O YOU’RE GOOD, SWEETHEART? You’re happy?”

“I’m doing pretty well, Mom,” I say into my cell phone, earning a glare from my own mother. She never liked it that I occasionally called Marie Mirabelli the same thing I called her. “How is it out there?”

I can almost hear the shrug, perfected by generations of Italians, a sort of who knows, what can you do, I’m suffering but I won’t complain gesture. “It’s hot,” she admits.

“It’s Arizona,” I say, opening the oven door to check my beautiful loaves. Two and a half more minutes ought to do it, both with the bread and my mother-in-law. “How’s Gianni? Getting in some golf?”

“Oh, him,” Marie says. “Golf. You’d think maybe he could relax, but instead he’s at the grocery store all day, buying enough food to feed an army. People don’t eat out here, Lucy. They exercise.” It’s clearly a dirty word. “It’s shameless! They want me to go to a yoga class. Yoga! Me! Like I want to twist myself around like a snake!”

“It sounds nice,” I answer, smiling. “All the things you’ve been too busy to do.”

She sighs. “Who said I wanted to do yoga?” She pauses. “How’s Nicky? You were an angel to send pictures. Has he grown?”

“He’s great,” I answer. “The sweetest boy in the world. And yes, he’s sprouting up. Ask him to sing you the Halloween song when you call. So cute.”

“Oh, I miss that little guy.” She sighs again. “And Ethan? How’s he?”

I grimace, wishing Ethan called his parents more often, since I’m often left shoveling them information on their son. “Ethan’s good.”

“Do you think he’s getting back with Parker? The two of them…I don’t understand. A beautiful child together, but they won’t get married. And now with Ethan living there all the time, what’s stopping them?”

I glance at my mother, who continues to eavesdrop shamelessly. “I…I’m not sure,” I fib. This would be the perfect moment to say something. Actually Ethan and I have been seeing each other a bit…

But I don’t say anything. It’s too soon. Instead I give Marie my love, ask her to hug Gianni for me and tell her how much I miss them both. Then I hang up, avoid my mother’s eyes and check my bread.

Ethan and I had dinner the other night, and it was an agony of discomfort. We’d gone to Lenny’s, and I’m fairly sure no one realized we were on a date. Ethan and I have been out to eat many times before, after all. Less frequently in the past two years, granted, when smokin’ sex was how we spent our time, but I’m sure this dinner didn’t look any different to the untrained eye. But Ethan was practically levitating with energy, talked nonstop, trying—way too hard—to entertain me. I was so nervous I could barely eat. It was beyond tense. I couldn’t think of anything to say—mentioning Jimmy seemed verboten, but avoiding the subject altogether felt unnatural, too. All the little customer stories I had from the bakery evaporated as I tried to think of something—anything—to talk about. We were reduced to talking about the weather and our food. Pathetic.

When we walked back to the Boatworks, Ethan escorted me to my door, then leaned against the wall, waiting for me to find my keys as Fat Mikey yowled from inside.

“Well, thanks, Eth,” I said, blushing. I didn’t want him to kiss me. I just wanted to be inside, safe with my cat. Oh, I wanted him to kiss me, and if he did, then we all know what would happen…I’d maul him right here in the hallway. Fat Mikey began headbutting the door as if he could break it down. Ethan’s eyes were steady, waiting. I looked at the floor.

“You’re welcome,” he said, then kissed my cheek. “See you soon.”

Before he even disappeared around the corner to the stairs, I missed him.

I ended up knocking on Ash’s door to see if she wanted to practice making pumpkin walnut cheesecake, which is what’s on the menu for our next class, and lucky for me, she did. And the whole time, I couldn’t get my mind off Ethan, and so it’s been. When he’s around, I feel like I’m going to jump out of my skin. When he’s not, I miss him.

“So what’s eating you, Lucy?” Iris asks now, cocking her head in a concerned manner.

“Oh, nothing. Preoccupied, I guess,” I say, smiling at my starchy aunt. Though Rose is the more affectionate aunt, Iris is a bit more perceptive, despite her bulldozer personality.

“Dating’s not going too well?” she suggests.

“It’s…I don’t know. It’s harder than I thought,” I say.

“I thought I might date a little, too,” Rose says, making me bobble the tray of bread I just took out.

“Oh, yes,” Iris confirms, the sarcasm dripping. “All of a sudden, this one wants to see what’s out there. You should’ve seen her at the senior center when we got our flu shots. Four men, fanning around her, ignoring me. Just like when we were young. Me the smart one, her the pretty one.”

