HEN I WAKE IN THE MORNING, I know immediately something’s wrong. Squinting, I sit up. My head is a little achy, but other than that, no apparent residue from my Michael Phelps flip-out.

Wait a sec…I’m squinting. It’s sunny. Which means it’s…“Gah!” I squawk. The clock on the night table reads 8:04.

I leap out of bed and lurch down the hall. Ethan sits at the kitchen table, a newspaper in front of him. “Hey,” he says, standing up. “How are you feeling?”

“I have to go! The bakery…My mom will—”

“Sit. Calm down.” He goes to the cupboard, takes down my favorite mug and pours me a cuppa joe. “I called the bakery a while ago, told Iris you were sick last night and needed the day off.”

“Oh.” I pause. “How many times have they called since then?”

“Four. Iris is wondering if you have Lou Gehrig’s disease. Rose thinks it sounds more like cancer. Your mom said feel better, she’ll see you tomorrow.” Ethan allows a small smile as he pours some half-and-half in my cup and hands it to me. “Sleep okay?” he asks.

I realize, with no small degree of shock, that I did. “Yes. Thanks.” I pause. “Did you check on me? I don’t remember.” And I find that I’d like a sleepy little memory of Ethan taking care of me. I’d like that very much.

“Yep,” he says, his face impassive. “You seemed fine. Want me to make you breakfast?”

“Oh, no, that’s fine. Thanks, though.” We look at each other for a minute.

Ethan and I have logged in a lot of hours in this kitchen. Many were the happy weekend nights that I’d bake him something while he told me stories of the people he met, the airports he loved, the thrill of bringing on a new account or the crazy things he’d do in the name of selling Instead.

And we did a little more than talk and bake here, too. Once, we did it on the island, the granite cold, Ethan hot. Jeepers! I should not be thinking about that.

“I’ve got to run, Luce,” Ethan says, setting his own cup in the sink. “You sure you’re feeling okay? You’re a little flushed.” He frowns.

“No, no, I’m fine. Thanks, Ethan. You were really great.” I pause. “As usual.”

“No problem. I called Parker, by the way. She’ll swing by after she drops Nicky at nursery school.”

“Okay. Thank you.”

And away he goes, stopping to say something to Fat Mikey, who answers in a throaty meow. There’s something awfully endearing about a man who is loved by a grouchy cat. Then the door closes, and I’m alone again. Alone again, naturally, like that sappy song I’d discovered in my parents’ tape collection. Oh, I’d loved that song! Many happy, maudlin hours were spent weeping and singing along to my cassette player until my mom burst in one day, snatched the tape from the machine and snapped it in half.

I take a sip of coffee and close my eyes in simultaneous appreciation and horror…the dark, almost burnt taste is unmistakably delicious. Starbucks. Not from my own cabinet, of course, which means Ethan must have brought down some of his own. Which means, probably, that he gets it from Doral-Anne. God, I hope they’re not dating. I chew on my lip, then take another sip, unable to resist the siren call of the coffee god.

The buzzer rings, and I trot into the living room and press the intercom. “Hello?”

“It’s Parker, you nasty, drugged-out ho! Let me in!”

With a smile, I press the button, and a minute later, Parker breezes into my apartment, all blonde and expensive-looking. She takes a hard look at me, then raises an eyebrow. “Did we have fun?”

“If by fun, you mean puking on the father of your child, then yes. I had so much fun.”

“God! Ethan had me in stitches this morning! You poor thing! And you were on a date, too? The poor guy! What did he say?”

“I don’t know,” I admit. “Ethan scared him pretty good. I guess he thought the guy slipped me a mickey or something. Want some coffee?”

“Oh, yes, I do. Nicky’s gotten into the horrifying habit of waking up at five and wanting to snuggle. The snuggles are great…the five o’clock I could do without.”

“By five in the morning, I’ve made dough for more than six dozen loaves of bread,” I tell her as I pour her a cup.

“So you’re a freak of nature. We knew that.” She accepts her cup and sits back, her catlike green eyes growing somber. “So seriously, Lucy. Ethan said it was some medication gone wrong. Are you okay?”

“Sure. It was quite a trip, though. I thought my fingers were growing.”

She smiles. “I meant, why are you taking medication? You’re not sick, are you?”

I glance at her. “Ethan didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

I bite my lip. “Well, I’ve been having panic attacks. I had a few after Jimmy died, and they’re back, pretty much since I started looking for another husband. And last night, Ethan kindly pointed out what a mess I’ve become, so you can save the lecture.”

Parker sighs, heavy on the melodrama.

“What?” I ask.

“What do you think, dummy?”

