EADY TO GO IN?” I ask as I stand in the parking lot.

Standing in the parking lot is a time-honored ritual whenever I go anywhere with the Black Widows. There’s an order, you see, a hierarchy of who gets out first and how. First, tradition dictates that the youngest among us drives. That’s me, and I’m grateful, as Iris and Rose’s method is to point the vehicle in the desired direction and step on the gas. Getting out of the way is the responsibility of other drivers, pedestrians, deer, trees and buildings.

Upon arriving at our destination, tradition dictates that I hop out of the car and stand in attendance as Iris reapplies her Coral Glow, which was discontinued in 1978 but which she had the foresight to stockpile. She doesn’t need a mirror to put on lipstick, a skill they must’ve taught back when Eisenhower was president, since I’ve never seen a woman under the age of sixty pull this off.

The next tradition, which we’re living right now, is for Rose to gasp in horror, realizing she’s lost her wallet, then rifle through her vast black purse, her lips moving in silent prayer. A moment later, St. Anthony, patron saint of lost things, miraculously restores the wallet, placing it right there next to the rubber-banded envelope containing Rose’s medical insurance card, list of medications, several dozen coupons and her burial instructions.

After this bit of divine intervention, my mother must retie her scarf. She never goes anywhere without a scarf, winter or summer. Today’s choice is a beautiful little orange and pink number, and despite the fact that we only left the bakery ten minutes ago, tradition must be honored.

“Does my neck look crepey to you?” Mom asks as I watch, my arms beginning to ache from holding the tray of apricot brioche I baked in class last night. My students, who range in age from seventeen to eighty-four, had raved about them.

“Not at all,” I answer. “You’re gorgeous, Mom.”

“Oh, I am not,” she says fondly. Another tradition—reject compliments. Then her gaze drops down to my faded jeans with the fraying hem, my utterly unremarkable brown wool sweater. “Is that what you’re wearing?” she asks.

“No. I’m wearing a ball gown, but it’s invisible.” I twirl around, taking care not to spill the goodies. “Do you like it?”

“It wouldn’t kill you to dress up a little,” she says, adjusting her own skirt, a pretty, silky little number. She’s right, of course—yesterday, I bought yet another cashmere sweater, my seventeenth (but really, this one could not be denied—it was a gorgeous peachy color with a wide neckline and the prettiest buttons). My closet appears in my mind, its doors opening in supplication. Come on, Lucy, the unworn clothes beg. We’re here for you.

“Are we ready?” Iris asks, then, without waiting for an answer, strides ahead, leading the little parade of Hungarian widows inside.

High Hopes Convalescent Center is a poorly named nursing home, since most of its residents are dying. One of them is my Great-Aunt Boggy (her name is actually Boglarka, which means “Buttercup” in Hungarian). Visiting is a regular gig for the Black Widows and me…we honor our elders, even those who don’t know we’re around. Such is the case with Great-Aunt Boggy, age one hundred and four, nonverbal since my sophomore year in high school, a person who rouses only to eat, then slips back to the foggy place where she’s been for so long.

“What’s that?” Iris asks suspiciously, holding the door for me.

“Apricot brioche,” I say, lifting the cloth napkin that covers my tray. Boggy will eat one or two, and the grateful staff will eat the rest.

She squints, then pokes one in the side, where the flaky dough shatters obligingly. “How’d you get them so light?”

“That’s my secret, dear Iris,” I say sweetly. “However, should you let me sell them at Bunny’s, I’d be happy to share.”

“Unsalted butter?” she guesses.

“Well, of course, but that’s hardly the secret,” I answer.

“Let me try one,” Rose says, breaking off a piece. Her palate is legendary. “You used vinegar in the dough, didn’t you, smart girl?”

“I absolutely did not,” I lie. Darn that palate.

“Come on, girls, we’ll be late,” Mom calls from the second set of doors. She’s armed with food, too…pureed chicken paprikas, which is basically chicken, butter, sour cream and paprika. Mom has also brought another Hungarian delicacy—galuska…salted, shredded cabbage fried in salted butter, mixed with salted, buttered noodles, topped with salted butter and then heavily salted. Horrifyingly delicious, nearly fatal in its fat content. It’s amazing that the women in my family live to be so old. You’d think our blood would’ve thickened to a lardlike sludge long ago.

