IKE SO MANY TIMES in the past, I struggle through the kitchen door of Gianni’s, a large bakery box in my hands. Oops. It’s not Gianni’s anymore. I have to get used to the new name. Instead of bread, however, my box today holds five dozen cannoli, and not just any cannoli, let me tell you. The shells are light as air, crisp to the point of shattering, the creamy filling a smooth, dense vanilla with just a hint of lemon and almond. Classic, but stunning nonetheless. Cannoli weren’t originally on the dessert menu, but Gianni nearly had a coronary, so Ethan conceded.

Ethan has indeed changed just about everything here. Tonight the restaurant reopens, and for the past few months workers and decorators and suppliers have made the place look like Grand Central. The staff is due in at four-thirty, and it’s only three now. Ethan will be here soon…he just called me a few minutes ago and said he was on his way back from Providence, where he was buying some last-minute ingredients. For now, I’m the only one here.

I set the box down on the counter and go into the main part of the restaurant. Gone are the frescoes of gondoliers and the Colosseum, gone is the rough stucco that coated the walls. Instead, the whole restaurant is painted a pale peach. Bright watercolor abstracts hang on the walls. There’s a glassed-in fireplace in the middle of the restaurant, cheerful red gerbera daisies on each table, candles waiting to be lit. The whole effect is lovely…upscale, welcoming and happy.

Ah-ha! On the front desk is a stack of menus. Ethan’s been working on them for months, but he wouldn’t let me see the final draft. I pick up an embossed leather menu and trace the new name. It was the one thing that really bothered Gianni, the name change, but even he couldn’t object to what Ethan picked out.

I open the menu and study the selections and their little descriptions, recognizing many as dishes Ethan cooked for me over the years…veal scaloppini, eggplant rolatini, chicken Luciano. Under “Pasta,” I see something that brings a lump to my throat. Penne Giacomo, featuring tender, homemade pasta with Jimmy’s famous sauce, a perfect blend of tomatoes, cream and vodka.

I hear the sound of the kitchen door opening and go back into the kitchen. Ethan’s here, two brown grocery bags in his arms. “Hey there, chef,” I say. “You nervous?”

My husband looks up, and his face breaks into a smile. “Hey,” he says, setting the groceries down. “How about a kiss, gorgeous?”

“You don’t have to ask twice,” I answer, complying with pleasure. I doubt the thrill of kissing Ethan will ever fade.

We got married on Valentine’s Day—just a little ceremony at St. Bonaventure’s, where I became Lucy Mirabelli once again. Nicky and Gianni were the best men, Corinne and Parker were my attendants. The Black Widows and Marie wept copiously, Stevie behaved himself for the most part, Emma gurgled and cooed throughout the ceremony, which was family only. Well, a few other folks came, too. Jorge. Captain Bob. Mr. Dombrowski. Grinelda.

Bunny’s is thriving with the new bread arrangement, and Doral-Anne seems to be working out. We might not ever be best buddies, but she’s a good worker, and the Black Widows respect that. Next door, my little café is doing pretty well. Of course, I supply desserts to the restaurant, which did mean I had to hire Marie as my part-time assistant, and if working with my mother-in-law makes me feel like a martyred saint sometimes, it’s fine. Besides, I’ll need help when the baby comes. We’re having a girl…thinking about Francesca, which was supposed to have been Ethan’s name, or maybe Violet to renew the tradition of flower names in my family.

“Oh, look at the two of them!” comes Rose’s sweet voice as the Black Widows traipse through the back door. “They’re kissing! How nice!”

Iris tugs her shirt. “My Pete and I were like that,” she announces. “Always with the affection. It makes for a happy marriage.”

“Hello, dear. Should you be standing?” Mom says, eyeing my belly suspiciously. I’ve just begun to show, but since the moment my mother found out I was pregnant, she’s been quite the overprotective nursemaid.

“I’ll ask Anne,” Iris says. “In my day, we were treated like queens when we were expecting. None of this working till the water breaks.” She frowns, looking me up and down. “If you need bed rest, you need bed rest, Lucy. No point in having—” she pauses for dramatic effect “—the premature labor.”

“Go sit down, you beautiful creatures.” Ethan grins, holding open the door to the dining room. Friday-night cocktail hour has moved to the new place, and if it’s a little early in the afternoon, I assure you the Black Widows don’t care. “I’ll be right in. Make yourselves comfortable at the bar.”

“Oh, Ethan, it’s so stylish!” Rose chirps. “I feel like I’m on Sex in the City!”

With the Black Widows chattering away at the bar, it’s just Ethan and me again. I take his hand and look around the kitchen. Though the main part of the restaurant has changed, the kitchen remains mostly the same. I squeeze my husband’s hand, then slide my arms around his lean waist.

“I think Jimmy would be really proud of you, Ethan,” I tell him.

His eyes get a little wet. “Thank you.” He clears his throat, then looks over toward the big stove. My gaze follows.

The shrine is gone—Ethan came home one night and without a word gave me the red bandanna, kissed me and left me alone. After holding the red cloth for a while, I placed a gentle kiss on it, then folded it carefully, put it in a box and tucked it in the back of my closet. I haven’t opened the box since. But it’s nice to know it’s there.

In place of the shrine, several pictures are now show-cased—the two I gave Ethan of him and Jimmy on the beach and on our wedding day. But there’s another one, too, one I’d found only when packing up my apartment to move in with Ethan, one I hadn’t seen in years.

It’s a picture of Jimmy, Ethan and me, taken at my graduation from college. I wore a pink dress, Ethan had on sunglasses, and the sun shone on Jimmy’s blond hair. We were all laughing as we stood three in a row, me in the middle, my arms around the handsome Mirabelli boys.

“I love that picture,” Ethan says, and his voice is a little husky.

“And I love you,” I say with my whole heart.

He kisses me then, one hand going to my tummy where our baby grows, his mouth perfect on mine.

There’s so much love in the world. Sadness, too, and heartbreak, but more than those, there are love and happiness and miracles of joy. My father may have died when I was only eight years old, but his love has followed me my whole life. Jimmy died far too young, but the love we had for each other is like a pearl in my soul, untainted and pure and now, at last, tucked away to make room for Ethan.

And Ethan…Ethan is my gift. My present and my future and the man I’ll love till the day I die.

Before my emotions—and hormones—get the best of me, I break off the kiss and wipe my eyes. “Get in there,” I say, fixing his collar. “You know the Black Widows don’t like to wait for their drinks.”

“After you,” he says, going over to open the door. I precede him into the beautiful dining room and smile at my elders.

“There you are, Ethan,” Rose coos.

“Thought you got lost back there,” grumbles Iris.

“Leave them alone,” Mom clucks, adjusting her short skirt. “They’re in love.”

Ethan smiles at me, then looks at his first three customers. “Ladies,” he says, raising an eyebrow. “Mirabelli’s is now open for business.”