HE FIRST TIME ETHAN AND I SLEPT together was, um, well…it was memorable.

What brings a woman to sleep with her brother-in-law, after all? I’m going to have to go with honesty here. Sheer horniness.

See, it had been three and a half years. That’s forty-two months of being alone. Things were better, they were. The darkest days were over, when I’d wake up and realize something was wrong but didn’t know what…the desperate, terrifying realization that I’d never see Jimmy again, ever…somehow I’d gotten through that yawning, awful black time. Sure, I still had a few bad moments here and there. But I was trying.

Growing up around widows, I’d seen my mother and aunts embrace widowhood as a defining trait. Before all else, they were Widows, and God help me, I didn’t want that to happen. I wanted to stay myself, the happy, optimistic person Jimmy had loved…not someone who waved the flag of widowhood wherever she went. Granted, I often felt that the best part of me died with Jimmy, but I tried to radiate the idea that yes, it was awful, but I’d be really okay someday. To try to keep positive, I did a little yoga, taught my pastry class, since baking soothed me even though I couldn’t choke down the results, and listened to Bob Marley a lot. A line from “No Woman, No Cry” would run through my head whenever I felt that backward pull toward blackness. Everything’s gonna be all right. Everything’s gonna be all right. Everything’s gonna be all right. Everything’s gonna be all right. I was managing. Everything would be all right, I was determined it would.

And then came my twenty-eighth birthday. And everything was not all right.

Because on that day, suddenly, I was older than my husband ever would be.

As my birthday dawned, I could feel myself sinking into the black hole that had been so hard to crawl out of. I was twenty-eight. Jimmy would never be. I was twenty-eight, widowed, childless, chubbier, paler. My life had been so wonderful with Jimmy and now—I couldn’t avoid the fact today—my life sucked. I was baking bread instead of desserts. I wasn’t featured on the cover of Bon Appetit or a guest judge on Top Chef. I was nobody in the world of pastry chefs, no one’s wife, no one’s mother, and none of that was likely to change anytime soon. While I was surviving, I was no fun. You get the idea.

When the Black Widows came into the bakery that morning, I told them I was leaving early. I’d never taken a day off from Bunny’s, as the last thing I wanted was too much time on my hands. Iris peered anxiously in my mouth, looking for signs of “the Lou Gehrig’s.” Rose offered me one of her “pep pills,” which I declined (not sure if they were Tic Tacs, cold medicine or Prozac). My own mother said nothing, probably knowing just why I wanted to hide.

The aunts clucked around me like worried hens. After much discussion, they accepted my assurance that the chances of me having ALS were probably not as high as feared. I told them I was fine…maybe I just needed a makeover, was just feeling blue. My mother gave me a rare hug, said we’d celebrate my birthday tomorrow, and Iris offered me her lipstick (Coral Glow, which she’d been wearing for fifty years and which bore more resemblance to a nuclear spill than anything that God made). I put a little on—it couldn’t hurt, right?—and walked home.

My mood grew heavier as I skirted the park. In there was Jimmy’s grave, incontrovertible evidence that he was not alive. When he first died, I went through all that magical thinking that widows do, coming up with possible scenarios to prove Jimmy’s death was a mistake. That he had stopped, for example, at a motel. But someone had stolen his car, and it was that poor thief who died, not Jimmy. (The fact that I’d seen Jimmy’s body at the funeral home was something I’d have been happy to overlook, should he come walking through the doors.) Or that Jimmy worked for the CIA and his death was staged, and any day I’d be getting a call from Zimbabwe or Moscow. Or if I just was brave and strong enough, that Jimmy would come back and tell me I’d done a great job and that he’d be alive again, sorry for the inconvenience, and I could just relax and go back to that sweet, happy life we’d once had.

Now, I forced myself to look in the general direction of my husband’s grave, and a little more magical thinking occurred. “Are you really going to let me be older than you?” I asked, aloud. “Jimmy? You sure about this?”

The challenge went unanswered. With a lump in my throat, I continued on my way.