“Oh, Boggy, don’t you look pretty today!” Rose coos as we arrive in our shriveled relative’s room. Iris agrees in her thunderous voice that Boggy does indeed look well, and the two of them adjust Boggy, who, as usual, stares into the distance, unresisting. Mom zips down the hall to heat up the food. I set my tray of baked goods down and sit on the little sofa in Boggy’s room and listen to Iris and Rose argue over whether it’s good or bad for Boggy’s window to be opened.

I remember the glamour of Boggy coming to visit when I was a kid. She married a car dealer and was fairly wealthy. Great-Uncle Tony was rumored to be connected, though just about everyone in Rhode Island could claim some cousin or neighbor who was a made man. Boggy and Tony didn’t have kids of their own and spoiled my mother and her older sisters when they were children, taking the girls on trips into Providence or down to the Connecticut shore for brunch, once even taking my mother to Paris for a week, which still causes flares of jealousy in Iris and Rose when mentioned. Long after she was widowed at age forty-eight (Tony was rumored to have been hit by a rival family, but the autopsy only showed that he had drowned), Boggy continued the tradition of never marrying, never dating. She didn’t lose her joie de vivre, however, and continued to dote on the Black Widows and her grand-nieces and-nephews. Once she took me to the Indian casino down Interstate 395, handed me five crisp Ben Franklins and told me to get busy. I was ten at the time.

But Boggy had a stroke when I was sixteen, and she’s been at High Hopes ever since. Only her nieces (and I) visit, which we do with great devotion, mind you. But still. No grandchildren’s loving pats, no great-grandchildren…just the four of us.

Will that happen to me? I suddenly wonder in a seize of panic. Will Emma be the only one to remember poor Aunt Lucy? Lord, I hope Corinne would have more babies if that’s the case. Maybe she could have seven, and each one could take a day on my deathwatch…not that I would know, if I ended up like Boggy there.

I find that I’m sweating. My breathing is a little shallow. No. I won’t end up alone. I’m going to get married again. I’ll have a hubby soon, that nice, solid, slightly dull guy who will take really good care of me. I’ll have funny, sweet little kids who will adore me. I won’t have to borrow Emma or Nicky in order to have a child to love.

“How’s the search for a husband going?” my mother asks, reading my mind. She sits gracefully next to me, a bowl of fragrant paprikas puree in her manicured hands, and takes on her Barbara Walters Aren’t we fascinating? look.

“Oh, it’s okay,” I answer, fiddling with the cuff of my sweater. “Fine.”

“Have you gone out with Charley again?” she asks, stirring the sludge to cool it a little. Over by Boggy, Iris and Rose are still bickering over the health benefits/death threats of opening the window.

“Um, no. I don’t think he’s what I’m looking for,” I answer, breaking off a piece of brioche to test its texture. So flaky, the glaze gleaming sweetly. I bet it tastes great. My throat closes at the thought of actually eating it, and I swallow. Dang pebble.

“So what are you looking for? Another Jimmy?” Mom asks. “Because you won’t find one, sweetheart.”

“I know that, Mom.” I pause. “Ethan and Parker might be going out,” I add. I wait, hoping she’ll have something insightful and maternal to say about that.

“Oh, nice,” she murmurs, blowing on the paprikas.

“Ethan and Parker should go out,” Rose chirrups from Boggy’s bedside. “They should get married. Poor Nicky shouldn’t have to grow up a bastard.”

“Rose!” I exclaim. “Don’t call him that! Half the kids in this country don’t have parents who are married to each other.”

“Which is why I wonder about you looking for another husband,” my mother says, meeting my eyes.

“I never wanted to remarry,” Iris states. “My Pete was the Love of My Life. And what’s this I hear about the Mirabellis moving? What do they have in Arizona that we don’t have right here in Rhode Island?”

“Well, the desert, for one,” I say. “And Jimmy was the love of my life, too, but I don’t want to be alone for the rest of my life. I want kids.”

“So adopt,” Mom says.

“We got invited to Mirabellis’ going-away party,” Rose says. “I do love a party.”

“Boggy, lunch is ready!” Mom announces loudly. “Chicken paprikas, extra sour cream, just the way you like it! And galuska, too!”

“Oh, I’m sorry, you really shouldn’t give her that,” says a nurse, poking her head inside the door. “The doctor just put her on a low-salt, low-fat diet.”