“I’m smart, too!” Rose cheeps indignantly. “And you’re pretty, Iris. You just don’t know how to flirt.”

Iris rolls her eyes. “I’m seventy-six years old, Rose. And you’re not much younger. Flirting. You should be swapping prescription lists and asking if they want the CPR when their hearts stop.”

I laugh as Rose clucks in disapproval, and Jorge, who’s materialized from the back, grins. He and I begin bagging the still-warm bread with practiced efficiency.

“Lucy?” my mother calls from up front, her voice strained. “Someone’s here to see you.”

“Okay,” I call, then turn to Jorge. “Can you get the rest of this?” He nods. “So Jorge, what do you think of Rose? She’s interested in dating again.”

“Oh, pish, Lucy,” Rose giggles. “Jorge’s just a good friend.”

Jorge flashes her a grin, his gold tooth winking.

I push through the swinging doors to the front of the bakery just as Mom comes into the kitchen. “Lucy, honey, wait—”

I lurch to a stop at the sight of the man standing at the counter.

It’s Jimmy.

My knees buckle, and Mom grabs me before I fall.

Of course, it’s not Jimmy. But it’s close, and I’m not the only one who thinks so. Rose is dabbing tears, and Iris’s hand is pressed against her heart.

Matt DeSalvo—he gave us his name at some point—is tall and broad-shouldered. His dirty blond hair is cut short. He has a wide, straight smile, and his face is angular and strong. Matt has a dimple, and Jimmy did not. Matt’s eyes are blue—not the astonishing blue-green that Jimmy’s were, but a more true blue. And he’s wearing a suit, which Jimmy rarely did.

But still. The resemblance is shocking.

We sit across from each other at the table in the bakery kitchen. Mom fixes tea, clucking, and Rose repeatedly tells me I’m white as a sheet. Which is natural, since I feel like I’ve seen a ghost. My hands are trembling, and I feel a little sweaty.

Since Jimmy died, I’ve seen him around. I know from my aunts and mother, as well as from the widows’ group I’d belonged to, that seeing your dead spouse was not uncommon. Once, when I was driving up from New London, a man crossed the street in front of me, looking so much like Jimmy that I’d done a U-turn and gone back to find him, searching for half an hour, my heart clacking in my throat, tears spurting out of my eyes. Another time, when I was leaving the hospital after Nicky was born, I’d heard Jimmy laugh clear as day…the low, dirty laugh so singular to Jimmy that I was convinced his spirit had dropped down to earth to visit his newborn nephew.

But seeing a Jimmy lookalike across the table from me…it’s overwhelming. At my near faint, Mom had explained the resemblance, and Matt had very nicely helped me into the kitchen, where I melted into a chair and put my head between my knees.

I wipe my eyes and blow my nose once more. “I’m sorry,” I say again.

“It’s completely understandable,” Matt answers kindly. His voice is not like Jimmy’s at all, which helps. Close up, the resemblance isn’t that shocking. Matt’s nose is a little longer, and his chin is rounder than Jimmy’s, which was square and ridiculously masculine. But still. He looks more like Jimmy than anyone I’ve seen. More like Jimmy’s brother than Ethan does, for that matter.

“How long has it been?” he asks.

“Five and a half years,” I answer, stealing another look at his face.

“It was such a tragedy,” Iris announces.

“So tragic,” Rose cheeps at the same time.

“Why don’t you girls go down to the Starbucks?” Mom suggests sharply. “Lucy could use a coffee. One of those expensive, silly things. Go. Shoo.”

The aunts, looking wounded at being kicked out, do as they’re told, and Matt stands up politely as they cluck and don their cardigans. I take the delay to get myself under control, though my hands are still trembling.

“So how did your husband die?” Matt asks. My mother, feeling that this is too personal a question, rattles the kettle loudly. Though she’s gotten rid of the aunts, there’s no way on God’s green earth that she’s going to leave.

“A car accident,” I say distantly.

“I’m so sorry.” He says it just the right way, looking right into my eyes without flinching. Sympathy, not pity. There’s a huge difference, and we widows appreciate it, let me tell you. “You must’ve been awfully young.”

“Twenty-four,” I murmur.

My mom sets down the tea tray with a clatter. “So what brings you to Bunny’s, Mr. DeSalvo?” she asks, sitting next to me. She tugs on her tailored, cropped jacket, crosses her legs, jiggling her foot so that her high-heeled shoe dangles precariously.

“Well, this may not be the time to discuss it, if you’re still feeling shaky,” Matt answers. “I can certainly come back.”