When I got home, my apartment was still dark, as I hadn’t pulled up the shades. I decided to keep them down, too glum for sun. Then I tripped over Fat Mikey in the gloom, earning an outraged hiss. I heaved a sigh: 10:00 a.m. on the day when I’d officially be older than my poor dead husband. Please, God, let this next year be better, I prayed. Let me have a little fun. I hadn’t had much fun since Jimmy died, as God well knew.

Yes. I straightened up. The next year—and all the years thereafter—should be fun. Wicked fun, in fact. Jimmy wasn’t coming back, the selfish jerk. (That would be the anger part of grief—it reared its ugly head every once in a while.) I’d have fun, dang it all. I deserved a little fun, didn’t I? “I deserve some fun, Fat Mikey, don’t you think?” I asked my cat. He twitched his tail in agreement, then yawned.

“You’re right,” I said. “No one deserves fun more than a tragic widow. You are one brilliant cat.”

Thus resolved, I opened my fridge, revealing coffee milk, the Rhode Island state drink, sour cream, lemons and a jar of pickles. My freezer contained six pints of Ben & Jerry’s, a bag of peas and a bottle of Absolut vodka. “Perfect,” I declared to my cat. Vodka and coffee milk…an Ocean State version of a White Russian, which, if analyzed, seemed almost to be a healthy breakfast…a little dairy, a little coffee, a little vodka. The drink went down so smoothly that I made myself another. Delicious. I took a few slugs, then poured a teaspoon of coffee milk into Fat Mikey’s dish (no vodka…didn’t want charges filed against me for getting a cat drunk), and he lapped it up. “Only alcoholics drink alone,” I told him, stroking his silky fur. He turned and gently bit my hand, then continued drinking.

Time to do a little inventory. I would greet my new age armed with a perky attitude, sure I would. Slightly dizzy, I decided to take a good hard look at myself, see what needed to change so I could have more fun. Tripping once more over the large mass of fur and fat that was my pet, I went into my bedroom, stripped naked and stood in front of the full-length mirror on the back of my door.

Gah!

My eyes looked bigger, courtesy of the bluish circles underneath them, which I’d acquired the night the state trooper had come to my door. The skin on my face was white, and a little flaky, especially around my chin. Oh, man! When was the last time I’d exfoliated? Bush’s first term? And my hair! I’d had it cut here and there over the past few years, of course, but when was the last time? I couldn’t remember. Just because it was in a ponytail at work didn’t mean it had to be so flat and lifeless…I chugged the rest of my White Russian, needing a little liquid courage, then continued my self-perusal.

And what was this? Cellulite? I didn’t have cellulite! Well, ten pounds ago, I hadn’t had cellulite…How had this happened? And oh, crap, look at those legs. Had shaving been outlawed? Now, granted, I didn’t go around wearing skirts or shorts, not when I was dealing with four hundred degree ovens, but there was no excuse for this. I needed to go to the beach and get a little sun, too, because my skin was so white that I could’ve modeled for med students studying the circulatory system. Bluish veins ran under my white skin like mold through a wheel of blue cheese. Those legs hadn’t seen the sun for years. Years! How had that happened?

On to the feet…ew. Hey, if Howard Hughes didn’t need to cut his toenails, apparently neither did I. And my God, those heels! So rough and dry! Gah!

In a sudden frenzy, I pulled on Jimmy’s old robe, yanked open my bathroom cupboard and rummaged in the back. Scissors, terrific. Oh, great, a pumice stone. Forgot all about that thing. Hadn’t used it since I was a newlywed. Here was some crusty old mud mask guaranteed to minimize my pores and give me “the radiant glow of the Swiss.” I’d never been to Switzerland, but they couldn’t look worse than I did.

The last thing I unearthed was an unopened bottle of spray-on sunless tanner. I checked the expiration date: 08/2004. Well. It probably wouldn’t work, but it was worth a shot. I had to do something. I couldn’t hit twenty-eight looking like something left in the basement for the past decade or so. Besides, what said fun more than a tan? Nothing.

“This calls for another drink, Fat Mikey,” I said. “And yes, you can have some more. But no vodka for you, my feline friend.” White Russians were fun. Girls who drank them…ditto. Fat Mikey watched me, his eyes slits of appreciation, I thought.