My mother and aunts recoil as if slapped. “What doctor?” Iris demands. “My daughter, she didn’t say anything about low salt. And she’s a lesbian doctor.”

“Poor Boggy!” Rose cries. “Isn’t it bad enough that she’s—” Rose’s voice drops to a melodramatic whisper “—in the coma?”

“She’s not in a coma,” the nurse says. “Not technically. Anyway, she needs to stick to her diet.”

“Oh, gosh,” I say. “Aunt Boggy’s a hundred and four. She should get to eat a little paprikas, don’t you think?” I smile, appealing to the nurse’s sense of humanity. Depriving an ancient old lady of salty, butter-soaked food is the moral equivalent of water-boarding in the eyes of this family. A call to Amnesty International will be next.

“That’s right,” Iris says. “Lucy, you’re right. So nuts to you, nurse!” She grabs the bowl from my mother’s hands and marches over to Aunt Boggy, pushes the button on her bed to raise the old lady to a sitting position and begins spooning the chicken sludge into her mouth. The nurse sighs and walks away. I’m not sure, but I think Boggy smiles. And while it’s a little disgusting to watch Boggy’s droopy mouth open and close like a baby bird’s, I have to say, it smells fantastic in here. Rose wipes Boggy’s mouth, and Iris shovels in some more high-fat, salty, delicious food.

“Mom,” I say, turning back to my mother in the hope of resuming our earlier conversation, “do you miss being married?”

She gives me a look of thinly veiled patience. “Why? Did you see Joe Torre on TV?” Apparently Mom hasn’t forgotten my timid suggestions way back when that she try to find someone like “that nice Mr. Torre.”

“No,” I say. “But—”

“Lucy, promise me you’ll never wear that sweater out in public again, okay, honey?” She gets up and spreads an afghan over the bottom of Boggy’s bed, leaving me in the void where maternal advice is supposed to be.

Later that day and much to my surprise, my mother comes over as I’m packing up the afternoon bread. “I just got off the phone with Gertie Myers,” she says, naming her hairdresser, who was also my Girl Scout troop leader. “Her nephew Fred’s divorced, and I told her you were looking.”

“Oh,” I say, my stomach clenching. “Um. Okay. Thanks.” I pause. “Is he nice? Have you met him?”

“Does he have his own teeth?” Rose adds with complete sincerity, coming out of the freezer, where she was stowing a tray of unwanted, unpurchased, unappetizing cookies for another day.

“I have no idea,” my mother says. “But he’s coming to your baseball game tonight. Good luck.”

“HI, I’M FRED BUSEY.”

Gah! My mouth opens, but no sound emerges.

While Fred Busey may have his own teeth, the rest of the picture is not so pretty. He’s roughly five feet three inches and somewhere around two hundred and fifty pounds. From my lofty three-inch height difference, I am privy to a distressing view of his scalp. You know those infomercials where they’re pitching what’s basically a can of spray paint to cover some guy’s bald spot? Yes. That. And the result is, sadly, quite, er…noticeable.

Granted, Number Four on my color-coded list is Not Too Attractive so as to discourage lust, which is part of chemistry of course, and can lead to infatuation and even love…but Fred is pushing the envelope here.

“Hi,” I say, remembering my manners. “I’m Lucy Mirabelli. My mother gets her hair cut by your aunt.”

He grins. “Nice to meet you, Lucy,” he says, shaking my hand. Oh, dang. He seems nice.

“Hello, all,” says my sister. Baby Emma is clutched to her chest, and I lean in to take a look. “Not so close, Lucy, you’re dirty,” my sister says, then sticks out an elbow to Fred. “Hello, I’m Corinne, Lucy’s sister, and I’d shake your hand, but as you can see, I’m holding my baby. She’s eighteen and a half days old.”

“Congratulations,” Fred says, taking a peek at the baby. “She’s just beautiful. Looks like you.” He smiles at my sister, scoring thousands of points with Corinne. Charming, this guy, despite his outward resemblance to Jabba the Hutt. “Does your husband play softball, too?” he asks my sister.

“Oh, God, no! Softball’s way too dangerous,” Corinne says, her eyes wide with horror. “No, no. He’s an umpire. Second base.” There’s Christopher indeed, wearing the usual protective gear worn by umpires. And a Kevlar vest underneath. I’m not kidding. Corinne’s certain a line drive could cause his death.

