ND THIS ONE? WHAT WOULD YOU call that, my dear?”

“That, Mr. Dombrowski, is our world famous chocolate chip cookie.” Famous perhaps for its utter blandness, and a far cry from the crispy, butter-soaked variety Iris bakes for family members. She says the recipe is not worth wasting on what she calls “the great unwashed.”

“I see, I see.” He shuffles another inch alongside the case. “And this one?”

I smile. “That would be our legendary cheese danish. I believe you’ve tried those before.” Every day for the past twenty-three years, in fact.

“I think I may try that, then. You say I like it?”

“You do, Mr. D. You definitely do.” I take a danish out of the case and, because I like Mr. D. so much, put it in a little box and tie it with string. He deserves more than a bag. We had tea together once in his surprisingly bright and uncluttered house—and it took him about half an hour to set the table just so. I could relate…at the time, I’d been a new widow, and filling the hours was of utmost importance.

“I think I’ll enjoy this,” Mr. Dombrowski says. He straightens his tie—he still wears one every day—and a wave of tenderness washes over me.

“Please come back soon,” I say, handing him the box. “It’s always so nice to see you.”

His creased old face splits in a smile. “Thank you, my dear,” he says.

If Bunny’s had tables and chairs and served coffee and tea, Mr. D. would have a place to sit every day. He might see more people than just the Black Widows and me.

“I think we should expand,” I announce as I return to the kitchen. The yeasty smell of Italian bread fills the air—Jorge just left with Gianni’s Friday night order, and things are winding down at Bunny’s. Iris and Rose are hunched over a newspaper, the pastry dough for tomorrow morning’s danishes sitting in neglected lumps. When dough gets warm, it loses its flakiness. I glance at what they’re poring over—it’s the sports page, featuring a large picture of Josh Beckett of Red Sox fame. Aw. My aunts are cougars. How cute.

“Hello?” I say. “Anyone baking back here? This dough’s getting warm.”

Both aunts jump. Rose grabs a rolling pin and attacks the dough maniacally.

“Expand what?” Iris asks, her face taking on that bulldog look she gets whenever we discuss this.

“The bakery. It’s silly that we don’t have seats or serve coffee. We’re losing money hand over fist to Starbucks.”

“We’re not some grunge hangout,” Rose says, and I have to say, I’m impressed she knows the term grunge. “We’re a bakery. We sell baked goods, not some over-priced coffee that tastes like you scraped it off the bottom of the pot. And a tall? What’s a tall? What’s a grand? They don’t even say it right. GrahhhhnnnDAY. Please. Can’t they just say small, medium, large?”

I arch an eyebrow at my aunt. “You’ve been to Starbucks, Rose. How surprising.”

“What?” Iris barks. “Explain yourself.”

Rose blinks like a frightened mouse, a strategy that’s always worked well for her. “I didn’t mean to order a coffee,” she peeps in her little-girl voice. “But those names are so confusing! I thought I was getting a hot chocolate.”

“We have hot chocolate at home!” Iris thunders.

“Not like the Starbucks,” Rose says, her face lighting up with something like religious adoration. She turns to me. “Oh, Lucy, sweetheart, you have to try it! It’s incredible! The whipped cream is—”

“You’re a traitor to this family, Rose Black Thompson!” Iris barks. “Mama would spin in her grave!”

My mother drifts in, navy pencil skirt, silk blouse printed in blue and green, bottle-green suede Prada pumps that I’d nearly bought myself last week. “I could hear you in front of Lenny’s, Iris,” she says.

“Your sister has been to the Starbucks!” Iris says in the same tone as one might say, Your sister strangled a puppy.

“Stop being so domineering, Iris,” Rose dares, her face pink. “I can buy a hot chocolate if I want to! You’re not the boss of me!”

“Okay, stop, you two, or I’m turning a hose on you,” my mother says. “Lucy, someone just came in. Take it, won’t you?”

Gratefully, I scurry out of the kitchen. Charley Spirito is there, resplendent in Red Sox regalia—jacket, cap, sweatpants as well as a black eye and sheepish look. “Hi, Luce,” he says hesitantly.