“I’d think she’d feel less shaky if you said your business,” Mom retorts. I give her a questioning look. Not like her to be so rude. That’s more Iris’s terrain.

Still, Matt pauses, looking at me, and I have to admit, I like that he’s waiting for my approval. “I’m fine, Matt. Go ahead.”

“I represent NatureMade,” he says, naming an organic chain grocery store that dots our fair state. “Are you familiar with us?”

“Too expensive for real people to shop at, but yes,” my mother says.

He gives a half nod. “Well, yes, organic food is more expensive,” he acknowledges. “We like to think that our customers understand the value of good health—” Mom snorts, and I give her a reprimanding nudge. Matt laughs. “Okay, I’ll save the sales pitch. I’m here because we think Bunny’s bread is the best in the area, and we’d like to be the sole distributor in Rhode Island.”

My mouth drops open. “Wow,” I murmur.

Matt gives me a nutshell idea of the details—NatureMade would sell four types of Bunny’s bread in its baked goods department. We could still supply bread to the restaurants we use now, as long as it didn’t interfere with NatureMade’s quota. If the bread sold well, they’d ask for more varieties, then discuss the possibility of distributing Bunny’s bread in the Connecticut and Massachusetts stores as well.

Matt smiles as he talks, a good salesman. His voice is low and confident, and he holds eye contact well. God, he reminds me of Jimmy! Not just how he looks, but the whole take-charge attitude. He has a plan, it’s a good one, and he knows it.

“What about selling it here?” Mom asks suspiciously. “We’re not going to stop selling here, of course.”

“Well, we would ask that you’d limit the number of loaves and types available here,” he said. “And of course, we’d do an ad campaign in all the Rhode Island newspapers and some radio commercials, too, announcing that we carry Bunny’s bread. I imagine you’d see a bump in customer traffic, thanks to the publicity.” Mom huffs but doesn’t contradict him.

He fishes a card out of his breast pocket and places it on the table. “I know you’ll have a lot to talk about,” he says. “Can I call you in a few days?”

“Sure,” I say. “That would be great.”

He shakes Mom’s hand first, winning points for good manners, then mine, holding on a bit too long. “I’m sorry I startled you,” he says, a half smile on his mouth. My stomach flips, not unpleasantly.

“It’s not your fault,” I answer. I may be blushing.

“Great to meet you both,” Matt says. “And if it wouldn’t be too much trouble, I’d love a few of those cheese danishes for the road.”

“I’ll get them,” Mom grumbles, getting up from the table.

Bemused, I sit at the table, my tea cooling next to me, toying with Matt’s card. Statewide bread distribution would be a huge shot in the arm for Bunny’s. Huge.

But it’s not really the bread I’m thinking of.

“I didn’t like him,” Mom announces, bursting through the swinging doors a minute later.

“Why?” I ask.

“Too slick,” she says, brushing a speck of imaginary lint from her lapel. “Did you see that suit? Armani, I’m thinking.”

“You’re the one dressed like Michelle Obama, Mom,” I point out. She doesn’t answer. “He really looked like Jimmy, didn’t he?” I add.

“Oh, not so much.”

“Mom. He looked like Jimmy’s brother.”

“So?”

“So nothing, not really. He just did.” I’m quiet for a minute. “It was kind of…comforting…seeing a face so much like Jimmy’s. That’s all.”

My mother’s eyes fill with tears. She bends and gives me a rare hug. “He did. He looked just like Jimmy.” She sits down and dabs her eyes.

“Was there anyone who ever reminded you of Daddy?” I ask.

She stares over my shoulder, lost in memories. “You know that actor?”

“Which one, Mom?”

“The good-looking one? With brown eyes?”

“George Clooney?” I suggest. My father had lovely brown eyes, something I like to think I inherited.

“Is that him? The crinkly eyes?”

I nod. Only Mom wouldn’t know George Clooney.

“Sometimes I rent movies that he’s in, just to…well.” Mom blushes a little at the confession.

I smile and squeeze her hand, then take a sip of my lukewarm tea. “So what do you think about the offer?”

Mom hesitates, then shrugs. “I don’t know. Mostly up to you, since you’re in charge of bread.”

“I only own ten percent of the bakery,” I remind her.

She stares out the window. “Lucy?”

“Yes?”

Mom sighs, then adjusts her wedding ring…she’s never stopped wearing it. “I know I’m not the best mother in the world,” she offers, still not looking at me.

“Oh, Mom, I wouldn’t say that,” I say.

She gives me a smile, then looks back down. “The thing is, when you lose someone like we have…it’s like part of your heart is cut out. And you always worry about how much more you can afford to lose. It can make a person sort of…stunted.”