“Luce!” Charley Spirito galumphs over. “Luce, you wanna get a beer after the game?” he says. At the sight of Fred Busey, Charley’s dopey grin falls off his face. “Who’s dis?” he says, immediately adopting a Mobbed-up accent.

“Charley, meet Fred Busey. Fred, this is Charley, one of my teammates and an old friend.”

Charley gives me a look that conveys moral indignation and deep, deep hurt. “And old friend, huh? So I guess last week meant squat?”

Fred, understanding that good-looking Charley feels I have thrown him over for Fred’s own rotund self, beams. I close my eyes briefly. “Charley and I had dinner last week,” I explain to Fred. Turning to Charley, I add, “Those clams were great, Charley. I had a nice time.”

“Nice time, is dat right. I getcha. Fine. No prob, Luce.” He gives Fred a disgruntled look, then tromps off to right field, where we put all the guys who can’t catch.

“So this is fun,” Fred says. “I haven’t been to a game in a long time. Maybe we can grab a drink afterward?”

I swallow. “Um…yeah,” I say. “Let’s see how, um, how long the game goes.”

“Sounds great. I’ll be cheering for you.” He winks, then waddles off with Corinne over to the bleachers. Ah. Good. Parker and Nicky are there, too—we’re playing Ethan’s team again.

I don’t see Ethan yet…he’s been late a couple of times recently, driving in from Providence, but I start at seeing International’s new pitcher. Doral-Anne Driscoll. Uh-oh.

In addition to being a loose-moraled, obscenity-spewing, nasty and not-always-clean bully, Doral-Anne was also the captain of Mackerly High’s softball team. The year we won States. I wasn’t on the team…my baseball talents were dormant till I started playing as an adult.

“Well, well, well,” Doral-Anne says, then spits. I square my shoulders. She can’t scare me anymore. I’m a grownup. A grown-up who bats.513.

“Hi, Doral-Anne. What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Ethan Mirabelli invited me to come,” she says. “Saw him the other day. Said I wouldn’t mind playing again, and he said his team could use a good pitcher, so here I am.” She pulls a face, daring me to protest.

“Welcome,” I say. My mind is racing. Why would Ethan invite Doral-Anne? Surely he can’t be…interested…in her, of all people!

“Batter up!” calls Stuey Mitchell, our home plate ump. I take my bat, tap my cleats and go up to the plate.

Three pitches later, I’m out. Somewhat dazed, I slink back to the dugout.

“Way to go, D.A.” someone calls.

It’s Ethan, walking toward the field from the parking lot, tucking his International Foods T-shirt into his pants. I can’t help it, I know it’s juvenile, but heck! Ethan’s supposed to be my friend. He’s not supposed to cheer when I humiliate myself at bat. He must see my disgruntled expression, because he smiles. “Nice try, Lucy,” he adds.

Doral-Anne doesn’t seem to have lost her stuff in the years since high school. She retires us in order, and I can’t help but notice that Ethan and she have a laugh together back at the dugout.

Bemused, I get my glove and head for the mound.

Ethan’s up first…the privileges of ownership, when he’s around, anyway. Doral-Anne watches his ass quite intently as he walks to the batter’s box. Super.

My first pitch is a bit inside. Okay, okay, it’s a lot inside. Ethan jumps back, a swirl of dirt rising from his cleats. “Ball one,” Stuey calls.

“Control yourself, Lang,” Doral-Anne shouts, then spits in the dirt. God. Martha Stewart would just have to smother her with an eiderdown pillow, wouldn’t she?

I try to ignore Doral-Anne and catch the ball Carly Espinosa, our catcher, throws back. She gives me the sign for an outside pitch. I shake my head. She gives me another sign—fast ball down the middle. I nod and, launching into the odd little windmill windup of softball, I let the ball fly.

The pitch is wild; Ethan jerks back, but the ball bounces off his helmet.

“Jesus, Lang!” shouts Doral-Anne. “Is this how you always pitch?”

“Sorry, Ethan!” I call, ignoring Doral-Anne. “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” he answers. He tosses his bat gently to Carly’s son, who’s eight and serves as batboy, and then jogs to first.

International Foods scores three runs that inning. Clearly I don’t have my best stuff. Everyone hits me. Including the debutante princess, Doral-Anne, whose mother, legend has it, named her daughter after Dorals, her favorite brand of cigarette.

At some point later in the game, I manage to make it to first base on a weak little hit that’s fumbled by International Foods’ shortstop. Finally.