“Hey, Charley,” I answer. “What can I get you?”

The bell over the door tinkles as Ethan comes in, insulated bag in hand. My heart does a little twist, which I try to ignore. He’s not here to see me, of course. Tonight’s Friday. Cocktail hour. “Hi, Lucy. Hey, Charley,” Ethan says. “Helluva black eye.”

“Your handiwork. How’s it going, Eth?” Charley returns, shaking Ethan’s hand. Apparently there are no hard feelings. Men.

The Black Widows trail out of the kitchen like Pavlov’s dogs at the sound of Ethan’s voice.

“Hello, you beautiful creatures,” Ethan purrs in a low and very effective voice.

“Hello, Ethan,” they coo in unison. The man has a talent.

Tonight, after cocktail hour, Ethan and I are meeting his parents for dinner. They “have something to tell,” so it’s a command performance. I’ve barely seen Ethan since we, er, broke up, despite the fact that he’s right upstairs every night now. I called him on Tuesday to see if he wanted to hang out—basically, to show him we were still friends, even though the benefits package had been canceled—but he had to work on a presentation for the West Coast sales reps. Even the mention of my cinnamon-raisin bread pudding with a Jack Daniels-browned butter glaze didn’t sway him. I had, however, sneaked up and left a bowl in front of his door, sort of like the Tooth Fairy but with better stuff.

“What’s he want?” Iris asks, jerking her chin at Charley. Ah, customer relations. The cornerstone of any good business.

“Charley, what can I get you? We’re closing in a few minutes,” I say.

“Um, well…” Charley glances with rightful fear at Iris. “Lucy, I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me. Sometime. Maybe. If you’re not, uh, busy.”

I blink.

“On a date? Are you asking her out on a date?” Rose asks, her voice tremulous with hope. “Because she is dating, you know. She’s looking to get married again and have some babies.”

Ethan smothers a grin. My mother sighs.

“Thank you, Rose,” I say, knowing there’s no point in asking for discretion.

“The women in this family have always been brave in childbirth,” Iris muses. Then she slaps Charley with an intimidating gaze. “So? You want to take her on a date, or is this a ‘just friends’ situation?” Iris makes quote marks with her fingers. “You’re not gay, are you? My daughter’s a lesbian doctor, so there’s nothing wrong with that. Just want to see what you have in mind.”

Charley looks understandably confused. “On a date, Charley?” I ask, just so we’re all clear.

“Yeah. On a date.” He fiddles with the zipper of his Red Sox jacket and can’t seem to look me in the eye.

Ethan is looking steadily at Charley. Maybe he put Charley up to this, to make up for the Black Widow crack at the game.

I don’t know that I really want to go out with Charley Spirito, whom I’ve known since first grade, when he serenaded me the alphabet song in belch format. On the other hand, I have to give him credit for having the chutzpah to ask in front of the Black Widows. And Ethan.

“Sure,” I answer slowly. “That would be nice.”

He lets out a breath. “Great. You busy tomorrow?”

I glance at Ethan. Most of my Saturday nights over the past few years have been spent, at least in some part and some form, with Ethan. He’s pouring vodka into a martini shaker. Jeesh. Grey Goose, wasted on the Black Widows, who could drink gasoline and Hawaiian Punch and call it delicious. He doesn’t look at me.

“Tomorrow’s fine,” I say, turning back to Charley. “Thanks.”

“I’ll call you, then.” He nods at the Black Widows, slaps Ethan on the shoulder and leaves.

“Charley Spirito?” my mother asks. “Isn’t he the one who put gum in your hair when you were ten?”

“Yes,” I say. What the heck. At least I know him. Hopefully his belching/gum-in-the-hair days are in the past.

“So. She’s got a date. And what are we drinking tonight, Ethan?” Iris booms.

“Sex on the Beach,” Ethan answers, grinning as he withdraws a bottle of peach schnapps from his little bag o’ liquor. The Black Widows hoot in appreciation.

Friday night happy hour has never really been about me. Plus, I don’t often drink hard alcohol (I did learn something from my run-in with the White Russians), so I grab my backpack from behind the counter and heft it onto my shoulder. “Have fun, guys.” I pause. “See you at Gianni’s later on, Eth?”

