FEW DAYS LATER, ETHAN HAS TO TRAVEL to Atlanta, where the International Food Products manufacturing plant is headquartered, so I have plenty of time to contemplate the state of my life. Things have been okay between Ethan and me, though we’re still pretty careful with each other, especially about the subject of Jimmy.

The other day, I packed Nicky into his car seat and drove into Providence to surprise Ethan at work. As Nicky was spoiled by the staff, repeatedly summoned the elevator, photocopied his hands and took cup after cup from the dispenser by the water cooler, Ethan introduced me around—no title, just “This is Lucy,” but I held his hand the whole time, hoping he’d see that as a sign that I was in this. He was so happy, so proud to show off his son, and I got more than a few speculative looks, which made me blush constantly.

“This meant a lot,” Ethan said to me when we were waiting for the elevator, Nicky pressing the button over and over. I smiled and kissed him goodbye full on the mouth, my hands buzzing.

We’re getting there. Since he left for Georgia, we’ve been e-mailing a couple times a day, with long phone conversations at night. When I hear his voice, my heart jumps, and if it feels like a panic attack, maybe it’s something else. And blessedly, I’m still gorging myself on my rather incredible baking.

And baking is on my mind, as next weekend is the Taste of Mackerly, which is a chance for the town to draw in a few tourists before the season is officially done. Lenny’s, Bunny’s, Catering by Eva, Cakes by Kim, and of course, Starbucks will be there along with contributions from the Lions Club, the Exchange Club and the Polish Ladies Auxiliary, who hawk their pierogies like the end of days is nigh.

In the past, Bunny’s has trotted out the same tired, pumpkin-shaped cookies with frosting so hard that, three years ago, little Katie Rose Tinker chipped a tooth. Last year we had four dozen at the beginning of the evening. At the end, we had forty-six, and only because Ethan bought one for himself and one for Nicky. Nicky’s little teeth weren’t up for the task of gnawing through the icing, so Ethan had discreetly tossed it into the trash, but he’d soldiered on through his own, grinning at me as I offered sympathy for his culinary choice.

On Wednesday, the staff of Bunny’s sits down for a rare meeting. Jorge lingers in the back, drinking the sludge he calls coffee, and runs his hand over his bald head, mentally preparing himself for the ordeal ahead.

“Okay,” I say. “We have the Taste of Mackerly coming up on Columbus Day, so—”

“I have a skin tag,” Rose announces, leaning forward. “Right under my bra line. Here.” She hefts up her right breast and points. “Carmella Bronson said I could just snip it right off with toenail clippers, but I’m scared it won’t stop bleeding.”

“Go to a plastic surgeon,” Mom says. “I’m thinking of Botox, myself.”

“Okay, about the weekend,” I say. “I think we should really go whole hog this year. I’ve been baking these—”

“Botox? That’s spider venom,” Iris says. “You’d have to be an idiot to put spider venom in your face.”

“It’s a bacteria. Botulism bacteria. It’s not venom,” I say. “Anyway, I thought we could—”

“I know what it is, Miss Smarty-Pants,” Iris says, waving her hand dismissively. “My daughter is a lesbian doctor, after all.” She turns to my mother. “Why would you stick a needle full of bacteria in your face, Daisy? Did you turn stupid overnight?”

“I want to look my best,” my mother says, adjusting her scarf.

“We also need to discuss that offer from NatureMade,” I try again. Jorge grins.

“Vanity is a sin,” Iris says, adjusting her shirt, which, from the look of it, belonged to her long-dead Pete.

“What about my skin tag? Am I supposed to go around looking like a goat with wattles all over my body?” Rose asks querulously. “Or get Ebola by cutting off my own skin?”

“That would be tetanus, Rose,” I say. “Don’t cut them off yourself. See a doctor, okay? Now, back to the—”

“Did you get your flu shots, speaking of injections?” Mom asks her older sisters.

With a sigh, I slump down in my chair and wait them out. After twenty minutes or so, I eventually manage to steer the conversation back to the Taste of Mackerly and am outvoted, as usual, on the burning issue of the pumpkin cookies, which, according to Iris, everyone loved.

Then I give them the details on NatureMade’s official offer…number of loaves we’d be able to supply, how the schedule would change at Bunny’s, a bit more oversight from the company to ensure that our bread was consistent.

“So what do you think?” I ask when I’m done.

Mom studies her manicure, as ever seeming detached from the bakery where she’s worked most of her life. Iris and Rose, on the other hand, sit like disgruntled trolls, dour expressions on their faces, arms folded across their ample bosoms. Jorge, still lurking in the back, purely for entertainment purposes, laughs silently and pours himself more coffee.

