AYBE YOU’D LIKE THE CHEESE DANISH, Mr. Dombrowski?” I suggest.

It’s been a long day. Corinne came in for lunch so Emma could be worshipped. Chris had said he wanted to go away for the weekend, do a little camping in the Adirondacks, and Corinne needed some reassurance on the odds of his being eaten by a bear or falling off a mountain. I complied dutifully, thinking his odds of a car accident were a lot greater than grizzly attack but knowing to keep my mouth shut.

Mr. Dombrowski weighs my words with considerable gravity, then nods thoughtfully. “I think I’d enjoy that, dear,” he says. “Thank you.”

I glance at the clock…it’s three-thirty. “I’d love to have a cup of tea if you have the time, Mr. D.,” I suggest.

His solemn face lights up. “That would be lovely,” he says. “Maybe we could take a little walk and get something at the place down the street.”

I wince. “Starbucks?”

“Yes. It’s quite the rage, I understand. The coffee culture.”

“Sure,” I concede. After all, this will be a big deal for Mr. Dombrowski…an outing with another human. Any petty feelings I have toward Doral-Anne hardly measure up against that.

“I’ll be back in a while,” I call to my aunts. “Mr. Dombrowski and I are going out for a coffee.”

“How sweet,” coos Rose. “Have fun!” As I take off my apron, she darts to my side. “See if he’s interested in a date, Lucy. I wouldn’t mind an older man.”

I smile. “Okay, Rose. Want anything from Starbucks?”

“Oh, no,” she says, glancing at the clock. “It’s almost happy hour.”

Right. It’s Friday. Taking Mr. D.’s arm, I push open the door and remind myself to go slowly. We shuffle down the street, a few leaves drifting down around us. Mr. Dombrowski is dressed in a tweed jacket and a cap.

“You look rather dashing, Mr. D.” I smile.

“I bought this jacket when my son graduated from college,” he says, chuckling. “And this hat…my wife bought it for me when we were in Ireland.”

“She had wonderful taste,” I say, pushing open the door to Starbucks. It’s the same as they all are…muted colors, progressive rock drifting from speakers, a few plants here and there. Three teenagers sit at one table near the window…plenty of hair tossing and exclaiming going on over there and I smile, the wise older woman. Of course we notice you, I think. You’re beautiful and bright and young. Don’t try so hard.

“What are you doing here?”

Ah, my nemesis. “Hi, Doral-Anne,” I say pleasantly. “Mr. Dombrowski and I were in the mood for a little treat, right, Mr. D.?”

She glances at the ancient man on my arm. “Your new boyfriend, Lucy?” she sneers.

As ever, I’m stunned by her meanness. “I should be so lucky,” I say clearly.

Mr. D. smiles and squints at the menu. “What’s in an Americano?” he asks.

“Espresso and water,” Doral-Anne grunts.

“I think I’ll have the salted caramel hot chocolate, Mr. D. What do you think?”

“Sounds mysterious and delicious,” Mr. Dombrowski agrees. “I’ll have the same.”

“Tall, grande, venti or short?” Doral-Anne asks.

“Small, please,” I answer for the sheer pleasure of rebelling against the ridiculous lingo.

“Small for me as well,” my little old buddy seconds.

“Nonfat, two percent, whole or soy?”

“What did she say?” Mr. D. asks.

“She asked what kind of milk we’d like,” I inform him, smiling. “How about two percent?”

“I guess I don’t really care,” he murmurs. “I’m ninety-seven years old, after all.”

“Make that whole then, Doral-Anne,” I tell her, relishing the fact that she absolutely hates waiting on me. “You only live once, right?”

“Whipped cream?” she bites out.

“Absolutely,” I answer. Mr. D. nods.

“This is gonna take a few minutes,” she mutters as we stand expectantly. “You can wait over there.”

“Let’s sit down instead, Mr. D.,” I suggest and am instantly rewarded with another scowl from Doral-Anne.

When we’ve taken a seat far away from the teenagers, Mr. D. looks around happily. “This is a lovely place,” he pronounces. “Very pleasant. Thank you, Lucy.”

“My pleasure,” I say sincerely.

“How are you these days?” he asks. “Your aunts told me you’re dating again.”

“Well, I guess I am,” I admit. From behind the counter comes the phlegmy sound of the cappuccino machine.

“Have you found someone nice?” Mr. D. asks.