“I’ll meet you there,” he says.

Three hours later, I’m seated at the family table at Gianni’s Ristorante Italiano. Since Jimmy died, these family dinners have become more rare, but back in the day, it was one of the things that drew me to the Mirabellis—the kidding, the abundance of food, the menfolk. Jimmy, Gianni and Ethan…a husband, a father figure, a brother-in-law. It was all so reassuring, so safe and convivial.

Now, we sit, the four of us, Jimmy’s absence still a gaping hole, never more so than when the Mirabellis are together. I sit next to Ethan, across from my in-laws. Slices of my own delicious bread sit in a basket on the table, a candle flickers, and all around us, Gianni’s patrons swoon in delight. It really is a wonderful place, no matter how my father-in-law complains about the crappy help he gets in the kitchen, the dopey Russian sous chef he fired last week, the even dumber Sicilian he has now. I murmur in sympathy and eye the bowl of penne alla vodka that sits just out of my reach next to Marie. I’m starving.

Ethan’s energy bristles off of him in waves, tense and still as an Olympic racer before the starting pistol. He’s always like this with his parents…unlike Jimmy, who worked with them with an ease and fondness that touched my heart every time I saw it.

If Jimmy had gotten old, he’d have looked like his dad—the Mediterranean Sea eyes, broad shoulders, maybe even the extra thirty pounds Gianni carries. Ethan, by contrast, looks like his mom’s side of the family, dark hair and eyes, quick movements. He usually reminds me of an otter, rarely still, always up for fun…except in the presence of his family. It’s as if when Jimmy died, he took all the laughter from his family. As if reading my thoughts, Marie sighs heavily, her eyes moist.

“Thank you for asking us to dinner,” I prompt gently, taking a sip of my wine and eyeing the chicken parmesan. We’re eating family style, and neither Marie nor Gianni has started serving yet. My stomach growls.

Marie gives Gianni a look. “We wanted you here because we love you like you’re our own daughter, Lucy, honey. And Ethan, of course, you’re like a son to us.”

“I hate to be overly technical here, Ma,” Ethan says, “but in point of fact, I am your son.” His right eyebrow bounces up as he looks at me. The corner of his mouth curls, and I feel a wave of affection for him. Poor Ethan, always the second son. I give his knee a little pat.

“You know what I mean, Mr. Smart-Ass,” Marie replies, half fond, half irritated. “Thirty-six hours of labor, okay? So shut up.”

“It gets longer every year,” Ethan murmurs, reaching for the penne and passing it to me. His father scowls, but Ethan ignores him. “In the original story, I was born in a taxi on the way to the hospital. Now she’s in labor for a day and a half.”

Marie reaches over and smacks Ethan’s head. “Hush, you, we’re talking here. You know what I mean. She’s like a daughter, you’re our son, shut it.”

“Show your mother some respect,” Gianni says, more coolly than Marie’s fond chastising. He’s never gotten over Ethan’s choice of profession.

“I respect my mother,” Ethan says, a hard edge in his voice. His small smile is gone. “Mom. I respect you. Especially if it took me thirty-six hours to be born.”

“Your head was all squished when you finally came out.” She winces, a life skill if you’re Italian, meant to instill guilt. “And the stitches! Oh, Madonna!”

Gianni shifts uncomfortably. “Do we have to discuss this at the table, Marie?”

“Oh, so my suffering, you don’t want to know, is that it? Sorry to disturb you, your majesty.” My mother-in-law turns to me. “Lucy, it was fourth-degree tear. Three inches long.” Gianni flinches, and I try not to smile.

“Sorry, Ma,” Ethan says. “Didn’t mean to be such trouble.” He smiles at his mother, but she’s lost in thought.

“Of course, Jimmy was no picnic, either. He was bigger, you know, nine pounds, eight ounces. Those eyes even when he was first born, they were so special. Like the ocean, so amazing! The nurses, they couldn’t believe it. Oh, he was the most beautiful baby I ever saw, Lucy.” Her mouth wobbles, and a spear of pain pierces my heart. Poor Marie.