“I don’t like some out-of-towners telling us how to do things,” Iris eventually says.

“I have to agree with Iris,” Rose cheeps, plucking the fabric above her skin tag.

I nod. “Well, we could do nothing, too, and continue to ignore the fact that we make less every month.” Iris harrumphs. “And eventually, we’ll just go broke and close the bakery and sell the property to McDonald’s. How does that sound? Everyone on board?”

“Sarcasm causes wrinkles,” Rose says.

“Mom,” I attempt, “you thought it was a good offer, right?”

But the bell over the front door tinkles, and Mom’s head snaps around like a Labrador scenting a pheasant. “Grinelda’s here!” she announces in the same tone a five-year-old might say, Santa came! “Lucy, do you want your mustache taken care of?”

“I don’t have a mustache!” I protest, my fingers flying up to double-check. No whiskers. So there.

The Black Widows have already stampeded away from the table, practically trampling each other to get to the psychic. “What about the offer?” I call after them.

Iris pokes her head back through the swinging door. “If you want to be bossed around by some chain store, you go ahead. The bread’s your responsibility.” Her head disappears, and I hear her booming voice welcome Grinelda to the bakery.

“Wasn’t that fun?” I ask Jorge. He winks and starts stacking the trays from this morning’s pastries.

I take a deep breath, then place a call to Matt DeSalvo at NatureMade. “Hi, Matt, it’s Lucy Mirabelli from Bunny’s,” I say when he says hello.

“Hi, Lucy!” he answers warmly. “I was just thinking about you. Have you had a chance to look at our offer?”

“Yes,” I say. “We have a few questions—” well, I have a few questions, my relatives couldn’t care less “—but things are looking pretty good to me.”

“Want to meet for dinner tonight?” he asks. “I’d be happy to come back to Mackerly. It’s such a pretty town.”

“Okay,” I agree tentatively. “Sure. Um, there’s a place right around the corner from the bakery called Lenny’s.” For some reason, I don’t want to go to Gianni’s, even with my in-laws in Arizona. It doesn’t seem right to take Matt there.

“Seven o’clock work for you?”

“Seven’s great,” I answer.

“I can’t wait,” he says, and he sounds sincere.

When I hang up, there’s an uncomfortable feeling wriggling around in my gut, and it takes me a minute to put my finger on it. Guilt, I realize. I feel guilty because I’m meeting Matt for dinner. Even if it’s just business. I look over at Jorge to see if he’s staring at me in dismay and disappointment. Nope. He’s washing pans.

I glance at my watch: 2:00 p.m. Ethan’s still in Atlanta, probably in a meeting right now, but he’s flying home this evening. I decide to text him. Am meeting the bread guy at Lenny’s, 7:00 p.m. Drop by if you can, okay? After a moment’s hesitation, I add, xox, Lucy, and a sudden, sweet warmth causes my heart to expand in my chest. Ethan will appreciate that, the hugs and kisses.

In the front, Grinelda is powering through a day-old brownie and spraying the Black Widows with crumbs. “I’m getting someone who’s name starts with an L…Is it Larry?” She stuffs a neon pink cookie in her mouth. “It’s Larry.”

“Oh, Larry,” Rose breathes.

“Larry wants you to be happy. Go ahead and date someone, he says. Share your light with the world.”

I have to hand it to Grinelda. She knows her audience well, because Rose’s eyes mist over, and her face turns pink with pleasure.

“What about me?” Iris demands. “Does Pete want me to find someone else?”

Grinelda takes a drag on her little brown cigar. “Hmm. Let me see. Give me a minute.” She exhales slowly, then slurps her coffee. “Someone’s coming through. A man. His name starts with…let’s see now…his name starts with P. Does anyone know a man whose name starts with P?”

I sigh and, as usual, am ignored.

Grinelda takes another bite of brownie. “Pete says do what you need to do. But don’t do anything you don’t need to do.”

“Huh,” Iris grunts. “You know, that makes sense. The truth is, I don’t really want to date anyone.”

I sigh again, more loudly, and throw in an eye roll for emphasis.

Iris spares me a glance. “What else, Grinelda? Don’t mind the youngster here.”

But Grinelda is looking at me through the acrid smoke of her cigar. “You,” she says, frowning. “Jimmy’s telling you to check the toast.” She frowns, her face cracking into a hundred folds of age-spotted skin. My aunts frown as well, clearly displeased that I haven’t heeded my otherworldly message.