Yes. Things in the mirror were better when I studied myself a long while later, though that might’ve been because my eyes were having trouble focusing. I’d only intended to cut my bangs, but I’d done such a good job that I kept going. I looked cute in a ragged, Japanese animé kind of way, the bangs shorter on one side, falling in little points. Adorable. Elfin, really. My face was shiny clean, though I couldn’t seem to get the dried mud off one ear. Even so, it was an improvement.

The tanner hadn’t worked—I was still fish-belly white—but that was okay. At least my heels had a little color now, pink instead of gray…oops, one seemed to be bleeding a little, maybe got a little too energetic with that pumice stone. And the cherry-red nail polish I’d applied was kind of gummy, being that it was quite elderly, so my toes (and fingernails) were maybe a little smeary, but still and all, better. My legs bled in a few places, since my razor was a little dull, but I was smooth, at least. Much better.

Still wrapped in Jimmy’s bathrobe, I meandered into the living room and flopped on the couch. Fat Mikey jumped up and kneaded my stomach—hopefully, he’d break up some of the cellulite—and then curled next to me. I felt better. I’d greet this new age o’mine smoother and cuter than I’d left it. All good. “Don’t I look nice?” I asked my cat. He purred in agreement. “That was fun. We’re going to have some fun, Fat Mikey. Look out, world, here comes the fun.”

Within seconds, I was asleep.

I was awakened by a knock on the door. The apartment, which had been dim to begin with, was now fully dark, and I stumbled to the door, hands outstretched, till I hit the light switch. Flipping it on, I squinted in the abrupt brightness, then peered through the peephole. Ethan. That’s right, it was Friday, so Ethan was home. “Hi,” I said, rubbing an eye as I opened the door.

“Hey, Luce, happy birth—” He broke off suddenly. “Jesus, what happened?”

“Nothing,” I frowned. “Why?” His face was slack with horror. “Ethan. What is it?”

“Did you…do something? To your…”

“What?”

His eyes traveled up and down my form. “Lucy…” He started to say something, then stopped. “Oh, Lucy.” He covered his mouth with one hand.

“What?” I asked again.

“Uh…you…um…” He started laughing. Wheezing, really.

That was it. I fled to the bathroom, took a look in the mirror. And screamed.

My face was bright red, imprinted on the left side from the corduroy pillow on the couch. My right eye still had some grayish-green dried mud on the lid, which was preventing me from opening it all the way, sort of a stroke victim look going on there…Apparently, the aging mud mask had caused a rash, because my cheeks were red and bumpy. And my hair! Oh, Lord, my hair! Never cut your own hair while intoxicated…sure, now I remembered that particular rule. Seems so obvious, doesn’t it? Yet I’d done it, and it looked as if I’d run face-first into a lawn mower, my bangs choppy and irregular, the hair on the left side significantly shorter than the hair on the right.

Then I saw my arms. And my legs.

“No!” I wailed.

Brown and orange streaks covered my formerly white, white skin, except for the patches where the spray tanner had missed. I looked filthy, as if I’d been picking crops in the dust bowl. “No!” I moaned, slamming on the hot water and shoving a facecloth under the stream. I scrubbed the streaks violently, but no. Nothing changed, except my skin grew pinker under the fake tan.

That was it. I burst into tears. Pathetic, that’s what I was. A pathetic, drunken, smeary widow with orange skin, insane asylum hair and a rash. Insult to injury. Not only had God taken my Jimmy…He’d let me go on a White Russian bender while armed with scissors and tan-from-a-can! It was enough to make me an atheist.

“Come on, Lucy, it’s not that bad,” Ethan said from the other side of the bathroom door, his voice carefully controlled. “Seems like you just got a little…” He went silent, and I knew too well that he was laughing.

“Don’t,” I said, yanking open the door. Ethan was bent over, wheezing. I smacked him in the shoulder. “Look at me! This is ridiculous! This is what I get for trying to be fun!”

“Oh, I don’t know. This is pretty fun,” he managed to say.

How could he laugh? “You’re so mean, Ethan,” I sniffled.

“It’s just…you…your legs…and your hair…” He staggered back against the wall, rattling a picture, laughing so hard tears brightened his eyes.

“It’s not funny,” I wailed. “I’m older than Jimmy now, Ethan. I’m a widow, and I’m all alone and look at me! I should never have had those White Russians.”