I reach across the table and pat her hand, and at the same time, give Ethan’s knee a squeeze. I’m sure Marie doesn’t realize it, but she just told Ethan he wasn’t the most beautiful baby she ever saw. Ethan removes my hand, giving it a quick pat. Still, the message is clear. Hands off.

Marie wipes her eyes and sighs again. Gianni growls at a passing waiter to check table fifteen, Ethan’s leg jiggles with tension. All in all, a typical Mirabelli dinner.

“So what’s the big news?” I ask, taking a large bite of the delicious penne.

“So we’re moving,” Gianni announces. “Arizona. Retirement.”

I drop my fork with a clatter, splattering the white tablecloth with the creamy vodka sauce, and swallow.

“Excuse me?” Ethan asks. His leg jiggling has gone still.

“Arizona,” Marie repeats. “Valle de Muerte Community for Active Adults.”

“The Valley of Death?” Ethan asks.

“What Valley of the Death?” Marie asks. “Valle de Muerte, I said.”

“It’s not Valley of Death, smart-ass,” Gianni says to his son. “Marie, you got it wrong. It’s Puerte, not Muerte, okay? With a P. Valle de Puerte Active Adult Community. We’re active, we’re adults, we’re moving.”

“When did you decide this?” Ethan asks.

“Last week,” Marie explains. “Your father, his knees, his heart…and…well…” She glances at me, then down at her untouched plate.

“What, Marie?” I ask, the pebble already stuck in my throat.

“That goddamn Angelo,” Gianni explodes, shoving away from the table. He tends to leave at emotional times. I swear, he spent half of Jimmy’s wake outside the funeral home, advising the valets on where to park cars.

“Ma. Why now?” Ethan asks.

“The restaurant is too much for your father,” she says, not looking at either of us. “His blood pressure. And it’s just…it’s not the same without Jimmy. And now that you’re moving on, Lucy, honey, and you’re back to raise your son, Ethan, well…we’re just not needed anymore.”

“You’re needed!” Ethan barks. “Nicky loves you! When are you planning on seeing him? Did you even think about your only grandson?”

“Ethan,” I interject in a low voice, but he ignores me.

“We’ll have him visit,” Marie says. “You, too, Lucy, sweetheart. And we’ll come back from time to time. It’s just…we just don’t want to stay around anymore.”

“Part of the reason I took this job in Providence was to be closer to you and Dad, Ma,” Ethan says.

“So? You don’t need us. You’re doing fine. We’re very, uh, proud,” she says, tearing a piece of bread to bits. “I’d better check on your father.” With that, she, too, hurtles away from the table, leaving me with Ethan.

I shift in my chair to look at him better. His jaw is tight, and a muscle jumps underneath his left eye. I reach out and give him a tentative pat on the leg.

“Would you please stop touching my leg?” he bites out.

My hand slinks back to my own lap. “Sorry! Sorry, Eth,” I say. “But listen, your parents deserve to retire. Why are you so mad, buddy?”

He gives me a look that could cut glass. “Lucy, you’re so obtuse sometimes,” he says.

“What? What am I missing?”

He continues to gaze at me dispassionately, like a teacher with a not-very-bright student. “If Jimmy were alive, they’d never leave. They’d die in that kitchen.” He jerks his chin in the direction of his parents’ escape.

“Well, Jimmy did die,” I murmur. My hand wants to pat him again, but we know better.

“I’m aware of that, Lucy,” he says, his voice unfamiliar in its hardness.

“And they really should retire. They’re in their seventies, aren’t they?”

“Yes. And I don’t begrudge them retirement. But why not Newport or the Cape or something? Why Arizona? It’s a little far, don’t you think? I just moved back here, and I was hoping…”

“Hoping to be closer with them?” I ask.

Ethan shrugs. “I guess.” He pauses, pushing the food around on his plate. I sneak another mouthful, feeling somehow that I’m being unsympathetic by eating when my friend is distressed. Chewing without moving my mouth proves difficult, however, so I just go for it, letting Ethan brood next to me. It works.