“Can’t I get something better than that, Grinelda? Something about true love never dying?” I ask.

Then Rose gasps. “Check the toast…or check the bread!” she squeals. “The bread man! The one who looks like Jimmy! Oh! My! God!”

“The bread man! Dear Lord!” Iris trumpets. “That’s what he meant! Check the bread, right, Grinelda?”

Even my mother looks flabbergasted.

Granted, my faith in Grinelda is wafer-thin, but ice seems to be flooding my stomach right now. The Black Widows are beside themselves…the bread man, yes, yes, the bread man!…and I have to admit, it’s a little spooky. Matt DeSalvo does look like Jimmy…I’m not the only one who thinks so. And Matt does deal in toast. Sort of.

“It’s a sign,” Rose coos. “Jimmy wants you to marry the bread man.”

“I’m not marrying the bread man,” I say firmly, though my voice sounds a little distant.

“Why? You’re the one who wanted a new husband,” Iris says in the same tone that she might say, You’re the one who wanted to pee in the street.

“The bread man looks like her dead husband,” Rose informs Grinelda.

“Which she’d already know, being psychic and all,” I say automatically. Still, I can’t help but wonder if there’s really something here. If Jimmy’s trying to tell me not to date his brother—

“So? What’s the plan, then?” Iris asks. “Are you going to ask him out?”

“You should, Lucy,” Rose seconds.

Then I give myself a mental shake. “Let’s drop it, okay?”

“But you are meeting the bread man later, aren’t you?” Mom asks. “I heard you on the phone.”

I bite my lip and swallow. It’s time to acknowledge Ethan here, but the words are hard to get out of my throat. The pebble is back. “The truth is,” I say, and my voice is shaky, “I’ve actually been—”

“I’m getting an R,” Grinelda says in her scraping voice. “Ronnie? No. Robbie.”

“It’s your Robbie!” Iris and Rose chorus, their heads whipping to my mother.

Any interest in me is swept aside as my father reaches out from beyond the grave. “Robbie’s glad you still look so good,” Grinelda tells my mother, who preens noticeably and gives Iris a satisfied smirk.

“Does he think she should get spider venom shot in her face?” Iris asks.

I head back to the kitchen to start the afternoon bread order. “I’m dating Ethan,” I tell Jorge.

He raises his eyebrows, then gives a nod.

“Did you know, Jorge?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

I drum my fingers on the countertop. “What do you think? Me dating my dead husband’s brother?” I ask. “Weird? Maudlin? Gross? Or does it make complete sense to you?”

Jorge shrugs, smiles a little, giving me a flash of his gold tooth. For the millionth time, I wish he’d just write something down if he can’t talk. Then again, he might not be able to write. Jorge’s mysteries go quite deep.

“Well, thanks for your input,” I tell him. He pats me on the shoulder and fires up the oven.

I ARRIVE AT LENNY’S TWO MINUTES BEFORE seven. Matt DeSalvo is already there, standing in the doorway, being ignored by the staff, as is traditional.

“Hi, Lucy! Thank you so much for meeting me,” he says the minute he sees me. He bends and kisses my cheek, making me blush furiously. “Sorry,” he says, grinning. “Here.” He extends his hand and shakes mine firmly. “Good to see you.”

I laugh. “Good to see you, too. Let’s grab a table.”

“The sign says Please Wait To Be Seated,” he observes.

“The sign lies. They’ll just ignore us until we starve to death,” I tell him. I lead him to a table in the back, blushing again as he holds the chair for me.

Roxanne tosses some cutlery wrapped in a paper napkin as we take our seats. “Whaddya want?” she asks.

“Hey there, how are you?” Matt asks, naive as a newborn kitten to the ways of Lenny’s surly staff. When she fails to answer, he asks, “Um, do you have a wine list we could take a look at?”

“No,” she growls. “White, red, pink. Full bar. Whaddya want?”

“How about two dirty martinis?” I suggest, remembering Ethan’s last happy hour with my aunts. It sounds sophisticated, and the truth is, I’m a little nervous. Also, I’m wearing one of my La Perla bra and panty sets (don’t even ask what it cost, it’s just too shameful). But it seemed about time I wore something nicer, even if the lace is a little itchy. And I do feel pretty…I even cut the tags off a beautiful pale pink cashmere cardigan with black buttons, which I’ve paired with a short, swirly black skirt, silver dangly earrings and yes, my Stuart Weitzman kitten heels. I wanted to look like someone with a little business savvy. That’s what I told myself, anyway.