“You think?” he asked, wiping his eyes.

I smacked him again, tears flooding my eyes, then turned away, hiccupping on a coffee-flavored sob. “I hate you.”

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry,” he said. “Come on, now, honey, don’t cry.” He took my hand and led me to the living room, pulling me down next to him on the couch, where we’d logged so many hours together, watching movies or playing Extreme Racing USA. Fat Mikey jumped up, then, apparently horrified at how I looked, jumped back down and stalked into the kitchen, tail puffy with fear. Ethan patted my shoulder. “I’ll take you into Providence tomorrow for a good haircut. And the tan stuff will fade. Just, um, try a little Brillo. Maybe some Clorox.” That set him off again.

“You don’t get it, Ethan,” I said in a smaller voice. “I just feel so…I’m twenty-eight now. I’m older than Jimmy.” Swallowing, I looked down. For a second, I remembered Jimmy’s blue-green eyes smiling at me, and my heart broke all over again. “No one will ever love me like that again.” Dang, I was really crying now. So much for all fun, all the time.

“Oh, hey,” he said, his voice gentle. “You’ll be loved again, Lucy. The minute you’re ready. You’ll see.”

“I’m orange, Ethan,” I squeaked. “And it looks like my hair got caught in a fan.”

He bit down on a smile. “You’re gorgeous,” he said. “Even now, with all the, er, extras. You’d be gorgeous if you rolled in, I don’t know, pig entrails. Cow manure.” He handed me a tissue from the box on the coffee table.

“That’s so poetic. You should work for Hallmark,” I said, blowing my nose. Still, his words made my heart feel a little bit better.

“It’s true. You’re beautiful.” He smiled and reached out to touch my cheek.

“Thanks, Ethan,” I said, blinking in alcoholic gratitude. “You’re the best.”

“I thought you hated me,” he said, one eyebrow raising in that elvish way, a grin curling the corners of his mouth.

“I don’t. I was lying,” I answered.

“Just checking,” he said.

And then, quite out of the blue, he kissed me.

Ethan had kissed me before, of course. He’d been my friend since college, had been my brother-in-law, my protector and comforter, and he was Italian, and Italians kiss their relatives. So yes, Ethan had kissed me many times, on the cheek, as in Okay, gotta run, see you next weekend. But not like this.

This was just a gentle, warm press of lips. A sweet, almost innocent kiss after a long, long time of nothingness, and it was such a generous thing, that kiss, such an act of kindness, that my heart stopped in near-wonder. Then it was over, and Ethan pulled back an inch or two and looked at me. There were shards of gold in his brown eyes, and somehow I’d never noticed that. We stared at each other for a few heartbeats, barely breathing.

Without quite realizing it, I leaned forward, closing the distance between us. Ethan’s lips were so soft and full and warm, achingly wonderful. There was the soft, bristly scrape of his three-days beard against my face, the cool silkiness of his hair under my fingers.

The kiss deepened, a little less soft, a little more…meaningful. Ethan shifted, cupped my head in his hands. His tongue brushed mine, and that was it. I lurched against him, gripped a fistful of his shirt in one hand, his skin hot through the fabric. A little sound came from the back of my throat, and the way he tasted and felt made me feel dizzy, because it was so, so good to be touched, and held, and kissed again. God, I missed kissing.

And much to my surprise, I found that I liked kissing Ethan. Very much. It could be said, in fact, that (A) I was starving and (B) he was a buffet, because I’d (C) crawled on top of him, had his head clamped between my hands and was kissing the stuffing out him.

Of course, I’d imagined kissing someone since Jimmy died. Someone who was Not-Jimmy…imagined how I’d feel and how difficult and sad it would be. How I’d compare the two men, Jimmy and Not-Jimmy, and I’d find Jimmy so superior and then wallow in self-pity for my poor widowed self.