“I think friends shouldn’t call each other dummy, dummy.” Parker takes a long pull on her coffee, surveying me over the rim of the mug. “What?” I ask again. “Did Ethan say something? Do you guys talk about me?”

She contemplates me, sets her cup down. “We don’t,” she admits. “But I just want to point out, my dear—” Parker’s voice takes on its prep-school drawl “—that when you and Ethan had your extra-special arrangement, you both seemed happier.”

I fiddle with the hem of my pajama top. “Well, what guy doesn’t love no-strings sex?” I mumble.

“I suppose that’s true,” she agrees. “But rubbing Ben-Gay into each other’s achy joints fifty years from now has its own appeal, too.”

I chug the rest of my too-good coffee, then set the mug down. “You’re a fine one to talk,” I say, my voice mild. “What about you two? I thought you were talking about getting back together.”

Parker tips her head back and smiles. “Interesting that you should ask. He came over one night last week, right? We all had dinner together, then we got Nicky to bed.” She takes a sip of coffee, and my toes curl in hard, waiting for the rest of the story.

“Do go on,” I say.

“Mmm-hmm. So there we were, just Ethan and me, and I said, ‘Okay, Eth, you ready? Let’s give it a shot.’ Then I kissed him. And he kissed me back.”

My stomach clenches. Gorgeous blonde Parker Harrington Welles, five-foot-eight inches, built like Heidi Klum. I can just see them kissing, Ethan’s gorgeous hands cupping Parker’s face, the gentle scrape of his beard against her skin, the heat from his body…

Realizing that Parker is waiting for me to rejoin the conversation, I ask, “And? How was it?”

“Oh, Lucy, it was…” She pauses, lifting a silken eyebrow to torture me. “It was gross. Like kissing my brother.”

The breath I wasn’t aware I was holding whooshes out. “Really?” My voice is incredulous.

She laughs. “Yeah. I don’t know.” She stares at her coffee cup. “When we were together way back when, it was all fun and games, you know? And I have fond memories of those times, Lucy, fond memories.” She grows serious. “But all these years of platonics and being grown-ups and sharing Nicky…I don’t know. The chemistry’s gone. We ended up playing Scrabble.”

A warm rush of satisfaction fills my stomach, much to my shame. “What about Doral-Anne? I know she’s interested in him.”

“The Starbucks chick?” Parker asks. I nod. “Jeesh, I don’t think so. He mentioned her once or twice…I think she wants a job with International or something.”

“Or something is right,” I say, staring out the window.

In the tradition of adoring the ones who hate them, my cat jumps up on Parker’s lap, only to be forcibly ejected. Deeply wounded, Fat Mikey reacts in typical fashion, which is to say, he lifts his leg and begins licking his genitals.

“Lucy,” Parker says hesitantly, “can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” I answer, not sure at all.

“Why not Ethan? Seriously.”

My stomach twists. Should’ve seen that one coming. “Well, here’s the thing,” I say slowly. Fat Mikey leaves his grooming and rubs his head against my ankle, and I appreciate the comfort. “Ethan’s…” I swallow. “He’s Jimmy’s brother. That matters.”

“But you could get past that, right? You got past it enough to sleep with him.”

I nod. “Yes, I did.”

“So it’s not just that.” Her beautiful eyes are kind.

“Right again,” I whisper, then clear my throat. “Ethan…Ethan could do some serious damage, you know what I mean?”

“Why would he damage you? He cares about you, Lucy. You must know that.”

“He’s been a prince, I know that. But, jeez louise, Parks,” I blurt. “What if I fell for him? Really let myself just…love him? What if we did get together and I loved him and he left me?”

“Well, I just don’t see—”

“What if he died?” I interrupt. “What if I really am a Black Widow and I kill another Mirabelli boy, huh? What if one of those stupid things he does killed him? What if he got into a motorcycle accident? What if some idiot was driving over the Newport Bridge in a U-Haul and didn’t see him and hit and crushed him? Or sent him right through the railing and over the edge and he broke every bone in his body and sank like a rock? What if he was out sailing and the boom swung around and hit him in the head and sent him overboard and he drowned, or he was treading water, waiting for help, but a shark came up and ate him and we only found out because his leg washed up on shore?”

“Not that you’ve ever pictured any of this, of course,” Parker says dryly.

“Did you know he took some corporate idiot skydiving last year, Parker?” I demand, my voice rising. “He jumped out of an airplane! What if his chute didn’t open? What if the lines got tangled? And that stupid helicopter skiing, they drop you off at the top of a mountain that’s so high you can’t get to it another way, and what if—”

“Okay, okay, stop. Honey. Stop. You’re getting hysterical.” She gets up, and in a rare gesture of affection, puts her hand on my shoulder, then moves to refill her mug with the traitorous coffee. “First of all, Ethan’s not doing those things so much anymore.”

