else is she going to say? Well, she’s been drooling really well today…dozing. A little napping here and there, between the bouts of deeper sleep…

“Well, I brought a few treats,” I say. “Let me just grab one for Boggy, and you can divvy up the rest.”

“Thank you, dear!” Alice says. “Aren’t you nice to think of us.”

I really am, I acknowledge with a modest bow of the head. Then I snag the biggest scone for my aunty and head down the hall.

As usual, Boggy’s in bed, sleeping.

“Hi, Boggy!” I say. “I brought you a scone. Blueberry and cream. I think it’s a winner, if I do say so myself.”

I press the button to raise the bed to an upright position—Boggy won’t wake unless she’s sitting up and she’s hungry.

“Doesn’t that smell great?” I ask, holding out the treat.

She opens her eyes. Good old Boggy. How nice that she never lost the urge to eat.

“Who are you?” she asks.

I jump about a mile into the air, dropping the scone on her lap. Her voice is creaky, the words running together, but my God! She spoke! I haven’t heard her speak in fifteen years!

“I’m…uh…I’m your grand-niece. Lucy. Lucy Lang. Daisy’s daughter.” My heart races, my hands are shaking. “Your niece, Daisy Black.”

“Daisy?” The old lady squints, her face creasing into a thousand wrinkles.

“She’s your sister’s daughter.”

“My sister Margaret?”

“Yes!” I exclaim. “Boggy! It’s so…How are you feeling? Are you okay? You’ve been kind of…out of it for a while.” I dig in my pocket for my cell phone. “I’m just gonna call my mom, okay? Let her know you’re, um, awake.”

“Can I eat this?” Boggy asks, then coughs a little. She picks up the scone and gives it a suspicious sniff.

“Well, sure! It’s a scone. Uh, go ahead.”

She takes a gummy bite, then smiles up at me, innocent and happy as a puppy.

“Bunny’s,” my mother sighs into the phone.

“Mom! I’m at High Hopes. Boggy’s awake and talking!”

“What?”

“Get over here right now! She’s sitting up in bed, eating a scone, and she…well, just come! Hurry!”

Six minutes later (a new land-speed record), the Black Widows come into the room, their faces hopeful and suspicious at the same time. I’m shaking with excitement. “Aunt Boggy,” I say, my voice thick with happy tears, “do you remember Iris, Rose and Daisy?”

My mother and aunts approach cautiously. They are holding hands, which touches me more than I can say.

Boggy studies them carefully. “Well,” she creaks. “I hope you girls don’t expect me to cook.”

And with that, the three nieces burst into tears at the sights and sounds of Boggy, awake after so, so long. They swarm around her, petting her, taking her gnarled hands into theirs, kissing her, all talking at once to their beloved aunt, whom they have so faithfully visited all these years.

I take a hitching, happy breath, then step out into the hall to call Corinne. I only get her voice mail, though, and leave a message to come to High Hopes as soon as she can.

Then, peeking in once more at the four women, I call Ethan. He’ll love this. He’ll want to hear all about it, maybe even will leave work early. He doesn’t know Aunt Boggy, but he sure loves the Black Widows.

He answers on the fourth ring. “Ethan, you’ll never guess what!” I exclaim.

“Hi, Lucy. Everything okay?”

“Aunt Boggy woke up! And she’s talking!”

“One second, Luce.” His voice grows muffled. “Sorry, this will only take a minute,” he says to someone. “Lucy, I’m in a meeting, I’m really sorry. That’s great about your aunt.”

“I know! I brought her a scone, and there she was—”

“Luce, I’m sorry. I can’t talk now. I’ll have to catch up later.”

“Oh,” I say, deflating like a popped balloon.

“Sorry,” he repeats. “I’m really glad about your aunt. Talk to you soon.”

And with that, he clicks off.

Well. He’s busy, of course. The new job is all about meetings, from the little I’ve heard. Still. It seems to me that a month ago, he would’ve stepped out of whatever he was doing to hear more of this incredible news.

By now, the word has spread that Boggy is a chatter-box after nearly two decades in a partial coma. Three doctors and two nurses are in her room, checking vitals and asking questions.

“Are there any more scones?” she asks, craning her skinny neck, and with a big smile, I run down the hall to the reception desk to get her some more.