Not only is Matt DeSalvo an executive with a big grocery store, but he also represents a huge shift in my own status as a baker. NatureMade is a prestigious store, on par with Whole Foods, if much smaller. This deal could keep Bunny’s alive for the foreseeable future, as well as bump up my own status.

And Matt DeSalvo’s really cute. And he looks like Jimmy. And he’s the bread man. And maybe my dead husband wants me to date him.

“Did you grow up in Mackerly?” Matt asks, and I tell him, yes, I sure did. We chat amiably about our families, sip our cocktails. The dirty martini tastes like something you’d drink if your airplane crashed in the Sahara and the only fluid available to you was leaking out of the engine block, but it does go a long way in relaxing me. We order a few stuffies to start off with, earning us another disgusted look from Roxanne, since now she’ll have to make an extra trip to our table. She doesn’t approve of appetizers.

Despite Roxanne being Roxanne, Matt continues to try to ease himself into her good graces, not realizing she doesn’t have any. Jimmy, too, was always a sweetheart to waitresses, both at Gianni’s and anywhere else we might eat, always chatting them up and asking what they’d recommend, where they were from. Matt also seems to find me really charming. Just like Jimmy.

We’re halfway through our main courses (steak for me, salmon for Matt) when I hear Ethan’s voice. I look past Matt, and there he is, talking to Tommy Malloy. He looks up, smiles at me, and once again, guilt flashes its hot brand across my gut. I wave. “Ethan just got here,” I say to Matt. I’d mentioned Ethan earlier in the conversation…as Jimmy’s brother and a fellow food executive. Not as my boyfriend. Say something, idiot! my conscience orders in a shocked voice. I don’t. “I told him to join us.”

“Great!” says Matt, seeming sincere.

Then I look back at Ethan and feel something else…I missed him. Haven’t seen him for four days now, and as he approaches, weaving through the crowded restaurant, I recall the goodbye kiss he gave me the other day, the heat that flowed through me, the way I kissed him back, almost making him miss his flight.

“Hi,” I say, standing up and kissing him quickly on the cheek. I give him a hug, too. Matt DeSalvo can draw his own conclusions.

“Hi,” he says, and though it’s just one word, his voice reverberates inside me. He touches my arm, and a wave of lust rises hot and fast, making my knees feel a little unreliable. Ethan’s lips curl into that slight, knowing smile, and those knees turn to mush.

Then Ethan looks at Matt, and his smile falls. “Jesus,” he breathes.

“Ethan, this is Matt DeSalvo. Matt, this is Ethan Mirabelli.” I bite my lip. Ethan stares, his face pale.

“Hi there,” Matt says, half rising and extending his hand. “I’m told I look a lot like your brother. Sorry.”

“No, no,” Ethan says, recovering a bit. “But…wow. At first glance, yes.” He clears his throat. “Nice meeting you.”

“Have a seat,” Matt says. “Lucy says you’re in the food business as well.” I’m glad he mentions this, as now Ethan will see that I talked about him. It makes whatever lingering guilt I’m feeling dissipate almost entirely.

“That’s right. I’m in marketing at International Food Products,” Ethan answers.

“Makers of Instead?” Matt asks.

“That’s right.”

Matt’s eyebrows rise. “I’ve heard of your company, of course.” He glances at me with a little smile. “So, Ethan, what do you think of Bunny’s going big time?”

Ethan glances at me, then back at Matt. “I think Lucy will make the right decision,” he says a trifle awkwardly.

“Ethan, sit,” I urge.

“Actually I’ll let you two finish your dinner.” He can’t seem to stop looking at Matt. “I told Nicky I’d drop by.”

“Oh,” I say. “Okay. Tell him hi for me.”

“Will do. Matt, nice to meet you.”

“Same here,” Matt says. They shake hands once more. Then Ethan gives my shoulder a quick squeeze and with that, he’s gone.

“Nice guy,” Matt says, watching him go.

“Yes,” I answer. “Very nice.” I pause. “He’s very close with his son.”

“As it should be,” Matt replies, smiling. “I love kids myself. Would love to be a dad someday.”

ETHAN IS QUIET WHEN HE COMES BY LATER that night. My head is swimming…not so much with details of a bread distribution contract, but with how much Matt reminds me of Jimmy. Maybe it’s nostalgia, but the whole time, I’d felt an unnerving tingle with Matt DeSalvo.

“When you said he looked like Jimmy…” Ethan says, running a hand through his hair. “I guess I didn’t really think about it.” He sits on my couch and stares at the rug.

“Kind of strange, wasn’t it?” I ask.

“Kind of something,” Ethan answers.