“Did you know that Jimmy was named for our grandfathers?” he asks after a few minutes “They were both Giacomo.”

I smile. I did know that little fact, learning only when it was time to do our wedding invitation that Jimmy’s name wasn’t James, as I’d assumed. “What’s your point?” I ask gently.

Ethan straightens his fork. “Do you know who I’m named for?” he asks.

“He’s named for the doctor,” Marie announces loudly. Apparently, Angelo has been thoroughly chastised, because both my in-laws have returned to the table. They sit now, Marie smiling, Gianni glowering. “We were so sure you were a girl, honey,” Marie says to her younger son. “Lucy, we didn’t even have a boy’s name picked out, we were so sure! You were supposed to be Francesca. Isn’t that a lovely name?”

“It is,” I agree, grinning at Ethan.

“Even when the doctor said you were a boy, I didn’t believe it. I was convinced you were a girl!”

“What every man wants to hear, Ma,” Ethan says, but Marie continues, undaunted.

“So then he shows me your tiny little parts—” Ethan closes his eyes and I giggle “—and we were just stumped! Then your father here—” Marie elbows Gianni “—your father says, ‘So what do we call the little bugger?’ And my mind, it goes completely blank, so I look at Dr. Tavendish and I say, ‘What’s your first name, Dr. T.?’ And he says, ‘Ethan.’ And that was that!” She and Gianni smile at each other fondly, warmed by the memory.

“And that’s how this little paesan got a WASP name,” Ethan says. Then he gives his parents a smile that doesn’t quite make it to his eyes. “So tell us more about Valle de Muerte.”

AFTER DINNER, ETHAN AND I WALK HOME. The street is quiet, as sidewalks tend to roll up before nine after Labor Day. Ethan knows how I feel about the cemetery, and it’s nice not to have someone trying to coax me through like they’re cajoling a reluctant dog out of a crate. The stars gleam bright above, and salt flavors the air, putting me in mind of sourdough bread.

“Does it really bother you, being named after the doctor?” I ask.

“Not really. It’s just…well, it doesn’t matter.” Ethan says mildly. I suspect it does, but now that we’re away from his parents, he’s not going to reopen the subject.

“How’s the new job going?” I ask.

“It’s okay.”

“What do you do all day?”

He sighs. “Meetings. Long-range planning, research on new markets.”

It’s a far cry from what he used to do…schmoozing, basically. He was head of North American sales, rather astonishing, given that he’s only twenty-seven. Instead of working at Gianni’s during college, Ethan took a summer internship at International, and his employers so liked him that they offered him a job. I know from Parker that the new position is a promotion and Ethan’s making even more money now, but I also know that long-range planning and research are not Ethan’s thing. Certainly, though, it’s safer than flying all around the country and doing all those adventure sports things.

“Do you like it?” I ask.

“Not especially.”

“Then why’d you take it?”

We’ve reached the bridge and stop for a minute, looking down at the Mackerly River, which flows from the ocean side of the island to the bay. The lights of the much more upscale Newport twinkle in the distance, but here on our little lump of land, it’s quiet save for the murmuring rush of the tidal river and the occasional night bird. A breeze ruffles Ethan’s perpetually rumpled hair.

He glances at me. “Figured I should be around more for Nicky,” he says, dropping his gaze to the water.

“Right,” I answer. “That’s a good reason.”

“The best.” He smiles at the thought of his son, and, as always, my heart gives an almost painful twist. Ethan is such a good dad, and little is more appealing than a father who so obviously loves his child.

“So come on, tell me. What’s the deal with being named after the obstetrician?” I ask, watching as the river rushes past the reedy banks.

“It’s nothing. Just that Jimmy got the grandfathers’ name, and they hadn’t even bothered to pick one out for me.”

“Sure they did. You just decided to be difficult and come out a boy.”

“Right.”

“So?”

He turns to look at me. “Well, a person could say that I disappointed my parents right from the get-go by being me. They already had a son. They wanted a daughter. They got me, and I wasn’t as good as Jimmy.” He says it as if he’s presenting a paper on the history of dirt—these are the facts, and while they’re true, they’re not all that interesting.