I don’t say anything. She has, of course, just voiced my deepest fear. The pebble swells.

“I just…I just don’t want you to be disappointed, honey. Maybe you can find someone…you’re younger than I was, and without kids, maybe you’ll have an easier time of it. But don’t be surprised if it doesn’t work the way you picture it.” She sighs gustily. “Well. Good talk. Let me know what you decide about the bread.”

Then she squeezes my hand and bustles off to the front.

When my work at the bakery is done, I decide to go for a bike ride and head north on Newport Road. The brisk wind stings, and my hair whips around my face. Salt is heavy in the air, as well as the smell of the autumn leaves, sharp and sad and lovely. I turn inland on Mickes Street. There’s Doral-Anne’s old house. It’s still the hovel it was in grammar school, a seedy little ranch with three rusted-out cars in the yard. The grass is long and thick with weeds.

Doral-Anne and I were on the same school bus, her stop about ten minutes before mine. Once, when I was about seven, she’d trudged down the bus steps and turned to look back, something like loneliness on her thin face. Surprised, I waved to her. She flipped me the bird in response. I can still remember the way heat flared across my cheeks, how I wish I hadn’t offered that stupid, naive wave that was so instantly and graphically rejected. It was the first time Doral-Anne had singled me out, though it wouldn’t be the last.

Ah, well. A mist is starting to fall, and I need to pay attention to the road, since it’s a little slick. After about a mile, I turn onto Grimley Farm Road, the wind in front of me now, slowing me, almost warning me off.

When I reach my destination, I lean my bike against the telephone pole and walk down toward number 73. The driveway is still unpaved, the sand softened by recent rains. My footsteps make a pleasant scraping sound as I approach the house where Jimmy and I never got to live.

It’s painted white now, our little Cape. It was gray when Jimmy and I bought it, but the white looks nice. The shutters are still green. I’d painted them myself.

Jimmy had surprised me with this house. Told me we were going on a picnic, came up here, said he knew the owners. I wondered why we were going to eat in someone’s yard; the house didn’t have a view of the water, and the property was fairly unremarkable. But Jimmy wouldn’t answer my questions. Instead he just grinned, took my hand and led me through the front door. The house was empty of furniture except for one small table in the living room. On the table was a jewelry box, and in the box was the key to the front door.

It might not have been the house I’d have picked out, but it was affordable, and the cost of real estate on Mackerly definitely limited our choices. While I’d felt a prickle of alarm that I now owned a house I’d had no part in choosing, Jimmy’s pride and excitement had swept that away. It was a grand gesture, and he loved making those. This was the guy, after all, who’d sent four dozen roses to my dorm room the night after our first date. Who surprised me with a honeymoon to Hawaii when I thought we were going to Bar Harbor, Maine. Who couldn’t spend one night away from me, even if it meant driving all the way home after a long day.

I’m not sure why I’m here now. I’ve visited a few times over the years, unable to ignore it completely, this little place that was going to be ours. It sold quickly enough…a family bought it, which was nice. A swing set adorns the backyard, and a little plastic car sits in the driveway.

I turn around and head back for home. The mist has turned to rain, and I’ll be soaked by the time I get there. My pastry class starts at five, and I decide to bring Ethan home some of the amaretto zabaglione that we’re scheduled to make, rather than letting the class eat it all, as I usually do. I guess I’m feeling a little guilty, mooning over Jimmy after nearly fainting at the sight of his doppelganger. Yes. Ethan more than deserves a little sweetness from me.

WHEN CLASS IS OVER, I RETURN to my apartment. Ethan’s not home yet, even though it’s eight-thirty. I try to quash the worry and click on my computer. When Google comes up, I type in “NatureMade” and sit back to read.

NatureMade is a sound company, from all accounts. Expanding slowly, holding tight when the economy’s been rough, good to its employees. Matt DeSalvo is mentioned a couple of times, in promotion announcements and as a contact person, stuff like that. After a moment’s hesitation, I try an image search on him, wondering if he really did look that much like Jimmy, but nothing comes up.

I wander to the window and look out into the dark. Where’s Ethan? It’s still raining, and with leaves on the road, it could be slick out there. His car is new. That’s good, but what if he’s not used to it enough? What if he had an accident? I left a message on his home phone earlier, announcing that dessert awaited him, if he was so inclined. So far, I’ve resisted the urge to call him on his cell, since I don’t want him to be talking while he’s driving, which is another thing he does that drives me crazy, even if he does use a Bluetooth.