Somehow, I wasn’t thinking those things now. Later, it would occur to me that I hadn’t thought about Jimmy at all, not in the way I’d imagined I would. I hadn’t forgotten about him, of course…he was part of me, and so thoughts like, Jimmy’s robe is slipping flashed here and there. But they were interspersed with other thoughts…Oh, God, that feels good, don’t stop…for example. As for a sense of Jimmy’s ghost standing there, watching me in disapproval, no. Maybe it was the White Russians, maybe not, but all I could think of was how good it felt, how grateful I was to be wanted again. To have a man’s hands on my skin, to feel the solid muscles of male shoulders, to inhale the dark, spicy scent of a man, to be kissed with that blend of soft and hard, tenderness and hunger.

Ethan was the one who pulled back, eyes dark and smoky, and took my hands in his, held them against his chest. I was straddling his lap, and my robe—Jimmy’s robe—was half off, and while Ethan hadn’t seen my boobs yet, it was pretty much a technicality. I could feel his heart thudding against me, and both of us were breathing hard. I may have been shaking. “Lucy,” he said, and his voice contained a soft warning.

“Don’t say anything,” I whispered, then I kissed him again, loving the fullness of his lips, the taste of his mouth. And when he didn’t respond immediately, I took his hand and put it over my breast, holding it there as I kissed him.

“You sure about this?” he murmured against my mouth.

“Don’t talk,” I repeated, and to make sure he wouldn’t, I grabbed his shirt, it was one of my favorites, a black button-down, and I just ripped that thing open and oh, Ethan was pretty gorgeous, and he was so warm and solid and real. He was here, too, and alive. Couldn’t overlook the little things.

“Take me to bed,” I commanded. And Ethan stood up, lifting me with him, my legs wrapped around his waist, and obeyed.

IT WASN’T UNTIL ROUGHLY FIFTY-THREE minutes later that common sense came roaring back with a brisk slap in the face.

I was lying under Ethan, still panting, my legs as weak as overcooked linguine, my skin damp with sweat. His face was against my neck, one arm around me, his hand in my newly shorn hair. I could feel his heart rate calming and suddenly, a cold river of dread flooded my heart. A horrible phrase sneaked into my mind. A phrase that implies one person is doing another person a favor by sleeping with her. That one person feels deep, deep sympathy, even pity, for the other, and it is only pity that motivates him to…Oh, God. Oh, no. Ethan had just given me a mercy f—

Oh, and one more thing. It was Ethan! I’d just had sex with Ethan! Horror clamped down on me like a thirty-foot python, and my eyes flooded with tears. I’d just done the wild thing with Ethan Mirabelli. My dead husband’s brother. I’d cheated on Jimmy (his death being a minor detail at this moment).

“I’m sorry,” I whispered as the tears spilled over. “Um, Ethan, I need to…I should…” I wriggled out of bed, dragging a sheet over me, and on streaky, weak orange legs, I staggered into the bathroom, locking the door behind me. Pulling on my own bathrobe (as Jimmy’s lay somewhere between the couch and the bed), I slid to the floor, a thousand recriminations bouncing around in my skull, grabbed a towel and buried my face in it to muffle the sound of my sobs. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about (sob) pregnancy, as I’d been on the Pill for a while, due to irregular periods, something I’d managed to tell Ethan when he asked just how far we should go. And I knew that Ethan would never…but just the idea that I’d done it with Ethan Mirabelli…Oh, God.

“Lucy? You okay?” came Ethan’s voice.

“Ehehehenngh,” I managed. I heard the rustle of clothes—he was pulling on his pants, I guessed. Because he was probably still naked. Because I’d made him shag me. Because he was too nice to say no.

Ethan tried the door. “Open up, honey,” he said.

“Um, I need a minute,” I squeaked. The tears, hot and damning, slipped out of my eyes. Oh, Jimmy, I thought. He’d be so ashamed of me, mauling his brother, putting Ethan in an impossible position like this.

The little lock on the door popped open, and Ethan came in, clad in jeans and nothing else.

“How’d you unlock the door?” I asked, not looking at his face.

“One of my many life skills,” he answered, sitting next to me. “Lucy. Come on, honey. Don’t cry.”

“I’m so sorry,” I hiccupped. “Ethan, I’m so, so sorry.”

“What for?” he asked, taking my hand.

“I made you have sex with me,” I blubbered.

“Yes, guys hate that,” he murmured, tipping my chin up. “If anyone’s sorry, Lucy, it should be me. I’m the one who started it.”

