T’S MUCH COLDER WHEN WE HEAD BACK…the sky clouded up while we were in the cabin, the ocean turning slate and choppy. We don’t talk much; Ethan is fairly busy negotiating the rough waves around Point Judith and adjusts the sail frequently. We keep a fast clip, bouncing over the waves, and I watch my captain warily as I grip a cleat, spray stinging my face, and worry that my grim fantasies of Ethan’s death will come true as we whisk and smack through the water.

Everything’s gonna be all right, everything’s gonna be all right…Everything’s gonna be all right… It’s not lost on me that this snippet of Bob Marley was my mantra after Jimmy died. But every time Ethan looks at me, so damn happy, fear strikes my heart. Don’t let me hurt him, Jimmy, I pray. Abruptly the thought comes to me that maybe Jimmy isn’t all that happy that my heart has opened to someone else. That maybe he wants to be the first, the best, the most. Forsaking all others, all the days of my life, that’s how the marriage vows went. And being widowed…that’s not like Jimmy betrayed me. He didn’t ruin my love for him. He just died.

I try to imagine how it would be if my soul had to watch Jimmy struggle through life without me. Of course I’d want him to find someone wonderful. But, I admit, clutching my stomach as we bounce over the wake of a lobster boat, I’d also want to be the love of his life. To be the one by which all others were measured.

“Doing okay?” Ethan calls over the rush of wind.

“I’m great,” I answer, determined to make it true.

When we finally make it back to the marina, I can’t wait to be on solid land again. Ethan looks at me as he wraps the line around a cleat. “You look a little green,” he says, taking my hand as I rise. “Want me to drive you home?”

“I’d kind of like to walk,” I say honestly.

“Okay,” he says, climbing off the boat and helping me disembark. We stand there on the wooden dock, which bobs unpleasantly. Rain clouds darken the sky in the west, and leaves shower down from the trees.

“Come over later,” I say.

“Okay,” he agrees instantly, and again my heart clutches at the smile in his eyes.

“See you later, alligator,” I say, turning to head for solid ground.

“Lucy?” I turn back. His face is serious now. “Thank you,” he says.

My heart softens dangerously. “Thank you, too, Ethan,” I answer unsteadily. Then, bowing my head against the sharp breeze, I head for home.

Ethan seems to know I need a little time alone—either that, or he has his own stuff to do. Whatever the reason, he doesn’t come by until about nine. Fat Mikey, distressed that he’s seen so little of his favorite person, yowls until Ethan picks him up and scratches his battered ears vigorously. “How you doin’, Fat Mikey?” Ethan asks, doing a fair impression of a mobster. “How’s our friend here?”

I’ve been in the kitchen, baking since I walked through the door to see if the cake was a fluke. It’s not, thank God, and that has to be a sign that Ethan is good for me. My melancholy lifted as I started with crème brûlée…satiny and rich, the hard shell of sugar burned to perfection. After that, a batch of pots de crème au chocolat, the dark chocolate giving the sweet creaminess the perfect bite. Then a quick batch of bananas Foster, so simple and fun and delicious. I laughed as I lit them on fire, though tasting it a few moments later, I admitted I put in a little too much nutmeg. I’ve since moved on to a carrot cake, which is baking right now as the mixer churns a batch of cream cheese icing on the counter.

“I see we’ve been busy,” Ethan says, raising an eyebrow at my kitchen. Every mixing bowl I own is on the counter, flour spatters the dark granite countertops, dishes are heaped in the sink and the place smells like heaven. Like a pastry shop.

“Are you hungry?” I ask.

“Sure,” he says. I give him a crème brûlée and a healthy serving of bananas Foster. I watch as he eats, and when he offers me a spoonful, I open my mouth obediently. “Nice that you can eat your own desserts again,” he says, wiping a bit of cream off the corner of my mouth.

“More than nice,” I agree.

He doesn’t ask when that changed. Maybe he doesn’t need to. Maybe he knows what it means. “This is incredible” is all he says, gesturing to his plate.

I smile. “Thanks.”

Then I wash my hands and take off my apron. I ruffle Ethan’s hair as I pass his chair, and he grabs my hand and pulls me in for a kiss, and after the briefest hesitation, I kiss him back. It’s just going to take a little getting used to, I assure myself.

We go into the living room and sit, looking at each other. I swallow, then smile. He smiles back. “Want to play Scrabble?” I ask, lust and nervousness rolling through me in tingling waves.

“Sure,” he says with a knowing grin. “Hey, what’s this?”