“Yay, Aunt Wucy!” calls my nephew. I glance over, then start. Fred Busey. Crikey, I’d forgotten all about him. I wave. He waves back, then smoothes his hand over his paint-enhanced hair. Parker says something, and they chuckle.

“Give ’em hell, Lucy!” my friend shouts.

“Go Bunny’s!” Fred seconds.

Though I’m not one hundred percent sure I want it publicly known that the man with the inked-in scalp is with me, my battered ego is still somewhat soothed. I contemplate the distance to second base. Take a subtle step in that direction. Another inch. Another. After all, I’ve been known to steal a base or (ahem!) a hundred and twenty-two! League record, ladies and gentlemen! And besides, that would really piss off dear Doral-Anne, who’s pitching far too well. If we’re going to have a chance, I simply must get in scoring position.

Doral-Anne glances at me from underneath her too-long bangs, then decides I’m not worth watching. She goes into her windup, and I’m off. My helmet flies off as I sprint toward second, each step a joy, the thrill of stealing electrifying my legs. Ethan doesn’t even see me, but I slide anyway, just as his glove comes down.

“Out!” says Christopher. “Sorry, Luce.”

“Excuse me?” I pant, standing up, my foot securely on base.

“You’re out,” he says.

“I am?” Openmouthed, I look at Ethan, who raises his eyebrows and grins that elvish smile. He holds up his glove, and sure enough, the ball is right there.

“You weren’t even close,” he says. “Buddy.” He winks.

“Can we keep playing, or is the princess going to stay there forever?” Doral-Anne calls.

With no other option, still shocked that I was, for the first time ever, tagged out on a steal, I trudge back to the dugout.

Bunny’s loses, 9-2. Worse, Ethan offers to buy drinks for both sides, so everyone will be heading to Lenny’s for a postgame analysis.

“Tough loss,” Fred Busey says, panting a bit with the effort of walking the ten yards or so from the bleachers.

“You’re telling me,” I say, forcing a smile. Truthfully I’m stunned at how badly I played. Three measly strikeouts. On base only once, and that because of an error. And caught stealing…jeepers.

Most of those heading for the bar do it logically…by cutting through Ellington Park. Which would mean also going through the cemetery. Which we all know I’m not willing to do.

“Shall we grab a drink?” asks Fred.

“Sure,” I say. I can have a drink with Fred. He’s a nice guy. Besides, Ethan’s just chitchattering away to Doral-Anne. And you know what else? I’m going to walk through the cemetery. Because it’s time for me to stop being a dope when it comes to that. I should be able to take care of Jimmy’s grave as a good widow should. The Mirabellis are moving—their goodbye party is just around the corner, and the very thought causes my heart to clench. So yes, I should get over this issue of mine. Should be able to walk through the cemetery. But that doesn’t mean I have to walk fast, either.

Indeed, everyone else on the team trickles past us. Fred can’t move too quickly, and that’s fine with me, because I need a little time to shore up my courage. I try to follow Fred’s tale of his recent divorce, his eight-year-old daughter, but the cemetery looms in front of me like the gaping maw of a shark. I make the appropriate noises, but my heart starts to clatter as we approach the end of the park…and the entrance to the cemetery.

We’re getting closer. I’m a little out of breath. And why can’t I hear Fred? Is he still talking? Lips are still moving…A buzz fills my ears, and my hands are slick with sweat. Up ahead, well into the cemetery, I can see Ethan’s back, Mirabelli over a number 12. He’s walking with Doral-Anne, laughing, unaware of my distress. If only he’d turn, see me, help me out…Please, Ethan. My psychic cry fails to hit its target. Ethan and Doral-Anne disappear around the bend.

“Um…Fred?” I say, and my voice cracks. We’re just outside the stone pillars now.

“Yeah?” He looks up at me, his brows coming together.

“I…can we…um…” I’m having a hard time getting enough air, my chest bucking up and down erratically. Oh, jeepers, I’m going to faint.

“Are you okay? Want to sit down?” Fred, also panting though not for the same reasons, takes my elbow in his pudgy hand and leads me to a rock. I sit down with all the grace of a dying hippo. Dropping my head between my knees, I try to relax, try to let the breeze push air into my lungs. Everything’s gonna be all right…everything’s gonna be all right.