“Um, yes. I have.” I hesitate. “I’m just not sure it’s going to work.” I bite my lip. What the heck? Mr. D. would understand. The cappuccino machine gurgles its last few breaths. “I’m afraid I’ll always compare him to my first husband and—”

“And God knows he was such a prince,” Doral-Anne says loudly.

Once again, I’m stunned by her rudeness, but my companion doesn’t seem to have heard her. “And what, dear?”

I lower my voice but try to enunciate so he can hear me. “I’ll never love him the way I loved Jimmy.”

Mr. Dombrowski nods sadly. “I suppose that’s a natural fear,” he says.

“Did you ever think about dating again, Mr. D.?” I ask.

He smiles. “I don’t think there are a lot of women out there who’d like to date me, Lucy.”

“My aunt Rose would,” I say, grinning.

He gives a startled laugh. “Is that right? How flattering. She’s a lovely woman, that Rose.”

“She really is,” I agree.

“Your order is ready, Lang!” Doral-Anne barks.

“That girl is rather rude, isn’t she?” Mr. D. comments, frowning over at our barista.

“She really is,” I say again.

I SEE MR. D. TO HIS DOOR, MY HEART LIGHT. The knowledge that forty-five minutes of my time could make someone happy is heady stuff, and I’m humming as I go back to the bakery, rather buzzed with lack of sleep and a surplus of sugar. My God, that hot chocolate was unbelievable. No wonder people flock to the dang place.

A not-unpleasant nervousness shoots through my legs as I open the back door. Ethan’s here, measuring out vodka. “Hi,” I say.

“Hey, Luce,” Ethan says. “Dirty martinis today. Want one?”

My face feels hot, and Ethan’s mouth pulls up on one side in a knowing grin.

“Sure,” I say. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure,” he says, and my stomach squeezes in that uncomfortable, wonderful way.

“Ethan,” Iris says, swirling her drink appreciatively before taking a sip, “Lucy must’ve told you that she wants another husband. Do you know anyone?”

He looks up at me for a moment—You haven’t told them yet?—then pours some olive brine into the martini shaker. “Can’t say that I do,” he murmurs.

“Iris,” I say. “Can you please—”

“Ethan, dear,” Rose begins, her nose glowing with alcohol consumption. I’ll have to make sure she’s not driving. “Does it bother you, Lucy leaving Jimmy’s memory behind?”

“No,” Ethan says, shaking the metal cylinder, then pouring the martini into a waiting glass. “I think Lucy should be happy. Jimmy would want her to move on.” He looks at me steadily. This would be an opportune time to tell my aunts and mother that Ethan and I are together…

“I don’t know,” Iris says. “I wonder what Pete would say if I decided to date again. He always was jealous. Rose, remember the Knights of Columbus dance, when Tom O’Reilly cut in, and Pete punched him in the nose? Oh, I have to admit, that made me feel like the most beautiful woman in the world!”

“Violence does that for some people,” I murmur, taking a slug of my drink, then wincing.

Rose tries to take another sip of her martini, then frowns as she finds her glass empty. Ethan pours her another. “What about you, Daisy?” she asks. “Do you think Robbie would’ve minded?”

Mom taps a perfectly manicured finger on the wooden countertop. “I don’t care if he’d mind or not. He was the love of my life, and I’m just not interested in dating or getting married again. He was enough to last me a lifetime.” She glances at me. “But everyone’s different.”

I sneak a peek at Ethan, whose mouth is tight. Well. He knows how the Black Widows are. And he said he’d be patient. He sees me looking, and I give him a little smile. A muscle under his eye twitches, but he smiles back.

“I’d get married again if I didn’t have to have sex,” Iris muses in her booming voice. “I don’t want to have sex with an old man.”

“And yet here I stand, young, healthy, heterosexual and ignored,” Ethan says, bouncing a devilish eyebrow, and as usual, he gets a round of hoots and giggles from his biggest fans.

Iris cuffs him fondly. “Don’t tempt me, young man,” she says.

“If only I were twenty years younger, Ethan,” Rose giggles.

“I love older women—you should know that by now.” He kisses her cheek, slings an arm around her shoulders—she’s about a foot shorter than he is—then turns to me.

“Lucy, would you like to come up for dinner tonight?” Ethan asks, a tad abruptly, I think.

“Um…well, uh, sure,” I stammer. “That sounds nice, Eth. I’ll bring dessert.”

“Sounds great.” He packs up his bartending kit, then kisses each of the Black Widows in turn. “Good night, you Hungarian beauties,” he says.

“Good night, Ethan,” they chorus.

We all four watch him go out the back.