“Oh, Ethan, buddy, no one thinks that!” I protest.

His eyes crinkle in genuine amusement. “Anyone ever told you, Lucy, that you’re awfully naive?” I don’t answer, and Ethan continues. “I’ve pretty much spent my life being Not-Jimmy. He was the heir apparent. He was older, taller, funnier, better-looking, better in the kitchen. He got Dad’s eyes, Mom’s heart, the grandfathers’ name. He got the restaurant, he got the family recipes, he got—well. Whatever I do in my life, it won’t measure up to Jimmy.” He shoots me a sidelong glance. “In my parents’ eyes, anyway.”

My urge is to hug him, but I probably shouldn’t. “Does it bother you?” I ask quietly.

“Not so much anymore. I’m used to it. And my parents lost a child, so I try to cut them some slack. If anything ever happened to Nick, I don’t know what I’d do, and I hope to God never to find out.”

I swallow, not willing to think such thoughts. “You’re just as good as Jimmy, Ethan,” I say sincerely. “You’re different, that’s all.”

He looks at me a beat, and I get the feeling there’s something more he wants to say. But he doesn’t. “Come on, it’s getting cold” is all he offers, and we start walking once more, leaving the river behind, not talking until we reach the Boatworks. We stop at the entrance, which is one of the lovely touches of this building. Instead of an overhang, half a Herreshoff sailboat juts out from the brick. The building’s front doors were taken from a shipwreck and restored. Obviously we each know the code to get into the building, but we just stand there a moment, sheltered by the old wooden boat.

“You want to come up?” I ask. “I made profiteroles. And not just that…they’re served with a warm hazelnut mocha sauce.” He doesn’t answer. “We could play Guitar Hero, maybe?” There’s a desperate note to my voice, and I don’t imagine Ethan misses it. “Sound good, Eth?”

“Sounds great,” he replies with a considerable lack of enthusiasm. “But I don’t think I should come over, Lucy. Thanks, though.”

“Why? You don’t like my desserts anymore?” I ask. “Trying to drop a few, are you?” My joke falls flat…A) Ethan is as lean as a greyhound; and B) I know the real reason and don’t want it to be true. “You don’t have to eat,” I add. “We could watch a movie.” My heart is fluttering like a sick bird in my chest, and I feel dangerously close to tears.

“Lucy,” Ethan begins, looking down the street. “Look. You know I think you’re great and all, but maybe we should put some distance between us.”

“Why?” I squeak.

“Well, you want a new husband. He’s not going to appreciate you having an ex-lover hanging around, being your best friend forever.”

“But, you are my best friend, aren’t you?” I say around the pebble in my throat.

He hesitates, and that hideous bird in my chest goes into death spasm. “Sure. But I don’t want to be a substitute for what’s missing in your life, either.”

“You’re not a substitute!” I protest.

“Whatever you say, Luce.”

“Eth,” I attempt, “aren’t we still friends?”

“Lucy, you asked for some distance. I’m giving it to you.” There’s an edge to his voice now, and that little muscle under his eye ticks again.

“Well, forgive me, then,” I say, my voice brittle. “I thought we were friends. I guess we could be friends when we were sleeping together, but not now, huh?”

“No, Lucy!” he snaps. “You’re moving on, good for you, you should and all that crap. But you can’t have me filling in whenever you get lonely. Not if you’re about to dump me for a husband one of these days.”

“Dump you? We didn’t…we weren’t…” My voice trails off.

“No. We didn’t and we weren’t. So fine. Go out with Charley Spirito. Find a new guy, but leave me out of this.”

“But—”

“Lucy,” he says tightly. “You can’t have everything, okay? So back off.”

“I’m not asking for everything! I just want you to…to be my friend. Like you were.” At his dark look, I hastily amend that statement. “Well, without the sleeping together part. Just for us to be…buddies.”

“Buddies.” He raises an eyebrow. “Okay, buddy. I’m tired and I have an early meeting, so let’s call it a night.”

And with that, he punches in our code, holds the door open for me. When we get in the elevator, he pushes four for my floor, and five for his. Aside from “Good night,” we don’t say anything else.