“Lucy? Should I call someone…911?” Fred asked, patting my shoulder.

I shake my head. The panic subsides like the outgoing tide, bit by bit. I don’t have to go in the cemetery. No one will know. Nice Fred won’t mind, I can already tell.

“My husband’s buried in there,” I whisper, and oh, it sounds so sad. Tears spring to my eyes, and I scrub them away, almost irritated. I should be able to say these things without crying by now.

“I’m so sorry,” Fred murmurs.

“Maybe we can just go around?” I ask. “I’m sorry, I know it doesn’t make sense—”

“It doesn’t have to,” Fred says. “Of course we can go around. Whenever you’re ready.”

And so, feeling like an ass, I get up and take twenty minutes longer than necessary to get to Lenny’s Pub.

“Hey, Luce!” a few of my Bunny’s teammates chorus. Ellen Ripling is sucking down a piña colada, flirting shamelessly with Leeland Huckabee. Tom Malloy, our first baseman, looks half plastered already, which is par for the course…the man just cannot hold his liquor, and I make a mental note to get his keys. Carly Espinosa, responsible for both our team’s runs with a homer in the ninth, is on her cell phone. Roxanne, the surly waitress, growls at patrons to hurry up and order as she slaps down drinks.

And Ethan is yucking it up with Doral-Anne.

“What would you like to drink?” Fred asks.

“Oh, um…I’ll have a…whatever you’re having,” I say, my mind temporarily blank. I indulge in a guilty and relieved sigh when he turns his back.

“So what happened today, Lucy?” Tommy Malloy calls.

“Just having a bad day,” I answer. “Don’t worry. My mojo will be back when we play Nubey’s.” We’ve never lost to Nubey’s Hardware, after all.

Ah-ha! Ethan is coming my way. “Hey, Luce.”

“Hi. Sorry I’m late getting here,” I say.

“Oh, were you late?” he asks, glancing at the bar.

“I just had a little…trouble. That’s all.” I wait for him to inquire after my well-being. He doesn’t. “So. Taking steroids or something, Eth?” I continue. “Pretty aggressive there on second today. First time you tagged me out…ever, now that I think of it.” I offer a smile, and he grins back.

“It’s not steroids, Lucy. Just treating you like my buddy. Why? Should I let you get on base next time?” His merry eyebrows rise, and his smile is full-fledged now.

“You don’t let me do anything,” I object.

“Sure, Luce.”

“What are you saying?”

He laughs, not meanly but in genuine amusement. “Lucy, Lucy. Do you really think you’re that good?”

My mouth falls open. “Yes! I’m great at softball! I bat.513!”

He nods. “Yes, you do. Even higher than Tommy Malloy, who played for Arizona State. Amazing.” He winks.

My shoulders slump. “So what do you mean? I’m not that good? People have been just being nice?”

“Yup.”

“No, sir!” I’m not great? “Why would they do that?”

“Because you’re Jimmy’s widow, kid. Who’s gonna strike out poor Lucy Mirabelli?”

My eyes narrow. “Did you have something to do with this?”

He grins again. “Well, I may have said to go easy on my sister-in-law. Back when you first started playing, anyway. I guess it got to be a habit.” He pats my shoulder, and I catch a slight whiff of his cologne, such a comforting and familiar smell that I’m filled with longing. And jealousy, maybe, because he’s…ah, dang it. Snap out of it, I tell myself harshly.

I glance around the bar. Fred, surrounded by taller patrons, waits patiently, unaware of the “shove your way to the front” method of getting a drink at this fine establishment. I glance over to where Doral-Anne sits in a booth along the back wall. Where I usually sit. Often with Ethan, whenever he was around for a game, that is. Despite the fact that our more intimate relationship had always been a secret, Ethan was always quite protective of me. Quite solicitous, and everyone always gave him huge points for being such a good guy where his brother’s widow was concerned. He’d get me a beer, praise my skill on the field (gah!) and usually walk me home. And often shag me.

Dang it, dang it, dang it.

Doral-Anne eyes me with all the warmth of a great white shark. “You should probably get back to your date,” I say to Ethan, unable to completely hide the bitter note in my voice.

“Who? Doral-Anne? Oh, we’re not on a date. Just talking.” He glances over to Doral-Anne, who jerks her glare off of me and pretends she was studying the menu.

“And what are you talking about?” I ask.

He considers me carefully. “She’s interested in what International Foods does. Our new product line. Stuff like that.”