“Maybe you could marry Ethan, Lucy,” Rose suggests.

“Nonsense!” Iris immediately trumpets. “It’s against the law.”

“Excuse me?” I blurt. “It’s not against any law. But actually—”

“Well, God’s law,” Iris interrupts. “I was watching The Tudors on Showtime last night,” she adds, as if that explains everything.

“You get Showtime?” my mom asks. “It’s so dirty.”

“I know!” Iris agrees happily. “They showed Anne Boleyn’s mellbimbók, can you believe it?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s not against the law, God’s or anybody’s,” I say mildly.

“Well, Henry VIII thought it was, Miss Smarty-Pants,” Iris says. “That’s why he divorced Catherine the Great.”

“He was a pig, for one, and two, it was Catherine of Aragon,” I correct.

“She’s so grouchy these days, Daisy,” Rose chides, as if it’s my mother’s fault.

“I know,” Mom agrees, ignoring my sigh. “What else do you watch on Showtime?”

“There’s a show called Dexter,” Rose breathes. “Iris made me watch it. Terrifying!”

Once again, I let the opportunity to say something about Ethan and me pass by, untouched. They barely notice as I pack up my stuff and head for home.

DINNER AT ETHAN’S IS FINE. Delicious, really…eggplant parm, an old favorite of mine. Salad. Red wine. A loaf of Italian, made by my own two hands this very day, served with a gorgeous garlic-and pepper-infused olive oil that I’m tempted to drink. Ethan makes short work of the blueberry crisp I made…such a simple, pleasing dessert. From the looks of it, anyway, and the way the aroma filled the kitchen.

“What’s the secret ingredient?” Ethan asks, scraping up the last bit of his second enormous helping. The boy can eat.

“I threw some cranberries in. And I ground the nutmeg myself,” I add, pleased that he noticed something special.

“Nice,” he says.

Ethan is trying hard to be normal, but like most liars or poker players, he has a tell, and the little muscle below his eye jumps with regularity. He tells me about a book Nicky and he wrote—well, Nicky dictated and Ethan typed—and I laugh as Ethan describes the many sword fights and severed limbs that inspire my nephew.

We manage to load the dishwasher under our everything is fine pretense. It’s when we sit down in the living room that things get really itchy. Ethan pours us each a second glass of wine, which, on top of the few sips of martini that I could manage, has gone to my head…not a bad thing, considering how tense I am.

“So, Lucy,” he says, sitting in the chair adjacent to the couch, where I’m clutching a pillow to my stomach and trying to look relaxed.

“Yes, Ethan,” I answer.

He looks at his hands, which are loosely clasped in front of him, then up at me. “Luce, I think we should try to move things forward a little.”

I swallow my mouthful of wine hard and fast, wincing at the slight burn. “Um…do you mean sex?”

“Not necessarily,” he says, looking at his hands again. The muscle jumps, and I resist the urge to press my fingers to that spot and ease his worry. Instead I sit tight and listen as he continues. “Obviously I noticed that you haven’t told your aunts and mother about us. Or Corinne. Or my parents, given that they asked me again today when I’m going to make an honest woman out of Parker.” He looks at me, an eyebrow bouncing up. “So.”

“Right,” I say, shifting on the leather sofa. “Well, um, I guess I’m still…wary. That things won’t work out.”

“I think we need to try something before we decide if things are going to work or not, honey.”

Ethan has called me honey for years and years, but tonight, the word lodges in my heart like an arrow. His eyes are gentle, his hands still.

“What do you want to try?” I whisper, then clear my throat.

He smiles, his face transforming from serious to wicked in a heartbeat. “Well, I am a guy, so sex is always welcome.” His laugh is warm and naughty, and I feel it in my stomach. Blushing, I clutch the pillow a little tighter.

“But anything would be okay, Lucy. Just telling people we’re together. Or going out in public together.”

“We did go out together in public,” I say. “To Lenny’s.”

“Right. But you didn’t let me hold your hand or kiss you good-night, either.”

I take a deep breath, nodding. “I’m sorry,” I say.

“You don’t have to be sorry, Luce.” He gets up from his chair and sits next to me, putting his arm around my shoulders. I rest my head on his shoulder, grateful that I don’t have to see his face, welcoming the physical comfort he’s always given me. “I know it’s scary,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my hair. “But if you didn’t want anything from me, Lucy, I don’t think you’d kiss me the way you do.”