Finally a knock comes on the door, and I start, then vault for the door. Sure enough, it’s Ethan.

“Where have you been?” I demand, my face burning at the sight of him.

“Hi,” he says, frowning. “I had a meeting.”

“Well, isn’t that nice to know,” I sputter. “I thought you were dead.”

His face softens. “Well, I seem to be alive,” he says, smiling just a little.

I almost kiss him. Almost hug him. Then the moment passes when that would be natural, and we’re left just looking at each other, Fat Mikey working on a hairball under the chair.

“I made zabaglione,” I mutter. “Come on in.”

He follows me into the kitchen, taking his usual seat at the table. “Thanks,” he says as I set a bowl in front of him. Then I sit down, too, and watch him eat.

“Want a bite?” he asks, holding out a spoonful.

“Wasted on me,” I answer. I’d tried some at class, actually…the smell of the eggs and cream, the vanilla and lemon zest was so tempting, and I’d tried a spoonful. As usual, it hadn’t tasted like anything.

“How was your day?” Ethan asks, and I tell him about the offer from Matt DeSalvo and NatureMade. For some reason, I don’t mention that Matt looks like Jimmy.

“That’s really something,” Ethan says, scraping his dish. He gets up and helps himself to another one, then rejoins me. “Think you’ll take him up on it?”

I hesitate. “I don’t know. Probably,” I answer slowly. Fat Mikey butts his head against the leg of the table, on the prowl for pudding. Ethan obliges, putting his empty dish on the floor so Fat Mikey can lick it clean.

“Seems like a great way to increase business,” Ethan says.

“I know,” I agree. “I’m just not sure I want to be a bread baker for the rest of my life. Even a really successful bread baker.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Ethan says, still eating. He looks at me expectantly.

I shrug. “I guess I still want to be a pastry chef.”

“And why aren’t you?” He leans over, setting dish number two on the floor for my cat, who purrs in appreciation.

I frown. “I can’t just leave Bunny’s, for one.”

“Why not? Didn’t the Black Widows get by just fine before you?”

“Well, first of all, I’d miss them. I love Bunny’s. And secondly, no. They were going out of business, inch by inch. Jimmy pretty much saved the day by getting the bread orders.”

“Ah, St. Jimmy,” Ethan says, smiling, his eyes slightly mocking. I frown, peevishly glad that I didn’t bring up Jimmy earlier. “But that was all before you started at the bakery, Lucy,” he continues. “They could hire someone else to do the bread. Your recipes, of course. I’m not saying you don’t make incredible bread.”

“So what are you saying?” I ask a bit crossly.

“I’m saying you should do what you want to do, that’s all.”

“Right,” I murmur, still irked. It’s just that…here it comes, the inevitable comparison. Jimmy would’ve sat down with a notepad and mapped out a plan. Here’s what you should do, he’d say, and he’d outline the next ten steps with utmost enthusiasm. Ethan…Ethan’s not helping.

Instead he looks at me with a half smile. Then he stands, comes over to me and takes my hand. “Come on,” he says. “Give us a hug, grumpy.”

My cheeks flush as I do what I’m told. God help me, I love the way he smells. His hand plays in my hair, his heart thumping steadily against mine. I remember that earlier this evening, I wondered if he was hurt, or worse.

Without another thought, I kiss Ethan’s warm neck, slide my hands up his back, the starched cotton of his shirt crisp under my palms, the heat of his skin radiating through the cloth. His beard scrapes gently against my cheek as he turns his head, and then the smooth, warm perfection of his mouth is on mine. Fat Mikey twines between our legs, and I feel Ethan smile, and there it is again, that painful, wonderful squeeze in my heart. He doesn’t do more than kiss me back, letting me set the pace, cupping my face with gentle hands.

It’s different this time—this isn’t a warm-up to sex, and this isn’t the hot, desperate kissing of two lonely people. We’re just kissing, mouths gentle, hands tender and chaste, but his heart thumps harder against my chest, and my knees are weakening. The sheer pleasure of the way he feels outweighs that faint flare of alarm in the back of my heart. I deepen the kiss, sliding my hands up his sides, feeling the lean muscles over his rib cage, tasting the faint combination of amaretto and Ethan, and the thought occurs to me that I’m already—

The phone rings, stopping my thoughts. Rings again, and a third time. I don’t move away from Ethan’s warmth, his mouth, the hint of the smile that always plays under the surface when we kiss. But then my sister’s voice comes on the answering machine.

“Lucy! Please! Christopher had a heart attack! Come to the hospital right now!”