“Your product line?” I snort. “Ethan, my dear boy, Doral-Anne’s interested in you.”

“No, Lucy, she’s interested in my company. We’re both in the food service industry, in case you didn’t notice. There’s been talk about Starbucks closing the Mackerly store. She might send her résumé to International, that’s all.”

“She’s not good enough for you.” The statement falls out without my consent, but there it is. The truth.

Ethan’s mouth tightens. “So now you’re an expert on who I should date, Lucy? Maybe you shouldn’t go around judging people you barely know.”

I gulp. Great, he’s defending her. “Well, I just…whatever. Sorry I said anything. I’m sure she’s perfectly wonderful.”

Luckily the door opens and Parker breezes in, smelling of J’Adore and not of sweat, like my own sticky self.

“Hey, guys!” she says, giving us both a fond squeeze of the shoulder, and some of the tension leaves the moment.

“How’s our boy?” Ethan asks, his face taking on that dopey, adoring look he gets whenever he thinks of his son.

“Terrorizing the babysitter, like any good four-year-old.” She smiles at Ethan, he smiles back, and once again, I imagine them married. Though Nicky was definitely unplanned, the result of failed birth control, neither of them ever regretted having the lad. They could have more Nickys…after all, it’s not like they find each other repugnant, which is more than enough grounds for marriage in my eyes.

Parker snaps her fingers in front of my face, and I jump. “Lucy, I just asked how the date was going. I hardly got to talk to him…your sister was telling him about Emma’s poop and pee schedule, and I have to say, he took it like a man.”

“Did she show the cracked nipple?” I ask, grinning.

Ethan cocks his head. “You’re on a date?” he asks. “Who is he?”

“It’s not a date. Not really. We just…he’s Gertie Myers’s nephew. Fred Busey.”

“Fred!” Parker cries. Fred’s enhanced head snaps around. “Fred, be my best friend and grab me a Jägermeister, okay? Lenny, you old fart, pay attention! The man needs to be served!”

“So. I take it Charley Spirito didn’t work out,” Ethan says. That little muscle under his eye twitches. “On to Prospect Number Two, huh?”

“It’s not exactly a date,” I repeat.

At that moment, Doral-Anne shoves her way into our little knot, right as Fred joins us, carefully holding a Jägermeister shot for Parker and two beers. He passes out the drinks. “Hello,” he says, offering his hand first to Doral-Anne, then to Ethan. “I’m Fred Busey, a friend of Lucy here.”

“A friend, huh?” Doral-Anne says, making a mocking face. At some point after the game, she knotted her T-shirt to give the world a view of her tattoo (an orange and green snake, which curls around her pierced navel, forked tongue darting…adorable). “Nice to meetcha. So, Ethan, if you wanna continue that conversation…”

“Doral-Anne, this is Parker Welles, my son’s mother,” Ethan says, politely ignoring her rudeness.

“Hi, how are you? You work at Starbucks, right?” Parker asks.

“I’m the manager,” Doral-Anne says.

“I’m there all the time,” Parker murmurs, then shoots a guilty look at me. “For coffee only, of course,” she adds.

“Well,” Fred says. “Shall we get a table for five?”

“Oh, we don’t want to interrupt your date,” Parker says. “You guys have fun. Eth, mind if I join you two?”

And so I sit with Fred, who is perfectly nice, seems to be an adoring father and whose hair paint seems to be running, as a black streak is slowly but surely making its way down his forehead.

“She sounds like a real cutey,” I say at the appropriate interval in the story of Fred’s daughter and her ballet recital.

We spend an endless hour chatting before I look at my watch, feign surprise at the hour and remind Fred that I have to get up at four and really need some sleep. Which is, of course, a lie. I’ll be up for hours.

“Listen,” he says, and I mentally fumble for an excuse to turn him down on a second date. “You’re awfully cute, Lucy, but I just don’t think there’s chemistry here.”

Angels bless you, Fred, I think. “You seem like a great guy,” I say honestly. “But, well…yes.”

“Not over your husband, eh?” he says kindly.

I swallow. “I think you’re right,” I agree. “Good luck with everything, Fred.”

I stop at the bar to remind Lenny to get Tommy Malloy’s keys, then leave. The cheerful noise of the bar dies within a half block of my walk home. If I could just cut through the dang cemetery, I’d be home in ten minutes. As it is, it will take thirty-two.