I don’t answer.

“And secondly, Jimmy didn’t do any of those things, did he? And he still managed to die.”

My eyes fill. “Good point.”

She sits back down and contemplates me. “You haven’t said the big one yet. The big what-if.”

“Well, since you know everything, you can just go ahead and say it for me,” I mumble.

She gives me a wry smile. “Well, one could say that you do love Ethan already. The big question must be, what if you didn’t love him as much as Jimmy?”

Hearing it said out loud like that, right here in the kitchen with the sun shining in the windows, my African violets blooming on the windowsill…it’s a slap in the heart. “I really don’t want to talk about this, Parker,” I whisper.

Parker sighs. “Okay. I’m sorry.” She pauses, and I swallow against the pebble, knowing she’s not finished. I’m correct. “But Lucy, you’re never going to know unless you give him a shot, are you? And if you don’t, you’ll end up with some loser who leaves you cold. Is that what you want?”

“What I want…” I stop. What I want is for Jimmy not to have died, for Ethan to meet someone wonderful and be happily married. I can just about hear the Fates laughing at me. “Parker, there’s got to be some happy medium. Someone I could love, just not too much.”

“Listen to you,” she says fondly as if talking to a not very bright child. “Forgive me for saying this to the poor widow, but I think you’re being kind of…obtuse.”

I stare out the window. “It’s a self-defense mechanism,” I acknowledge.

“Right. Well, listen. You’re my friend, kid. So’s Ethan. I love you both and just want you to be happy, that’s all.”

“I appreciate it.” I take a sip of coffee and don’t look her in the eye.

“All right. Well, I have revisions on those nasty little Holy Rollers.”

My shoulders relax. “What’s this one called?” I ask.

She grins. “The Holy Rollers and the Poor Little Kitten. Someone’s cat gets squished by a tractor, and the smug little bastards get to explain heaven. So watch yourself, Fat Mikey.” With that, Parker gets up, pats my shoulder and leaves.

“OVER HERE, WE HAVE THE FAMOUS Dead Man’s Shoal,” Captain Bob says over the mike on board the tour boat. Since I had a hooky day, I’d figured I’d help out my old pal, and luckily, there was a tour scheduled. The thought of a day spreading out before me with nothing on the schedule meant two things—blow some more money on clothes I don’t wear, or help out Captain Bob.

“In 1722, Captain Cook of the West Indies fame brought his wife along on a trip, and as you know, ladies—” it’s a church group from Maryland, on a brief recess from power gambling down at the casinos “—women are bad luck on a boat.” The ladies giggle appreciatively. “The crew rebelled and set Mrs. Cook on that very shoal at low tide. She tried to swim to Mackerly’s shore, but alas, the night was rough and the poor woman drowned. You can still hear her ghost moaning on foggy nights.”

“Is that true?” one of the ladies asks me.

“No,” I whisper, steering gently back toward the dock.

“And that concludes our tour! Ladies, if you’re looking for the finest pastries and goodies on the East Coast, I strongly urge you to stop in at Bunny’s Bakery, just two blocks north of our dock,” Bob says, taking a slug of his Irish coffee. He winks at me—we’re both quite aware of what Bunny’s does and does not offer, and I smile back at him. “In fact, I’d be happy to walk you up there myself. Thank you so much for choosing Captain Bob’s Island Adventure!”

Bob takes the wheel and steers us the last few yards to the dock. “Thanks, Lucy,” he says. “Nice having you with me this morning.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, standing aside so the passengers can disembark. “My pleasure.”

“Think your mother’s still at work?” he asks hopefully.

“There or at the nursing home,” I say. “Did you hear about my great-aunt Boggy?”

“I did indeed,” Bob murmurs. “Unbelievable.”

“I’ll probably head over there now,” I say. At that moment, my cell phone rings, and I fish it out of my pocket and glance at the screen. “Oh, here’s Mom now. Hi, Mom,” I say.

“Lucy? Where are you? Are you still sick? I’ve been trying everywhere.”

A cold sweat breaks out over my body. “I’m two blocks from the bakery,” I tell her. “What’s wrong?”

My mom pauses. “You’re okay? You’re not still throwing up?”

“I’m fine, Mom! What’s wrong?”

“It’s Boggy, sweetheart.” She sighs. “Are you sitting down?” Without waiting for an answer, she drops the bomb. “She died this morning.”