“Good point,” I say, swallowing. I wish I could tell him the truth—that if I didn’t love him enough—the way I loved Jimmy—he’d end up hating me, and that’s something I couldn’t bear. “I just don’t know how to…I’m not sure how to be anymore, Ethan,” I whisper, a tear sneaking out of the corner of my eye. “But you’re right. I do…feel things for you. It’s just that I’m a mess, too.”

He pulls back to smile down at me. “I know,” he says gently, wiping the tear off my cheek. “I do know.”

“That I’m a mess?”

“Absolutely,” he agrees.

Then he kisses me, and as always, his wonderful, smiling mouth makes me forget my worries. When his hand slips under my shirt, a little moan sneaks out of my throat. Ethan would never do anything that would hurt me. I know this. Of course I do.

So when he stands up and asks me to come to bed with him, I go.

But here’s the thing.

Sex with Ethan has always been a guilty, delicious pleasure, sometimes urgent, always smokin’. My college roomie had diabetes, and once in a while, when her blood sugar was falling, she’d come crashing into our room, wrench open the emergency jar of Nutella and inhale a big spoonful, then collapse gratefully onto the bed. That’s what Ethan was to me. My emergency Nutella.

But now things are different. The hedonistic pleasure is gone, dang it. It’s not that I’m lying there like a Regency virgin, mind you…it’s that Expectations Are High. And I can’t seem to shut off my brain. Ethan unbuttons Lucy’s shirt, kissing the exposed skin. He really does have the best mouth, doesn’t he, ladies and gentlemen? Nice effect, with the bristly tickle of his beard.

“So do you have a special razor or something?” I ask aloud.

He pulls back to look at me. “What?”

“Never mind. It’s just…never mind.”

He raises an eyebrow, then kisses the corner of my mouth. I sigh, running my fingers through the cool silkiness of his hair. I wonder what kind of shampoo he uses, then roll my eyes, wishing I could just be quiet and enjoy.

Folks, isn’t it nice that Ethan takes his time undressing Lucy, knowing that she’s about ready to jump out of her skin and run screaming back to her cat?

“Relax,” Ethan mutters against the lace of my bra. Not one of the La Perla confections I blew a ridiculous amount of money on…just a little thing I got at Target, nothing special, though it does have cute stripes on the—oh, for God’s sake! Listen to me!

“Eth, could you move just a little? You’re on my hair.” It used to be that Ethan could take me against the wall, and I wouldn’t have noticed a crowd of fifty thousand. At the memory of the wall, I sink a little more into the bed. Oh, yes, the wall. Now that was hot.

“Better?” Ethan asks, shifting his weight.

“Perfect,” I say.

He smiles, then kisses my neck as he unhooks my bra. He’s good at this. Ethan is an expert at undressing women. He’s certainly undressed Lucy quite a few times, hasn’t he, folks? I imagine applause from our studio audience. From downstairs, I can hear Fat Mikey start to yowl. Merrrrrooooow! Merrrooow! Did I feed him? Can’t he be quiet for, I don’t know, twenty more minutes so I can get this done? And where’s Corinne? She said she might spend another night with me, not wanting to be at her place without Christopher. Will she feed Fat Mikey? Is she nursing?

I remind myself that I’m partially naked—actually, yes, I’m feeling it now, and I slide my hand up Ethan’s gorgeous back, relishing the smooth skin at his neck, the soft, fine hair that always sticks up in the back of his head.

“Ouch,” Ethan mutters. “Honey, your bracelet’s caught.”

“Sorry,” I say. Sure enough, the gold chain has tangled in Ethan’s hair. Poor guy. I turn my wrist, and Ethan yelps as he loses a few strands. “Sorry,” I say again, feeling the giggles coming on. I clamp my lips together, shoot, just when he’s kissing me…okay, here it comes, sloshing over the edge, and I can’t help it, I start laughing. Hard. Wheezing, my features contorting in helpless hilarity. Grabbing a pillow, I clamp it over my face. Stop, Lucy, this is really inappropriate, how much can the guy take? I snort like a pig, which makes me laugh harder and snort again. Tears leak out of my eyes as I shake with near hysteria and slap the mattress, trying to stop.

“I take it we’re not quite ready for sex,” Ethan says dryly.

“Sorry,” I wheeze, another gale sending me into convulsions of laughter.

“You’re not sorry,” he says, rolling off me. But there’s a smile in his voice, and he grabs the pillow, looks at my laughing face, grins and shoves the pillow back with considerable force.

“I’m taking a cold shower, woman,” he says, getting off the bed. “I hope you feel guilty as sin.”