“So,” I say. “We talked about the bread. Seems like a good thing.” Ethan nods but says nothing. “How was your trip?” I ask.

Fat Mikey jumps up next to Ethan and headbutts him fondly. “It was fine,” Ethan says, petting my cat.

“You said the hotel was nice,” I remind him.

“It was. Very nice.”

He looks a little lonely sitting there, scratching Fat Mikey’s ragged ears, and I try to imagine what it felt like, to see someone who looked so much like his brother…and how much he must miss Jimmy. Poor Ethan.

“I missed you,” I tell him, and he looks up fast, making my heart squeeze.

“Did you?” he asks, his lovely smile curling his lips.

“Yes, I did,” I say, trying for a sultry tone and blushing a little. Rising to my feet, I stand in front of him, glad I’m wearing a short skirt and pretty underwear (and trying to forget that I donned these because of my dinner with Matt). I slip the top button of my sweater from the hole. “Very much,” I add, raising an eyebrow.

“Do tell,” Ethan murmurs, watching my hands as I slowly undo the next button. He swallows.

“Move that cat,” I say, going on to the next button. Ethan obeys without taking his eyes off the pink lace of my bra. Fat Mikey lifts a leg to start a little inappropriate social grooming, but Ethan gives him a gentle shove with his foot, and the cat seems to sigh in disgust, walking off with his tail twitching.

Grinning a little and hoping I don’t look like a total ass, I sit on Ethan’s lap. “Glad to be back?” I ask, reaching to undo his tie.

“I suppose,” he says, smiling into my eyes.

“You suppose. Well, I suppose I’ll have to try to make you really, really glad.” I tip his face up and kiss him, a slow, wet, soft kiss. He slides his hands up my leg and makes a little noise in the back of his throat. His mouth is hot and hungry, but, feeling he deserves a little show, I break the kiss, then take his hand and put it over my heart.

“Did you bring me a present?” I whisper.

His eyes are unfocused. “What?”

“Do you have something for me?”

Ethan grins. “I do,” he answers.

“Will I like it?”

“I hope so,” he says with that smile. His thumb slides over the lace of my bra, and my girl parts clench hard and hot.

“I have something for you, too,” I murmur, definitely getting into the role of sex kitten now. I unbutton his shirt as slowly as I did my own, resting my hand over his heart for a second, gratified to find it pounding. Ethan’s hand slides up my back and unhooks my bra.

“Clever,” I whisper. “One-handed and all.”

“Thanks,” he grins, and whatever guilt I might’ve felt earlier that night is gone, and Ethan is all that matters.

This is new for us, this teasing little seduction. Being with Ethan has always been…well, fairly urgent. In the past, we’d pounce on each other. Clothes would be torn off, shoved aside, thrown around the room…not removed inch by inch. In the past, it was something more primal, less emotional. But this is more meaningful, more…

I want to tell him I love him, but the words stay firmly lodged in my heart. “I missed you,” I whisper again. It’s the best I can do for now.

His shirt is open now, and I turn my attention to his belt, trailing a series of biting little kisses down his neck while I unbuckle.

“I think I’ll go away more oft—” he starts to say, but his words are cut off as I kiss him again, fierce and hot, and he actually laughs, then shifts me so I’m underneath him on the couch, his weight hard and heavy and wonderful on top of me. I sling a leg over his hips, getting a groan as a reward.

Ethan kisses a particularly sensitive spot just below my collarbone, his beard scraping, his lips velvet and hot, moving lower. I moan and arch most wantonly against him. Smokin’, ladies and gentlemen. Smokin’.

Then I hear the sound, but hey. I’m horny. Ethan’s gifted at what he’s doing, and my brain fails to grasp the significance of the sound. Dimly I think Fat Mikey and ignore it in lieu of…oh, yes, Ethan’s hand is under my skirt, his fingers skimming, don’t stop that, big boy—

“Holy Mother of God! Marie, turn around!”

I convulse so hard that Ethan is bucked off like a cowboy riding an enraged Brahma bull, and instinctively, I roll onto the floor with him before my brain registers what’s actually happening. My sweater gapes open, my unhooked bra flopping ineffectively. My cat crouches under the coffee table, hissing since we almost squished him. Ethan’s pants are undone, his shirt half off, a red mark on his neck (for God’s sake, what was I thinking?). I scramble to close my sweater (and legs, gah!) and clutch a pillow to my chest.

My in-laws stand before me, horror-stricken, Gianni shielding his eyes, Marie with both hands over her heart.

“Ethan,” Marie wails, “for the love of God, what are you doing to Jimmy’s wife?”