The bugs of late September have left or died, and the only sound is one brave little cricket and the ever-present sound of the waves shushing against the rocky shore two blocks away. I trail my fingers along the cemetery wall. “Hi, Dad,” I say at the appropriate spot. “Hope everything’s good in heaven.” The wind rustles the fading leaves above, and one or two drift down.

Maybe Fred’s right. Maybe I’m not ready. Maybe it’s my destiny to be a Black Widow, have Grinelda do my whiskers and channel my dead husband. I do want more, I really do…I’m just not sure I can get it.

At home, Fat Mikey winds his hefty self around my ankles. Stumbling over him, I then reach down and pick him up, rubbing my face against his. “Hello, you big brute,” I murmur. He tolerates me for a moment, honors me with a rusty purr, then jumps free.

With a sigh, I sit on the couch, which is directly in front of the rather fabulous plasma screen TV Ethan helped me pick out last year. I could play Guitar Hero, I guess, or challenge my computer to a game of Scrabble. I could go to bed…4:00 a.m. comes early, of course.

I look at the wedding picture that hangs on the wall, a lovely eight-by-ten candid. Jimmy and me, laughing. Our faces are in profile, both of us turned to look at Ethan, who’s not in the shot. His best man speech was funny as all get-out, and everyone had roared with laughter. Especially Jimmy. His laugh was one of the things I loved most about him, a low, dirty laugh that did things to my insides. He was larger than life, my Jimmy. The life of the party. The love of my life. Our marriage was more than just two people being together…it was everything I ever wanted.

I go into the kitchen and open my baking cabinet. Molten dark chocolate cake with a milk chocolate center? Or no, flip that…milk chocolate cake with dark mocha chocolate goo for the center. Yes. A shot of espresso, some almond paste in the ganache. I’ll call it Java Glory Cake.

The sounds of baking are the gentle music of my soul. I was born to be a baker. Bread has its own reward, but dessert is where I was meant to be. The clatter of the mixing bowls against the cool granite countertop, the crisp smack of the eggshells at the edge, the chirring of my whisk. And the colors! The lemony-yellow of well-beaten eggs, the seductive gloss of the bitter chocolate as it melts with the pale butter. The many shades of white…the matte of the flour, the purity of the baking powder, the cheerful gleam of the sugar. My vintage mixing bowls are also white, each one polka-dotted with a different color…green for the largest, then orange, then red, then robin’s egg blue. Ethan gave them to me for Christmas a few years ago. One of the best presents I ever got.

As I measure out the ingredients, the sharp, pure smell of Mexican vanilla fills the air. I inhale, then rub a little on my wrist. Best perfume in the world, in my opinion.

By eleven, one of the prettiest cakes I’ve ever made sits in front of me. It’s gorgeous…both layers came out perfectly, no tilting or sinking, no sir. The icing gleams, the brown so deep and lovely I wish I could live in it. Coffee and chocolate, butter and vanilla, the inexpressibly comforting smell of cake fills my oven-warmed kitchen. Though it’s probably just my imagination, it seems that on the shelf over the window, my little statue of St. Honore, patron saint of bakers, is smiling.

As rewarding as it might be, as good as my bread truly is, I really should be a pastry chef again.

I cut a slab of cake and gently transfer it to one of my pretty plates. Wrapping it in plastic, I tape a little note to the edge. “Enjoy.” Then I slip out of my apartment and walk upstairs, leaving the cake in front of Ethan’s door.

There is no sound from within. He might be at Parker’s…he’s been known to sleep over there from time to time; once when Nicky had strep and was having fever-induced nightmares, another time when the little guy got stitches after crashing his tricycle into a tree. Sometimes just to be there, and since there are seventeen bedrooms in Grayhurst, why not? Or he might be there for romantic reasons, and the image of Ethan kissing Parker, taking her hand and leading her to bed, causes my stomach to twist. I shouldn’t be jealous—Ethan deserves every happiness, perhaps more than anyone I know. If he’s with Parker, I should be glad.

The image of Ethan with Doral-Anne, however, is too horrible to contemplate.

With a sigh, I turn and retrace my weary steps back down to my place. I’m tired.

But rather than go to bed, I find myself casting another admiring glance at the remaining cake. Then I go to the pantry, grope around in the white cardboard box, take out a Twinkie and wait out the night.