“I was pretty much begging for it,” I said.

“And again, guys hate that.” He smiled.

“You’re not just a guy. You’re Jimmy’s brother. I’m Jimmy’s wife. We’re related. And now you’ve seen me. Naked. Naked and orange.” A hitching sob stuttered out of me.

He rolled his eyes. “We’re not related, and you’re not Jimmy’s wife anymore, honey. You’re his widow. And you look great naked, even if you’re not the right color.”

This further kindness just caused my face to scrunch up in that awful expression of uncontrollable crying. “I should probably move out,” I wept. “Find another apartment. Leave Rhode Island. Become a nun.”

Ethan laughed. “A nun, huh?”

“Don’t laugh,” I said. “I’m so ashamed, Ethan.”

“Okay, stop,” he said, his voice firm. “Lucy. Stop crying.” He turned and grabbed the box of tissues from the back of the toilet. I noted there were scratch marks on his back. God, I was a complete slut! My face contorted again.

“Here,” he said. “Blow your nose.”

I did, a couple of times. Wiped my eyes, finally getting off the last of the mud mask, it seemed. “Ethan, really, I’m so sorry. We never should’ve done this. It was wrong, and it was all my fault.”

He took a deep breath. “Lucy, listen.” He took both my hands in his and looked at me until I was able to look back. His dark eyes were serious for once. “We both miss him. We’re young, we’re healthy, we’re straight. And we spend a lot of time together. We just…comforted each other. That’s all, honey.”

For a second, it looked like he was going to say something else, but then he must’ve changed his mind, because he didn’t.

“Don’t you feel guilty?” I asked. After all, I was Hungarian and Catholic. Of course I felt guilty. Ethan was also Catholic, and Italian. Surely he felt a few pangs, a little fear of hell—

“No. I don’t feel at all guilty. Or bad in any way. My back’s a little sore, maybe. How much do you weigh these days?”

I gave a surprised snort of laughter and smacked his shoulder. His bare, rather perfect, nicely muscled shoulder. “None of your business,” I answered.

“My chiropractor might say otherwise.” He winked, looking every inch the flirt he was.

His skin was so smooth. Which I could tell because apparently I was sort of caressing that shoulder. Ethan’s torso was rather…gorgeous. The muscles in his arms moved and slid beautifully under his olive skin. Oh, look, he had six-pack abs. All that time outdoors, I guessed. And his hands…Manly, capable hands. The kind that knew what to do to a woman. Mmm.

Suddenly aware that I was ogling him, I jerked my hand away from that lovely shoulder and sneaked a look at Ethan’s face. There it was again, that little crooked smile that changed his face from not bad to mischievous and adorable.

Ethan reached out and pinched my chin. “Don’t feel guilty, you crazy orange nut job,” he said. “Okay?”

His hair was sticking up on one side. “I’ll try,” I said.

For a moment, we just looked at each other. Then, almost without meaning to, I reached out and put my hand against his lovely, warm neck and felt his pulse jump against my hand. A long, hot moment seemed to vibrate between us.

Then Ethan leaned in, slowly, slowly, and kissed me again.

And we ended up doing it on the bathroom floor, Fat Mikey yowling outside the door.

When Ethan left on Sunday night, I promised him I’d never put him in this position again. Said promise was broken the next weekend, when I jumped him the second he came through my door, and then again a few hours later, when he said he should be going and kissed me goodbye.

After a few forbidden shags, we—well, I—decided we should be friends with privileges and nothing more. I made Ethan swear that this wouldn’t change our friendship; that he’d dump me if he met someone else or wanted to get back with Parker; and that he’d never ever tell anyone about us, because the idea of my in-laws finding out that I was doing their younger son…Gah! No. As far as my mother and aunts went, God forbid they found out that I was using Ethan for sex. My family drew the line at the use of scarlet letters, but just barely. I remembered Cousin Ilona of the early menopause being labeled a hussy when, eighteen short years after her husband died, she let the postman carry in her groceries.

Breaking up—check that. Ending the arrangement between Ethan and me was a good idea. I wanted to move on, and Ethan was too dangerous a choice for a husband.

I just hadn’t realized how much I’d miss him.