Leaning against the couch is a rectangular package, still in brown paper. Shoot. Forgot about that thing. Ash had signed for it and left me a note. “Um…actually, it’s for you,” I say, nibbling my thumbnail.

Ethan’s eyebrows bounce up. “Really?”

I swallow. “Yes. Uh, I didn’t realize it would be done so soon. I thought it would take a little longer…”

“Can I open it?” he asks, smiling happily at me. It dawns on me that maybe today isn’t the best time for this particular gift. Then again, maybe it is.

“Sure.”

Ethan sits in the easy chair and takes the present. He pulls the paper off, unwraps the tissue paper protecting the frame and turns it over to see the picture. His face freezes. I wait for his reaction. It doesn’t come. He just sits in the chair, staring at the gift, frozen.

I got the top photo from Marie when they were packing up the house a few weeks ago—Jimmy and Ethan at the beach. Jimmy was twelve in the picture, Ethan seven. The two boys are standing in front of the surf, Jimmy’s arm slung around his much smaller brother’s shoulders. Already, you can see that Jimmy’s going to be tall—his shoulders have started to broaden, and his face has that amiable, open appeal it held all his brief life. His hair is sun-streaked, and freckles dot his nose. Ethan, on the other hand, is a scrawny little guy, dark as a gypsy, thin enough that you can see his ribs. He’s laughing in the picture, both his top front teeth missing. His hair is wet, his skin sandy.

The lower picture is also of Jimmy and Ethan. That one’s from our wedding day, and once again, Jimmy has his arm around Ethan’s shoulders. Jimmy beams; Ethan looks a bit more sardonic, his elvish eyebrows raised as if to say, Get a load of the big dope here. I love that picture. Jimmy had loved it, too.

Ethan still hasn’t said anything.

“Ethan?” I whisper. He looks up, then clears his throat.

“Thank you,” he says in a rather perfunctory manner.

“I…you didn’t have any. Pictures, that is. Of Jimmy.” Dismay sits heavily in my stomach, and I suddenly wish I hadn’t eaten three desserts tonight.

“Right. Well. This is very nice of you, Lucy.” His voice is oddly formal. He looks back at the picture, then rubs his forehead.

The timer dings in the kitchen, and I excuse myself, glad for the interruption. The cake is done. Smells incredible. Can’t wait to eat the stupid thing, stomachache be damned.

I don’t realize tears are leaking out of my eyes until one hisses on the oven door. I dash a pot holder across my eyes and take the cake out, setting it gently on the cooling rack. Ethan comes up behind me and slips his arms around my waist.

“I’m sorry,” I squeak.

“No, honey.” He lowers his forehead to rest against my shoulder. “Thank you.”

“Bad timing,” I acknowledge.

He turns me around and looks at me. Rain patters against the window, and the wind howls under the bridge a block away. I have plenty of time to hear the elements, since Ethan doesn’t speak right away. “You don’t need to remind me that he was here first, Lucy.”

I swallow painfully. “I was married to him. He was here first. That can’t be erased, Eth. I wouldn’t want it to be.”

Ethan nods. “Maybe he doesn’t have to be here all the time.”

He’s asking the impossible. Jimmy is with me all the time. His memory is constantly with me, and I don’t think that will ever change. “The bread guy looks a lot like him,” I say abruptly.

“Which bread guy?”

“The one from NatureMade,” I say.

Ethan raises an eyebrow. “Really.”

“Yes. Very much like Jimmy.”

“Thanks for the warning.” He slides his hands down my arms, then lets go of me.

I notice that Fat Mikey is crouched on the table, eating the last ramekin of crème brûlée, and decide to let my cat live a little. Another sheet of rain slaps the windows. The muscle jumps under Ethan’s eye, and not for the first time, I wonder how much he’s holding in.

“Ethan,” I say slowly, “I wasn’t trying to make a statement.” My throat grows tight. “I just wanted you to have a picture of him, and it happened to come today. I should’ve held it a few days. I’m sorry.”

He nods and takes my hand, examining a smear of batter across the back. “Thank you.”

“Want something else to eat?” I whisper.

His mouth tugs. “No,” he says, not looking up from my hand.

“How about that Scrabble game?” I offer a bit desperately.

“Maybe later,” he answers, and then he kisses me, there amid the ravaged kitchen, the smell of fresh cake and cream in the air, and my heart sings with relief. And rather than counting out tiles and checking dubious spellings in the dictionary, we end up in bed, Fat Mikey regarding us with disgust as we mess up his favorite place to sleep.